1st July '17: Ultimate Trails 110k, a right beasting.

Off to the Lakes it was for my attempt at running my longest distance so far in the Ultimate Trails 110k. Travelling with me was neighbour Pini who was running the 55k. We arrived in Ambleside to the sounds of Blur on the iPod in time for lunch, pitched-up Pini’s tent and went off for a spot of pasta before registering for the races. Along the way we said hello to running buddy Dora who was also doing the 110 and met her running club-mate Fiona, who I was advised by Dora was a ‘shit hot’ runner and the previous year had won the 55k ladies race so was stepping-up to the 110… After lunch I put my head down for a few hours kip to get myself in the best possible shape for the best part of a day on my feet that I knew was about to come.

Briefing.

Waking as the sun slid down behind the hills I dined on a pre-race meal of champions: fish and chips washed-down with a bottle of beer for some extra carb-loading. As I readied myself for the race, from her tent I heard an expletive laden tirade from Fiona just like the one in the opening of Four Weddings and a Funeral. She had overslept and realised she only had a minutes to ready herself for the race briefing!

Fiona & Dora.

Haring-off at midnight was a totally new experience for me. The park was lined with the awesome spectacle, despite the hour, of a plethora of supporters cheering us all on our merry way. From the hooter we ran through the street light lit badlands of downtown Ambleside, before climbing up out the other side in the direction of Kentmere, leaving the lights of the town and civilisation as we knew it behind and below, only the small matter of a 110k looped route before we returned.

Haring round Rothay Park.

After just a couple of miles it was like we had entered a whole new world, another alternate dimension of reality... Once on the fells in the total darkness devoid of any sign of human life, all we could hear was us being continually mugged-off by invisible sheep. We could hear the chorus of incessant disembodied bleats but could not see anything in the pitch black; a darkness only punctuated by the pin-pricks of light from head torches of those in front.

Midnight mooch through Ambleside.

Following Newton’s laws after all the climbing we soon came to a descent - a cracking steep one on a wide boulder strewn track whose gradient was perfect for running... But how fast dare you go? With the darkness obscuring everything outside of the narrow beam of your head torch it was exhilarating to just let go and dare yourself to run as fast as you could without tripping, falling and doing some serious damage to yourself.

Running a rocky torchlit trail.

Once through the first CP it was a chase to the next big climb of the day, over Gatescarth to Mardale Head and the reservoir at Haweswater… Approaching from a couple of miles you could see the faint trace of lights on the hill in front, but with no light there was no way to judge distance so it seemed forever till we arrived at the foot, the switch-back path seeming to be lit by fireflies from the light of the torches of us nose to tail racers.

Dawn over Haweswater.

The climb was sapping, the muggy night making you sweat buckets. I had no choice but to stop and rest a couple of times for breathers as the relentless ascent was draining me. Eventually we neared the top, where marshals had built a yurt and rang us all across the summit with cow bells.

Coming down the other side it was a scramble over a boulder field as we headed east, seeing the first rays of dawn appear and begin to lighten our way. Once at the foot of the hill at Mardale Head on the shore of the Haweswater Reservoir, the silent dawn was breaking, which had a very unwanted side-effect: midges… millions of the feckers. As you got to the aid station and stopped you were instantly covered in a seething black layer of them on any bare skin and were eaten alive by them. I pitied the folks manning the aid station as they did not have any head nets or protection from them or were wearing any gloves to protect their hands.

 I was dying to see a man about a dog at this point but was more than a little concerned about what would happen to the old fella if I flopped him out for a spot of bladder relief: with any bare skin being instantly covered if I was to stop here how could I explain to LSS when I got back why my twig and berries looked like it had a pox from being attacked by the bitey feckers? Nothing would possibly cut-it as an explanation and saying I was attacked by midges when having a slash hardly sounds like a plausible reason for having a polka-dot penis even if it was true! Holding back I managed to keep it in till above the worst of them and syphon the python once clear of danger.

Continuing along the banks of Haweswater it was noticeably lighter as the sun now began to poke above the horizon. Making steady progress Dora & me bumped into fellow runner Paul who was making his merry way along. As we jogged along chatting I could feel my hammy beginning to cramp. I tried to ignore it but it wasn’t working, so I had to stop and attempt to stretch it out and lard it with Deep Heat - it seemed to work a bit, well, enough to carry on relatively unhindered for the time being. I knew it was only a few k’s till we were off Haweswter and at the next aid station with its bacon sarnies for breakfast, a thought that had spurred me on for many a mile, mind over matter I don’t mind and the bacon sarnie was the only thing that mattered.

Bacon butties!

After the longed-for breakfast it was a long slow climb up on to the hills again to skirt around the cracking views looking over Ullswater moving clockwise round from the east towards Howtown. It may only have been pushing 7 in the morning, but the humidity and the heat was properly rising to the early twenties in the sun when it burned some of the clouds away.

Having wended our way through the Bobbin Mill at Howtown we then had a problem: stolen signage… All course markings and signs had been removed, which left us to attempt to navigate roughly on the schematic map we had been given. Fortunately at one crossroads that really was not obvious we were caught by someone who knew where they were and where to go, giving us all in the assembled group a get-out-of-jail card.

Last time out on the 55 I’d been obsessing over cheese and onion Sangers at the aid stations… But this time round they didn’t really seem to have anything that floated my boat… That was until getting into the hall I saw noodles - not the minging ‘slag of all snacks’ Pot Noodle that you have once every 2 years because you get a craving for one and then remember why you do not eat them when you taste it again, but a great tasting noodle pot by the name of Ko-Lee ‘Go Noodles’ which were truly awesome… I scoffed the warm tasty feast and had a cup of tea, scarfed some peanuts and crisps for salt replenishment and felt restored, properly able to face the next leg. And I had a new foodstuff over which to obsess for the rest of the day!

Back out on the course, amongst the verdant green of the valleys around the bottom of Ullswater the sun was properly burning the clouds away and I was catching the green shirt of Paul again, overtaking him as we were watched from the bracken covered valley side above us by a herd of red deer.

The Red Deer.

The heat was now beginning to build and the climb up to the head of the valley was really biting me on the arse - I kept having to stop to catch breath and composure before pushing-on. I could feel my hammies tightening noticeably, continually I was having to stop and stretch them out. Deep Heat was applied but it just wasn’t cutting through… Then as the descent started, the cracking long descent that normally I would skip down like a gazelle, whilst climbing over a rock my leg locked with cramp.

Cloud still to burn away in full.

I had no choice. I went over like a sniper had shot me and just couldn’t stretch it out straight away… Crippled like an upturned tortoise I had no choice but to try and slowly stretch it out, and then I found myself alone through necessity.

In an act of immense oversight, whilst running through the night Dora had realised that whilst she had packed her drop bag, she had forgotten to put it in the trailer with everyone else’s stuff, and after some hasty phone calls when day had dawned, she was having to rely on her husband to support her to get kit and supplies to certain points on the course with only certain windows of time to make it for either her not to need to wait around, or her family to not get bored hanging around for her. With me now a prone liability, she had to take the entirely understandable decision to leave me to sort myself out whilst she pushed-on.

Paul and his green top.

