Race review:The 3 Peaks 25/4/15

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The number that barely saw the light of day

Feeling Peaky

Number 2 on this year's list of "races with whom I had a score to settle" was the 3 Peaks race. Relatively speaking, this is one of the biggest fell races of the year. I say relatively, because whilst 35-odd-thousand people would be plodding the streets of London the same weekend, a mere 802 runners (out of 1016 people that entered) would start the 3 peaks race. Last year I had entered but had failed to make it to the start line due to injury and the organisers had kindly ensured that I received my pre-paid for t shirt. Pride meant that I had worn it once or twice, but couldn't really face wearing it any more, at least not until I had actually completed the race.

The map didn't really survive entirely intact on a miserable day weather-wise

The iconic 3 peaks race has set off from Horton-in-Ribblesdale since 1975 and the race organisation is now a well-oiled machine. Sponsored by Saloman , the race "village" is set up in the field off Station road and the marshals did a remarkable job in keeping the cars moving to park in said field without letting a queue build up and bringing the tiny village to grid-lock, although I am sure that the occasional flock of sheep causes traffic chaos with build-ups of up to 8 cars on a bad day.

I had the frustrating experience of looking around the Pete Bland stall (frustrating because I didn't have money to buy anything apart from a map of the race (thought it might be a good idea rather than carry around a huge walkers map!)) before milling about in the marquee and picking up my race pack, complete with Saloman socks and a comprehensive booklet that even listed every single runner who had foolishly signed up.
The three peaks is a real runners' race and to that end, when entering you need to justify your entry by listing your previous fell running experience or "fast" road marathon time. I just had to hope that they didn't read my Sedbergh blog. They strictly enforce the cut-offs at certain check points and there are many jokes about avoiding the "Bus of shame" which transports you back to the start should you fail to meet the required times. Although I am a fiercely average fell runner, I wasn't worried about the cut-offs and felt very confident I would make them easily. The 2 hours 10 minute cut-off at Ribblehead was burned in to my mind, but in the event I was right not to worry and beat it and the other cut-offs by over half an hour.
Often, before the race, I was asked what time I was aiming for and I truly didn't know. I had not done anything quite like this race before. Sedbergh had more elevation (6000ft) but was shorter by 10 miles and the other long races I had done had nowhere near the same amount of ascent. Optimistically, my brain decided I would try to go under 4 hours. My brain is really stupid sometimes.

Rain? In Yorkshire? Never!

In true Yorkshire style, the weather was forecast to be changeable with a possibility of rain and it had rained heavily the night before the race. Not long after I arrived at the race a steady stream of drizzle started, which is excellent, because who likes these races to be easy with perfect weather? No, us fell runners far prefer to have something absolutely miserable to run in so we can suitably recall the tale for many years afterwards on stormy nights, sitting by a fire in a remote pub, dramatising the story of how we survived the great 3 Peaks storm of 2015. And in that respect, the 61st running of this race really lived up to all expectations........

Eventually we were herded in to the starting area and I was already wearing my waterproof jacket, because frankly, it was bloody freezing. Although I am a true-blood Yorkshireman, a year of living in Australia turned my innards cold and I now have to sunbathe on a rock to keep my body temperature up so I often find I am wearing far more than anyone else at a race. I decided on my Montane race vest to carry the mandatory kit (Full waterproof body kit, map, whistle, emergency food, St Bernard, chloroform and a hacksaw) with a little bit of water in the bladder and had made the tough decision to wear a long sleeved top under my Fellandale vest. I was certainly glad of the extra clothing even if it didn't keep the cold out throughout the full race.

This is my girlfriend's picture of the start of the race. I can't find a better one!

Out of the race village the race heads through the centre of  Horton-in-Ribblesdale through reasonably thick crowds before you head off up a track for the first climb of the day to the summit of Pen Y Ghent. When walking up Pen Y Ghent you take a longer route and up the treacherous stairs, the fell race route is different, however, and new to me.

I have walked the 3 peaks on 3 previous occasions, one time going round in 7.5 hours with a little bit of running. The fell race route is around 23 miles and the ascent tops 5000ft (Or 1609m which makes it almost exactly a mile of "up") So I knew this was going to be tough. The common phrase used about this race is "It doesn't start until Whernside" I only wished I knew that before I started. Someone else said "You need to show utter restraint until you have climbed Whernside" I wish I'd known that too.......

The 3 peaks of the apocalypse 

The 3 peaks itself is an odd race as there is the long 10 miles between the summits of Pen Y Ghent and Whernside that is flatish and runnable in the main, with steep ascents at either end. It's not hard to get carried away on the "easy" runnable section and end up not having enough left for the much harder second half of the race. Knowing the route well, I wasn't stupid enough to race between those first 2 summits, but neither did I take it easy.

