"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."
—Marcel Proust, The Captive
"The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
—Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
"The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
One of the consequences of updating a blog after more than a year's absence is that there are inevitably a mass of diffuse draft scribblings scattered around which never ended up being finished, and these fragments end up being incorporated into a greater whole via a network of tangents and asides. Thus, this is a long post. A very long post. Part of the reason for this is that I genuinely think these fragments are relevant, but mainly because I want to put the what, how and why of this race into a wider context as a way of helping me understand why this race turned out how it did. So it's primarily for my own benefit, and if someone else finds it interesting or useful then that's a bonus, and if someone finds it tedious and overwrought then that's fine too. Like I said, it is really long!
My first dealings with the 3x3000 course came back in August 2014 when a friend and I recced most of the route, only choosing to omit the final Skiddaw loop (a nice race day surprise we imagined), and dropping directly from Sty Head to Esk Hause rather than tackling the familiar climb to Scafell Pike along the Corridor Route. I say familiar, what I mean is we knew where it was, we'd just dropped off the correct line almost immediately on our previous outing in August 2013 and had to spend ages trying to get back on it before we ended up in Piers Gill or on the slopes of Lingmell a la Ricky Lightfoot during last year's Scafell Pike Trail Marathon. This would not be the last mention of Monsieur Lightfoot's name that day, who, as 3x3000 course designer, got all the blame for any section we perceived to be horrible, usually in mumbled sentences like "f**king Lightfoot and his stupid Wythburn valley. More like Ricky Trenchfoot after this lark", or "f**king Clough Head, who comes down this way? F**king Ricky Lightfoot, that's who?"
Fast forward a few weeks and, due to a combination of diabolical weather and ridiculous mental weakness, I'd be running almost exactly the same route again rather than the full 80km distance. Only this time, instead of coming off Clough Head and enjoying some nice easy running along the old railway line, I'd be trudging along in a sulk having already decided somewhere around Great Dodd that I'd had enough. I'd fallen in a Borrowdale river that wasn't supposed to be there, sunk chest deep in one of Wythburn's finest bogs, took numerous spectacular tumbles, and was generally not enjoying it anymore. Wizened trail hounds like Timothy Olsen or Scott Jurek would say "stay present", focus on the moment. Well I did that and the present was cold and grey and boring. What was not cold and grey and boring was pizza. So I withdrew at Threlkeld quarry, got a lift back to Keswick with a marshal, got changed, and went to the pizzeria only to find it was fully booked. DNFed for a pizza I didn't even get. What an idiot.
Over the next few weeks I half-heartedly tried to convince myself that it was the right thing to do, that if I wasn't enjoying it then I had no reason to carry on. That's nonsense, of course. I didn't enjoy it (and ultimately didn't finish) because I made bad decisions, which can be fixed, and because I thought pizza was more important than finishing, which it clearly isn't. But the race was over, and I now had Transvulcania 2015 to think about and some serious training to do. Only I DNFed that race around 50km too, albeit in what I like to call a "no choice DNF" fashion, AKA getting timed out because you can't run fast enough because you still have a stress fracture and haven't run a step in 2 months and trained for the race entirely on a bike (pretty successfully I think, but having the endurance and the climbing ability doesn't help when you can barely run on the flat and can't run downhill at all).
Post-Transvulcania I didn't run again for another couple of weeks, and when I did it was in tentative 25 minute sessions, constantly monitoring my fibula for any twinges or loud snapping noises. My priority was simply to get back to running in a healthy state, but those two DNFs were bugging me, especially the 3x3000. That was a stupid DNF, a lazy one. Regret is probably too strong a word, but the desire to revisit that race and fix everything I messed up the first time was definitely nagging at me, and I'd been wearing my 2014 race shirt as a reminder of what should have been. Only my running fitness was now shocking, unable to stay out of zone 3 during a 30 minute run, and the decline in proprioception and lower limb strength meant my running skill had degenerated to newborn animal levels, hooves everywhere.
