Muker Show and Ilkley Incline, 4pm and 7pm, Wednesday 4th September
It’s not that unusual to do two races over a weekend, one on Saturday one on Sunday. But two races in the same day, that sounds a bit excessive. Where do you get the puff to do that, let alone find two races with conveniently staggered start times and get between them?
Three races in one day would of course be completely ridiculous. Not that that puts off those hardy types from Ripon Runners! On a Saturday every August, thirty or more of them do Fountains Abbey parkrun at 9am then travel over to the Dales for the 4-mile Littondale road race at 1pm, and finish off with the short Arncliffe Gala fell race later in the afternoon. The dream is to do all three in a combined time of under an hour. To be fair many of them are walking the fell race but no matter, they all add great humour and colour to the day, respect to them all!
But that’s a parkrun (which of course isn’t a race, it’s a timed run…), a flat road race, then a fell race. What about a combination of fell races on the same day? I’ve only come across three examples. At Ambleside Sports in July you can do the Rydal Round (aka Fairfield Horseshoe) at midday, followed by the 1.5 mile Guides race at 3.30pm. You can tell who’s doing both when they blow-up on the climb of the latter. Closer to home the Gargrave Show and Burnsall Sports are often on the same Saturday in August, with fell race start times of midday and 4.30pm respectively, and just a short drive in between. I only know this because in 2022 I was chatting with race winner Nathan after Burnsall when he casually mentioned he’d won Gargrave a few hours earlier. That’s just showing off.
The third example I kind-of stumbled across for the first time in 2018, and on Wednesday got the chance to repeat for the first time since. Here’s how the day went.
Having booked the afternoon off work I was on my way from Bradford just before 1pm, heading for the Muker Show fell race in Swaledale. This is organised by Bofra and started at 4pm. I decided to go via Ribblehead and Hawes, thinking there’d be fewer delays, but in true A65 fashion got held up behind agricultural vehicles on those bends before Settle. This meant I didn’t come down the steep Buttertubs Pass until after 3pm, but there was still time to dump the car on the edge of the village, pay my £10 to enter the show, get a race number and have a quick look at the course. This was my fourth visit to Muker. It’s not just a great race but also a great show, well-attended with interesting stalls and produce on a sheep-y theme, all to the evocative soundtrack of the local brass band.
The fell race is a highlight of the day, helped by the surrounding topography. You get a great view of the whole race from the show field, which is banked on one side, lending a “stadium” effect to the start/finish. The whole crowd really gets behind the race and gives you some big cheers. The good news was that the weather was dry and the river low, which meant we were going to run through it, twice (in high water the course is diverted half a mile upstream to a bridge, changing the character of the race).
4pm we’re off and 83 of us dash madly downhill through the crowds to the river, which we cross for the first time just 30 seconds in. It’s a narrow gap through the trees into the water and like a herd of wildebeest we’re through, many using the rope slung across the river as a guide, but I risk a quieter line to the left, and get away with it.
A minute’s climb up a track and then we’re onto the steep fell – the question is, who can walk up this straight 500 feet the quickest, not even the guys at the front can run it. I felt I climbed pretty well, not too far behind the best in my category. But the trick with these races is to transition from steep climbing to steep descending – two very different disciplines – in the blink of an eye, and here I get a bit found out. It’s 1 minute of flat running along the top then you sweep back down to the river on a diagonal trod, all slippery limestone blocks hidden in the bracken. I lose a few places then steel myself for the second river crossing.
No hiding in the crowd this time, the gaggle of spectators have all eyes on you, so I employ the safety of the rope and pull myself across. I momentarily think I have a chance of catching Stephen in front, who has stumbled in the river, but he holds on in the run in. You just have to soak up the cheers as you run through the thick funnel of spectators to the finish. My time 15 minutes 3 seconds, 14th place, and of course you collapse on the line and feel like you’ll never run again.
Until 10 minutes later when you realise you’re sort-of back to normal. The other runners come in, then a wander to the refreshments tent for tea and cake (Wensleydale cheese on tea loaf, very nice), followed by the prizegiving. A shower comes in and the field empties rapidly in the direction of the village. Already, the brass band have taken up station in front of the pub and a big crowd has gathered for some communal singing, a stirring scene. Having caught a couple of numbers it dawns on me that it’s now after 5pm and it’s a long drive home, but I’ve actually only done 15 minutes of running today and there’s still a bit left in the tank….
Impulsive decision and I’m back to the car. I’m a notoriously slow driver, particularly on twisty mountain roads, but I’m now on a mission. I don’t look at the scenery much on the return drive over Buttertubs. Equally the narrow road over Fleet Moss and down Upper Wharfedale. A bit of driving music goes on, a few corners are cut and the foot put down. Eventually I get to the Skipton roundabout at half 6 and think there’s a good chance this unusual haste will be worthwhile.
6.45pm and I’m pulling up in the familiar surrounds of Wells Road above Ilkley, and there’s a convenient space amongst the many parked cars. Dash out with a fiver to another registration tent and get another race number. And a couple of complimentary biscuits which I think are meant to be for later but are very welcome now, thank you. There isn’t time to take the old number off, so I just pin the new one on top. Obviously I’m still in my race kit so none of that usual pre-race faffing about. Just retie my laces, jog over to the start line at the bottom of Keighley Road and almost immediately it’s 7pm and the Ilkley Incline is underway.
This is an unusual race, 1 mile uphill only. The previous time I did it (2018, also just after Muker) I went off too quickly and died towards the end where the course flattens out. So this time I was more cautious and that seemed to pay off, it was nice to overtake rather than be overtaken on the run-in. It’s all about the pacing I think, like an uphill 1500 metres. Somewhere in all this I get to say hello to a gaggle of NLFRs and old club-mates from Valley Striders. Plus some knowing nods from some of the usual Bofra guys that had given Muker a miss, but had spotted my unusual double race number layering system.
Top tip for Ilkley Incline – take a jacket, so you can do a bit of a longer warm-down jog on the moor after, rather than just coming straight down. I went via the Badger Stone and was back at the car in 25 minutes. Of the 3 runs I did in the day, that was the longest. 2 races, 2.5 miles/1000ft climbing in total, plus a warm-down jog. And a lively 50-mile drive in between. A better way of spending a Wednesday afternoon than sitting in the office.
Normally to merit a write-up on here you need to have completed some epic Category A fell race or ultra, reliving your day with the following likely sequence: weeks of training – meticulous on-the-day preparation – step-by-step details of each challenging element of the race – the rewards and highs of finishing and lessons learned.
