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.

28th December: Winter Crossed.

Ah, what to do when you’re sitting around turning your liver into foi-gras over the week between Christmas and new year? I hear everyone ask.

Go for a 45 mile run comes the reply from precisely no-one, and to be perfectly honest I could probably have done without the last 13 miles of that myself... Yeah but that’s still 33 miles you utter masochist! Regrets? No, but yeah, but no.

Over most previous Christmas weekends I’ve entered races, including a double-header of trail races dressed as an ostrich, and last year a league XC race for my club the day after a 20k mud run, so doing something kind of like this isn’t entirely out of the ordinary.

I’d entered Second Wind Running's Winter Cross ultra for a few reasons: it’s local, I don’t have a race booked for January and it’s near as dammit in January, plus a healthy dose of FOMO as running buddy Luke had said he was entering the ‘fun run’ - they do a 50k race at the same time - along with Richard and Trevor in my running club Hook Runners... I had a blank week, what more could a boy possibly do?

Entering and talking about it persuaded neighbour Pini and Moose to come along for some shits and giggles as well, Moose for the fun run and Pini joining me in the full monty... I say shits and giggles but these two are properly focused runners very much at the top end of the field who would have a steely-eyed focus on placing at the sharp end of the races!

The course

Arising in darkness I drove the 45 minutes to get to the race base in the Meon Valley in the heart of Hampshire. Unsurprisingly from the race’s name, the course is in the shape of a cross, where you run the north leg first: 10k out and back on an old railway bed, before heading east for a 20k out and back on the South Downs, then West for another 20k leg on the Downs. At this point the 50k ‘fun runners’ get to call it a day, with those of us attempting to monster the full Monty heading south for another 20k leg on the former railway track.

Both races start at the same time: 7:30 and you are supposed to finish the 45 mile distance by 4:30, the basis of the timing is to race the daylight: you have from sun-up to sun-down to complete the course.

The event base of the village hall in Corhampton was the same place where I’d been for the Meon Valley Plod a few years back so I knew what I was in for on the course. The briefing was short and sweet and away we went into the unseasonably warm dawn air for a proper day out on your feet.

Smiles before the suffering! Hookers from LtoR in front: Pini, Moose, Trevor & Richard

This first northerly leg saw a mahoosive puddle after about half a mile, so following the principal of ‘you only get wet feet once’ I steamed straight through whilst others faffed and bottlenecked trying to pick a non-existent dry line. To this point I had been running with Luke merrily chatting away, but it seemed he left his big boy pants at home and tried to keep his feet dry... I was feeling good in my pace so I just kept on at the same rate once through the puddle, sure that Luke would catch me sooner rather than later, but unfortunately that time spent queuing put paid to any more running together.

I had walked to the start with Moose and had seen him make his way to the very front of the race, so knew he would be among the leaders from the off and sure enough, just after I’d gone through 2 miles the leaders came back towards us with him sitting in about 10th place... There was no sign of Pini though when I’d normally expect him to be coming the other way, then shortly before the turn a diminutive streak of silver fox shifted past at speed on the right: tactics. I figured that rather than getting caught in the race at the front among the 50k runners, Pini had decided to deliberately start at the back rather than go off too hot getting sucked in to racing someone else’s race rather than his own and suffer later on as a consequence.

At the turn I passed Luke, Trevor & Richard all pretty close together and not far behind me so I figured I’d be caught and passed by them some time just in to the second leg.

On the 10k return leg I spied a ‘Run 1,000 Miles’ buff - a Facebook group of which I’m a member so I had a chat with the lady wearing it who had clocked-up 1600 miles this year even with losing 8 weeks to injury and was rounding off the year in style today. Truly an awesome effort!

After the flat blast of the 10k on the railway bed, the Eastern leg was the one that promised views, including a climb up ‘Old Winchester Hill’ with its Iron Age fort and settlement on the top. Unfortunately for the chance of any panoramic vistas, the low cloud that was accompanying the balmy temperatures for the time of year obscured most of them in murk.

Down the other side of Old Winchester Hill and we were on to the second climb ready for the turning point. On here Pini came hurtling down the slick chalky mud path towards me and warned of plenty of mud on top... He was not wrong: progress was slow as grip was at a premium in the ankle deep-slop: skid marks from those who had fallen were all over the place so it was a case of ‘carefully does it’ till we topped-out and a jog to the aid station.

I’d been needing to ‘hail the prophet’ for some time so at the turn I took the chance to commune with ‘Mustapha Leak’ around the corner behind the aid station - unfortunately as I blundered around the undergrowth my right foot snagged on a root nearly felling me, but with other more pressing things on my mind I carried on about my business, grabbed a handful of Jaffa Cakes and was off once more.

On the way back I passed Luke, Trevor & Richard once more - all a similar distance behind as before and carried on trying to maintain a decent steady pace. Reaching the aid station it was difficult not to think I was halfway through the race having completed 2 legs, with the first being that much shorter than the others, although I knew that marker would come soon enough, but my focus was solely on this final out and back on the Downs.

To qualify for the last leg and complete the 45 mile race, you had to have finished this third leg by 2pm which is an average of around 12 minute miles, or 6h30m total time for the 50k (31 mile) course. This was my challenge, but I was confident of reaching it having worked-out that my average so far was between 10-11 minute miles.

Grabbing a half banana, more Jaffa cakes and the traditional seasonal fare of a Creme Egg, like the Pet Shop Boys and the Village People before them I went to ‘go west’.