I watched feeling incredibly stupid as Dora bounded-off down the hill, I drank some electrolyte and had a rummage in my pack and found a couple of salt sachets, which I necked. Washing them down it was a case of stretching out and trying to get moving as the time passed and the salt’s rejuvenative powers kicked-in.

Soon I was able to hobble, then saunter, then eventually jog along… My mistake was not realising how much I had sweated during the night’s efforts. I knew I had been dripping with sweat, but without visually seeing it or feeling the heat of the sun it lulled me into a false sense of security about precisely how I had been sweating like Michael Jackson on Sesame Street the whole time and I had not taken any steps to mitigate salt loss.

Whilst trying to build-up speed again I was caught by Paul and we merrily jogged to the aid station at Patterdale ahead of the 55k runners who would also be passing through here on their run.

The climb up Glenridding was as brutal as ever, but at least this year it was not chucking it down… Instead the sun was hammering down upon us. When I reached the tarn at the top I couldn’t help but marvel at the deep sapphire blue of the water in the light. At this point the 55 & 110 courses split and those of us going longer headed round to the west to descend over an ancient river bed that was still a stream. You had to properly scramble over the boulders on your way down here, proper 3 points of contact action as you slowly picked your way down to the bottom and the main road. We followed a section of tarmac for a couple of miles, which I found jarring after the extended time on the rocky and grassy trails, till I eventually wound-up in a lay-by and the next aid station.

The heat was intense, so finding the aid station was under the cover of trees was a boon. I noticed the number of people hanging round there was far more than I expected then realised why: they had run out of water. People were not continuing their run without replenishing their supply, which was understandable and were waiting for the aid station to be resupplied. Having plenty of my own I carried-on grateful not to be forced to wait through necessity.

Climbing up from the road I found the heat and humidity stifling. It was hitting the high twenties and it was sapping the life out of me. Fortunately the pathway was part stream, so I took the opportunity to sit in it at one point just to cool myself off!

Eventually the path topped-out on a boggy plateau. Emerging from the trees on to it, the temperature was noticeably lower and a cool breeze wafted over us. Unfortunately progress wasn’t as quick as I had hoped as you had to bounce from ‘babies head’ to ‘babies head’, small mounds of grass that were relatively solid. At this point I overtook a fella who was racing using cheat sticks and didn’t have a Scooby Doo how to use them. What he did was to stand still on top of a babies head, prod the ground with a pole to see if it was solid and take a step forward before repeating. Truly bizarre!

The sun was running away to hide as cloud lowered and the wind was definitely picking-up as we bog-trotted along the plateau. At least we were approaching the next aid station and our drop bags once we dropped off the top…

Coming into the aid station I bumped into Dora on her way out and she gave me a conciliatory hug as she seemed very chirpy to be on her way… I found out why when I got inside the aid station: PIZZA! I had a couple of slices and a warm cup of tea and biscuits as I changed my trainers - I was not sure they were going to last the rest of the race, so took the opportunity to switch them over.

Back down Glenridding.

Traipsing out of the aid station and around the corner we took the path towards the final large climb of the day: Stake Pass. We could see it looming from miles off at the head of the valley we were walking up, its summit shrouded in the grey of clag, the wind steadily picking-up as we neared.

Looking up towards Helvellyn

Climbing the switch-backs to the summit the weather deteriorated with the strengthening wind feeling like a gale and the rain now properly coming-in blown on it. I tried to tough-out the conditions figuring-out I’d be fine once over the top and on the descent, but the temperature was now down in to single figure from the mid twenties of an hour or so ago, the wind sucking all the heat out of your body like a Dementor. I sheltered behind a rock and put my waterproof on to try and beat the elements, my hands going numb as I did so. I stomped to the summit as best I could, hitting the top in the very reduced visibility of clag as the rain drove down hard.

On the top the terrain was wet slippery rock, which is anathema for trail shoes and grip. Passing a marshal he shouted it was only 3 miles to the aid station and I tried to make progress off the summit and hopefully to get below the clag as quickly as possible. Trying to pick a path over the solid rocky surface I saw a gully worn as a path and made for that, skipping towards it before nearly stomping fully into the midriff of a freshly dead sheep carcass!.. Narrowly avoiding a messy accident I tried to descend as fast as I could but was slowed to a walk by the slippery rock, all the while being buffeted by the wind and my hands now freezing - I was faced with the choice of stopping in this highly exposed area to find gloves in my pack to put them on, or to try to tough it out and just put my hands up my sleeves and get down under the clag into warmer air asap.

Sapphire water.

All I could do was grumble to myself, mentally force myself onwards… The marshal was way off on his assessment - the aid station was another 7 miles away from the summit, 7 sodden miles of driving wind and rain. My fingers were like blocks of ice and white through poor circulation from the exertions of what I was doing. No matter what I did I could not get warm. I ate. I drank. I clenched my hands into fists inside the sleeves of my waterproof… At least having the waterproof on I was not losing heat to the wind, but I just did not seem able to shake the chill. Running over the slippery rocks was not an option and finally when it bottomed out I forced myself to jog along the ankle deep stream of a path to try and get some heat generated. Anything. Just anything to get through this. It just didn’t work.

Careful now!

Eventually I found myself on the valley floor near Chapel Stile, familiar territory at least, but knowing I still had a good 3 miles till the aid station. 3 miles of wallowing in self pity and misery, 3 miles at the lowest ebb I have ever been where I could happily have thrown it in… Just to compound my misery the course had now combined with the 55k again and I had the ‘delight’ of chirpy happy runners on that laughing and giggling their way past me as I just wanted to shout at them to FUCK OFF… Then there was the photographer: great that’s all I needed a fucking photographer to capture my moment of abject misery for posterity… I focused. I internalised. There’s no point in proving to the world that I’m a complete bell-end, so I tried my best to hide it away. I pulled my hood right over me and the cords as tight as I could so all that could be seen in the darkness within were my eyes, eyes staring at the ground avoiding contact with everyone.

Descending from the tarn.

The closer I got to the aid station the more the weather improved, the rain even lifted and the wind abated in the shelter of the valley floor. There was a problem though, I was shaking uncontrollably with the cold I was feeling right to my core, even though I could feel on my face there was now some muggy warmth after the downpour. I noticed I was visibly trembling to anyone who could see me, properly shivering and shaking, teeth rattling. I realised I was borderline hypothermic and probably in danger of being hooked from the race if there are proper medics visually assessing us as we arrived. I had to hold myself together as best I could, put all my steel and determination into getting this under control and not revealing how bad a shape I was in to anyone… The other side of the aid station was only a 10k blast up and over Loughrigg Fell to the finish. I couldn’t get hooked from the race within the time limit so close to the end: at worst case it was only a two hour slow plod. To now be so close, failure was not an option.

Stepping stone in the last of the sun.

Entering the aid station I did the most British of things and grabbed a steaming hot cup of tea holding it tight in my hands… And another tub of the noodles, a pot of lifesaving warm tasty noodles. The warming combination inside my belly worked wonders. A salve to the soul. Slowly I could feel the chill subside and was able to stop having to fight the shaking and shivering, slowly I could relax. I reckon I rested there in the warmth of the school at Langdale sitting on a chair made for a 7 year old for about 15 minutes before heading back out… The sun was shining now, the weather and my mood were no longer black.