On Saturday, by comparison, I had a lazy morning, chucked a few random items into a bag and left the house shortly before 2pm for a 3.15pm race start. I drove a few miles, parked the car in a free moor-top car park, jogged 5 minutes to a carnival field, handed over a fiver and got a race number for the Baildon Canter. At 5km with 500ft of ascent this may be at the opposite extreme of fell-running to the long stuff, but it’s still very much fell-running. In fact, as the blue red kite flies it’s probably the closest fell race to North Leeds and ideal if you’re thinking of trying a fell race for the first time. It’s only a little more challenging than Chevin parkrun, for example.
Having got my number there was time to have a wander around the Baildon Carnival, in full swing in the field to the side. A typically random selection of stalls, attractions and novelties lent a lively backdrop. I wandered off to find a quiet seat so I could do the fiddly attach-number-to-vest-with-safety-pins business and found one in the adjacent cricket field, where a match was in progress. I’m a lapsed cricket fan but quite enjoyed watching a couple of overs. The bowlers were surprisingly competent with some admirable variations in pace; the batsman by comparison tried to slog everything, without success, until eventually middling one, sending the ball arcing into an adjacent back garden for 6. The resulting ball-hunt and delay was my cue to return to the race field.
By this time a gaggle of other NLFRs had gathered – Jonny (trying to define his new gainful employment of oceanography), Ian (now a guinea pig in a pre-marathon VO2 Max study), Cailum (on home Baildon turf) and Nick (often keen for a race). I was glad to see that the start had been slightly altered from my last time here in 2022 so that the course is now spread out before the narrow snicket at the exit of the field.
3.15 and we’re underway, a mad dash for the snicket. It’s still pretty awkward, with low hanging branches and some steps adding to the fun, but we get through it OK and out onto the moor. Very soon we cross the road for the first time, which is well marshalled, and begin a gradual climb towards Hopes Hill. Unlike most short fell races, which are very steep, the pace here feels flat out, more like a cross-country race. As we loop round the back of the hill the guy in front momentarily stumbles. This is enough for me to get past and he never re-overtakes. Fine margins in a short race like this.
Cailum and Jonny have disappeared out of sight but I do have Ian around 20 yards in front as a hypothetical target. However he begins to pull away on the short climb up to the top, and is faster on the mildly technical descent on the other side. As the course flattens out re-approaching the road I begin to reel him in a bit. Just before the road itself the following sequence of calculations happens in the blink of an eye, perhaps 2 seconds, while we are both running at speed:
Is there any traffic obviously moving on the road? – no
Is there a parked car blocking the path on the other side of the road? – yes
Are the marshals making it very obvious where the path is? – no
Ian guesses to the right of the car, I guess left. I was correct, and surprisingly find myself in front. It’s just 90 seconds to the finish from here, I don’t think I could have successfully overtaken at any other point.
Before long we are all collapsed at the finish line and awaiting the presentations as the rain sweeps in. Me and Cailum both win an out-of-season Toblerone, reminding us of the tumultuous downpour at December’s Gathering Winter Fools Relay, where we used a Toblerone as the team’s novelty baton. By Leg 4 the Toblerone was in a state of significant decomposition, and beyond edibility, although enough of it remained at the finish to prove we’d completed the course. Next time we’ve pledged to put the Toblerone in the freezer the night before, to increase its chances of survival. Today though, it was just nice to take sweets home from the fair, not least Matterhorn-shaped ones, even if this course had hardly been Alpine-style.
Seven summits, 2370m of climbing, 28km and only 250 places.
When I first heard about the Isle of Jura Fell Race a few years ago, I regarded it very much as one of those races for people who knew what they were doing. At that stage, I wasn’t one of them. Intrigue gradually turned into serious consideration when on repeated half term visits to Tayvallich, we would see runners returning from Jura on the Jura passenger ferry. I pledged to do it when I turned fifty, but my wife Martha encouraged me to stick an entry in this year. They only admit 250 runners each year and a place was not guaranteed on the first attempt. I went from 18th on the waiting list to one of the lucky 250 in a very short time. It seemed to be happening and I was pretty daunted.
For anyone unfamiliar with Jura, it is renowned for a few things: whisky, Nineteen Eighty-Four (which George Orwell wrote on Jura) and (if you read NME in the 90s) the KLF burning a million pounds there. It is also host to the annual fell race, a circuit of 17 miles and an eye-watering 2370m of ascent. The route takes in seven significant peaks, most notably the three Paps of Jura, which dominate the skyline. When the weather is clear enough to see them that is.
The adventure started with an early morning boat trip across the Sound of Jura from Tayvallich. The boat I was on was usually deployed for wildlife cruises, so the pilot couldn’t help himself pausing halfway there to point out a pod of porpoises, a welcome distraction from my pre-race nerves. The first sight of Jura from the ferry did nothing to ease my navigational anxiety. Low cloud hung like a wet dishcloth over the island, obscuring all but the lowest foothills. The forecast promised brighter skies later, so I clung onto some hope as I arrived on the island and looked for a tent-sized spot on the crowded (and midge-infested) campsite. It felt like arriving late to a festival.
Having distracted myself with pitching my tent, registration and kit check there was nothing left to do but soak up the pre-race atmosphere and try to contain my nerves. There was a real mixture of Jura veterans, relative newcomers and first-timers like me. It was comforting to have my NLFR vest recognised by another first timer and ex-NLFR member, Will, who cheerily confessed that navigation-wise, he was very much going to be winging it. Amidst the pre-race anxiety, it’s hard to get away from the feeling that everyone else seems to have more of a clue what they’re doing than you do. Maybe it was all going to be okay.
Amidst some signs of brightening weather and a stirring bagpipe send-off, the race got underway. The first couple of miles were fairly standard fell race fare: a steady, bog-ridden climb up into the aforementioned low cloud, which showed no sign of shifting. Descending out of the cloud after the second checkpoint though, the race began to feel like no other. Views opened up to the sea and the coast of Islay to the west and blue skies framed the route ahead. It was one of those moments of fell-running exhilaration when everything comes together. And it looked like I might actually get the clear visibility I’d been praying for.
The view couldn’t have been clearer as I headed towards what the route description bills as “probably the most intimidating climb in British fell running”, Benn a Chaolish (pronounced Hoolish), the first of The Paps. The glorious sunshine, surging endorphins and spectacular vista probably took the edge off the intimidation, but this was a monster of a climb nonetheless and I had to fight the urge to sit down for a rest half-way up.