As we climbed the first mountain the rain began to fall and the clag was down. I was glad that I was wearing my jacket and had gloves to hand (pun intended) as it was getting even colder.
To put my fell running in to perspective, Ricky Lightfoot (Winner for the last two years and a Saloman sponsored athlete) reached the top of Pen Y Ghent in 28 minutes, I took 41 minutes. Then it's a blast off the summit and settle in for the long stretch to mountain number two.

In the pack near high Birkwith (I'm 2nd from right, all in black)

In the above photo wearing number 439 is Shane Ewen. Although at this point, which is maybe 3-4 miles in to the race after the first climb, we were together, he went on to finish over 42 minutes in front of me. You should be able to work out why if you continue to read......

The long stretch to Whernside is a real war of attrition. Keep calm. eat up the miles, nothing silly, no racing (I'm sure Ricky Lightfoot and the other men at the front of the race approach it a little differently!). By the time I arrived at the Ribblehead viaduct after the short road section I felt pretty good having cruised along not pushing it at all. It just goes to show how quickly it can all go wrong.

Two down, one to go

Then it started to get tough. Too tough. First, it started to rain properly, persistently. Then I came across the first surprise of the route. I knew that the race route up Whernside doesn't go up the walkers route which is a long meandering and not-very-steep path and I also knew that it went straight up the side of the mountain, but I didn't know exactly where. A short way after the main structure of the Ribblehead viaduct you head under a tunnel and are confronted with the vertiginous face of Whernside. Or at least we would have been, had we been able to see it through the curtain of rain and fog.

Looking back at the Ribblehead viaduct in perfect weather only a few days before the race

And straight through a freaking river.

I'd like to call it a stream, but y'know, it had had a lot of water deposited in it very recently and now it started to rain much harder. So with very soggy feet we headed towards the largest mountain of the 3. If our feet hadn't been soggy from the river, they certainly would have been as we waded through the freshly-watered bog to get to the climb. Now my legs started to feel heavy. Sinking in to the marshland again and again sapped my strength badly. The climb up Whernside is horrible, even without swirling wind blowing rain in to your face. As the climb gets higher, it gets steeper and by the time you are near the top it is close to  vertical and everyone is climbing with hands and feet. Sweat was dripping off me despite the awful weather and I began to get particularly cold, but when I reached the top, I felt ok. Not brilliant, but ok. I concentrated hard: if I could get to the summit of Ingleborough in a good state then a reasonable time was on. The two hour mark ticked by somewhere on the way up Whernside. So half way in, with half the climb done, I was on for 4 hours. It didn't last.

Along the top of Whernside we passed a lot of very bemused looking walkers who were swathed in full-on waterproofs. The majority of the field around me were in shorts and short-sleeved tops, and some mad buggers were still in vests; those people must have really confused the walkers.
We plunged down the side of Whernside and headed towards the next check point at Hill Inn. As I headed down the hard-packed path I felt a jabbing in the sole of my foot. I tried to ignore it, often these things work their way out. A couple of minutes later the stabbing pain was still there and I realised I would have to take my shoe off or risk something nasty happening to the sole of my foot.. As I bent my leg to get at my shoe my calf cramped painfully. Not good. I gave the innersole and my soggy foot a good rub and couldn't feel any likely culprit for the pain. I put my shoe back on and set off, only to find the stabbing was still there. I repeated the previous procedure only to get the same result. The third time I took my shoe off I felt inside my sock and found that a small, sharp thorn had worked its way well inside. This time on replacing my shoe, I was good to go, but I had lost a fair bit of time.

Carl (another Fellandaler) greeted me at the check point with his usual reminders to eat and drink. I supped down a cup of water and set off. Other runners had taken advantage of the drinks service whereby the organisers transport your bottle from the start to a table at the checkpoint.

As soon as I hit the flag stones going toward the final ascent up Ingleborough, I began to erm.....flag.
I was over taken by the first of many runners. As I hit the slope to begin the climb, I feared the worst. I knew this was going to be a long, hard slog.
When it began to snow three quarters of the way up, the gallows humour of fell runners came out. Jokes were being made all around me. A decidedly un-Yorkshire accent popped up, "The cold doesn't bother me as I am Scandinavian, I am a Wiking" (My brother's Norwegian in-laws always pronounce it "Wiking" too.)
"Oh really?" I said, "I can always drink my Norwegian friends under the table"
"I bet they are from southern Norway"
I had to laugh, because they are! Turns out he lived in the Arctic circle. It's amazing how many times I have run in to Norwegians or found Norwegian references since my brother married a girl from Larvik.