Being an injured runner can be a thoroughly negative experience, and if dubious statistics are to be believed then as a runner you're destined to live your life being haunted by the spectre of physical breakdown. Running is constantly framed in terms of suffering, breakdown, exhaustion. If someone finds out you're a runner it's not unusual for them to assume that you're permanently enduring some debilitating knee condition. The idea of running as bodily destruction is so pervasive that you can have runners doing 20 miles a week convinced that they're overtraining. Discussion groups are littered with posts about rehab and physiotherapy. Running "wisdom" tells us that if you wear the wrong type of shoes you'll be in a wheelchair by 40. Drink plenty of water or you'll dehydrate and get cramp. Don't drink too much water or you'll die.
It's not uncommon for injured runners to avoid coming into contact with anything to do with running, removing themselves from social media and actual real-life social circles in order to avoid being confronted by that which they cannot do, that which they no longer consider themselves.
It's not uncommon for injured runners to avoid coming into contact with anything to do with running, removing themselves from social media and actual real-life social circles in order to avoid being confronted by that which they cannot do, that which they no longer consider themselves.
The overstatement of the physical destruction caused by running (or running the "wrong" way some might argue) is poisonous. It leaches right into how runners see themselves and how others see runners, as fragile whiners always treading the fine line between a grimace and a sulk. Injury doesn't have to be a negative phenomenon though. Injury, like a DNF, can be a learning experience that leads to being a better athlete in the long term. Just to be clear, injury does happen, and being injured is probably not something to aim for, but living in constant fear of injury is likely worse than actually being injured.
For me, dealing with not being able to run meant tackling a number of key questions:
- What went wrong?
- Why did it happen?
- Can it be fixed? If so, how?
- What training can be done in the meantime?
- What changes do I need make to prevent it happening again?
Now, I think those are all useful things to know. If you can answer those questions in a productive manner then I think you'll be well on the way to recovery before the swelling even subsides. What's unlikely to help are vague guesses, self-pity and avoiding the subject.
In my case what happened was I suffered a proximal stress fracture of the left fibula, most likely caused by a high volume of downhill running on hard surfaces. Fixing it basically involved not doing anything that stressed the lower leg and the tissues that attach to it. So basically anything that involved moving around on foot was out of the window. Eight weeks out from Transvulcania I couldn't even walk 500m without some pretty nasty pain, meaning that even though I was driving to work the walk from the car park to my office was enough to undo any healing that might have taken place prior to that. So I made the decision to get a bike, partly so I could get to work and partly in order to continue training in some form. I didn't know at that point whether it would work, but my hunch was it would probably work a lot better than not training at all for 8 weeks.
I've already mentioned that the end result was I DNFed the race because I couldn't move quickly enough on the downhills and flats, but what's important here is that I discovered I felt very strong on the climbs. I hadn't run any hills at all for over 2 months, and yet climbing was easier and quicker than it had ever been. What I had been doing was long training rides which deliberately took in as many hills as possible, meaning by the time it came to race day I'd put in 70 hours on the bike, with just under 1,500km and 11,500m of climbing in the preceding 8 weeks. Whilst that doesn't sound like a massive amount of ascent it should be looked at in the context of me living in Leicester, not Cumbria, that climbing on a bike is harder than on foot, and the not inconsequential fact that I hadn't ridden at all for years before injury forced my hand. So I think it's a pretty decent amount of volume in all 3 areas, and it appeared to have had a positive impact on my race performance.
With less than 8 weeks to go, and with a longest run of only an hour under my belt, I entered the 2015 edition of the 3x3000. This might seem foolhardy to some, but I was confident I could get the necessary training in, and confident I would finish this time. Much is said about the mental side of ultra running, and confidence and trust in your training set the foundations on which to build. I think a lot of runners lose faith in their own ability as a race draws near, misled by a single "poor" workout rather than looking at the overall performance trend. In my case, although my running at that time was limited, the overall performance trend - my fitness to compete in the mountains - was definitely improving, and I had the utmost confidence in my training. As I mentioned, cycling had a a very positive effect on my performance, so it became another valuable tool in my training toolbox.
