Lakeland Fails #2

I’ve got a massive monkey on my back now, not a monkey like one of them lovely cuddly marmoset mofos, I’m talking its the size of an effing gorilla; a big fuck-off hairy silver back doing a can-can on my shoulders.

This year I WILL finally nail the Lakeland 100, I’d better fucking do as this failure malarkey is getting a bit boring now… 3rd time lucky and all that!



When you fail at something, you look at it and try to figure-out where you made your mistakes and change-up on your approach as the definition of futility, of sheer foolishness, is to repeat the same process whilst expecting a different result.

Yeah, I lost my Garmin between registration and the start of the race the first time, which meant I did not know my pace and timed-out by a mere minute after 30 miles, but that is not a ‘mistake’, that was unfortunate… The fact remains that I was still too slow leading to me timing-out.

I took a hard look at the condition I was in at the start and simply put, I’d probably put too many miles in my legs… I’d attempted to beast myself into shape for the race over the previous couple of weeks, a beasting that took place in the sapping heat that I had continually struggled in.

Climbing the first climb with the rest of the pack.

In the June I’d run 30 miles overnight on one weekend, followed by 2 marathons in 2 days the next weekend, a 50 miler 2 weeks after that and a week later for good measure in the first week of July I’d run a 35 miler in the lakes! All told I’d racked up 170 miles of running in the 6 weeks prior to the Lakeland and had only 2 weeks rest before the event… So yeah, I suspect I overdid-it leading in to the big day: when most people had been tapering or doing sweet f-a I’d been racing and racing hard like a complete eejit.

Arriving tired, slow and cream-crackered meant I was hardly in great shakes: I started slow and got slower. I kept having to stop on the large climbs as I was hanging out my own arse, chasing my own tail just to make the cut-offs whilst demoralised through my own stupidity in losing my Garmin.

I also took wrong turns - again something as an excuse I could put down to tiredness and not being mentally with-it. I could use the excuse of still lacking fitness through suffering from plantar fasciitis for nearly 18 months, something that robbed me of my mojo till March, but ultimately when you remove these excuses by my own actions I had effectively sabotaged my own chances of success in the race!

Looking out to the Irish Sea shimmering on the horizon.

So yeah, as Alanis Morissette sang: ‘you learn’… You also evolve and you change your approach. As a consequence in prep for the 100 this year, in the June I ran a 44 mile ultra - with significantly less climbing than the races the previous year, did a 20 mile night run the week after - this time at a tempo pace rather than a plod and finally a month before the Lakeland I did a 100k race in the lakes… I was feeling good, really good that I was in a proper shape to complete the 100 miles. In fact I was feeling good all the way until in the Lake District, just after the last aid station in the Ultimate Trails 100k with a mere 4 miles to go in the race, when I was up on time and pace from my previous outing there and looking forward to tucking in to the post race chilli meal, when walking along a road there was an almighty audible crack from my lower leg/ ankle. Every step was now agony, a proper involuntary shout of ‘ow’, ‘ow’, ‘ow’ each time my right foot went to the floor… I just speed hobbled my way to the finish whilst cursing my misfortune.

Next morning everything seemed fine, I was able to walk around with no pain at all, but it turned-out it wasn’t hunky-dory in the slightest. The following weekend I had to bail on a Sunday morning group run when the pain kicked-in after a mile and the intensity increased as I went to the level of agony. I realised I’d one of 2 problems: Either a stress fracture or a fucked ligament: both injuries I know require 6-8 weeks of rest before easing back in to running. However I had just shy of 4 weeks to the start of the Lakeland!

Light starting to wane.

Outside of my work, total rest was taken and a large dose of hope was consumed ready for the start of the Lakeland. In the back of my mind I knew I wouldn’t last the distance, that I would definitely break down. The question was when and where it would happen, so the plan was just to just push as hard as I could for as long as I could before the wheels fell off. I also purposely didn’t see a doctor as I knew I would get a proper diagnosis, and be told in no uncertain terms NOT to race - so I deliberately put my hands over my ears before burying my head in the sand to emerge on the start line in Coniston.

I started, it wasn’t as hot as the previous year so I did not suffer quite as badly from the get-go and I went well, really well!.. Ok I tripped and fell in exactly the same spot as the previous year on the backside of the Old Man of Coniston, but aside from that everything went swimmingly… I worked hard to hit the checkpoints, which I managed without much fuss and got through the aid station where I had timed-out with plenty of time in hand whilst in the company of other runners who had finished the race before and were confident on their pacing being bang-on for a finish.

Chasing the sunset.

Before the start of the race I had dosed myself on cocodamol - now I don’t normally do painkillers in real life, but I felt the best chance I had would be to mask anything before I started so as not to start demoralised if I began to feel pain straight away - it seemed to work, however after about 10 hours I could feel the pain in my leg… I necked another couple of cocodamol but they had no effect whatsoever, didn’t even round the edges off the continual aching pain. Leaving the site of my previous failure determined my race would not end here again, I at least knew I could get the next leg done at a hobble before bailing from the race, so at least I had the chance to in effect recce the leg.