The conversation with several runners carried on for a while and it was fantastic to have a distraction from the pain. It was so successful in fact, that the summit came much quicker than I expected. So in the teeth of a biting wind and a snow storm, I began the final run in to Horton. The path back to Horton can seem like a very long way when you're finishing the 3 peaks, but I knew that it was very runnable. Looking at my watch, however, I knew that the possibility of a sub-4 hour time had disappeared as I had crossed the valley to Ingleborough. Now my aim was just to finish in a reasonable state.

It didn't end well

Not long after arriving at the bottom of Ingleborough, the only other Fellandaler running that day caught me and over took as I was walking. Alison has completed the 3 peaks race something like 16 times and was looking very, very strong. She was so focussed she passed me without recognising me. We had run the last leg of the Ian Hodgson mountain relay together last year and I know she is a very strong runner and is a fast descender. She is also a member of the Bob Graham club. Her only downside is a fairly average top speed on the flat. I started running again and caught her quickly, "Hello" I said, "Looks like you'll be retaining the Fellandale 3 Peaks trophy again" She was surprised to see me as Carl had told her I was at least 5 minutes ahead at the Hill Inn check point and had expected me to finish way in front of her. "5 minutes isn't much when you're dying", I said.

It wasn't long before I was walking again. I gave myself a talking to. "You can't walk these flat sections- look at this path, you should be flying"
26 miles in to the Haworth Hobble I had suddenly had a huge burst of energy and had finished the final 6 miles at quite a pace. I had been hoping that it would happen again today, but it wasn't to be. That said, the talking to worked for a little while and I set off running again. I soon caught Alison and over took her, then opened up a small lead, but I knew I wouldn't be able to keep this up with around 3 miles to go. I was hoping I would open up enough of a lead that I might still finish in front of her, but it wasn't long before I was forced to walk again and saw Alison was not far behind me and she passed me for the final time.

I plodded on towards the finish just trying to keep running. The walkers' route in to Horton takes you via the train station. I knew this would involve an extra loop around station road to the finish, so I was really hoping the fell route took a short-cut somewhere. To my relief, we ducked into a short tunnel then straight through someone's back garden- literally, I am not joking! Right across their lawn! And the finish field was in sight.

I was finishing in a small pack of runners and for some odd reason I decided I didn't want to lose any more places considering just how many people had over taken me on the run in from Ingleborough to the finish so I managed a "sprint" of sorts through the line.

Note to self: Remove ridiculous buff-twat-hat BEFORE entering the finishing straight

Afterwards I was exhausted, soaking, freezing and weirdly emotional. I was glad to lean on Sophia in the marquee. For a brief second I felt tears rising up. Then I remembered I am a fell runner and pulled myself together. My hands were so cold I had lost a lot of the ability to grip. I managed to plod off for my complimentary food included in the entry price and was extremely disappointed to find out that the only hot-food option was a chilli con carne. Why do people not understand that there are a lot of us who can't stand chillies? I was about to refuse it when I realised that I could give it to Sophia, it also did a very good job of warming up my hands. I begged extra cheese so I could make a sandwich out of that and the bap we were given. Grabbing a cup of tea I landed back at a picnic table and chatted with other runners, all of whom looked in much better condition than me. Often during a long race I fantasise about a beer at the end of the race, but find when I finish that it is the last thing I want. Today though, I chugged happily on a beer after the cup of tea.
I congratulated Alison on another 3 peaks finish and for retaining the club trophy. Her husband, Ian asked me what happened. I could give no more explanation than I had hit the wall after Ingleborough.

The most disappointing part of the race was looking at the stats, above. I had lost 111 places between Ribblehead and the finish which gives you an idea of how badly I faded. Alison eventually took 6 minutes off me over the last 3 miles.

The official stickyfoot

I knew I should be happy with my "2nd class" time on my first attempt at the race (A 1st class time is under 2 hours 40) but it felt like a failure, mainly because of my atrocious finish. Still, over 1000 runners had entered the race,  802  had started, 701 had finished and I had made it through the line in 450th position. Not great, but not terrible.

As my legs and hands came back to life a little, I headed off to the changing area to peel off the soaking wet clothes that were stuck to me- always an interesting experience under a towel in a tent.
As an amusing aside; Sophia bought me the t shirt of the race on the day as it's not included in the race entry. A couple of weeks later, the one I had forgotten that I had ordered when I entered the race arrived in the post.....