The second and third Paps (Benn an Oirr and Benn Shiantaidh) are already a glorious blur in my memory, but each punishing ascent seemed to come far too soon after the last. The marshals on top of the third Pap were helping runners to celebrate the ascent by pumping out banging techno from a bluetooth speaker and plying us with wine gums. A bit on the chewy side for race sustenance in my view, but I gratefully accepted a couple.
After a horrible descent off the third Pap involving a scree chute and a very wobbly boulder field I was on track for the final ascent to checkpoint 7. Surprisingly, the bagpipers from the start of the race had also made the ascent and were piping runners up the last climb – stirring stuff! It was all downhill from here, albeit it on “awful trods across desperate bogs” as the race-map describes it. I was feeling pretty desperate by this stage and was struggling to get my head round the fact that I’d only covered 10 miles of the 17. I had, however, dealt with all 2370 metres of ascent, which my legs were painfully aware of.
Three Arch Bridge marks the end of the fell section, but not the end of the race. A three-mile slog along a flat tarmac (and in some sections aluminium) road completes the course. This is the longest flat three miles I have ever run. Craighouse was in view for much of the way but did not appear to be getting any closer. I was in no fit state to enjoy the view of white sandy beaches to the left, or the chocolate digestives that one supporter was proffering from the roadside. I finally made it to the finish, clocking in at 5 hours and 6 minutes. Respectable if not remarkable.
I’ve never been so relieved to have finished a race, but I was immediately sorry it was over. I spent the rest of the day and evening in a bit of a daze, so much so that I completely missed the prize-giving gathering. I did make it to the traditional fell race ceilidh, but I was happy to observe from the sidelines rather than attempt any dancing.
This was such a special race to take part in, not just for the race itself, but for the whole experience. I’d urge anyone who might have toyed with the idea of tackling The Paps to give it a go. It didn’t take long before I was wondering how I might fare in the V50 category next time…
Inspired by nostalgic memories of the NLFR Bob Graham weekend (3rd day, June 19th 2022) when I first encountered some of this route under clear skies and balmy temperatures, I’d tucked this fell race away in a memory bank for a future me with fresher legs. Then of course, Helen and Dan raced it in 2023 (finishing in that same order), so the race remained of high interest.
Fast forward to the present and the race was further nudged forward into my consciousness by Dave Middlemas praising it highly for all the right reasons (good route, not to mention hospitality by Keswick AC). So, I was still interested, and the date was looking clear in my diary.
A few minor obstacles bothered me, namely that I didn’t know anyone else on the entry list or intending to enter on the day. Normally this doesn’t worry me, but this was a Lakes race, and these tend to involve a higher level of grit and skill than I’m capable of. (I did get momentarily confused and think that Hefin, Adam Nodwell and Angeline were all doing it, but then belatedly realized I was looking at the 2023 entry list by mistake.)
What if there was terrible visibility and I got lost? Certainly, reading through the race description on the back of the Pete Bland map (warning about the “monstrous cock up” potential when contouring the Dodds didn’t fill me with hope when already there was doubt).
Additionally, I don’t like driving and the plan involved me driving solo to the Lakes. Believe it or not, both factors caused me a fair amount of anxiety. I prepared for it by potentially sabotaging my race legs by racing the Wednesday (Blackstone Edge Fell Race) and Thursday (Kildwick Fell Race) in the run up to it. Both races were short (only 6KM but punchy enough, with Blackstone Edge creeping up into the AS category). In fact, I was tired before Kildwick and used my pre-race time to have a power nap in my car with my dry robe as a duvet, rather than warm up.
I only finally decided to finally race Helvellyn on Friday morning. Taking Joe’s advice, I flipped a coin, and it was heads which meant I was doing the race!
Race day on Saturday: early start from Leeds with a hearty porridge breakfast lining my stomach (thanks, Joe) and I was off on the road. Because I was anxious, I arrived at Threlkeld Cricket Club at 9.10am (the race didn’t start until 11am), so I had time to talk to Mark Lamb who was on car park duty and fret about (but more importantly sort out) a warning light which had come on the dashboard in my car as I was arriving. This also gave me time to think about post-race decisions (I was likely to be fatigued from the cognitive and physical demands of the day), so I laid my stuff out into two sealed bags for afterwards: shower and change bag, snacks and drinks bag.
The weather was starting to warm up. It wasn’t “Fairfield warm” but at 18 degrees, it was warm enough to pink my Irish skin if I wasn’t careful. Cue a second slather of suntan lotion and more chats with Mark Lamb (checking shoe recommendations). I had an unexpected surprise when I bumped into a friend of a friend (Kat) as well as actual friends (Alyson and Gina who completely unbeknownst to me had decided to run the Bob Graham leg 2 route at the same time, having been inspired by our friend Tom Howard who was attempting to do the Bob Graham, having set off at 8.30pm the previous night). The lovely Katie Kars Sijpesteijn had also entered on the day, so it was good to have a pre-race hug and catch up. Already, things were looking up!
The race started on a tarmac section where the smiley Keswick AC marshals counted the runners in and completed a kit check and then not long after that, we were away! Who needs a warmup anyway when you’re running up Clough Head…?
The start felt frantic, but then, don’t they always? It’s always hard to know where to place yourself in the pack, especially if there are fewer female runners and everyone looks like they know what they’re doing.
After the tarmac, there was a “tussocky scrat” across Threlkeld common which preceded the climb up Clough Head. I was slightly alarmed by a call of “ROCK” as a fellow runner yelled down from the summit to warn us below of a fast-approaching rock gathering pace in our direction. After that mild drama, my senses were heightened and I allowed myself a minute to laugh nervously with the runner next to me, before cracking on with getting to the top.
By now, I’d eyed up a woman running ahead of me in a purple vest. She looked strong and determined and stood out because she was leading a small pack of male runners. She became my target for the first two check points. We later talked (Karen from Northumberland Fell Runners) as I had noted her effective descending skills which were rather galloping in style, and I wanted to pass on my admiration.
I think I finally overtook Karen somewhere around Raise and our paths didn’t cross again until after the race back at the Cricket Club where we greeted each other like long lost friends. I take comfort in these small moments in races, sharing smiles and small talk, validating each other’s race experiences. When the race is over, it’s hard to fully describe it to anyone else who wasn’t there but the other runners in the field know, they really know.