I've already mentioned that the end result was I DNFed the race because I couldn't move quickly enough on the downhills and flats, but what's important here is that I discovered I felt very strong on the climbs. I hadn't run any hills at all for over 2 months, and yet climbing was easier and quicker than it had ever been. What I had been doing was long training rides which deliberately took in as many hills as possible, meaning by the time it came to race day I'd put in 70 hours on the bike, with just under 1,500km and 11,500m of climbing in the preceding 8 weeks. Whilst that doesn't sound like a massive amount of ascent it should be looked at in the context of me living in Leicester, not Cumbria, that climbing on a bike is harder than on foot, and the not inconsequential fact that I hadn't ridden at all for years before injury forced my hand. So I think it's a pretty decent amount of volume in all 3 areas, and it appeared to have had a positive impact on my race performance.
With less than 8 weeks to go, and with a longest run of only an hour under my belt, I entered the 2015 edition of the 3x3000. This might seem foolhardy to some, but I was confident I could get the necessary training in, and confident I would finish this time. Much is said about the mental side of ultra running, and confidence and trust in your training set the foundations on which to build. I think a lot of runners lose faith in their own ability as a race draws near, misled by a single "poor" workout rather than looking at the overall performance trend. In my case, although my running at that time was limited, the overall performance trend - my fitness to compete in the mountains - was definitely improving, and I had the utmost confidence in my training. As I mentioned, cycling had a a very positive effect on my performance, so it became another valuable tool in my training toolbox.
Soon enough race day arrives and I'm up at 3.45am to give myself time to properly wake up, get some food in, and most importantly drink some coffee to avoid having to visit Mr Bush mid-race. Part of my strategy for the day was to stay calm and not let my head get the better of me, so I wanted to make sure I arrived at the start feeling relaxed rather than nervous. Thus I made sure I took my time and tried to keep everything as close to my normal morning routine as possible. I'd slept well for the past few days and managed to get in a nap after registering the day before, and I'd only run once this week. In other words, I'm well rested and ready to go.
This year I'd travelled up to Keswick by myself, aware that having someone else around would be another incentive to pull the plug if things got rough. My thoughts on this were pretty clear though: things were not going to get rough, because I've prepared well, but if for some reason they did get rough then grinding my way up the back of Skiddaw in a huff was still preferable to lying restless in my B&B thinking about how I should be grinding my way up the back of Skiddaw in a huff.
An hour later I headed out of the door for the 3 minute walk to the start, chatting to a fellow competitor on the way. This time last year we were all huddled under the roof of the Theatre by the Lake as rain continued to hurl down as it had done for the preceding 24 hours. This year the start had been moved to the iconic Moot Hall, start and finish of the Bob Graham Round, and smack bang in the middle of the market square. Although only a minor change, there's something quite special about starting from somewhere that's such a big part of fell running history, as well as giving the race that classic European mountain race feel.
Shortly before 5am we are ushered behind the start gantry, given a brief countdown, and we're off. A couple of kilometres of road through the town and alongside Derwent Water, past last year's start, and we we're on undulating and fast forest singletrack heading towards Watendlath. Most of this part of the course was either flowing with water, or completely submerged last year, so much so that I don't even remember some of the later sections this time around. Eventually we get to Watendlath, the tarn maintaining a safe distance from the path this year, and begin the climb through the ferns towards Rosthwaite. The field is quite small this year, with around 80 runners starting, so things spread out pretty quickly. I'm happy with that as it allows me to do my own thing without getting pulled into pointless battles only a short way into the race. My only real target is a sub-16 hour finish as that would give me a qualifying time should I decide on entering the Lakeland 100 for 2017.
I descend into Rosthwaite feeling in control and enjoying the pace. From here it's flat running to Seathwaite where the first aid station is. Not long out of Seatoller and I see a load of headlamps heading back towards me from the farmyard. It was then I remembered that I'd made exactly the same error last year, expecting to see a marker indicating where to turn off and carrying on when none appeared. So we backtracked a couple of hundred metres to where the path continued, and carried on towards Seathwaite. By now my headlamp was a little dim - I'd decided against putting brand new batteries in as I knew this first section would only be dark for about 90 minutes - but luckily there was plenty of light from the runners we picked up at the farm.