Going Ultra for Mountain Rescue: Trollers Trot and The Haworth Hobble 2015

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SPONSOR ME TO RAISE MONEY FOR MOUNTAIN RESCUE

So begins yet another story of willy-nilly signing up for races

Most runners have some "unfinished business" whether it be a race you didn't perform in or one that you didn't make it to the start line of. I have more than one, but the dragon to slay this year was the Haworth Hobble (32 miles and 4400ft) after injury prevented me from toeing the line last year and completing my first ever ultra-marathon. Of course, if I'd got injured whilst out running and couldn't make it home Mountain Rescue would have saved my sorry life which is a very comforting thought.
To make things worse, last year I had bought the t-shirt in advance and the organisers kindly sent it to me when I failed to show on the day. Pride prevented me from ever wearing it. A difficult 2014 spent mainly trying to regain past strength, speed and endurance meant that my first ultra marathon seemed horribly distant only a few months ago, but in a fit of optimism (and probably booze, yes it was almost certainly booze) I signed up for the Hobble again for 2015. I will admit that signing up for Trollers Trot (25 miles and 2400ft) taking place the weekend before wasn't exactly part of the plan and also, I don't really plan. But Oh well, I thought, if it goes mammaries skyward, the amazing volunteers of Mountain Rescue will save me.

5 weeks before the big race I took part in Rombald's stride. At 22 miles and 2400ft it seemed perfect training for the Hobble, however, it didn't go well....... To cut a long story short, after a good mid-section I blew up badly and ended up finishing at a crawl. Turns out I had been brewing a stomach bug during the race and ended up very forcibly ejecting the contents of my stomach and bowels over the next 12 hours. But enough of that.

Trollers Trot: 7/3/15

Fast forward a few weeks and I lined up for Trollers trot. Once again at a race, I was under prepared, under trained and worried.

Brave faces at the start

Having been stupid enough to sign up to a 25 miler one week before attempting my first ultra, my plan was simple for both races- survive; just get round in one piece and call Mountain Rescue if it all went wrong (Not frivolously of course, only if in real need, only idiots call the rescue services without good reason)

At Rombald's stride I had gone out like I do at most races; trying to feel my way and listening to my body. The trouble is my body was in a bad mood and wanted to punish me for daring to wake it up early on a weekend. Its voice that day sounded like Dot Cotton, if she smoked twice as many cigs.

The day of Trollers I committed one of running's deadliest sins and was wearing a new pair of trainers with only around 10 miles on the clock. As anyone who has ever read a running magazine knows, wearing something new on race day will almost certainly result in you having a major brain aneurysm and/or breaking all your leg bones resulting in having to call out Mountain Rescue to ensure you arrive at hospital safely. That's if it didn't bring on the very apocalypse. I had intended to run this race in More Mile Cheviots as they have a great fell shoe grip combined with the perfect amount of cushioning in them. Sadly, their notorious chocolate-chip-biscuit-strength uppers died after less than 100 miles during Romabald's stride and had split wide open.

They're dead Jimmmmm!!

Cue desperate search for a new pair of trainers to wear. Inov8 X-talons would be way too minimal for me at the moment for this kind of distance. Luckily I spotted that Nike had brought out a version of their flex road shoe in a trail version and they were on sale at Go Outdoors. Using my NHS discount I snapped up a pair and after 10 off-road miles in them, I decided they would probably do for Trollers and hopefully the Hobble. Brave or what? But obviously, not as brave as the amazing men and ladies of Mountain Rescue.

To Do? No thank you!

With only ten minutes to go, I discovered my asthma inhaler was empty, because I'm a genius like that; so off I sprinted back to the car. I had decided not to use the toilets earlier when I saw that the queue stretched back in to infinity, but on return from the car I knew it wasn't going to wait. Luckily everyone was now milling around outside rather than in the bogs so I was able to sit 3 inches from the floor on the primary-school-child-height loos. Had I got stuck in one, I am sure I could have called Mountain Rescue to pry me off it (No doubt with a large comedy POP)
The milling outside turned in to moving on the command of a quiet "Go" from the organiser and we were away, looking absolutely nothing like a herd of African gazelles.

No, I had no idea what I looked like in the buff hat, do you think I'd have been wearing it like that if I did?