The terrain was lovely, really. Lots of extended grassy and undulating bits to allow you to settle in and find your place and pace. I tried to take note of the ascents and descents as I enjoyed the swooping downhill bits, which would clearly hurt on the return leg. As we followed each other up to Raise and I marveled at the clear visibility, it occurred to me that due to the popularity of the route, it was hard to distinguish between runners and walkers from afar. But despite the field getting more stretched out, things were still okay, phew. And the breeze on the summits was lovely: cool, but not too cool. I felt glad for the Keswick summit heroes who smiled us through the check points and genuinely looked like they were having a nice time.
Not long after Raise (although it’s hard to be fully certain), the first few runners came hurtling back towards us looking determined with their eyes on the prize. The lead was Sam Holding (CFR) with Mark Lamb (Keswick) in second place.
The climb up White Side and Helvellyn Low Man wasn’t too technical, and the race photographer greeted us at the top like a host of a gathering to an outdoor summit party.
I was more in awe of the leading women trickling through, also looking determined and mighty. There was Hannah from Helm Hill looking comfortable in front, a runner from Eden in second place and then Katie in third. I saw Katie descending off Helvellyn summit and called out to her. I then cursed myself for doing so and I’m glad she didn’t look my way (or hear me, as I later found out). Counting through the women, I knew I was currently in 7th . Not bad, I told myself. Keep going.
The return journey involved more sideway looks and reassuring words with other runners who were either struggling with the onset of cramps or dehydration. One runner asked me how many climbs were left as he had run out of water. Er, I’m not sure, I said. I wasn’t sure how honest to be but then realized that my response wasn’t helpful.
Not long after one of the slightly rocky descents, a female runner tore past me. I had her in my sights for a while after that but then realized this was fruitless. She had paced the race very well and finished strongly. Somewhere around Great Dodd (maybe…), a runner from Helm Hill told me we’d been running for 2 and a half hours, and could we finish in under 3 hours. I laughed at that thought, but it lifted my spirits because the end was getting closer.
Clough Head descent, oh boy. Starting with some descending on my bum action and then a slight shuffle but at least I was moving downwards. And no one around me was going much faster. The above runner who had run out of water earlier on was still nearby, but he was slowing and almost stationary.
I was glad to reach the road before heading into Threlkeld common. There, I saw someone sunbathing on the grass. Upon closer inspection, it was a runner whose race hadn’t gone to plan. I asked him if he wanted to walk in the final section of the race together, but he politely declined.
The final tarmac section back to the Cricket Club felt mean and hard on both the feet and the mind. The finish line was soon upon me, and it felt glorious. I caught up with Katie (who had changed and was looking fresh as a daisy). In my post-race giddy exuberance, I was keen for company, and it was great to see a friendly face at the end.
Returning to my car and checking my phone, I was jolted back into the real world. Attentional demands from various WhatsApp groups flooded in. I wasn’t ready for this, not yet. I stayed in the present and put the phone away until my brain recharged. Although delighted to be finished, I missed the simplicity of the race where you only need to think about fuelling and putting one foot in front of another.
Basking in the warm glow of the Keswick AC hospitality (cake, sandwiches, hot drinks…) and watching the cricket (which was strangely hypnotic with the majestic backdrop of Clough Head), I swapped race tales with people around me. I must have sat there for an hour easily, before finally breaking the spell and moving away.
Maybe I am a fell runner who races in the Lakes, after all. I challenged myself and I felt proud. Same time, next year? Definitely!
Hydration: electrolytes in water and flat coke
Fuelling: Homemade energy balls (thanks Alyson) and some Veloforte chunks.
It’s a balmy easter bank holiday weekend in Wardle village, and the R.O. has just done about his fifth lap of the square encouraging all runners to drink plenty of water (the dangers of heat exposure are real, folks, he’s seen it before on this race, etc, etc). Even the whiteboards at registration advise that there’s no mandatory kit today, but that water is recommended. In Phil Davies’ words: a heat stroke warning at 15°C might just be the most British thing ever! On a very pleasant warm-up jog to the reservoir and back we’ve discovered that there’s a decent breeze though, and I’d go as far as to say conditions are pretty much perfect. The Marathon des Sables it is not.
Image by Paul Taylor
I do my usual trick of setting off mid-pack but starting fairly strongly, gradually making up places on the run out of the village and on the first climb up Brown Wardle. I manage to get behind a Rochdale Harrier shortly after as well, and get the unexpected bonus of a few nice alternative lines to follow. After the second climb up Middle Hill the route undulates over the next few hills and I start to slow down and lose a couple of spots but the route is excellent, the views open up going over Rough Hill and a distant Stoodley Pike is visible on the horizon.
Image by Steve Taylor
An only partially-healed blister I picked up the weekend before starts to burn on the long descent back towards Wardle and my heel, which is propped on a bag of frozen sweetcorn as we speak, starts to twinge worryingly (excuses excuses!). I’m not carrying enough speed downhill and lose a few more positions over a painfully long section of lethal cobbles. The route description promised a sting in the tail and a draggy climb of around a kilometre on tarmac delivers a tough finish. With the village square in sight I hear feet closing in behind me and manage to find a sprint finish to cross the line without losing another place. After catching my breath I look up to see that Phil has come in just behind me after a strong descent.
Image by Paul Taylor
As we all know, the post-race spread is crucial, and the scout hut put on a terrific array of cakes. Sadly I didn’t have a brew so I’m unable to confirm the type of tea on offer, though this was Lancashire so we should probably fear the worst. The real drama of the day was that the front runners all managed to miss the tag drop at Rough Hill though, and our own Jonathan Coney looked set to be denied a brilliant sixth-place finish as a result. The world held its breath…until Thursday morning when the official results dropped and confirmed no disqualifications! There may yet be protests from the first of the tag-less finishers, a formal enquiry, and almost certainly rioting in the streets of Wardle. Watch this space!
The Spine Challenger is a 108-mile ultramarathon along the Pennine way in the glorious month of January. It starts in Edale in Derbyshire and finishes in Hawes in North Yorkshire. It is a self-sufficient race with only one official aid station in Hebden Bridge at 48 miles.
Why?
I bloody love shit weather and the exhilaration of being out in conditions when part of your mind is thinking “I’m not sure this is safe”. I have also wanted to do an event which I am not sure I can finish. The Spine seemed like a good way to satisfy both these itches.
What with?
The mandatory kit list for the Spine is a lengthy affair (25 pages!). New highlights to note this year included a poop shovel and poo bags, two pieces of kit I took great joy in demonstrating the function of to my wife Helen.