Bog trotting in the murk

I still wasn’t totally out of the woods mentally or physically. I may have been on the way out of the dark place but I couldn’t afford to slip back. Distraction was the order of the day, so I put on my headphones and disappeared into podcasts: an episode of Ear Hustle about life inside San Quentin State Penitentiary was followed by Richard Herring’s Leicester Square Theatre Podcast as he interviewed Jessica Napit. Taking my mind off introspection with the grim reality of life behind bars and onto a good giggle thanks to Richard Herring.

Approaching Stake Pass in the clag.

By the time this ended I was on top of Loughrigg as the sun began to set… I was going to make it back probably a bit earlier in the day than I had the 55k last year. Soon I was on the descent off the fell towards Rothay Park, the gradient forcing me into a proper jog to the finish and the warm claps and cheers of those still ranged around the line cheering us latecomers home.

That photo!

I’d made it. I’d finished. I’d managed to run the furthest distance I’ve ever managed: 110k, 66 miles or thereabouts. Wow. The enormity of this immediately sank in as I had had to battle the hardest I ever had before to finish and in my fragile emotional state I was nearly reduced to tears, overwhelmed with what I had achieved, more so than when I’ve ever pushed through a barrier before.

Trying not to collapse into a jellied emotional wreck, I went and grabbed some food from the finishers food cart and bumped into Dora who was sitting on a camping chair looking very pained… She had trashed her feet on the way to where we had last crossed paths and had been slowed to a shuffle but ground out a finish just one place above and 10 minutes in front of me. I reckon I must have made nearly half an hour on her over the last 15 miles even in my sorry state so she must really have been suffering and in severe pain, which put my travails into perspective.

I was supposed to go for a beer with Pini after the race, but I was facing a rush to make last orders and I really couldn’t face it. All I could muster was to shower, put on all my warm clothes and climb into the van for a kip.

The next morning dawned and soon enough I was up and cooking mahoosive brekkie baguettes of sausage, bacon egg & black pudding for Pini & me… It turns out he had finished in 14th place in the 55k, the first time he had ever entered a race like this and the first time for him running in the lakes. Oh and Fiona had finished 3rd lady in the 110. A pair of awesome running performances!

Pini perusing paperwork for positions.

It had been an amazing day out in the lakes, 66 long miles through darkness and light (mentally as well as in reality) and in all weather conditions, placing 167/203 finishers whilst squeaking home in under 22 hours by 2 minutes! Yes I know it wasn’t fast, to put it in perspective I took just under double the amount of time of the winner, but I made it and that was the goal. My nearest comparison for a course was the Lakeland 50, which to be honest I found easier than this as the climbs were fewer even if they were largely bigger. I learned a helluva lot today about looking after myself and also how far I can dig down without quitting which will hopefully put me in good stead for the future. With the changeable weather and the effect it had on me it also really brought-home why you have the compulsory kit you carry: it really is there to make a difference in case of emergencies. Emotionally the day certainly proved to be as undulating as the course. They say you experience highs and lows whilst out on tough long runs. Today I experienced this to the nth degree and now know and truly appreciate what they mean when they say it.

Anyway, chapeau to Pini & Fiona on their immense performances in the 55 & 110 and not forgetting Dora who managed to really show how tough she was in getting to the finish on feet that could not walk another step.

Will I be back?.. Too effing right!

Eat pies.
Drink beer.
Run far.

16th September: Ben Nevis Ultra - I came, I saw, I was conquered.

I knew it would come to an end some time, and the longer you go the more likely it is to happen, and so today it came to pass that my heretofore unblemished record of finishing every race I have started was ended when I was hooked from the course of the Ben Nevis Ultra after 33 miles @ CP3 ... Was I surprised? No not really. Was I disappointed? A little.

I had set myself a target of getting to the halfway point before the inevitable but fell a stop short, although I was far from being the first to drop and by the time I got there I was ready to stuff the race up the organiser’s arse using a mallet and no lube. Only 16% of starters officially finished the race (although 28% managed to eventually finish the course when you include those who managed to get down off the mountains outside of the allotted time) which showed how badly wrong the race was planned for timing in relation to its difficulty... So here’s my take on the race itself and my tuppence-worth on everything following after.

When the race was announced I was absolutely buzzing to have a go - initially I had planned to run this with ‘Dora the Explorer’ with whom I had run the UT110 & UT55. Entries opened at the VERY steep price of £150 promising a 100k race with a time limit of 20 hours with only some video snippets of the course revealed at first... It was only after the event had fully booked and a couple of months before the race that they then decided to extend the course by 20k but keep the time limits as they were. At this point Dora (wisely) bailed and sold-on her entry as she felt it was too high a chance of a DNF to justify spending that money on the trip! But I fancied a galavant up in the Highlands anyway as It had been a while so stuck with it... Stuck with it even after it took me 22 hours to finish the UT110 which meant to finish this race I would have to go 10k further than I ever had in 2 hours less time!

Looking up at the Mamores.

At least I knew I was heading for a DNF from the start and weighing things up I set myself a target once the course was revealed, of finishing all the parts of the route I have never covered before ‘C’, halfway as a ‘B’ and anything beyond an ‘A’ of which I would be more surprised than a very surprised thing!

In the weeks leading-up to the race I received a message from running friend Theresa who had just finished her PhD and was entering this as a last hoorah before heading back to the States. This year she had already achieved something nearly as massive as her qualification in representing Scotland (qualified through residence) in the home nations plate 50k Ultra and I was looking forward to catching up with her one last time before she flew away.

View from the car park of the event base.

The Ben Nevis Ultra was part of the race card for the Skyline Scotland event where some of the world’s finest mountain runners were to compete on a 22 mile course the following day. The full event started on the Friday evening with the vertical kilometre race (the VK) the Ultra and the ‘Ring of Steall’ on the Saturday with the Skyline on the Sunday, where my friend Kirsty-Jane who was sitting top of the UK Ladies Skyrunning standings was looking to pit herself against some of the international big-guns. The event base is in the lovely village of Kinlochleven which is on the West Highland Way halfway between Glencoe and Fort William at the foot of the Mamores.

After I worked my way through the very smooth registration, kit check and tracker tagging (where I was greeted by the familiar friendly face of Richard Lander-Stowe who was marshaling for the weekend), I met-up with Theresa where she informed me they were now doing an early start of 5am for those that wanted it instead of the 6am main start - shame this was not communicated earlier by the organisers as I would have chewed their arm of for that as it increased my chances of getting further into the race, but the only coach available for this had booked-up already so I could not get on it.

I gave Theresa a lift back to Fort William and took myself to the Grog & Gruel for a pre race burger & beer with the place heaving with those up for the Skyline and the normal Friday night custom. All fed I kipped in the van till it was time to drive back to Kinlochleven stupidly early and to get the bus to the start.

Awaiting.

We all stood there shivering in the pitch black on the southern shore of Loch Ness at Fort Augustus waiting for the briefing. A little after the allotted start time we had it, where we were told to follow the flags, “not that you can see them in the dark but you will when it gets light” before we were then told that our trackers had the emergency buttons disabled, so pressing them will not achieve anything!.. This was the only briefing we had, a complete joke. We were also starting 15 minutes late on a day where time was the most precious of commodities which riled an already hostile crowd even further.