I decided to take Trollers as easy as I could to see if preserving energy was the way to go after the disaster that was Rombald's. For the first 10 miles this seemed to go very well. I trotted along with Adrian, chatting and laughing and generally enjoying a lovely day out. We merrily passed through fields and paths, up and down dale, over, around and through puddles and the miles melted away.
At 18ish miles, we spotted Simon up ahead, much to my surprise. I may have the beating of Simon over short races, but certainly not over anything long or with lots of ascent. In a further happy coincidence we had caught him at the "Fellandale check-point"

The race organiser, Paul Shack had very generously offered to donate £45 to charity for each volunteer runners found. Another Fellandaler, Carl Prendergast had spotted this, and being the very Yorkshirest of Yorkshiremen, he offered to volunteer; never being a man to turn down the offer of summat for nowt. I roped in Debi and we had a Fellandale checkpoint! Paul further enhanced the donation to Mountain Rescue by topping the donation up to £100 as a reward for getting the volunteers on board so quickly.

I shouted to Debi to get her camera out so we could get a Fellandale group photo, but Simon and Adrian kept going after a brief drink of water and some biscuits so all we got was this shot of us running away with me looking especially "special" in my buff twat-hat with the world's largest bum-bag. At least it made my arse look small in comparison.

At that point I felt ok, no real niggles and I felt I had plenty of miles left in my legs. I was wrong, very, very wrong.

As the last few miles wore on, my thighs and hips got tighter, and tighter. Before long they were agony. Simon and Adrian gradually pulled away from me. By the time I hit the last stretch along the river, I was miserable. Moving in any way was painful and the last 5 miles were total misery. Runner after runner passed me as I shuffled along. If I stretched out for a minute I could run for about 2 before the tightness returned. So I hobbled and grumbled and bimbled through to the finish, occasionally wishing that the amazing Mountain Rescue would rescue me rather than saving their expertise on people in genuine trouble.
At the tables in the cafeteria later, Adrian took this cruel shot of me stretching near one of the tables:

I had finished in under 4 hours, but the torrid time I had endured between 20-25 miles did not bode well for a race in only 7 days time with 7 more miles tagged on the end and 2000 more feet stacked on the top.

The main event: The Haworth Hobble

The Haworth Nobble

20 minutes after the end of Trollers trot the tightness in my thighs and hips had subsided and I felt fine, which gave me a plan for the Hobble- should the cramps come on again, I would stop for 20 minutes and lay down and/or have something to eat. One of the runner's home remedies of which I had oft heard tell was to eat something salty when the cramps came on, so I emptied a packet of salted cashews into a zip-lock bag.
Taking it easy certainly hadn't worked at all in the last couple of long events, so the new tactic was to run how I felt at my natural pace and hope to get as far as I could before the wheels fell off, I blew my big end and the windscreen wipers started making a squeaky sound.

I was quite surprised by the size of the crowd gathered in the small school hall a little way from the main street of the beautiful village of Haworth. Haworth is best known as the home of the Bronte sisters and is a Mecca for fans of the Bronte's books and also for fans of small gift shops, cafes, chip shops and pubs.

This is what I had to "look forward to" The route looks oddly like the monument on Stoodley pike

My friend Tom also had unfinished business with this race. Last year he had finished behind Simon and outside 6 hours and this year he wanted to put that right. Simon couldn't run this year, but the sub 6 hour time was Tom's target. As I said, I had no target other than finishing. but Simon spurred me on a little when he was sceptical that I would get near 6 hours.
Debi picked us up bright and early and I was very grateful that I would have a lift and also photos from Debi to document my first ultra.

The race itself starts on the cobbled street in the centre of Haworth whilst bemused tourists look on.

That bloke's not actually running in denim- it's just denim-look shorts. Weird eh?

And remember, when starting your first ultra, or hell, any ultra, it's very important to do a monkey impression. Start as you mean to go on, I say.

That's Tom in the orange next to me

For the next 13 miles (You don't really want to hear all about them do you?) Tom and I ran together. We headed out of Haworth, around to Widdop reservoir where half the field went one way around it, and half went the other. Down we went to Hurstwood reservoir and along the dam.Somewhere along here I was disappointed to be over-taken by an older lady.When it turned out that that lady was Nicky Spinks (She is about to attempt to knock enough time off her Bob Graham round time to claim the all-time record (i.e. men and women) for the lowest cumulative time for the Bob Graham, Paddy Buckley and Ramsay rounds) I have to admit I felt a lot better.

Tom photobombed my photo. He's such a child. Lol. #yolo wtf?! lmfao

At about 13 miles I stopped for some fluids and a biscuit at a check point and Tom went off in front. He soon disappeared into the distance and I let him go as I knew I needed to run my own race.
The route headed up a long, steep hill near a wind farm and I forced myself to walk up it. I found that I had to force myself to walk many of the up hills during the race that I was capable of running as I didn't dare waste too much energy running them. I look forward to the day when I am conditioned well enough to not worry and run them.