In order to travel light you can be looking at a black hole of money where shaving grams off here and there gets increasingly more expensive. Fortunately, I had accrued quite a lot of kit in many a fastpacking trip so it wasn’t too terrible.
My Kit
Montane trailblazer LT 30L
Sea to Summit Spark II sleeping bag
Thermarest NeoAir sleeping mat
Mountain Warehouse bivvy bag
MSR Pocket Rocket Stove
Garmin 64s (GPS unit)
Rab Arc Eco Waterproof Jacket
Montane Minimus waterproof trousers + over mitts
Montane Prism Insulated mid layer
Montane Dry Line Pertex Shield insulated mitts
Head UltraFit Running Gloves
Inov-8 Roclite shoes
Injinji toe liner socks
SealSkin Waterproof socks.
Prep
Running around a lot with all the kit.
I had told myself that on paper that I was probably fit enough to cover the distance. But what I wasn’t sure about was whether I would have the mental fortitude to do so when shit got real at 5am in a blizzard.
I figured that I needed to ensure I was able to keep myself
1) Fed
2) Warm
3) Relatively dry
4) Caffeinated.
If I was could do all that then I should be able to keep my mind from going to those dark places where I don’t think I would possess the mental resilience to keep going.
So a lot of my training was based around making sure I knew how I was going to do the following:
Access food on the run without taking my pack off. This would be very important in cold weather as I realised on a night recce between Hebden and Gargrave in the snow and -4* where my body temperature plummeted as soon as I stopped and as a result avoided doing so and so I stopped eating. I bought a new pack, the Montane Trailblazer LT 30 which has two huge mesh side pockets where I kept pretty much all my food in for the race so it was easy to access it all on the move and therefore be able to keep stuffing my face silly. The trick I have found with eating a lot over a long distance is variety. So I had cheese and pickle bagels, vegetarian sausage rolls, date and nut bars, jelly babies and the king of running food; the mighty Bounty bar. Now I’ll tell you why a Bounty is the best, have you ever tried to eat a Mars bar or a Snickers that’s been kept at 2 degrees for 6 hours? It turns into ROCK. But the glorious Bounty keeps soft and delicate even at low temperatures. I also found some vegetarian bean “chorizo” in Waitrose that I highly recommend, it had that salty fatty goodness that sometimes you just crave at the business end of a race or just when you’re feeling a bit sad. I also had a couple of dehydrated meals as a last resort backup.
Stay warm.
I tend to get very warm when I run, particularly my trunk. But my hands can get quite cold. So during training I tried out different types of glove systems. I went with a quite a thick but tight running glove. Then I had a waterproof shell mitt (Montane Minimus) which packed down very small and that I kept in the front pocket of my jacket so I could whip these out as soon as it looked like it was about to rain. I also had a more insulated waterproof pair of mittens which I had the option of wearing by themselves or over my running gloves. Or if shit really hit the fan I could wear all three!
Stay dry (ish)
I wasn’t too worried about the wet from the outside but rather the wet from the inside. I‘d spoken to a number of people who had DNF’d the Spine and a theme that came up often was temperature regulation and the danger of overheating and sweating through your inner layers. This can cause problems if you suddenly gain altitude and or it gets dark, cold and windy. Then, your damp inner layers can suddenly become dangerous and cause hypothermia. I know I run warm so I practiced running in just a base layer and my waterproof shell and using the big arm zip vents and modifying gloves and headwear to control my temperature rather than wear more inner layers. This seemed to work in training and I found it helped to pre-empt temperature changes such as taking off gloves/hats before heading up a hill rather than half way up once I’d started to sweat. I did have options of a thin microfibre fleece (a basic Trespass number) in my pack but I also had a synthetic insulating mid layer if things got rather chilly.
Stay caffeinated
Being a caffeine addict I have realised that it is very important to keep a steady stream of caffeine in your system to stave off those bad thoughts. I remember when I first started running longer distances I would really start to struggle perhaps 6-8 hours into a run until I had the epiphany that on a normal day I would have had three coffees within that time. I now carry an little re-purposed spice jar in which I place some espresso strong enough to wake the dead, to chug at the point that I’m feeling a bit naff.
I hoped that if I nailed the above issues then I could keep in a good enough headspace that I could keep putting one foot in front of the other without having any major tantrums.
***
Game Plan
Spend the first 70 miles looking after myself and take it easy.
As per preparation stay warm, dry and eat to the point of nausea and keep yourself there.
At 70-ish miles look at the tracking and then perhaps think about racing (if that’s even possible at 70 miles?).
***
The Big Day
Wet. Dark. 6 degrees. 7am. Minimal sleep the night before because I was like a kid the night before Christmas, too excited to sleep. And we were off to some brief applause before all the supporters sensibly ran back to their cars to go back to bed.
Normally ultras are very social affairs and there is a lot of chat and banter but heavy rain forced everyone’s hoods up and eyes to the floor so it was a bit of an anti-climax if I’m honest.
What do you mean, Type A?
We trudged over the fields at the bottom of the Edale valley as the dawn broke. I was concentrating on not getting over-excited and steaming into first climb up Jacob’s Ladder to Kinder Scout where we met a stark reality check which was the 50 mph westerly which tore into us as we reached the Kinder plateau.
Even If I wanted to talk to anyone around me they wouldn’t have been able to hear me as the wind was overwhelming. The first 10 miles were just head down and grinding out the steps, trying to stay roughly moving in a straight line. The only highlight was Kinder downfall which had turned into an upfall, a water up, or water climb, whatever the opposite of a waterfall is, it was blowing straight back up the hill like a geyser.
Snake Pass was where I saw my lovely crew for the first time. This was my mum and dad who had driven up from Devon and my wife Helen who was only there because I had booked a fancy room at a pub at both the start and the finish and sold the idea to her as a “lovely holiday”. The look on her face as the wind and rain was tearing her piece of A4 paper with “Go Alex” written on it to shreds spoke volumes about how much she regretted agreeing to this.
Side note: the Spine is an “unsupported event” so I was not allowed to take any assistance from Helen or my parents unless it was given to every runner in the race. My mum took this as an opportunity to hug and kiss every single participant who went past much to her amusement.
Next came the climb to Bleaklow Head during which I spoke to a German fellow named Roland who comes over to England regularly to partake in long arduous bleak races such as the Spine and Hardmoors events. Apparently there is little to no ultra or trail running scene in Germany. I was also sad to hear that he DNF’d later in the race. We had a lot of fun failing to keep our feet dry navigating the path-cum-river that led up Bleaklow.
