Tag: Tour of Pendle

The Packhorse’s Blinders, or a very long-winded Tour of Pendle report.

Standing in the queue for some post race replenishment, I’d asked Bill what his next race would be. “Tour of Pendle in November, last AL of the season”.

Never heard of it.

“How is it?”

“Oh, it’s great!”, he informs me with his usual wide-eyed enthusiasm. An enthusiasm faultlessly unencumbered by the prospect of long and arduous races, I should add. He is Lancastrian after all.

16 and a bit miles, 4800 feet, in November, on the windiest hill in England, four weeks after my first race post-injury. It’ll be fine. Then I remember, I haven’t done a long category race since June. It’ll be fine-ish.

Unable to find out much about the origin of the race, I’ve concluded that the route was devised by dropping spaghetti on a map, and the most offensive strands were selected to give the grandest day out possible. That, or some devious cartographer went to work figuring out how to get an AL out of a hill that’s 2 miles wide and 1800ft tall. Either way, the result is a criss-crossing tour that seduces you with 10 easy miles, before smashing you to bits by throwing the majority of the ascent at you over four miles, and then making you sprint it home on tarmac for a mile. Saucy.

The night before, I follow my Team Sky-esque pre-race protocol: one large pizza, chicken wings and a big packet of Maltesers, followed by sorting my kit out two hours after I should have gone to bed. Dave Brailsford would be proud. I sleep terribly, rise reluctantly, throw some coffee at my face and grumble through a bowl of muesli. This is what Peak Performance™ looks like, I’m sure. Fortunately the transcendent effects of the coffee kick in and I’m happily on my way to Barley before I know it.

My morning drudgery aside, the day is off to a good start. The weather is fair – a particularly positive omen with previous years’ races being hit with every weather type imaginable – and I squeezed my Astra into a spot so tight Guinness World Records might come a-knocking (I’m tempted to attach a picture because it’s that much of a bobby dazzler).

[Ed—happy to oblige]


Number and t-shirt collected, map purchased from Pete Bland and there’s nowt left to do but plod up and down the road a few times to remind my legs they’re on duty today.

The giant mass of runners pile down the lane to the start, and without a moment to stagnate the heads in front start to bob up and down as the wave of commencement drifts towards us. There are a lot of people running this race! I have to admit I feel awful, the realization striking me of what lies ahead, everything a bit off kilter, my stomach carved hollow. Too late now, anyway. It’s a pretty standard schlep up Pendle Hill to start which helps draw attention away from my intestinal quandaries.

[Ed—”pretty standard if you mean full clag”?]



The trig is passed, and the dreamy 4.5 mile descent towards CP2 begins. Keeping it steady, I’m passed by Bill, a decent indicator that my pace is correct, as he knows what he’s doing, I don’t! “See you at the finish!,” I laugh and off into the distance he goes. Down to CP2 then past the reservoir and up the next climb. It’s a narrow path so you’re tightly slotted into your running order. Trying to make up places here will be a clear waste of energy (or a good excuse to slow your pace, depending on your pedigree). Sadly the climb doesn’t give a great return on its investment, the ground drops away steeply, presenting the aptly named “Geronimo” descent. Running in my comfortable trail shoes, the wet grass isn’t offering much purchase and I find myself working my legs hard to keep in control. Too hard in fact. So I decide to match my decline in altitude with a decline in dignity. Setting free my inner seven year old, I pick the grassiest line and bum-slide my way down. I’ve heard that if it’s stupid but it works, it can’t be that stupid. I’m not sure anyone’s buying it though.


I still feel pretty capable, if a little wobbly, as CP5 approaches. I’m on schedule, hitting the 10 mile mark under two hours. That gives me an hour and a half for the remaining 6.5, at around 15 minutes a mile. This is also the last chance to do any maths, before the arriving climbs siphon all the oxygen out of my blood, rendering me into some kind of Neanderthal and thus stripping me of my already limited numerical capabilities.

The turn from CP5 heads straight for the climb via a dip over the stream. Your cover from Pendle’s ever-present winds is whipped away and the steepness robs me of my pace. The powerful gusts try and liberate me from my race cap, as I tighten it, pulling it over my brow. The peak is acting as a pair of blinkers for this tired old packhorse. Ignore the other runners and trudge away, I think to myself. Tiny steps but keep the cadence. It feels stupid taking these teeny steps, but for the first time ever, I’m actually taking places while going uphill. It definitely helps that my stout build grounds me with a greater wind resistance than my whippet-limbed compatriots. The caffeinated energy gel swilling around my guts is threatening revolt but the call to arms seems to be rousing a second wind. Feeling pretty burst, I console myself with the reminder that there’s only two climbs left.

The descent offers little respite as the steepness demands that the legs work hard to keep me on track. I try and relax my body to stop it stealing precious energy for the approaching ascent. The penultimate climb starts and by some miracle of sports nutrition, the viscous devil I squirted down is doing wonders. But still, the plod, plod, plod begrudgingly goes on. Then a stroke of good luck: the rasping sound of tired breath and howling wind is broken by a Lancastrian accent so thick you could spread it on toast. The unmistakable tones belong to Bill, who’s only a few places ahead. Seeing a friend in a long race is worth way more for performance than any gelatinous nutrition packet. So I power on, trying to catch up. But much like those dreams where you’re stuck to the floor, limbs refusing to cooperate, I just can’t quite bridge the gap. The chase continues over the top and back down.

Another sapping descent delivers us to the foot of the final uncompromising climb. And the best really is saved until last. The trodless hillside offers no line of weakness, just a steep aspect, uneven footing and guaranteed discomfort. It’s a bloody great way to finish a race, I must reluctantly admit. My body has now diminished from Neanderthal to horse to some kind of amoebic puddle. The single file of runners disperse into a loose scattering on the hillside, each runner in their own battle against the elevation. I laugh to myself at how daft this must look, droves of knackered looking runners cresting the hill like some kind of lycra-clad zombie apocalypse.