This photo doesn't do justice to the steepness of this hill, honest

Whiskey Galore!

A few miles later I made my way down to the youth hostel at Mankinholes for the infamous whiskey stop. I had been told about the whiskey stop many times and Simon, who is known in some circles as an evil genius and in yet more circles as just "Simon", offered me an extra donation to Mountain Rescue if I partook of the whiskey. At 18.5 miles in to the race it didn't seem like the greatest idea, but what the hell, it was for charidee.

Sadly, the kind volunteer that responded to my request to be an impromptu cameraman cut off the beginning of the video where I said "I hate you Simon Franklin" and the end where I say "Ooooh, it's a Talisker"
In a not totally un-illegal way, a child of around 14 was dolling out the whiskey shots and was filling the shot glasses to the brim. The shot tasted great........... for about 5 seconds, before it landed at the bottom of my stomach like a brick. Luckily, it didn't make me ill enough to require Mountain Rescue.
It was about that time that I looked up to the monument on Stoodley Pike atop a very large climb.

As I made my way up I lost sight of the snake of people in front of me so just followed my nose. I have to admit I chuckled when I realised a lot of people had followed me as I went awry and ended up scrambling up a steep grassy bank with probably all of them cursing me.

As you can see from the above photos, Debi was lurking in the monument documenting the day. I had suggested she station herself there thinking that a photo of the monument with the landscape behind it would make a great photo. What I didn't realise is just how damned large the monument is and also, I didn't realise that the wind would ensure a wind-chill factor of minus a cajillion degrees which as we all know can cause hypothermia, a condition that Mountain Rescue are trained to deal with. So all in all, these were great photos.

I pottered down the hill in to Hebden bridge and started to run along with the guy in green in the photo below

He told me he had run the race several times and had done it in under 6 hours last year. Not only that, he was also born in Hebden bridge. Handy, I thought, at least I won't get lost. So it was hilarious when we managed to miss the steps in Hebden bridge as we began the climb up to Heptonstall and ended up on a short detour around the road route instead. We ran along together chatting for a few miles before I headed off in front of him.

Take a hint: Donate to Mountain Rescue you Tight Get

I had begun to suffer at around mile 20 and had a feeling of foreboding. Would I end up cramping like I had at Trollers? I couldn't imagine covering 10+ miles in that state, 5 miles had been bad enough. Each time I felt the cramps coming on, I slowed to a walk and ate some salted cashews and each time, after a few minutes, the cramps subsided. That said, I felt like I was running a razor edge wondering if I was going to blow up badly. Of course, if tiredness at this point had caused me to fall and break a leg, Mountain Rescue would have come out to me. I am really not sure if there is any real evidence to suggest that salt actually stops cramps, and I really don't want to fall in to confirmation bias, but it did seem that each time I ate some salted cashews, the cramps went away. Of course, the mere action of slowing down and having some food and drink may have been what stopped the cramps.

Then all of a sudden, I began to feel good. The aches and pains were melting away. I started to speed up. Looking at my watch I could see that I had around 6 miles left and just over an hour left to go under 6 hours. I felt a real boost from this info. Then I got another boost; I caught up with Tom.

As I was careening down a small gulley, I spotted Tom in front going through a gate. I have to admit, it felt good. If I had caught Tom, it meant I was doing pretty well.
As I caught him I attempted a breezy hello.
" 'Ow do Tom" I said, in what must have sounded like a sarcastic tone. He looked around and saw me.
"Ah shit!" he said.

I flew past him. Later on, he told me that when he saw how well I was moving, he knew he would have no chance of keeping up. He was even flattering enough to say I looked like one of the elites. I didn't of course, unless one of the elites had decided to do a monkey impression.

The fairly new Nike trainers at the end; well and truly broken in

I now had that sub 6 hour time in my sights. I was running freely with no real pain. I started to over take a lot of other runners, which was lucky as I had no idea where I was going and seeing other runners appear in front was keeping me on the right track.

Now I recognised the paths above Haworth. I passed around Penistone hill and to my delight, Naomi, another Fellandaler had turned up. She took some photos and jogged along for a bit with me, giving me a mouthful of lucozade. It was another real boost to see her.
On the way down I fell in to step with two other runners, but soon I was leaving them behind. Unfortunately, I still didn't know where I was going for the end of the race so I stopped once or twice to let them catch up so I could ask directions.
Then I hit on an idea. "You know" I said to them, "We've got about 15 minutes to get in to Haworth to come under 6 hours"
"Really?! We thought that had gone. Right!"
And so they sped up.