See ya
Fortunately, as we dropped towards Torside reservoir the rain lifted and I started being able to see more than 20 meters ahead of me and could lift my hood. The views, the wind in my hair and having my peripheral vision back felt excellent and I hared down the descent to the reservoir leaving the group I had been running with. This gave me some time to pet the pigs at the farm at the bottom of the hill which lifted my spirits even further. I was now 15 miles in and feeling good, eating well and moving nicely.
Back up the other side, halfway towards the top of Black Hill where I encountered a man pushing a drop-bar hybrid bike down the footpath, a good two miles from the nearest cycle-able path. He met my amused and inquisitive questions with a stormy face and a grump. I still wonder how on earth he got that bike up there in the first place.
I caught up a jolly fellow named Dan who told me how he enjoyed not running with poles then proceeded to eat his words as the path crossed a river no less than 10 times within half a klick. My poles offered me a nice vault over the water but Dan had to make do with a wade, a splash and a dunk. We found a good stride together and we ended up spending the next 22 hours with each other. A real 0-100 relationship.
The cloud lifted high enough on the top of Black Hill to give us a cracking view of the West Riding from the ‘fax to Emley Moor tower and even Ferry bridge power station in the distance. I bloody love this bit of Yorkshire.
The beauty was short-lived as we made our way past Wessenden Head Reservoir where we got a dose of hail to the face. It seemed to be directly in our faces no matter which direction we were running in! Fortunately, the sporadic hail flurries were short-lived at least so I didn’t have to fish out the clear goggles from my pack (another mandatory piece of kit). I now fully understood why we had to carry them. I could not have tolerated face hail for much longer without them.
I bonded with my new companion Dan over our shared experience at Leeds Uni. He also took his degree as a vocation and went from English into theatre and now is a freelance playwright and producer. With Boff Whalley, he has written and performed a show called “The Hills are Ours”, about running and land ownership.Likely right up a lot of your streets, NLFR.
Daniel (L) and our P&B mate Boff (R)
Dusk started approaching as we made our way up Standage . Miraculously the sun made a distant appearance on the horizon casting an ethereal glow over the valleys that dropped down the western slopes of the Pennines. The majesty of this seemed an antidote to the murky silhouette of the skyline of Manchester in the distance. It was breath-taking.
It was refreshing not having my phone to hand to ruin the moment by trying to take a picture as it was buried deep in my bag and had been off the entire day.
As the sun went down I felt the inevitable creep of fatigue, but fortunately we quickly happened upon Nicky’s food bar. This consists of an unassuming shipping container/lorry cafe placed on a muddy truck stop next to the M62 whose owner opened for 48 hours straight to supply the Spiners with much-needed nourishment. One large burger, a Fanta lemon and a coffee later I felt bloody marvellous. My experience there was only slightly tainted by the American gentleman who has his bare foot on the table and was aggressively sanding his soles and applying copious talc with a little foot brush.
The next section is flattish and quite runnable along the side of the reservoirs and towards Stoodley Pike. However a belly-full of burger made the running part of this slightly challenging. We seemed to get every kind of weather along this section. Hail, rain, snow and lightning all in rather wild but brief episodes as the wind whipped away the weather as quickly as it arrived. Approaching Stoodley Pike we were rewarded with our own personal firework display from a house in the valley in Todmorden. It was a unique experience witnessing fireworks from above.
A easy descent into Hebden Bridge then up and over into the Calder Valley then over again into Hardcastle Crags and Hebden Hey Scout camp, our first and only checkpoint. I was feeling OK at this point considering we had covered 48 miles. I had been enjoying the experience of moving without the stress of thinking of it as a race and the time seemed to be flying.
As soon as we entered the checkpoint I was taken to a seat, I was swarmed by volunteers who helped me out of my soaking wet shoes and put them next to the fire. I placed my watch on charge and headed to get double helpings of lentil pie with a side of crisps and malt loaf. After eating way too much I was shepherded back to my belongings for some faffing, getting dry socks and base layer on from my drop bag and filling up on food and drink. The staff at the checkpoint were remarkable and each person was waited upon as if they were a professional athlete.
Despite the 20 minutes of rest and a good meal I couldn’t get back into a rhythm when we started back again. I felt quite rough and very bloated. The next two hours up to Top Withens I felt tired, crap and I couldn’t even think about eating. I was a bit worried and I started wondering how on earth I was going to finish the next 50 miles feeling like I did. Dan kept up the stream of encouraging words which helped drag my ass up the hill.
I took my pack off at Top Withens to get at my medical pack to pop an anti-sickness tablet and out of nowhere I released a colossal fart and felt some immediate relief. More copious flatulence on the way down toward Haworth and I felt better and better. Thank Christ.
I suspect that the drastic physiological and environmental change between running in the zero degree temperatures to being sat still in a very hot room then back to freezing running had sent my digestive system into a state of shock and it has stopped functioning temporarily. The double helping of pie and three coffees had been sitting in my stomach unabsorbed for a whole two hours since the checkpoint until the downhill movement and gaseous release triggered it to be dumped into my small intestine. I was back in business.
The next 18 miles were in quite non-specific and undulating terrain and passed the towns of Ickornshaw and Lothersdale. We were very pleased to receive some cold rice pudding and some hot water for a dehydrated meal at Lothersdale courtesy of the tri club there. We were informed that the race leader had already made it to Malham tarn, 16 miles ahead of where we were at that point, which was staggering!
Slogging through the early hours we made it to Gargrave (68 miles) at about 4am. I felt Gargrave was a bit of a milestone in my head as I knew the following section really well. As I had promised myself I turned my phone on for the first time here and looked at the tracking. Dan and I were in 8th and 9th place which we were very pleased with. However 7th place was an hour and a half ahead of us which took any pressure off me to race as I felt that that was an unattainable gap to cover.
It’s that way, not that way
So we set off towards Malham and were quickly blindsided by some torrential rain and serious wind which we had not expected considering we weren’t too high up. This led to some miserable slogging through very wet muddy fields, eyes down on our GPS’s as the paths were barely visible. I could feel myself getting cold but there was no shelter from the weather where I could get another layer on. We started picking up the pace to keep warm but it was difficult getting through the mud while also trying to keep on the right route in the dark. I was getting worried that if we didn’t manage to get some shelter things were going to go south but fortunately we came across a wood as we dropped down towards the river. I managed to get my fleece on and went for triple glove power. Phew.
