Kinder Downfall fell race ~10mi. 22/04/2012.

That’s more like it, eventually. After an inauspicious outing at the Woodbank Parkrun on Saturday, where my red-lining 24:13 was over a minute slower than when I last ran it in January, I ran the third fell race (also my third) in the Hayfield Championship series on Sunday and pleasantly surprised myself.

The scout hut at Hayfield was heaving with a capacity turn-out. I got my number then cast glances at the race instructions that were pinned up around the walls. I was suddenly struck by a sick lump (as opposed to a lump of sick) to the back of my throat. There was a compulsory kit list:

Full windproof body cover (waterproof advised) – tick;
Hat – tick;
Gloves – tick;
Map – oh cr*p;
Compass – cr*p again;
Whistle – sick lump to throat.

I didn’t have a map, whistle or compass, which I knew I didn’t need since this is only a short outing for three hundred runners playing follow-the-leader along marshalled, well-used footpaths, trails and trods. However I did have food, drink and a survival bag, which I deemed more important in case of a bonk (low blood sugar level renders anyone useless and mishap-prone), or physical incapacity, but these were not on the list.

As the sick realisation dawned on me that I was going to be denied a start for no valid reason in my opinion, BarnyC appeared. I explained my predicament. With barely more than half an hour to go to the 11:30 start and without batting an eyelid, he offered to drive back to his home (not too far thankfully) to get a spare map and compass so I could pass muster. (He also fetched himself a pair of gloves in the process but I won't tell anyone.) He made it back with five minutes to spare. Barny, I owe you big time. I hope I can return the favour some day soon. I still might not have had a whistle but if push came to shove and by hook or by crook I’d get a tone out of my bum-bag buckle to alert the streams of runners passing by so they didn’t step on me by mistake.

[I may have 16 years’ experience of equipping myself appropriately per event from 1 mile to 111 miles, sometimes over exposed and hostile terrain in vile conditions with never a dodgy moment or mishap, and this may be a short outing compared to what I’m used to but this was a ‘medium’ race by FRA standards, which carries certain rigid kit requirements. I’d scanned all the available race information and saw no kit requirements. I’d neglected to recognise the fact that FRA rules would be assumed. I haven’t yet fully acquainted myself with this fact, since “fell races” as opposed to races on the fells are still relatively new to me. They may be inflexible but ‘rules is rules’ and if I’m going to be doing more of these “fell races” I really must 'wise up' and pack a permanent bag with all the essential kit rather than select the kit as I think appropriate for each race based on distance, terrain, route knowledge and weather forecast. This will avoid any future nasty surprises at registration (as opposed to out on the fells). I’m not used to this fell-racing lark. ;-)]

After our race briefing and with Barny’s map and compass safely stowed in my bum-bag to guide the way, the sizeable crowd was sent on its way up the lane and track towards the white shooting hut (which I recall was my last checkpoint on Kinder Trial in January) then down towards William Clough. The latest shower had died away but Kinder Scout remained hidden in cloud. We ran in single file. The path was one pair of feet wide; there was no overtaking. I was thankful for being held back a tiny smidgen because it prevented me from overdoing the early speed, which I do all too readily as I push myself as fast as I think I should be going relative to those around me. At the fork in the path the marshal said: “Take any line down to the bridge”. I seized the opportunity to overshoot the right fork and the line of runners on it and a few yards further on angle down and diagonally across the soft springy heather. The mud-free, vegetated descent offered much more assured grip than did the muddy, stony path with water flowing down it.

A marshal and (I think) a photographer were at the footbridge to prevent us from crossing and direct us up William Clough. Then it was a jog, shuffle or climb in line. A few trips and stumbles occurred. I muddied my drink bottle nozzles. I gave them a rinse as I crossed one of the many streamlets but subsequent swigs always seemed to be gritty. Not to worry. All I needed to add was a bit of determination and I’d be sure to do well.

As we climbed in line I was again appreciating the ‘rest’. I was a fraction off pushing my limits, which I would have been doing with no-one in front. This recharged me because, as the path began to widen in brief sections I used carefully measured bursts of effort to sprint past one, two, possibly three others who seemed to be toiling rather. This was still on quite steep uphill gradients. What was happening? After yesterday’s effort I was expecting much worse than this. Earlier on I had been trying to hold on to Barny but he had slowly pulled away before the beginning of the climb up William Clough. However, now I appeared to be reeling him in again.

The climb levelled out and we passed the first right turn at the fingerpost to the next junction where the marshal was taking our numbers. I lifted up my windproof top to flash my number then turned right to descend a little before the final steep climb up to the plateau on the very rocky path. I overtook Barny on this climb. A brief word was exchanged (there was no spare breath for any more). We climbed into the cloud and turned right around the edge towards the Downfall (it seemed a long way), dancing, hopping, skipping and running over and between the rocks, boulders and boggy bits. I detected a subtle brightening of the fog and commented to anyone within earshot that the sun would be out soon. Not a murmur of a response. Perhaps they had less breath to spare than I had, and I’d been doing the overtaking!