A saltaire-d up Theresa ready for the off.

The mood of all the runners was somber to say the least, except amongst the paid elite athletes who were looking at another day at the office, albeit with different scenery. As we all headed off under headtorch light, they all shot away and the rest of us silently trudged onwards. Everyone already had a face on like someone had farted in a packed lift, so I thought I’d break the tension of the moment by saying loudly.

The pink of dawn.

“Jesus this must be the most fucking morose start to a race ever... Anyone else shitting themselves about not finishing?”.. The unanimous reply was yes - it seemed outside of the pros, the whole field was resigned to failure and the chat turned to where everyone was planning to get to before they were hooked from the course having timed-out. The chat the previous night with competitors in the other races were such that they were offering condolences to us running the ultra, as everyone realised we had been stitched-up a treat by the organisers with the race impossible to finish for those outside of elite standard, which was not how it was advertised! We all enter races with the element of jeopardy that you will not finish - it’s part of the challenge, but being set-up for failure before you have had a chance to start after they take your cash is plain wrong.

Loch Ness behind us.

My plan was to go until I was hooked from the course - I was confident on my pace over distance of reaching the halfway point at the foot of Ben Nevis where I could take the ‘fast forward’ option rather than climb the mountain if I was at the aid station by a certain time. This would mean I had traversed all the parts I had not been over before and the fairly flat benign military road I had already run before, so I would feel I was not be missing-out on anything new so-as-to-speak. Hitting around 37 miles in the stunning surroundings of the highlands is still a good day out!

Remote.

The sun rose behind us over Loch Ness as we wound our way up into the mountains, the gorgeous pink tinged light that you only ever experience in the Highlands and never truly translates into photographs bathed everything. Soon I was nearly at the back of the field, which I could see from looking back on the switch-backs, but comfortably on my target pace. As I ran along looking down across the valley I watched a herd of red deer gallop though the heather, something magical to behold.

Into the cloud.

As we climbed we soon made it into the cloud line with the temperature dropping noticeably, although you still remained warm enough not to bother putting a layer on.

The surface underfoot was mostly wide access track so pretty solid underfoot crossed with streams and the occasional large puddle with a line of electricity pylons to guide us. The only sounds were just your feet on the gravelly track, the sound of your breathing and the rumbling of water in the nearby river - a total absence of any man-made sounds, a true solitude you rarely ever experience unless you are able to escape to the wilderness.

Not last!

Eventually the path led us down from the Corrieyairack Pass to the first building we had seen since leaving Fort Augustus; arriving at Melgarve and the first checkpoint of the day around 14 miles in.

Turning off the track we picked up the path following the River Spey towards its source and the lush green surrounds of the valley floor was all around us - unfortunately this brought a problem: bog.

 

 Bog.

Squidgy bog!

We were running along a flood plain, a sodden flood plain so we were dipping in and out of bogs varying in depth from ankle to waist deep as we blithely followed the flags that marked our path. From the steady ease of progress of the first leg we were slowed by 50% where what would have been a 10 minute mile before on the flat now became 15 wet minutes of wade...

 

Follow the flags.

These soaking miles were punctuated by getting even wetter with a couple of river crossings - proper thigh deep refreshing wades through the waters swollen from the rains of the previous day... Still, our feet were soaked through, so you did not mind this; the real difficulty was the strength of the water pulling you off balance or a loss of grip on the slippery stones that formed the river beds. At least the freezing cold of the water anaesthetised against any foot pains!

One crossing took us right to the door of the picturesque bothy of Luib-Chonnal - it was pretty tempting to nip inside for a moment to slack-off, but time was the order of the day so I moseyed-on past.

Bothy ahoy.

This leg provided us racers with a big shock - as we followed the path at one point I took a step forward and the ground disappeared... I found myself for that fraction of a second sinking down with a gasp with no idea if I would hit the bottom of the bog and would I do so before I went fully under? Fortunately being 6ft of idiot it had only came up to my chest when my feet found the bottom, but I had to stumble/ swim over the uneven invisible depth to get the few metres across to the other side of the bog where it began to shallow and I could walk and clamber out the other side properly drenched.

Mid river view.

Eventually the path began to firm-up as it rose slightly above the flood plain so it was back to just wet feet rather than total immersion and an attempt to move as quick as possible to keep body-heat up and to dry off through warming-up with increased effort.

After 22 miles I reached the first aid station and the sights of the first people for ages with those running the station. When I arrived I heard a familiar voice: Teresa was there amongst others who had decided to bail from the race distinctly unimpressed with the fact you could not run through 10 miles of bog, as we had all just discovered, combined with a warning from those manning the aid station that we had plenty more to come on the next stage, as well as her experiencing difficulties in keeping warm when soaked to the skin!.. There were also a couple of casualties there with competitors suffering from turned ankles caused by stumbles in the bog.

Bidding Teresa goodbye I began the climb away from the aid station, heading up in to the hills and away from the bog of the flood plains onto paths that were streams with all the water on the ground and a different kind of bog: peat marsh.

Soon I was in the wilderness once more, picking my way over the path where there was a path, passing some stunning small waterfalls, jinking and scrambling around and over some rocks to make it to a bridge over a small gorge. I made as much progress in as rapid a time as I could... Until the peat marsh arrived. We were faced with a climb over a hillside that was pure peat. There was what was left of a wire fence marking our way up. The single top wire was long gone from the iron stake posts, now lying on the ground or part buried in the peat where it had fallen, it occasionally acting as a tripwire if you approached the line of stakes to closely.

Follow the 'fence'.

This was a proper wade through the mud, a mix between ankle and knee deep. I tried to move from tussock of grass to tussock but it wasn’t working... coupled with the gradient this was a soul destroying slog. Looking at my watch I knew I was timing-out but trying to make any pace on this leg was not possible. Eventually I summitted and started on the slippery descent where a path had sort of become visible. Eventually it led us to a field where following the flags it led us closer to a river. Soon I found myself beside it and waist deep in water once more as the field had become a paddy. There was no way across and I was not willing to try swimming. I took stock and realised I must be off-track but I could not see any flags marking a correct path.

I retreated back a little and made my way to a fence that bordered the field and eventually climbed across it finding a footpath and a route onwards, realising as the final hour for this section of the race ticked by that as soon as I hit the checkpoint my day was over... The path soon led to a fire road, past a caravan sitting in the middle of nowhere. From here I could hear the sound of cars so figured I must be close to the A86 and the checkpoint. Sure enough, down a steep sloping quagmire of a field I found myself at CP3 and timed-out of the race by an hour.

Where I was, was about 3 miles from where I had holidayed a few years ago just outside Roy Bridge and about a mile to the east of where I had crossed the A86 when running back to there from the top of Ben Nevis.

I had successfully negotiated the part of the course I had never explored before, but cold now I was no longer moving, wet and hungry from my effort over the 30 something miles, my day was over. I was ushered into the support vehicle to warm-up and recover as I waited for those behind me to arrive and the course could be closed and us drop-outs could be driven back to the race base.