We found out later on that while we were battling that weather on Eshton Moor at 150m altitude, the race leader Rory Harris was tackling the same weather but on Pen-Y-Gent, and the weather was winning. The visibility was so bad that he was having to use his headtorch and a hand torch pointed directly downwards just to see the floor and his progress was so slow that he became dangerously hypothermic and spent 1.5 hours in Horton at the cavers’ volunteer rest stop just trying to warm up. Fortunately for him he had built up such a lead that he still won with a four hour cushion over second place.
The section along the river Aire toward Malham was wet. There was water literally everywhere. It wasn’t clear a lot of the time where the river ended and the flood plain begun. It was a slow wade. Climbing up towards Malham Tarn Dan had begun to slow a little and seemed to be struggling. I hadn’t noticed him eat in a while and he confessed he just couldn’t face eating anything. I wasn’t having any of that and got my emergency back-up calorie dump which was three soft flasks with 400kcal of Tailwind powder in each. I filled one up with water from the tarn run off and demanded he finished the lot. Which, hats off to him, he did! We made it to the Malham Tarn activity centre which was a “mini-checkpoint” and sat down for a cup of coffee. Surprisingly there was a runner in there who said he’d been there for about 20 minutes already. He looked very comfortable and didn’t look like he was going anywhere very quickly. He told me that 6th place had left the checkpoint only 10 minutes previously.
I was galvanised.
We had somehow made up an hour and a half to catch 7th place and 6th was only 10 minutes ahead.
But Dan had taken his shoes off and said he was going to need some time to collect himself before heading on. I felt conflicted because me and Dan had spent 22 hours together at this point. It had been such a team effort especially when I thought we were long behind everyone else. And we had said that we would finish this thing together. However, I was moving well and I now knew that 5th place wasn’t too far ahead and it was Rob Greenwood no less. I’d met Rob running in the Cheviot Goat race in 2021 and had passed him in the last section of the race. So the thought of doing that again was amusing. I decided I had to push on. I gave Dan all of my Tailwind and made him promise me he’d get to the finish.
I was off. The return of daylight, more coffee and 6th place in my sights and I felt better than I had in 12 hours! The snow up Fountains Fell made it slow going and it wasn’t until halfway up that my sleep-deprived brain remembered that I had Yak-traks in my bag. They made an impressive difference, now I wasn’t sliding back with each step and my progress improved. I even found the energy to run down the back of Fountains Fell into the valley.
Seeing Helen and her parents on the Silverdale road waiting to support me brought a tear to my eye and they weren’t able to escape a muddy and snotty hug.
This gave me another boost and I managed to catch 6th place on the ascent to Pen-Y -Gent, but wait, there wasn’t just one runner but three! 4,5 and 6th! Bagged three in one! What a result. They weren’t moving very well and said they had been death marching since Gargrave. It was certainly nice to see Rob and tease him for being caught by me for the second time.
I left them on the way down towards Horton as the cloud was clearing and a sun was coming out. It was turning out to be a beautiful day. The descent to Horton is long and was tough on tired legs and carrying a backpack. I had started paying for the flurry of “speed” or should I say effort (as it wasn’t objectively speedy) from Malham tarn to this point. I hobbled into the Cave Club rest stop in Horton and was lovingly offered soup and coffee which felt bloody marvellous.
My watch had run out of battery on the way down from Horton but in my head I had about 11/12 miles left. I was very upset to hear the news that it was 14! The three chaps I had passed on Pen-Y-Gent trudged into the rest stop. One of the guys, Sam, sat down next to me with what I can only describe as a 1000 yard stare. Helen, bless her, attempted to be helpful by offering to change the batteries in my GPS and somehow managed to dislodge the memory card so for the rest of the race it was rendered useless.
The sun was shining and the views making my way out of Horton were very motivating. I decided to use some music to keep the pace up and some thumping techno was doing the trick. Unfortunately, despite moving well, I got lost in my techno daydream and managed to follow the Three Peaks route instead of the Pennine way route when they diverged. Clearly on autopilot. Frustratingly it took me over half a mile to realise. I used some choice words for myself that I should not put down in writing when trudging back to the Pennine Way. This mile detour decimated my fragile motivation and the next section up to Cam High Road was a slog.
I had spied a runner catching me but after my navigational embarrassment I just didn’t have the drive to push any harder. This drive lessened further when I realised it was my friend Rob catching me. I decided I needed some company to boost my morale.
With 6 miles to go at the top of Cam High Road Rob and I decided to run the last section together. We felt that a joint 4th and a comfortable finish was a far better outcome than a miserable race down to the finish and a possible fifth. For any dot watchers that were witnessing me and Rob passing each other as we “raced” down into Hawes I’m sorry to inform you that we trudged down dragging each other’s sorry bodies and no racing was even thought of.
We came into Hawes about 30 minutes before sunset. Ideal. I put on a brave race and even attempted a “run” along the high-street to the finish.
32 hours 14 minutes and 54 seconds.
Joint 4th
Out of 96 starters, 46 finished
I was done.
4 pints and two meals later and I was swaying in my seat at the pub and almost falling asleep in my sticky toffee pudding. I had managed to cheer Dan in to his finish. He had taken a bit of time at Malham, got some food in him and had finished well.
But now it was time to sleep.
What followed was one of the worst night’s sleeps I’ve ever had. I could not regulate my body temperature. It felt like I was simultaneously freezing and boiling. It was like when you have a fever. The sheets were soaking with cold sweat in the morning. I suspect that my body had got used to producing so much heat and warmth from movement over the past 32 hours that it had thrown my temperature regulation completely out of whack.
The next morning with a slightly clearer head I inspected my body for issues. Naturally the muscles in my legs ached deeply but I did not have any particular joint or ligament pain. My main problem which I had discovered when I had entered the shower the night before was significant butt chafe. This had only caused mild discomfort during the run but this changed when the hot water from the shower hit it, ouch. Helen was not best pleased when I asked her to take a picture to survey the damage.
I seemed to recover surprisingly well within a few days and feeling a bit cocky I joined Will, Mattia and Jonny on a trip to Snowdonia a few weeks later. I had 12 miles of feeling great then things started going wrong and by 18 miles I felt almost as bad as I did at the end of the Spine. It felt like I’d hit the wall despite eating copiously throughout the run. I think this was my central nervous system telling me I’m and idiot and I clearly had a long way to go. Back to rest.
***
Reflections a month later
It’s hard to sum up an experience such as I had at the Spine Challenger. I once heard someone describe a 100-mile race as “a lifetime in a day” and I think this sums it up perfectly. Never in just 32 hours have I experienced such extremes in emotion, seen such beauty, forged such fast friendships and pushed myself as far physically.