Eventually we get into Seathwaite where I refill my 2 bottles with Tailwind and have a cup of Coke. This was to be my fuelling strategy for the entire day. It was a calculated risk as I'd never run anywhere near 50 miles on liquid calories alone, but I was willing to give it a shot in the knowledge that I had some solid food in my pack should the need arise. In the end the only food I consumed all day was a few Pringles in order to tick off the "eat" entry in my half-way drop bag checklist, and never once did I feel a drop in energy. That's certainly an encouraging sign, as I struggle with appetite during the later stages of a race which then leads to fatigue and the start of negative thinking.
This next section of the race was something I was really looking forward to. After heading out of Seathwaite on a wide and flat rocky track I get to Stockley Bridge where the climb up to Sty Head starts. I'm immediately struck by how much easier it feels compared to last year. I'm using poles again so I'm able to make good use of the upper body strength I'd worked hard on all year, but my legs feel strong too. After the initial stiff climb I settle into a rhythm of jogging the downs and flats and hiking the ups (hard), and this continues all the way to the stretcher box at Sty Head where there's a marshal recording everyone's arrival times. I get here in 2h 40m, a full 25 minutes faster than last year and feeling great.I descend into Rosthwaite feeling in control and enjoying the pace. From here it's flat running to Seathwaite where the first aid station is. Not long out of Seatoller and I see a load of headlamps heading back towards me from the farmyard. It was then I remembered that I'd made exactly the same error last year, expecting to see a marker indicating where to turn off and carrying on when none appeared. So we backtracked a couple of hundred metres to where the path continued, and carried on towards Seathwaite. By now my headlamp was a little dim - I'd decided against putting brand new batteries in as I knew this first section would only be dark for about 90 minutes - but luckily there was plenty of light from the runners we picked up at the farm.
Eventually we get into Seathwaite where I refill my 2 bottles with Tailwind and have a cup of Coke. This was to be my fuelling strategy for the entire day. It was a calculated risk as I'd never run anywhere near 50 miles on liquid calories alone, but I was willing to give it a shot in the knowledge that I had some solid food in my pack should the need arise. In the end the only food I consumed all day was a few Pringles in order to tick off the "eat" entry in my half-way drop bag checklist, and never once did I feel a drop in energy. That's certainly an encouraging sign, as I struggle with appetite during the later stages of a race which then leads to fatigue and the start of negative thinking.
From Sty Head the marshal directs me toward a series of markers across some boggy ground to pick up the Corridor Route. As I mentioned earlier, the first time I ran this section, back in August 2013, we dropped off the route almost immediately and then struggled to regain it until Piers Gill. By picking up the path later on this time we'd avoided the ambiguous first section, and so from there on the way forward was clear: perfect undulating rocky singletrack snaking its way towards Lingmell Col.
Along this section I'm leapfrogging backwards and forwards with another runner as I pull ahead on the climbs and she catches up again on the descents. I'm really enjoying this part of the course and the sight of Lingmell Col up ahead has me wishing this section was longer. From the col it's a rocky climb across boulders to the summit cairn where a marshal congratulates me on my efforts so far, and the bushiness of my beard. I send a quick text to Caren to let her know I've arrived and then I'm back on the move.
From the summit of Scafell Pike the route descends past Broad Crag, skirting the summit, and down towards Esk Hause, my absolute favourite place in the Lakes. It's not an easy descent as it's basically a boulder field until past Broad Crag, but after that I'm running again and still moving well. I get to Esk Hause, dib in, and then it's onto the great stepped downhill to Angle Tarn. The rock is nice and dry this year so I'm able to relax a bit more than last year when I was constantly on the edge of stacking it and cracking my skull on the hundreds of pointy rocks waiting to ambush me.