In amongst a strung-out group of runners I shuffled my way along as best as I could, trying to persuade myself to ‘suck it up buttercup’ but I knew my day was over. I knew I was doing fine for time which was an almighty frustration, although not as frustrating as after bailing waiting for transfer back to the start after your race was over!

Midnight refreshments.

Out on the trail I had found the running an awful lot easier than on my previous failure as the weather was an awful lot cooler and with a fraction of the humidity. Knowing the route now and the terrain was also a boon as well as I knew where I was, so did not get lost… I even found the climbs not quite as bad! Up on time I made a conscious effort to push myself harder on the climbs, including the evil that is Black Sail Pass. I had made myself a promise that I would only stop the once at the waterfall around halfway. I looked at my watch as I arrived there and it said midnight, so sweating like Michael Jackson on Sesame Street I sat in the waterfall cooling off, drinking the fresh water out of it as I watched the stream of pin-pricks of light from head torches of those behind me coming up the pass towards my resting body.

Head torches approaching me from below.

The big test for me was always going to be at what point dawn would break. It was a relief when I became conscious that I was moving along a stretch in darkness where before it had been light. At that point I was proper gasping for a drink of cool fresh water and knowing there were plenty of streams coming up I resolved to get in and have a drink at the next one… Soon I could hear the beckoning siren-like sound of gently tumbling water. I took my cup off my pack ready for action, I rounded the corner looking for the best way to cross the stream and get to the water and at first glance saw what I thought was a stepping stone in the middle of it… All ready to jump on to it with all my considerable weight I took another look with the head torch and realised it wasn’t a stone at all, but a sheep carcass! That put the mockers on my cunning plan, so I had to get to the next stream before carefully surveying for deceased livestock and taking a cool crisp drink of the waters.

Not quite a stepping stone :(

I ran through the dawn and on into the still morning light before realising there was zero chance of getting beyond Blencathra. Yes it smarted mentally as well as paining me physically, but I knew I could not carry-on without the risk of serious damage. My body was telling me it was broken and I had no choice this time but to listen, even if the next leg of the race was teasingly flat!

Having bailed I had to wait with everyone else in the same boat for our transfers back to Coniston… This was the worst aspect, the waiting around not knowing what was going to happen or when and the distinct feeling that everything was a bit of a busked afterthought. The priority of the organisers will always be those people on the course, however when you’re no longer in the race you feel that you have been forgotten about to an extent, that you are an inconvenience to everyone and are swept to the side and largely ignored. After waiting a couple of hours we had a transfer by minibus to the halfway aid station at Dalemain where the 50 mile race starts. During this time the weather had changed to rain with its accompanying chill. It seemed the aid station was not prepared for a group of us to arrive and occupy valuable floorspace in the marquee. Eventually we were allocated a small area to congregate out of the way of the other racers where we could stretch-out and snooze whilst trying to stay warm. It was almost as if we were quarantined, that our running ‘leprosy’ would somehow contaminate those people still in the race!

Approaching Blencathra

Eventually after a few hours we were back on the same minibus to Coniston - however there was not enough space on it for all of us, our group having picked-up some more bodies to journey with us.

I was the last one to get on and realised I had nowhere to sit, however I was determined I was not going to be stranded here at the furthest point away from where I needed to be until god knows when, so I went to the very back of the minibus and sat on the step in the aisle in front of the back bench of seats and hoped the driver would not realise… Fortunately he didn’t and I managed to survive a supremely uncomfortable bum-numbing journey back to the event base wedged between both rows of seats for my safety rather than any form of comfort. At least when I got back there were no queue for a shower, and I was able to grab something to eat and crawl in to bed in the back of my van for a well-earned kip.

Morning mist still whispy.

On the Monday whilst back at LSS’s parents I went to get myself checked-out at Chorley A&E (the triage nurse and the doctor who saw me had friends who had been up there racing in the 50) and I was given a kind of diagnosis based on good news from the x-rays that there were no clear indications of a fracture, however without more specific investigation they could not rule-out a stress fracture of the talus bone, either that or ligament damage both triggered through ‘overuse’. I was pointed-out that the two have an identical recovery time and are non-invasive: 4 weeks rest from running! That was it, better listen to the quacks and do as I’m told for the next few weeks. At least they said I could do a bit of cycling from 2 weeks but nothing too strenuous.

So my second stab at the 100 miles of the Lakeland race ended in failure again. Whilst it was inevitable before I had even started, it was still really frustrating as I felt confident that I had a finish in me barring the injury. I know that my change in approach leading-in to the race worked and worked well to give me a decent chance at that finish. What I need to do now over the next few months is to Alanis Morissette the hell out of two years worth of failures to make it third time lucky this year.

Eat pies.
Drink beer.
Run far.