Through the centre of the village with its chalk bedded trout river swollen to bursting point by the recent rains, the climbing began. We were warned the climb on the out leg would seem to go on forever and it seemed pretty accurate. Also there was far more tarmac on this leg than before!

Early on into the climb the leaders of the 50k came hurtling towards me and Moose was sat in a comfortable 3rd place. Congratulating him he yelled back as he passed that he’d trashed his legs though and they were killing him!

20 miles in and a familiar red-clad sight began to appear in the corner of my eye as I was finally caught by Trevor. We ran together for a few miles chatting merrily away and wary of the pace discrepancy with Trevor now having caught up, I put it on front street to him not to compromise his race by hanging around with me if I was dragging him back! He replied that he’d been slowly reeling me in for the last 6 or 7 miles - in effect using me as his ‘rabbit’ and he was now just content to make it to the finish as he’d knackered himself-out bridging the gap!

Both Trevor and Richard had entered the race last year and both had had to pull-out with injury shortly before. In their training they had recced the route last year in prep before their deferrals and this year they had trained much the same... As a consequence it seemed Trevor knew half the field from people he had gone on group recces of the different legs organised from on the race’s Facebook page!

Something else Trevor has done that has made a positive impact has been to have some personal coaching. The power of a good coach and also being a willing coachee has been evident to those of us around him as Trevor has increased his speed all round in distances over the latter half of the year and went and ran his first marathon in prep for today, not to mention that following a training plan has made him lighter and stronger physically. I asked him what the main difference has been in doing this and he said it was the focus and accountability that the coaching had given him: you had to go out and do things in a structured plan, when otherwise you would not bother and if you are paying for something you are less like to waste it!

This out leg seemed to drag on interminably but eventually after a steady descent we were at the turn in a farm yard, where some, crisps, a creme egg and more Jaffa cakes was consumed before the last 10k of the 50.

In a bizarre twist, the return leg seemed to pass far quicker than the out. We picked-up another runner, Darren from Lansing along the way and the 3 of us chatted like fish-wives all the way to the finish (for them) and the last leg for me!

Making through the aid station marking the end of the leg for me (and the race for Trevor and Darren), I grabbed another creme egg, Jaffa cakes and half a banana and off I went again on to the old railway bed for the 20k of out and back along it.

I had eaten whilst in the aid station and had a chat with the Marshalls for about 5 minutes, rather than on the move, which meant my body had had a chance to cool-down whilst doing so before getting started again. Whilst feeling relatively fresh on a physical performance perspective, I just could not get going as I was aware that my right ankle was giving me a lot of gip to the point of preventing me to run properly or with any rhythm.

When I snagged my right foot on the root earlier in the race I suspect I had jarred my ankle and strained the ligaments as the pain was not a skeletal ache or anything internal, it was tied-up with the flexing of the ankle itself. This reduced me to essentially a speed hobble for the next 20k!

Come the turn I could not wait to get to the finish. This leg was absolute tedium, absolutely soul destroying as there was literally nothing to see besides dodging other trail users as you were in a railway cutting the entire time. All there seemed to be were the two banks either side, the trees growing on them and the occasional bridge to travel under… It was a chore trying to remain awake and not doze-off from the boredom!.. Thank heavens for podcasts is all I can say; something to distract the mind on this soul destroying section and give a focus on this last leg.

After what seemed like forever and a day I crossed the finish line - not being aware of the exact time as my Garmin had died on the final leg (stupidly I’d forgotten to charge it the night before), so I went over the mat in the frustrating time of 9:00:34… Needless to say if I had been aware I would no-doubt have been able to find 35 seconds over the previous 10k back section to cross the line squeaking UNDER the 9 hour marker!

Fading light!

When the results were published it was interesting to see how things shook-out… Whilst Moose finished an awesome 3rd in the 50k and Pini finished in an amazing 9th in the 45 miler, I finished in  55th place… But this is where the stats get interesting.

I placed 55th out of 59 in the race, however this doesn’t quite paint a full picture: 98 people started the 45 mile race. Of those 98 however, only 59 of us made the cut-off for the final leg, with all of those 39 other runners being credited instead as finishers in the 50k race! This meant in reality I finished 55 out of 98: such a lofty position is unheard of for me!

Back print on the Tee.

Having crossed the line with Darren at the end of the 50k race, it meant that I was fast enough to place at 61/164 in the 50k race, which again for me is immense: top 38% in a race! It also means that I managed a bizarre feat that when you just look at numbers without a context, I managed to place very well in one race and incredibly badly in another! Although at least I can say that there was the caveat of those in the 45 mile race had to be able to hit a tight cut-off to finish it… Incidentally the last person to finish the 45 miler would have placed 91st in the 50k, so not far below the 50th percentile, so I can at least kid myself that what I did was a little ‘elitest’ when compared to those on the ‘fun run’!

Medal on the hanger!

If anyone was to consider doing this race I would say it is a great run-out at this time of year. The event is well organised, marshalled, the course offers a challenge without being stupidly fiendish and the aid stations are well stocked. However this really applies to the 50k course rather than the 45 mile course: the extra leg for that is just mind numbingly tedious. Both Pini and I were questioning ourselves as we ran that last leg exactly why we had done so and what was the point, as all it equated to were ‘junk miles’: miles for miles’ sake, lacking in quality, substance or challenge. Moose had run the same organiser’s Meon Valley Marathon which included that southerly section and he had the same opinion of that leg in that race, which put him off from doing the 45 miler in favour of the 50k… So if I do ever return it will be for the ‘fun run’ rather than the ‘full monty. Very nice medal and shirt though!

Eat pies
Drink beer
Run far.

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.