The route from Angle Tarn to Stake Pass is undulating and weaves in, out and through peat hags and bog. Compared to last year it's pretty dry, not dry enough to prevent a few knee deep plunges, but dry enough that it's pretty runnable. Once at Stake Pass I can see a fair few runners up ahead beginning the climb up to High Raise. I pause at the start of the climb to refill my bottles with water, knowing that this is the last opportunity before the Wythburn checkpoint. It's a deceptively tough climb, steep, grassy and in places muddy, but I'm relishing the prospect of making up some time here. I can see a few runners I'd talked to earlier up ahead, but they're way ahead at this point. I'm feeling strong though so I start really powering uphill making full use of my poles and enjoying the chance to put in some harder effort. I eventually catch up with them around 3/4 of the way up and then back off in order to have a chat and recover a little. It's a good move I think; my confidence levels are already high and performing well in front of my fellow competitors only raises my confidence further.
Along this section I'm leapfrogging backwards and forwards with another runner as I pull ahead on the climbs and she catches up again on the descents. I'm really enjoying this part of the course and the sight of Lingmell Col up ahead has me wishing this section was longer. From the col it's a rocky climb across boulders to the summit cairn where a marshal congratulates me on my efforts so far, and the bushiness of my beard. I send a quick text to Caren to let her know I've arrived and then I'm back on the move.
From the summit of Scafell Pike the route descends past Broad Crag, skirting the summit, and down towards Esk Hause, my absolute favourite place in the Lakes. It's not an easy descent as it's basically a boulder field until past Broad Crag, but after that I'm running again and still moving well. I get to Esk Hause, dib in, and then it's onto the great stepped downhill to Angle Tarn. The rock is nice and dry this year so I'm able to relax a bit more than last year when I was constantly on the edge of stacking it and cracking my skull on the hundreds of pointy rocks waiting to ambush me.
The route from Angle Tarn to Stake Pass is undulating and weaves in, out and through peat hags and bog. Compared to last year it's pretty dry, not dry enough to prevent a few knee deep plunges, but dry enough that it's pretty runnable. Once at Stake Pass I can see a fair few runners up ahead beginning the climb up to High Raise. I pause at the start of the climb to refill my bottles with water, knowing that this is the last opportunity before the Wythburn checkpoint. It's a deceptively tough climb, steep, grassy and in places muddy, but I'm relishing the prospect of making up some time here. I can see a few runners I'd talked to earlier up ahead, but they're way ahead at this point. I'm feeling strong though so I start really powering uphill making full use of my poles and enjoying the chance to put in some harder effort. I eventually catch up with them around 3/4 of the way up and then back off in order to have a chat and recover a little. It's a good move I think; my confidence levels are already high and performing well in front of my fellow competitors only raises my confidence further.
I hated the next section of the course when I raced it last year, and I hated it when we recced it. There's pretty much no path once you enter the valley, it's soaking wet, boggy, marshy, slippery, and it seems to take forever. This year I was very clear about my approach to this section: it's not that far, and it doesn't take that long - it just feels like it takes a long time because it's hard to get into any sort of rhythm. I also made a better footwear choice this year, choosing to run in Scott Kinabalu Supertracs, which performed superbly all day on all surfaces. I was on my own through here, but way off in the distance I spotted another runner, off route but moving in the right direction, and said to myself "I'm having you, mate!" I made good progress, with no falls and no bog submersions, and eventually I caught up with him just before Steel End. He was pretty dejected, having clearly not been prepared for extent of the preceding swamp and mentions that he might withdraw when he gets to Wythburn. I tell him that the worst bit is over, and there's lots to look forward to, but he's still pretty negative and already walking. I look at my watch and see that I'm a few minutes behind where I was at this point last year, so I move on determined to get to the checkpoint before 12 (I later realise I'm actually way ahead of last year, because last year the Scafell Pike section was avoided because it was impossible to get to).