We passed another marshal and flagged section on the open moonscape bit with large cairn as our path undulated around the edge of the plateau, then we hit the sandstone flagged path. I looked for the left fork that the instructions said we had to take, but it was flagged anyway. The map and compass in the small of my back were guiding me well.

I’d expected Barny to have re-overtaken me well before now but he hadn’t done. No doubt it would happen on the descent like happened at Lamb's Longer Leg in January. I could hear someone a little way behind but not too close. Perhaps this was him just before the imminent descent. I never looked back, all effort being channelled into forward motion and the safe placement of the next footstep.

A short sharp muddy descent brought us to Edale Cross and the next number check (windproof lifted once again). A right turn down the rocky track barely in control on tiring legs brought us to a stile up the bank on the right, well marshalled of course. I climbed and crossed as they offered encouraging words and I returned my thanks. As we continued down the grassy path that contoured down the hill, the sun was beginning to show. I was getting rather warm. I tried to roll up my windproof right sleeve and stubbed my toe on a rock, sending me stumbling forwards. I veered up the bank on the right to slow down and recover from a certain fall. Phew! Rejoining the path I was beginning to boil over and becoming dangerously clumsy. I finally managed to roll up both sleeves without further mishap but the additional cooling would soon prove inadequate.

Down and across to another stile, barely in control, I was just about holding my own. An even steeper open field, well trampled, muddy and slick, appeared that had to be crossed. My feet suddenly disappeared from under me and I slid for several yards on my left hip waiting for my speed to slow sufficiently before using my forward motion to raise myself back onto my feet to continue running. Another runner asked if I was alright. I couldn't have felt better. It was a nice soft landing and strangely exhilarating to be sliding at such speed, pain-free across this muddy lubrication.

Soon our descent began to level out onto tracks and lanes as we neared Hayfield, but still no sign of Barny. I was slowing down seriously and the death plod was setting in with heart rate maxed out on 182bpm. He was sure to pass soon. I had to do something about my overheating problem and managed to lift up the front of my windproof top and hook it behind my neck. Ah, that’s better. It didn’t help me to speed up but it prevented me from grinding to a halt. Then the inevitable happened – other runners began to trickle past now that we were onto the ‘easy’ run in to the finish. I fixed my stare far ahead to where I was headed, almost with tunnel vision, trying to not let a single thought deflect me from getting to the finish as quickly as I could. We entered the outskirts of Hayfield and soon turned right down a steep section of path before turning left into a park. I could see the finish across the river. The path took us around via the bridge and back to the finish on the other side. My red-line plod seemed so slow. A couple more runners sprinted past me, one runner just before the finish chute (I'm always impressed by how they can do that) as I bumbled my way to the line with nothing in reserve that would have permitted any hint of a last dash. I could hear one final runner bearing down and trying his chances to barge past me at the chute; now that would've been downright rude but the marshal made a move to maintain order. I crossed the line to join the other runners who had just finished, bent forwards, hands on knees trying to will away the wave of nausea that our supreme efforts had caused. It would be short lived.

Final results are now out. My time of 1:45:10 earned me 191st out of 272. It might have got me a bottom 29.8% place but I was pretty chuffed with that. I’d found it quite exhilarating and energetic compared to my usual outings, Parkruns excepted. Talking of Parkruns, my average and maximum heart rates were similar for Saturday’s Parkrun as for this: 175bpm average and 182bpm maximum. I pushed my same limits over 10 rough miles as I did over three and a quarter easier ones.

Barny crossed the line 21 seconds after me. He’d been chasing me down. Given another few hundred yards he would have caught me! I returned his compass and map to him with thanks once again. I hope their journey in my bum-bag didn’t wear them out, Barny. ;-)

We wandered back to the scout hut, which was bursting at the seams once more to join in with the cake eating and tea drinking. Well, I had to join the tea queue first. Demand was high. I chatted with ‘Fellmonkey’ Simon as we waited for our refreshment turn (15th – good effort Simon). Also Steve Temple was around for a chat. Steve is the illustrious creator and keeper of the Hayfield fell race series and Bullock Smithy Hike results websites, which I have used and greatly appreciated for many years. It was good also to make the acquaintance of Dave Cumins (29th – another superb effort). I sensed that he doesn’t do many of these shorter fell races but I may be wrong. We both also ran Wuthering Hike and Calderdale Hike and he travels a long way from the south of the country to do these events which I’m privileged to have on my doorstep. That’s commitment for you!

After the results presentation an evocative short film was shown, which illustrated a poem on the subject of running. I recognised a very wintry Stoodley Pike. The room was silent and gripped for those three minutes or so. The artistes were there but unfortunately I did not note their details; and so ended a wonderful day.