This race was also a lovely antidote to the ever more connected, fast-paced and stressful lifestyles we lead (or at least I seem to). It was a chance to disconnect and experience life in a more simple form: you eat, you drink and you put one foot in front of the other. I think this is part of the pull I feel towards the longer unsupported events.
I write this report nearly 10 days after the race and my quads have just about recovered from the beasting they took on the descent. I know many others with a similar story. Why was this one so bad, even worse than the Ben, which is twice as far and steeper? No idea, perhaps the combination of speed, length and gradient, but it hurt!
This was the second English Champs counter of the season and a one-off AS race created by Keswick starting from by a small quarry near Threkeld. I was the only NLFR entered and bagged a lift with Wharfedale’s Nick Charlesworth and Dave McGuire.
We arrived at race HQ at Threkeld Cricket Club in the predicted glorious sunshine at just after midday with temperatures already in the mid-20s. The women’s race had already started. A few lazy saunters around the cricket pitch was about all I could muster before making my way to the start/finish area to see some of the women come in.
Already sitting in the grass was former black n’ blue, Katie Kaars Sijpstein, looking remarkably fresh in her new Keswick vest after finishing in 16th place with a fast time of 48 minutes. In response to my request for route tips, she helpfully advised that I go up to the top and come back down again. Cheers Katie…but well done for coming 24th in a British vest in the World Trail Champs just a week later in Spain. Better quads than mine, but I don’t think anyone would argue against that..
Katie’s sage route advice proved accurate and for two and bit miles I hauled myself up to the top of Clough Head, with a couple of unwelcome false summits on the way. The field was, as you would expect with a champs race, stellar, with most of the usual suspects. I focussed on my usual mid-pack battles and fairly well held my own on the ascent. But then we reached the top.
The descent was grassy, steep and runnable. For two and half miles it was all disengaged brains and eyeballs out madness as runners tried every possible line to gain some advantage. My descending skill are moderate at best and I lost at least 30 places from the top. I don’t know how some of them do it.
Hitting the road at the bottom, my legs had had enough. It was all I could do to jog to the finish and keep Harrogate’s rapidly approaching Ben Grant from besting me. The finish line was next to a cool river and the next 30 minutes were spent cooling off in there and avoiding Katie asking me for my time (2 minutes slower than her).
Despite the quads, fell running doesn’t get much better than days like this. Up and down the nearest hill in glorious sunshine, cooling off in a river afterwards and some post-race banter sitting outside with a pie and a pint.
The women’s race was won by Hannah Horsburgh and the men’s by Mark Lamb, both of Keswick. I didn’t witness it, but local knowledge apparently gave them the best lines on the descent.
The next champs race is Buttermere Horseshoe. At 23 miles and over 9000’ ascent I am praying for cooler conditions.
Wow, what a race! It’s an epic. A whole sheet of an OS map! And a race for the older person: more than 60% of runners were over 40. Place names like Pudding Real Moss, Soldiers Lump, Shining Clough Moss, Old Woman, Wool Pack, Fox Holes to name a few. What more could I want? So, a run from Marsden to Edale, taking in the trig points at Black Hill, Higher Shelf Stones and Kinder Low. Straight line measurement is 20 miles but actually around 24 miles with 4000 ft of climbing.
I first ran the race in 2015 and what stood out was the amount of navigation choices to make, the cold and the often poor visibility. This year I really wanted to nail the route and be confident and ready for the clag, and if all going well perhaps make up a few places with some choice navigation. I trained throughout October, November and December exploring different lines and establishing bearings. Some beautiful, snowy and cold outings; returning back across the moors by torchlight. Fantastic.
So we (Caroline, Dave, Anthony and I) arrived at an already heaving Marsden cricket club at 7:30am. Kit check, some chit chat and then at 8:30am set off on our way by Nicky Spinks. The first 10 miles or so over Black Hill down to Crowden were fine. There was a spring in mine and everyone else’s step.
However, heading up to Lawrence Edge someone said to me “oh the race … it starts now”. True words. As soon as I get to the top of the Edge, stinging cramp got me. Very disappointing. This meant from there on I had to take it steady across Shining Clough Moor. All that training and sorting my lines out! Let alone the fact the visibility was absolutely clear and the check points were marshalled by Woodhead Mountain Rescue people all wearing bright red. There were moments when I felt a touch, I’m ashamed to say, hard-done-by.
Heading from Snake Pass the race goes off the Pennine Way to the site of an old plane crash, which required 20 minutes of trudging through the heather. I did notice though some people make it look easy. I could only look on in my just-cramping-trudging state. After that, the race goes around the edge of Kinder to the Kinder Low trig. Along this section it became bitterly cold, with frost blown grass, a luminescent fog down below and a lot fewer people around. Quite eerie. I needed to stop behind some rocks to get more clothes on and my hands were so cold I needed to ask a passer-by to pull my zip up. At Kinder Low there is a choice of continuing on the high route around Kinder or on the low route along the Edale valley. I continued along the high route and as the end neared picked up some energy and finally dropped down from below Grindslow Knoll chatting with another runner into Edale. Miraculously my cramp had disappeared. All good.
Soup and cake in the village hall with the prize giving and finally to the Ramblers Arms for warmth, catching up and hot chocolate.
Winner 3:28, Anthony 33rd 4:26, Dave 85th 5:09, me 138th 5:47, Caroline 161th 6:17 and 173 finishers.
On a snowy January Sunday morning I made my way to Middleton Park for the 4th race in the PECO XC series with fellow NLFRs Matt John and Ian Furlong. With the club not being part of this series, Matt was running as a guest in his first race in over year after his hip op, whilst Ian and I were running for our second claim clubs, Roundhay and Abbey.
The PECO series is incredibly popular and over 700 senior runners set off in the staggered men’s and women’s races. The course was fast, undulating and very muddy. Great speed work for the fells.
Matt was ninth overall, having stated beforehand that he would be taking it steady….With three weeks more training until race 5, he will be pushing for a win. Ian was happy with 54th and is getting stronger with each run. I was delighted to get 74th after so much time out over the past year with injury.
Roll on the Northerns at Harewood House this Saturday (27th January) with NLFRs Phil, Richard and myself running a 12k course and pretending that we should be in the same race as some of the best runners in North England.
–Dominic Nurse
Matt with Abbeys Jim Whitaker, John Ward and James Franklin
Matt with Abbeys Jim Whitaker, John Ward and James Franklin
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