Up and over, nothing left now but to empty the tank and to try and avoid premature disintegration. I’m back with Bill as we hit the tarmac. The harsh feedback from the solid ground underfoot shakes through me and lets me know the end is nigh – both the finish line and my ability to walk. Only 8 minutes of this and you’ll be done. Grit your teeth and put it down. My quads want to explode. My guts are shriveling. But my pace is good and I’ve made some good distance on Bill, I think. Round the final corner, finish in sight. Then out of bloody nowhere a Lancastrian bullet comes flying with a sprint finish to make Usain Bolt proud. My floppy legs give it my best but the man in black and white has kept his ace in the back pocket and thrown it on the table just in time.

Cheeky sod.

—Andrew Sandercock


Recce report

I know people write race reports, but what about recce reports? Either way, here is a ramble about plodding round the Tour of Pendle course.

I decided I wanted to recce the full tour of Pendle route. The race itself is on the 17th, and I once heard that it takes two weeks to feel the benefit from a run – so that left me this week to do it. With the weekend predestined for techno based antics and subsequent recovery I knew I’d have to squeeze it in on a weekday somehow.

Most evenings are taken by night shifts at the bakery, and any amount of running – never mind 17 miles of fell – tends to make the busy baking shift a bit of a grind. Fortunately the heavens answer my prayers as my friend rings me with the delicious news that he no longer needs my assistance paving his driveway on Tuesday as he can’t be bothered and has decided to pay someone to do the job for him instead. Hurrah!

The date is set and off we go. Except that date is actually tomorrow, and I’m knackered, and I don’t really feel ready. How bad can it be?

I reckon the route should take me about 3 hours 30, and sundown is at 1640, and the drive there takes an hour and 20 – quick maths says set off at 11am, be running around 1230 then I’ll be back with plenty of time and I’ll miss the forecasted rain.

No problem! Except I’m rather poor at leaving the house. I am the master of faff. I squander the morning, I curse as the simple act of finding and loading the gpx file onto my watch takes over an hour (please don’t judge me). I jump in the car not long before 1pm and pack my headtorch.

Righto, I get to the parking near the start of the route not long before 2pm – it gets locked at 6pm the sign tells me. I have a brief chat with a runner just getting back to his car. We mention routes, he quips “oh I’ve never done the full tour, too long.” I ignore his observation and its potential relevance, and then hurriedly stuff my random selection of gear into my race vest and trundle off down the road. The wrong road. The gpx file I have on my watch begins at the start line, which I am half a mile away from, and I soon realise that the road I’m waddling up will not deliver me. Back down the road and off I go.

It’s 2 pm, so I have 2 hours 40 until sundown, and 4 hours until lockdown. My “comfortable” time has just become rather pertinent, as a forced night’s sleep in a carpark doesn’t appeal. Not to mention it’ll be dark after 5.

I don’t really fancy running around in the dark and wet, but I’m here now and I can always cut the route short.

The first 6 miles fly by, I’ve got nothing to worry about! I’m way ahead of schedule! Even at 10 miles I feel pretty solid. Not a problem! It is however worth mentioning two things: firstly, the majority of the 4500 ft of climbing comes in those last 6 miles and secondly, I’ve not run more than 9 miles in about 4 months.
I’m going well enough, fuelling regularly and my legs feel decent. Until the first climb of the final big 3 that is, and now they don’t feel so fresh any more. It’s about this point that I accept that I’ll be both running in the dark, and racing the man coming to lock the carpark.

I constantly strategise my exit – I can cut this bit here, or skip that climb there – knowing full well that my stubbornness will have me sleeping in a carpark long before failing the objective. “If you’re gonna be dumb you gotta be tough” sounds much better than “you don’t have to be tough if you leave on time” anyway.

The sun sets as predicted at 1640, and the light lingers then fades into a cold dimness by 1700. I’m at the top of the second big climb and I elect to put my headtorch on before it’s so dark I’ll need a torch to find it. It’s only 4 or so miles to go, 15 minute miles, piece of piss. Sketchily ignoring all those times on steep climbs that I’ve seen the pace on my watch push well into the mid 20s for min/miles. Plenty of time.

Down the side of the hill I go to the “checkpoint” which marks start of the final climb. My headtorch very much in use as I wind down the narrow trod. Once again I resist cutting short the ever so easy descent – which will only have to be climbed again. It’s genuinely dark now. The final climb begins. A proper romp up a steep and rough hillside. No sheeptrack or trod, just overgrown tufted moss and grass. Trudging upwards is interspersed with distance and time checks, the feasibility of returning on time unsure. I finally hit the top and with great relief rejoin the path that takes me home. Except that the descent forks off wide, taking a slightly different route and adds extra distance. I also remember that my initial detour means the total distance will be more than the race route anyway. FFS.

After a day of 13 minute miles, I’m now hammering it down the initial stretch of road, which seems to go on forever. Distance and time checks become slightly frantic as I realise how close to the wire I actually am. God only knows how I must’ve looked to the headtorched dog walkers as my tired but slightly panicked corpse wobbled by. But finally the road ends and I reach the car-park. The clock stopped at 3.55. My legs hurt but I quickly jump into the car to move it onto the road – visions of the attendant sneaking up and locking me in filling my mind.

20 minutes later, feeling slightly more human and maybe a touch more rational, I realise that the donation funded carpark probably doesn’t have quite as strict a locking policy as my oxygen starved brain believed, and that I’m very happy.

—Andrew Sandercock