To be honest I was a bit gutted to have ‘failed’, but I was more fuming about the organisers and the time-limits than my lack of pace... I know I am not quick by any stretch of the imagination, but I am good enough to finish one of the toughest 50 mile races in Britain twice in a row within qualification times for its 100 mile counterpart, so I am by no means out of my depth. I felt I had been cheated, although I had managed a good 33 mile run/ wade across some stunning landscape that for me was heretofore unexplored... Its a case of balancing things out in my mind... and enjoying a lovely hot cup of tea in the marshal’s warm vehicle covered in a blanket to warm-up.

So that's my 'review' of the race experience, below is my view on the event:

I was very disappointed with the Ben Nevis Ultra, especially when you consider the good reputation of the Skyline Scotland and the Ring of Steall have managed to build in a short space of time. From speaking to others in the race I know I am not the only one to have the same concerns, either all or in part.

There are huge areas of attention that are needed to be addressed for any future iteration of this event to prevent people feel that they are not being ripped-off by being set-up for failure in something that appears to have been cobbled together in a half-arsed manner.

Don’t get me wrong, the marshals on the course and at the aid stations were all very noble and able, being drawn from experienced runners/ climbers etc. and the support they had on the day from the race HQ cannot be faulted - the registration process was smooth and efficient and the race base well managed and run. The problems lie with the forethought and planning that went in before the event by the organisers.

The main areas of concern I would say are:

Disabling the SOS on the trackers when you are having people going through miles of bogs that in places are up to your chest on a 6ft man when you are at the most remote point over 7 miles through such terrain (either backward or forward) from the nearest help/ human contact.

The wisdom of not allowing at least one drop bag in a 75 mile race which meant those that made it to Ben Nevis without being timed-out had to climb into freezing conditions in soaking wet shoes/ socks/ clothes.

If you are wanting us all to be self-sufficient in our food/ drink so you do not need to provide food in quantity or variety at aid stations, then you should allow drop-bags so the full weight is not needed to be carried over the full distance.

A proper safety briefing for the event rather than “The course is marked but you can’t see it at present cos its dark, but follow the markers when you see them in daylight, until then follow the lights in front.” given 5 minutes after the race should have started.

Stating the race to be X distance when people enter then changing it to X+ distance after everyone has entered and not adjust your timing accordingly is also not the most helpful of moves either.

Fall.

If you are putting on an event deliberately so difficult that you have a 16% finish rate within your stipulated ‘course closes’ time, then you should be vetting entrants so only ‘elites’ can enter, especially as you set your time-limit to exclude anyone but these from finishing… We all paid £150 to enter a fair race with jeopardy that we would not finish, we did not pay £150 to enter a race that the vast majority had no hope of finishing before we had even started. The organisers need to decide whether it is an ‘open’ ability event or to be treated in the same way as Skyline. There was a very bitter taste in the mouth of us competitors as we felt we were rinsed to pay for the likes of Killian Journet’s appearance fees. I understand the costs involved in putting-on an event like this, but to not have any hot food at aid stations, food that was just crisps, biscuits and jam butties and not allowing drop-bags just smacked of this whole race being a bit ‘Heath Robinson’ and put together as an afterthought. As good an idea as it was on paper, it was poorly translated into reality from a competitor’s perspective.

Funky rock stripes.

The idea of an ultra in the surroundings as part of Skyline Scotland is a sound one, but this was a disaster that will have put a lot of people off considering returning - a sizeable proportion of the field was from overseas and is now returning home feeling let down and disappointed by their experience having spent a lot of money for a DNF!.. If a realistic time-limit had been put on the event (24 hours would have been more appropriate) then there would have been a vastly improved number of finishers which would have amounted to around 75% as far fewer would have been timed-out… The final third of the course was very close to the event base with the finish there, so this part was manned or very easy to man/ marshall over the whole weekend and therefore would have been able to cope with the course being open for longer.

I did address all these concerns directly with the organisers who replied to me (and others) with a lengthy press release piece that was full of obfuscation and twisting of stats to suit their own ends. For balance this can be read here - I have also rebutted this point-by-point to other people on the trail-running scene who asked if it was accurate from a competitor’s perspective.

Having spoken to the marshals on the day and the person who set-out the course I know they were instructed to make the path as ‘difficult as possible’ and with local knowledge they said there was always a recognised path/ trail within 50-100m that could be used as an alternative - but we were instructed to follow the path as set and not doing so risks a DQ!

I also saw the paperwork issued to the marshals and saw the anticipated drop-out rates and finish times of the organisers - the finish time of the winner was SEVERAL hours slower than they anticipated and the drop-outs, which they anticipated to be around a half was a far more extreme 84%!

Speaking with the man responsible for the trackers, he confirmed that the SOS buttons were disabled due to reliability issues at their end, mostly due to the tech requiring a signal that they knew would not be able to be guaranteed over the full length of the course and I fully get why they did this as there would be nothing worse than people putting blind faith in something they knew was highly likely not to work especially in an emergency - he did say there was a team continually monitoring the progress of all the trackers and anyone stopping for periods of time was causing them a lot of worry as they were aware of how remote the course was and they had med teams on a standby to react as quickly as they possibly could… Unfortunately this did mean NO-ONE was guaranteed to find you should something happen. Case in point was the lady who timed-out behind me; she fell into the bog where I did and went down to her neck. She said her instinct was to scream but she stifled herself as it was pointless as there was no-one around who could hear you!

Caravan in the middle of nowhere.

Since I wrote this, the 2018 edition of the ‘Ben Nevis Ultra’ has been announced and is ENTIRELY different in length, location and terrain, so it seems the organisers have realised how badly the inaugural event went from a competitor’s perspective and hopefully a repeat experience will be avoided!

Would I return? Not for a good few years and only if the event has consistently run without issues for the majority of competitors outside of weather related problems on the day.

Eat pies.
Drink beer.
Run far.

4th August: UTLD 100 - Lakeland Fails

A minute, 60 little seconds is such a short period of time, something normally so insignificant yet at the same time can be an immense insurmountable mountain as I discovered attempting the Lakeland 100… In writing about my failure rather than basking in a glow of relative success, believe me its not a plea for a cup of tea and some sympathy (U ok hun?), it just gets filed under ‘shit happens’ and to kind of paraphrase Alanis Morrisette: you live, you learn, you regroup, you return.

Where did it all go wrong?.. If you trace anything back far enough you can pin it to a circumstance at a point in time and lay the blame all-in on that rather than taking ownership and responsibility on it yourself. True I could say for me there were plenty of less than ideal circumstances that could be said to contribute, but that’s not the point. The point is I allowed myself through arrogance or just a general throwing of myself on the mercy of the fates to not adhere to the principal of the 7P’s: perfect planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance… And paid the price.

With the race starting at 6pm on Friday, on the Thursday I managed to finish work earlyish but still ended up packing in a hurry and leaving an hour later than planned. Within an hour the drive to my overnight stop at LSS’s parent’s in Lancashire hit the first snag: our junction for the M5 had closed, so we followed a poorly sign-posted diversion for an hour through the centre of Cheltenham, then later encountered another closure on the M6 which sent us on a diversion where the traffic was stationary for lengths of time… Eventually we arrived at LSS’s parents at 2am, some 6 hours after leaving on a journey that would normally take just over 3.