I get to Wythburn about 20 minutes faster than last year, dib in, and grab my drop bag while one of the crew makes me a hot drink ("Coffee and coke, together? Are you sure?"). Again, this is another area where I learned from my previous DNF, where I thought a drop bag in a 50 miler wasn't necessary. Maybe it isn't necessary, but it might have changed the outcome. This time I had a checklist to make sure I did everything I needed to do before moving on: socks, base layer, drink, eat fill bottles, mp3 player, food for next section, GET OUT. I hesitate on the sock front, concerned that I'll end up wasting 10 minutes flailing around on the floor trying to get a fresh pair of Injinjis on damp feet while my legs suddenly decide to cramp. So I skip the socks, but a dry base layer is a welcome change. I also take the opportunity to ditch the soft shell I'd been wearing for the first half and switch to a windproof gilet and arm warmers. I drink about half a bottle of Coke, half a bottle of ginger beer, and the coffee/coke mix (I hate getting a hot drink at an aid station and then having to wait around while it cools down enough to drink, and the coke cools it down whilst actually tasting pretty good). I look at my list again: "eat, fill bottles" it says, so I grab a token handful of Pringles and then fill my bottles with Tailwind again. I still have food in my pack, so no need to grab any more. I pick up my poles, put on my headphones and get moving: I've got some climbing to do.
It was during the climb up to the summit of Helvellyn that my favourite moment of the race (maybe any race) occurred. I'm hiking hard uphill, jogging the flatter sections, and I'm gaining on people who left the previous checkpoint well before me and pulling away from people who left at the same time. I'm listening to the Blood Bros "First Blood", an impeccable mixtape of music from 80s and 90s action movies, when on comes "Montage" from "Team America" and suddenly I'm struggling to contain my laughter at the ridiculousness of running up a mountain whilst listening to a parody training song that's actually an awesome training song.
Three weeks earlier I'd decided that as part of my race preparation, my "big" training week, I was going to try and climb 10,000 feet in a week, in Leicester, up and down the same hill. The 10,000 feet figure came from a thread on the FRA forum about how much climbing you need to do per week to successfully complete the Bob Graham Round. Doing it up and down the same hill was entirely my idea. I'd first done something similar as part of my build up to my first Transvulcania outing. It's March 2014, and I'm roughly 2 months out from my first "big" race; my longest race to date, with the most climbing, and the most other runners. 73km, 4500m, 2400 runners, or thereabouts. If you live in one of the flattest parts of the UK then that middle figure might be something of a concern. Accumulating height gain can be somewhat difficult when the highest point in the county is a mere 278m above sea level and the "biggest" climbs gain less than 100m over their 1km distance. Certainly you can't do those big relentless climbs that take hours of hunched-over drudgery, or those seemingly never-ending descents that hammer your quads into submission and test the limits of your concentration. Again, that might be seen as a bit of a problem when you've signed up for a race involving big relentless climbs that take hours of hunched-over drudgery, and seemingly never-ending descents that hammer your quads into submission and test the limits of your concentration.
Conventional running wisdom holds that in order to get better and running up and down hills you need to practice running up and down hills, and by doing so you will increase the strength and skills required for success in this particular discipline. This makes perfect sense, as in all sports there is a requirement for deliberate practice in order to elicit improvement or prevent decline. With this in mind, what better way to spend the last few long runs of a training cycle than doing hill repeats for several hours?
The first such outing came about more through laziness and route fatigue than any particular training goal. I had 30km to run that weekend, but couldn't decide on a route - I'd been training in the same place for months and despite the extensive network of paths I was getting bored of it. I therefore decided to remove the question of route choice almost entirely and strip that weekend's long run down to the absolute bare essentials. I like running up hills, and I like running down them, so the plan would be to simply run to the top of the first hill as usual, run down the other side and up the adjacent, smaller hill, turn around and run back up the first hill. Repeat until 28.5km was in the bag, then run the final 1.5km back to the car.