The End is Nigh

The church in Haworth appeared and I knew it was only a short trot from there back to the school, and yet it still hadn't crossed my mind that I was going to make it. Knowing my luck, I would fall on the cobbles in Haworth and have to call out Mountain resc......... actually, to be fair. I'd probably call an ambulance if I fell in Haworth.

We popped out onto the main street of Haworth to the stares of really confused tourists. I nearly missed the steps that would take me down to the school, but the helpful runners behind me made sure I went down them. As I crossed the busy road over to the school, it finally hit me that I was going to finish this thing. I was going to be able to call myself an ultra runner! A huge smile spread across my face.

Just outside the school gates. Don't try pelting down a drive through a primary school at any other time. They don't like it

In one final attempt to go the wrong way, I nearly headed down the drive before I was pointed the right way by a runner who had already finished.

I had done it! And my final time?

I went in to the packed school feeling like a Friday night roll-over win. I didn't feel like eating but I tucked in to a couple of cups of tea. All around me people knew nothing of my triumph, because almost all of them had experienced it for themselves, some many years ago and some many times over.

This year I didn't want to tweak the nipples of fate again by buying the t-shirt in advance so I was really pleased to find out that they were selling them on the day and also, that they were much nicer than last year's all black affair. This year's also have the date on them.

After stripping behind the door in a corridor (Also not something to try in normal circumstances in a primary school) I was even in a good enough state to wander around Haworth with Debi and have a pint of Guinness in one of the fine local hostelries.

Damage Report

Incredibly, I sustained very little damage in this heavy assault on my own body. No blisters, not even any hot spots. My legs were a little sore but that soon subsided over the next few days. The recovery run a couple of days later saw off most of the soreness for good. The muscles in my feet were the main cause of concern, but by the end of the week, they were fine too. So much to my surprise, I had managed my main goal; surviving intact.
At 2 minutes 10, this video will remove any doubt that I run like a monkey:

And the fund raising for Mountain Rescue? Over £400!! Get in!

Race review: Rombald's Stride 7/2/15

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Looking down Ilkley Moor

People may have been forgiven for thinking that I had, for once, given up my lackadaisical, slap-dash attitude to races when I lined up for the LDWA "Winter Challenge event", "Rombald's Stride" at the glamorous location behind the Argos at Guiseley, but you'd be wrong. There I stood dressed in the appropriate kit,  with a proper race-pack-style vest on, More Mile fell shoes, carrying full waterproofs (even though the event specifies kit "suggestions", rather than "requirements" as a full FRA race would have) and, crucially, for once I had actually carried out a full reconnaissance of the route. But not a decent recce whereby I knew the route intimately; each turn, each line off each moor, where the stiles were, where the gaps in the walls were.

No.

On the day of the recce I forgot my map and ended up just following Simon as he knows the route well, whilst taking very little notice of where I was actually going.
And despite that fact that we sauntered around, taking photos, admiring views, eating sandwiches and generally lolly-gagging about, the final climb up the Chevin killed me and I was badly cramping as I shuffled back in to Guiseley. Not totally ideal.

The full route of Rombald's Stride is thus:

I'm going to be polite and pretend that the route looks more like a pointy finger than something else.....

Out from Guiseley, the route goes through Escholt wood, passes near Baildon and up the moor. Then it's a long run through to the far side of Ilkley moor via Rombald's moor for the trek over to Menston and the final killer climb up the Chevin. And even then, you still have to drop back down in to Guiseley for the finish. All told, 22 miles and around 2 and a half thousand feet of climb.

I nervously parked in the Westfield retail park in Guiseley and hour before the race. I say nervously, because one never knows when an over-zealous car park attendant might clamp you and although we couldn't see any parking restrictions on the signs, I doubted I would have the strength after to tear a wheel clamp off my car after the race.

The "event" staging area is in a primary school and was the usual, charming and quintessentially English affair of an LDWA walk with sweet old ladies cooking, making tea and handing out your tally card. (And of course, sinewy old men and young and glamorous ones too. It takes a lot of volunteers to run something like this!)

The finished tally card with all its clip marks

The usual pre-race milling about was done, saying hello to familiar faces and generally making light of what we were about to do. Then there was an announcement- the police weren't able to turn up to see us across the road (No, I'm serious) so there would be a new start point at the aforementioned "beauty spot" behind argos. As we wandered down there I laughed that several people had mentioned that I would be "racing" this event. "Hardly" I replied, "I'm carrying a bloody tea-cup!"

Just one time I would like to report that there was much "to do" at the start of an event like this, but of course, this wasn't the day and we were set off after a short speech that as per usual, most of us didn't hear a word of. Fellandalers, Adrian, Simon, Martin and Naomi also toed the line.