Shit gettin' real at the event base!

After just 4 hours kip, I travelled up to Coniston, hoping to catch-up on some lost shut-eye once there, parking at the event base of the John Ruskin School’s field. As soon as I was able to I registered, passed-trough the kit check (you need to carry appropriate waterproof top & bottoms, leggings, long sleeved base layer, hat, gloves, medical kit, whistle, compass, phone, emergency food, emergency drink, hard sided cup, head-torch & spare batteries) and back in the van packed my race pack with all of these along with the food & drink I would need to see me to the halfway point, plus things like suncream, sunnies, insect repellant, power bar & headphones for distraction tuneage along the way should it be needed... It was now I realised I’d forgotten 2 essential (but not compulsory) pieces of kit: my Garmin & salt tabs, both I’d remembered looking out and could have sworn I had packed, but I must have left at home. Bugger. It looked like I would now be recording the run on my phone, which I needed to be turned off for power saving and in a waterproof arm band for accessibility when resorting to ViewRanger to double-check on nav. For the duration I would have no idea of current mileage in relation to time and would have to wing-it. My timing would be based on a proper watch and guessing how long each leg would take when consulting the road book at the aid stations, judge required effort for each leg from profile maps and hope I can maintain my running within time-limits.

Disappointed with my basic house-keeping errors I met up with running buddy Lucinda who was in for the 100 as well - normally she is a bit faster than me but in suffering from chronic back issues was just hoping to make a go of it and keep on the course till she was either hooked for time or bails through pain... Her plan was start slow & get progressively slower, so probably quite similar to how I would be!

I lunched on pasta washed down with a pint of the specially-commissioned-for-the-event ale then retired to the van to attempt a couple of hours elusive sleep seeing as I could be on my feet for 40 hours once shit got real and we started! The weather however had other plans as the heat was stifling with soaring humidity; on the field it was nudging 30 degrees and in the marquees it was noticeably hotter. I had to leave the shaded side door of the van open to try and keep some cool air flowing and just lay there with my eyes closed, fruitlessly searching for some shut eye.

Brief!

When my alarm sounded, having just lain there with my eyes closed, I changed ready for action and made my way to the sweltering school hall for the briefing, where we sat with sweat pouring off us all. To be fair to organisers Marc & ‘Uncle Terry’ they keep it as brief and light-hearted as possible, although for the first time in its 11th year of running they had to issue a lightning warning!.. The heatwave the country had been in thrall to was due to break spectacularly over-night. We would be starting in 30 degree heat but overnight the rain and storms would come, along with feisty winds (fortunately not quite up to gale force) and hail! The organiser’s main concern was for us being out in exposed areas should lightning storms break and we were urged to use our collective loaves with regards to balancing our personal safety and chasing time! For those who are interested, the course stats on a GPS track look like this.

Briefing over and there was just enough time to grab our kit, drop bags and visit the toilet one final time to drain the nerves. All gathered in the start corral and the event anthem of ‘Nessum Dorma’ was sung & we were off, in my case waved-off by a face in the massed cheering crowd of marathon buddy Luke who was running the 50 the following day… The start is absolutely awesome and as good as the start of the UTMB: from the school all the way through the village of Coniston the roads are lined several people deep all of them shouting, clapping and cheering us on, with my ‘Eat Pies’ shirt getting some love, especially passing the pubs!

Coralled.

Once off the high street the course proper commenced with an immediate long hard climb - the first of 3 ‘category 1’ climbs on the route and one of the longest overall - can’t beat a baptism of fire can you! We ascended the side of the ‘Old Man of Coniston’ through the oppressive stifling heat, only relieved by an occasional gentle gust of wind taking the edge off. Eventually there was a respite to the climb with some downhill, so I opened my legs and let fly… Mistake! As I bounded gaily along I caught a rock with my toe, stumbled and realised I was not going to recover my balance… Looking in front I could see a grassy patch without rock so I managed my stumble, dropped my shoulder and rolled out the fall onto it, getting straight back on my feet to carry on running, albeit slower, so I could dust myself down and check my person for damage: Just a gashed knee so all good! I got a few admiring comments from people as they overtook about how I managed to style-out the fall. Years of practice from tripping over rocks I suppose! The method originally came from my footballing days when speaking to people I know who did martial arts: don’t fight against the momentum of the fall as this is what causes damage, use it if you can to an advantage; tuck, roll, push off and you’re back on your feet immediately rather than stuck to the floor!

Running over one of the flatter sections of this first leg we found ourselves amidst a cloud of flying ants, which were landing and crawling over us as we passed through it - an ominous sign as they only fly when rain is coming so as to soften the ground-up for them once they’ve landed. Looking forwards at the sky you could see why they were flying with a gun-metal grey canopy of rain clouds gathering over the mountains obscuring them in a dark haze: this was where the rain was... exactly where we were heading. Dropping down into the valley for our first checkpoint and it was now teasing us, the sky darkening, the humidity rising and all of us wanting to be cooled-off.

On the first climb.

Into the first CP at Seathwaite and there was the day’s first casualty, someone suffering from a pulled muscle. Plenty of people start the race chancing it whilst injured or not fully recovered to see how they get on as once you are entered, beyond a certain date there are no transfers or refunds - although if you inform the organisers you are bailing they donate your entry to their charity partners.

A quick downing of drinks, crisps and an orange and it was back out on to the course chasing the waning sun. The hope was to get to the next CP at Boot in some form of light to avoid a stop to rummage in my pack for my head torch and lose a bit of time as a consequence… As we climbed up in to the hills once more we were teased by the rain. We could see it raining in nearby valleys with the tops of hills surrounded by clag and the sky over us would periodically ominously darken, but this was merely a tease… The hoped-for cooling downpour was not coming, well not yet at least, save for a few spots and 5 minutes of light drizzle before we made it in to Boot as darkness properly enveloped us.

Lake Coniston in the distance.

As I entered the CP I was confronted by the visions of people emerging from the darkness to hurl into the bushes... At a half marathon distance there were people already dropping through physically being unable to continue, most of whom I suspect had fallen foul of running too hard in the strong sun and humidity on the first climb and had over-cooked themselves at the very start, that and taking-on too many gels rather than having some proper food which had caused their stomachs to ‘flip’ and ruin their race almost as soon as it had started.

As I enjoyed the restorative powers of a cup of tea and a couple of hob-nobs, a few minutes later a pained Lucinda made it into the CP fairly flustered and looking beaten.

The worst thing they say you can do is quit at a CP, so I persuaded Lucinda to give it a go as the next leg was not too intense on the climb front once we hit the moors… I knew she had already mentally quit, but its one of those things that if you can get moving sometimes it works by distraction with the whole mind over matter effect when you concentrate on the moment. In a few minutes you’ll know if it is going to work or not, but halfway up the hill and Lucinda decided her back and her stomach really weren’t up to it and she turned back into the darkness and I was left to push on alone into the night.