My approach this time around would be simpler still. I would do nothing else for a week except run up and down Old John (a climb of approximately 115 feet over 300m) until I reached 10,000 feet. 90 minutes of hill repeats on Tuesday, 2 hours on Wednesday, an hour on Thursday, and then 5 hours on Saturday, starting at 5am. I'd hike the uphills and run the downhills, and I wouldn't rest between reps. The purpose of this week was threefold: firstly to train my uphill hiking, secondly to train my downhill skills, and thirdly to learn to deal with having to climb hills when you don't want to anymore. At the end of the week I accumulated just over 10,400 feet, and still didn't hate hills. And now here I was, on my fourth big climb of the day, thoroughly enjoying both the process of climbing and my own ability to do it.
Around 2/3 of the way up the gradient eases and I manage to catch up with the runners who I'd earlier spotted way above me. I again take the opportunity to have a chat for a while, before deciding that this is definitely runnable and heading off. I hear some muttering behind me and the rest of the group follows before we reform at the foot of the final push to the summit. I'm 44km in and I reach the top a full 17 minutes quicker than last year and still feeling great, both physically and mentally.
I stop briefly to dib in and attempt to send Caren a text but for some reason there's no signal. The group has dispersed again so I'm back to running on my own. I crank up the Blood Bros once more and head off down the ridge. This is another great part of the course, with lots of ups and down and some faster flatter sections. Again it's bone dry this year and I'm moving confidently. I get passed by a couple who hurtle past me downhill and I wonder where on earth they came from and why they're moving so quickly at this stage of the race, before seeing them head off away from the race route and into the distance.
I finally manage to get a text through: 45km done - feeling great. At some point along the ridge I meet up with a guy called Andy and we have a good chat about different races and people we'd seen along the way. Eventually we get to Clough Head where we dib in and then head off towards the infamous descent, essentially a steep grassy cliff with a few muddy foot holes worn into it over time by people tackling the Bob Graham. I remembered Andy Cole mentioning in his report on last year's race that he gave up trying to walk down here and just sat down and slid. So I slide my way down the fine line between enough momentum and too much momentum and before long the slope has relented enough to be walkable. Andy's way ahead by now, so I settle into an easy pace and make my way across the final stretch before hitting the old railway line. From there it's good flat and fast running until Threlkeld where there's another aid station. I also catch up with Andy here, and after some more Coke and a bottle refill we head off along the old railway line toward Latrigg.
Along the way we pass a guy called Marcus who's been having a thoroughly bad day and looks miserable (I later find out he raced a 50k on the Isle of Man the day before). Andy and I talk about how we're both finding the flat sections to be the hardest because they tend dictate your pace - hit a flat section and you feel like you have to run it. It's a nice section of the course, flat and straight, surrounded by trees with lots of bridges. By the time we get to Brundholme I'm ready for some uphill again though, and we make short work of the last kilometre or so to the car park at the foot of Latrigg.
We dib in and grab something to drink: more Coke and a water/Coke/orange squash mix for one of my bottles. Marcus arrives soon after and sits down in The Chair. "That's him finished then" I say to Andy as we pick up our poles and head off on the 17km loop round the back of Skiddaw to Dash Falls, up the back end of Skiddaw to the summit, and down the tourist route all the way back to Latrigg. It's a nice runnable track with great views of Blencathra and the surrounding fells, and the sun is low so the light is fantastic. By now neither of us are running, instead just taking the opportunity to enjoy what's left of the day. My feet are sore from being wet all day and gravel grinding away at them, so I stop to take my shoes off and clean them out, not that it does much.
We pass the youth hostel at Skiddaw House and I look at my watch to see what distance we've covered so far. The numbers don't add up and I mention to Andy that I reckon this race is longer than 80km, maybe 83 (my Strava says it was 81.7km, so 51 miles). However long it is I'm looking forward to being done. My stomach is starting to feel a bit off, but I put it down to fatigue rather than nutrition as I'm still feeling good in other respects. It's not long before we hit Dash Falls when Andy says we're being stalked. I turn round and coming over the brow of the hill is Marcus, back from the dead. Eventually he catches up along with a couple of other guys we'd been running with at various points in the day. He still looks terrible and still feels terrible but he's battling on. We walk together for a while and then the three of them move on ahead. Andy and I are playing the slow and steady game by now, and sure enough by the time we get to Dash Falls we've caught them up again.