I'm in there somewhere

Off we went out the back of the industrial estate and very soon we were in to the woods. Not even a mile in to the race and Simon tripped and left a gash in his knee which looked like a proper war-wound by the end of the race with blood running all down his shin.

There were no real race tactics from me. I just needed to get round in one piece and I decided to run at my comfortable pace which saw me gradually over taking the back half of the field.

Nothing of real note occurred during the first half of the race if I am totally honest. We plodded across to Baildon Moor and up to the trig point and made our way slowly across to Rombald's Moor and it was there that I began to enjoy myself. I was moving well and feeling good. The path was covered in snow and was pretty boggy but I started to pick off the runners in front. At the far end we dropped down to Ilkley Moor and made our way back towards Menston and the final climb up the Chevin. Suddenly, with little warning, I was starting to flag and there was still a long way to go. I swapped places on many occasions with the runners around me. By the time we started to climb up to rocky valley I had slowed badly and was being over taken. My ego meant that I had to actually run up the slope where Debi had cruelly positioned herself to take photos as I didn't want to be snapped walking. Of course I began walking as soon as I was past her, as did most of the other runners!

Does my smile look forced in this?

In the photo above you can see the ice on the ground which made some parts of the race a little tougher and by this point I was really beginning to have had enough.
I started chatting to another runner who, it turned out, travelled from Cheshire for the event each year and it was organised by half his family. Sadly, the trauma of the day has robbed my memory of his name. As we dropped down in to Menston I told him good luck but that I would have to let him go on ahead as I was flagging badly. He had gathered from my dithering earlier that I was more than a little sketchy on the route, so he was having none of my lagging behind and insisted that I run with him through Menston so I didn't get lost. And I am eternally grateful because without it, I would probably have taken another 20 minutes to finish the race, even IF I didn't get lost in Menston, which I probably would have.

Carl, another Fellandaler had positioned himself on the far-side of Menston with life-giving goodies. I swigged downed a couple of cups of juice, sucked on some orange segments and Carl told me off for walking and to get running. So I ran until I was out of his sight and started walking again.

At this point there was probably still 3-4 miles to go including the climb up the Chevin and I was absolutely spent. I seem to remember trying to keep moving along a thin path before entering an especially muddy field. I had to walk, running through the mud was far too hard in the condition I was in.
I finally made it to the West Chevin Road with the Chevin scowling down at me from above. Walking along the road was painful, as was running slowly, so I decided to ignore the feelings of exhaustion and put in a relatively quick trot along the road which nearly fooled Simon behind me in to thinking I was still in good shape.

Simon caught me at the bottom of the Chevin climb. By this time I was trudging in a haze of pain and he disappeared ahead after giving me a protein bar to eat and telling me I could still buck up before the end (I didn't). A couple of minutes later Adrian passed me and he was moving well. So much so in fact, that he was actually running up the very steep Chevin path. By all reports, I had been a long way in front of them both earlier in the race, but I had slowed so dramatically over the last few miles that they had been able to catch me with ease.

I had it in my head that the route went up the flag stones that form part of the Chevin fell race on boxing day and I had misinformed poor Debi who ended up wandering aimlessly trying to find runners to photograph.

The final check point was at the old quarry and I had long decided that I would stop there and have a cup of tea. At that point I could have been handed a cup of hot swamp mud and it would have tasted like nectar of the Gods, but as it was, I gratefully supped at the tea before realising I had been standing around for far too long and that as I was using my own tea cup, I could actually be walking.
The run back down in to Guiseley involved lots more pain which was not improved when I hit the hard, steep road down to the finish. Eventually I found my way in to the school and received my finishing certificate.

After the race I began to feel truly terrible. I couldn't force any food down and could only just manage to drink. Later, I developed some serious stomach issues that I won't gross you out with here. I thought the most likely culprit was the protein bar that Simon had given me or the electrolyte drink from Adrian. As it turned out, I must have been brewing something as my girlfriend got ill a couple of days later. As unpleasant as it was for her, I was a little relieved as it meant that I didn't have to try to work out what had upset my stomach.

Anyways. enough of that. Adrian caught Simon on the run in to Guiseley and Martin and Naomi finished safely. My time was a respectable 3 hours 38 (Exactly an hour behind the winner!!) and it placed me in 70th position of 467 finishers.

In case you were wondering, this is what a pair of dead More Mile fell shoes look after a 22 mile off-road race

And it doesn't do much for your socks either:

Holes in both mean they have been given a solemn burial.