Halfway up the trudge and the heavens properly opened, giving me a proper dousing; the rain passing through the beam of the head torch like strobes which made seeing things a little more challenging, but with how hot I was and the relative shelter of the terrain I decided not to stop to find my waterproof and ‘boil in a bag’ but just to carry on and allow myself to cool down as the air temp was still very warm and I was still sweating like Michael Jackson on Sesame Street… Soon I noticed something on the floor shining back at me not too far off and saw it was one of the soft cups us competitors are given that must have fallen off or out of someone’s pack, so I picked it up and now had a quest that if I failed meant I had a free cup… Every time I came across another competitor I asked them if they had dropped a cup and eventually I found its owner as I plateaued at the start of the bogs by Burnmoor Tarn.

I realised with no clear path over the bogs I was weaving like a drunk at closing-time attempting to pick the path across it which was invisible in the darkness. Fortunately with the dry spell it was not too wet underfoot for a stretch that is notorious in most years for soaking your trainers and leading to the on-set of ‘tripe feet’ (trench foot to the uninitiated) for many runners as once wet most people’s feet will not be drying-off till after the race is over.

As I ran along this mercifully flat and fairly dry stretch (for a bog) I was chatting with a guy from Bolton. With the lead item on the national news being the fires on Winter Hill the other week, where some local numpties set fire to the whole hillside, I was interested to find out how it had affected the area with my loving of running up and down it when staying at the in-laws. He was saying how great it is just to keep going up and down without repeating yourself on the numerous different routes you can find just following the paths, but now all the paths have been obliterated by the fire so it is very difficult to see where they were or to remember exactly where they lay as there are now no longer any recognisable features, so at present all the fun has been ruined as you can’t just run there but have to seriously think about where you are and figure-out a path.

Having entertained him with my accidental dogging tale from the carpark at the bottom of Winter Hill, he was also saying about the various other places to go running and came-out with an absolute gem: “Burnley, now those that live there say that its the Rome of the North West, what with being built on seven hills as they claim… The thing is that Rochdale also claims to be the Rome of the North West as they’ve built seven tower blocks!”

Soon we left the plateau and I headed down the hill, attempting to home-in on the lights in front of me, running through some forrestry trail until I hit the valley floor and the next checkpoint.

Having been greeted in the darkness by a very cheerful yellow Power Ranger, I crossed a stone bridge to the barn that was the Wasdale aid station which was manned (and womaned) by super-heroes with Elastigirl from the Incredibles pouring hot drinks, Spiderman prancing around making sangers, Wolverine busying himself ensuring people were ok and a few other Marvel & DC characters besides doing other checkpointy things. You might have thought this was the most bizarre sight of all and the beginnings of sleep deprivation, but no; I was totally lucid and not suffering from a cheese-dream… The genuinely eery sight was reserved for the rogues gallery that befell me.

Looking back again to Lake Coniston.

There was not a seat to be found as they were all full of the broken and defeated: some just sitting shivering from what they had endured through the night so far, others wrapped in foil survival blankets from their exposure to wind and rain over the hills, but all of them, all of them bore the haunting expression of the thousand yard stare you’ve seen in pictures of shell-shocked soldiers from WWI & beyond; the look that says they have been pushed to the edge and are teetering on the brink rocking back and forth before toppling one way or the other, faces of those who have stared into the maw of a Nietszchean abyss and have seen it stare back at them. The silence of the aid station was only punctuated by the patter of rain and the enquiries from those running the aid station of the needs of new arrivals. There was nowhere to sit through the mass of casualties and the floor was wet from the rain so those of us carrying on were in a bind of finding somewhere dry to park our bums. Fortunately I found a patch of table to prop myself against and I gulped down a few cups of coke & squash, scoffed some crisps for salt to replace everything I had sweated out and slurped a wonderfully warm cup of tea as I studied the road-book and cut-off for the next leg: a leg of some serious climbs, including the second of the 3 ‘category 1’ climbs of the course, starting almost from the get-go. I was an hour and 15 inside the cut-offs, so was feeling chipper about getting up over and down to the next stop keeping an hour in the bag.

Leaving behind something that could have been in Apocalypse Now when Captain Willard is heading up river in search of Kurtz, the climbing began and did not seem to stop.

Killer climbs are so much better in the dark as you cannot see the mammoth slab of rock that lies in front of you with the snaking switch-back of a path that goes on forever topped by false summit after false summit… You can see the lie of the path by looking up, highlighted by the beams of head-torches in front… But don’t look up as it just disheartens as you realise how much higher you have still to go. Black Sail Pass was a killer. Unrelenting. I had to stop several times to gather my equilibrium, drenched in sweat and thirsting for a drink… Shortly before halfway we crossed a waterfall on the path, so I stopped to soak my buffs in the water to cool me, wash the sweat from my face and pour the coolness over my head to refresh… I then drank the fresh pure water straight from the fall in front of me, the chill water pouring over my face, the sense of touch heightened in the pitch black of night with my sense of sight diminished. Looking at my watch it was 1am and I thought that’s a pretty unique thing to be doing at that time.

After an eternity I reached the top of the pass, but at this point I could not see the way down… I could see the head torches of those in the valley a couple of hundred feet below, but none on the descent to give away the path. I faffed around a bit trying to figure the route, making a couple of wrong turns and being careful not to fall of the edge of a cliff, before slowly making my way down what looked the most likely side including a slide and scramble over wet rocks until I reached the valley floor, found the youth hostel building and started for the next climb out of the valley.

Again the path was indistinct on top and I lost time to wrong turns and consulting nav to figure out where I was before eventually finding the correct route and ploughed on. Eventually I could see through a gap between the hills and I could make-out the distinct shape of the silhouette of Fleetwith Pike in front of me, a hill I had taken LSS and her lads up a few years back on holiday, so I knew I was nearing Buttermere. The descent soon had me on the largely flat and even lakeside path, so I was able to make good time with those fellow stragglers around me - 4 of us were getting a wiggle-on to make the cut-off and we entered the aid station with 8 minutes to spare… That meant 8 minutes to be out of site of the aid station. 

Sky darkening as the sun disappears.

Leaving the aid station with my hands full with a bag of crisps, a couple of twix fingers and a sausage roll as there was no time to properly eat anything in sight of the marshals I rounded the corner to hit the path... Before I could make it to the iron gate I needed to go through, I could make-out someone lumbering out of the darkness coming back off the course towards it. He crashed through it, nearly falling over as he relied heavily on his poles for balance, steadying himself as much as he could as he hobbled and stumbled past me... I asked if he was ok and he emphatically said no.

I found out why he said no afterwards. He had taken a bad fall a couple of miles in and had broken his leg... His only choice was to try and get back to the aid station for urgent medical help. He posted the pictures of his leg on the race page on Facey and believe me it was not pretty: bits sticking out where they shouldn’t; a special kind of nasty that makes the squeamish reach for a basin… And he had managed to gather his wits together and make it back off the course. Immense strength and fortitude.

Chastened by the sight just befallen me I stumbled onwards, taking wrong turns in the darkness that nearly led me into a gorge. At this point I thought I’d sit and eat what I was holding so as to free my hands-up & consult the road book at the same time... 3 hours to get the next 9 ‘lumpy’ miles under my belt. With how everything had gone so far I realised it would be as tight as a duck’s arse, but that’s what it was, so onwards forever onwards as there is no turning back!