By now the sun is really low and we've probably got less than an hour of light left. The climb up the northern flanks of Skiddaw is really steep, grassy and muddy, so it's not easy going. Everyone's taking this last climb at their own pace and right from the get go Andy's off and away into the distance. I'm still climbing well but all I want is to finish inside 16 hours so I'm definitely not redlining it. About three quarters of the way up and the temperature has dropped significantly. My hands are getting numb, and knowing that I still have the long descent back to Keswick ahead of me I stop briefly to pull out my gloves and buff, at which point a guy called Paul catches up and we have a good chat about the Lakeland 100.
Andy and I both mentioned how we'd like to get to the top of Skiddaw while it was still light, and sure enough I arrive with just enough time to change the batteries in my headlamp before the last few rays of light disappear. Paul carries on alone as he's already getting hypothermic just from standing around for a few minutes, and with this in mind I put on my jacket for the descent.
The last time I was up here was March 2014, when my friend Dan and I decided to come and do reps up and down the tourist route as part of our Transvulcania training, so I knew the way down pretty well (OK, it's not exactly hard!) What this meant was that even though it was now dark and my field of vision was limited to the area illuminated by my headlamp I knew exactly where I was on the descent. Mentally that served to perk me up again, and within a few hundred metres I went from being ready to finish to being ready to go; such is the strange nature of ultra distance events.
As I hit the start of the flat section under Lower Man I can see a headlamp way off in the distance, so I decide to see if I can catch whoever it is. It's not easy to run down Skiddaw in the dark as the rocks reflect back all your light and appear bright white, removing a lot of your depth perception, but I could hike really hard. So I start powering myself down the slope with my poles and slowly feel myself reeling that light in. I catch up around the southern end of Lower Man, and it's Marcus again, fighting off nausea and trashed legs. I hand him a couple of of ginger chews and walk with him for a while to make sure he's OK to get off the mountain. We hit the switchbacks of Jenkin Hill and I make the decision to go ahead as I can see the light of the checkpoint off in the distance, and I break into a jog.
I finally get back down to Latrigg, turn down a cup of Coke but fill up a bottle with water even though I still have plenty of Coke/water/orange squash concoction left, then change my mind and down the Coke. I ask the guy manning the checkpoint how far to the finish. He says "about 5k" and points me in the right direction. I look at my watch and it says I have 30 minutes to get there if I'm to get under my 16 hours target. Hmm...it looks a lot further than 5k, and I've just done nearly 50 miles. I run hard all the way back to Keswick, in the dark down a stony track and finally onto the roads on the outskirts of the town, my feet killing me but my legs not even flinching. I run past the leisure centre and know that it's not far now, maybe a kilometre. My fastest kilometre of the race is the last kilometre, which takes me about 4 and a half minutes. It's also nowhere near 5k, more like 3. I could have walked that and still made 16 hours, but I'm pleased I was able to finish strong and run it in rather than grind out a death march. That's the dream scenario: start easy, finish hard.
Distance: 81.7km. Finishing time: 15:49:58.
As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, the main reason I wanted to write it, and also why it's so long, is I wanted to make sense of how things went in order to inform how I approach future races. What I think makes this race stand out for me is how well everything turned out. My kit choices were perfect for the conditions, in particular my footwear which left me with no blisters, no bruised feet, no missing toenails. Any soreness in my feet was down to them being damp all day and the presence of gravel in my shoes (I do wonder whether a change of socks at Wythburn, and maybe the use of gaiters, might have helped in this respect). My training was enjoyable, manageable, and if the outcome of the race (particularly those final few kilometres down from Latrigg) is the final test, then it was also effective. I also recovered very quickly with little to no residual soreness and fatigue lasting only 2-3 days. Perhaps most importantly, my mental strategy and general race day attitude meant that the race was a pleasure to run rather than a battle to complete.