Descending commences in the fading light.

I knew that this was the last of the ‘hard’ legs until I got to about 65 miles, so the terrain would flatten a bit and allow me to claw back time if only I could get to Braithwaite. I forged on through the dark watching as the sky lightened and dawn began to break revealing the trail in front of me, although it did not stop me from slipping off it at one point and gashing my other knee and taking more wrong turns. The worst one gave me a choice in my exhausted state: either about half a mile extra to retrace back to a fork on the trail I had missed, or a scramble through knee deep heather of about 50 metres to gain about 20 in height where the path was.

Once back on track I sat to catch my breath and took some pics in the early morning light. Able to read the roadbook without torchlight I could kind of figure out that it was pretty-much all downhill for the next 3 miles to get to the CP. Time to get a wiggle-on as I was right on it to hit there in time.

This long descent to Braithwaite saw me overtake 3 on the descent, being told by 2 there was no rush, there’s still half an hour to make the cut... But I was sure it was NOW, so carried-on pushing to squeak in… Off the fells and into the tiny village I found the CP and entering the hall I was told as I dibbed-in “Sorry, you just missed the cut... by a minute.”

Chasing the storms.

Immediately my mind raced thinking of what I could do… I could choose to accept my fate and do as I was told, or I could just do a runner, but realistically would I make the time back on the course especially as I would not be stopping to eat or drink anything?… I knew the course was due to flatten-out by comparison to what we had done up till now, potentially helping me to gain that valuable time… But there was no guarantee! My crap hill climbing skills and nav errors from Black Sail onwards had cost me way too much time having to correct back on track and had added 2.5 very hilly miles in the darkness. Back on planet reality and it was time to be stoic and face the honking klaxon of reality: game over.

About 5 minutes after me, as I tucked-in to a bowl of pasta and rice pudding (separate bowls before you say ‘ewww’), one of the guys I overtook coming down the hill came in, was told he had timed-out and to hand his chip and tracker over on dibbing-in as he was being hooked from the race, only for him to get a bit aggy with the marshals over this insisting the cut-off time was 6:30, not 6 and he was carrying on. He was flatly told it was 6 and he was out, at which point he did a runner!.. Only for his details to be taken and was instantly DQ’d for ignoring the marshal’s instructions. I think I made the right choice as I did not come across as a complete tit by doing the same.

I tried to be cheerful as I waited with the other dozen runners left in the aid station for the coach back to Coniston, which was about an hour off… Watching from in the dry warmth of the village hall as the heavens properly opened again with an absolute deluge made me glad in a way not to be out there receiving another soaking!

As we returned to the start at Coniston, the coaches taking the 50 runners to Dalemain were embarking, and part of me wanted to jump on with them and get a lift to the start and get out and do the second half of the course, but reality hit and I went for a shower and some shut-eye.

The aftermath
 
Any failure is a chastening experience, but learning from the what, where, when, how and why it went wrong allows you to change your approach to ensure a greater chance of success next time, rather than just repeating the same thing ad Infinitum with the identical outcome. There is a caveat though to my failure… This year only 51% of starters finished - the average is 55% over its 11 years, with most of those retirements coming before or at the halfway mark.

What did I learn from this?.. Plenty: first up is trying to do something that requires you to be physically at your best is not something you can ‘wing’, something you can just rock-up to, lick your finger, check the breeze and say ‘yeah I fancy it today’… I know I could have made it to the end, mentally I was there, but to be blunt physically I proved I was not. The last 9 months of battling plantar fasciitis has robbed me of the form I had built-up over the previous year until the bastard floored me... When it happened last November it pretty-much wiped-out my running outside of pre-entered races and Sunday mornings until the snows of March. What speed I had before has long gone and I am carrying nearly a stone more weight than I was last year at the same time through the lack of exercise, as training on tarmac has just been too painful with the day after I find myself struggling to walk… Not great when your job entails being on your feet all day.

Dawn breaks.

Having less than ideal prep immediately before a race so you are rushing around, leave things behind after you have looked them out and a journey schedule that through circumstance affords you a mere 4 hours sleep in advance of a race that will require you being awake for the thick-end of 40 hours is not helpful… But that’s the rub, things seldom do go as you hope and plan, the trick is to react to this and keep going regardless.

Some things did go right... When I timed-out I was absolutely fine to continue, I had got over 2 of the 3 biggest climbs of the course and was still feeling ‘fresh’... Nutrition was good; my ‘homemade’ energy drink was keeping me going to the point food was not an issue, so making sure I grabbed something in the aid stations to eat meant that from my own stash I only ate one energy bar, a pack of jelly and 2 gels over the 35 miles... Definitely something to continue with.

What do I need to do for the next time?.. Spend time on the sections of the course that I don’t know to avoid nav errors concentrating on the darkness legs, in other words the section from Boot onwards to Braithwaite. Work on my speed and hills, which will in turn help to drop my weight leading to an improvement in my climbing ability… From now on every run I go on by myself MUST be hill intensive - well what passes for hills around this way where I live. Every race I undertake between now and the next Lakeland must be targeted to hit a PB or as near as dammit on them as a means to monitor my progress… And hopefully to get a sub 4 hour marathon in before the year end.

Looking west at dawn.

Running without a Garmin… Now this was very liberating, I was able to run how I felt in the moment, as if I would when out bimbling on local trails at home without continually looking at my wrist to see how I was faring. It was more a case of running to my heart rate and monitoring myself so that I did not red-line on effort and when I felt I was doing so I sat down to rest and calm before heading on again. Whilst it was great running this way, not having a reminder on my wrist of my pace and current distance was a real handicap when trying to hit the CP’s in time and left too much to guesswork. The Garmin (or lack thereof) was the largest factor in my timing-out, although in reality with one on and factoring in my fitness would I have just timed-out instead after 60 or 70 miles?

35 miles over challenging trails is a good run-out in anyone’s book, throwing-in 1.5 miles of vertical ascent to boot certainly shows it wasn’t a stroll! I know this was the hardest third of the course and I completed it - its just frustrating that I could not get out onto the relatively easier next third!

Something I noticed along the way was the sheer number of people toting wizard staffs, or cheat sticks, or Nordic poles to call them by their proper name; I reckon about 4/5 of the field had them. They are allowed and obviously people find them advantageous. Lucinda was using some being a recent convert to them as she nurses a back issue, and I must admit they do seem very tempting, however I want to prove to myself I don’t need ‘mechanical assistance’ to help me finish a race of this nature. I still believe that anyone who finishes a race using them should have an asterisk after their name.

I didn’t really feel like hanging around the event base for longer than I had to afterwards so I was back in Chorley at LSS’s parent’s place that evening. The day after when the MiL very kindly put my honking gopping running gear into the machine to wash them, as they reached the spin cycle, the stench of them must have got too much as the machine with an almighty grinding sound decided to commit hara-kiri!

So on the Monday before heading-off for a week’s rest in a field in Devon I had to help the FiL to pick up a new washing machine and get it back to their house!

Entries for the 2019 Lakeland 100 open at 9am on the 1st September. I’ll be hovering over my computer keyboard as there’s unfinished business to attend to!

Eat pies.
Drink beer.
Run far.