Sorry but no photos this time. Speed (ahem) and snapping don't go together.

How's this for a tale of grit and determination, and he issued his report the same evening. Top effort Zephr!

34th Calderdale Hike 37mi. 14/04/2012.

Race 2 of 12 in the 2012 Runfurther series.



In the week before Easter the first irritation and soreness arose in my tubes. With something brewing in my head I decided to kick the Rivington Pike fell race on Easter Saturday into touch. That decision was reinforced by a sudden urgent need to get the mapping software on my computer working again after a download of a driver update had mysteriously disabled it.

Business travel to Turkey in the following week and the air travel it entailed was not pleasant with tubes now blocked. I’m surprised I didn’t suffer a ruptured eardrum on the four descents, the worst one being back into Manchester. Then the lung congestion and cough set in. By Saturday I had gone through two weeks without any running and a week of disturbed sleep and I was hacking away nicely. The bonus was that the deep sonorous voice I had acquired was even more manly than usual. ;-)

The three-quarter-hour drive up to Sowerby was less lonely than I'm accustomed to; I had the pleasure of a passenger to talk dirty about all things running. Rick Williams had entered the event late as a tester on his way back from injury and had travelled down from Scotland on Friday to doss down at mine, ready for a hassle-free start on Saturday. A good fill of fish and chips on Friday evening saw us well fuelled.

On arrival at the cricket club I spied Runfurther Karen just beginning to get the sponsors’ flags out of her van. I offered to help to put them up. The route for the day soon came up in conversation and Karen was pleased that she already knew the route from last year. Pardon? It quickly transpired that the website still had last year’s route details linked and Karen had downloaded her instructions from the wrong link. The realisation tipped the balance. After a night of no sleep in her van listening to the church clock chime every quarter hour and now discovering that she was about to embark on her first Ultra in a long time with no idea of the route, meltdown was the only outcome. Poor Karen; I did feel sorry. I offered to run the event with her as I’d reconnoitred the route; I sensed reservation because we all go at different speeds and unwanted pressure might arise, but I didn’t have a spare map. Then a knight in shining armour in the form of Ian Symington offered his spare that he’d used for route planning with all the checkpoints marked. Combined with my spare map case she was sorted. Granted she would be reconnoitring on the real event, but unlike me, Karen’s a good navigator.

At 9am we set off running out of the cricket club drive and right up the road uphill all the way to CP1 at Nab End (2.0mi.). The forecast cloud was already moving in after the sunny start to the day. It was a lot cooler and considerably wetter underfoot than it has been for the past three years (back to normal in fact). There was even a bit of early ground frost.

I was glad of the reconnoitring I had done that enabled me to make up a few places on the fiddly navigation with multiple route choices to CP2 at Erringden Grange (4.8mi.). Then it was easy navigation (just follow your eyes) to join part of The Hebden route and the Wuthering Hike route in reverse up to Stoodley Pike and CP3 (6.6mi.). The wind was strong and cold and I was grateful for any brief bursts of sunshine that were becoming increasingly rare, to be replaced by sleet, snow and hail flurries.

 Checkpoint 2 @ Erringden Grange.

A descent of the steep side brought us on very familiar territory in reverse (the previous Calderdale Hike route and Wuthering Hike) to Lumbutts Church and CP4 (7.7mi.). A third of a banana was my first checkpoint food to supplement my own supplies. I was already taking a gel every hour, but I found that the rich sugary substance irritated the back of my throat where my diseased trachea joined it. The result was stinging, coughing and retching until I’d drunk enough water to rinse the area clear of the irritant. Every so often during a lung-clearing coughing fit a chunk of unmentionable was expelled with great satisfaction upon the ground for the slugs to chew on at next nightfall.

Approaching Lumbutts.

From CP4 was a descent past the partially converted mill apartments on the left that appear not to have been selling for the past few years, and up to the next sneaky corner-cutting path to the right. Here a dog got rather excited and barked warnings as I ran through the woods. The owner said: “She's alright. She's not used to people running through here.” “Hello”, I thought. “I can't possibly be anywhere near the front of the pack, there aren't many stud prints in the mud and a dog walker hasn't seen other runners through here? Here's another minute I'm gaining on others. I might even finish in the top half at this rate. Bring it on!”

I continued to run alone with renewed vigour down the lane to the A646 crossing at Todmorden, now back on the reverse of the Wuthering Hike route. Here I met someone who seemed to be unsure of the route. I directed him up the abandoned and neglected cobbles and steps where I'd slipped and fallen last month on the Wuthering Hike (I still bear the scabs and scars). We cut up left and across to the lanes, paths and steps that brought us up past the church with its clock tower with four holes where clocks should be. They must have run out of money a hundred or more years ago.

CP5 (9.4mi.) at the golf club was soon arrived at. Continuing to climb the track after that, the wind was blowing and the sleet was blowing in. I decided to put my wind-proof top on while I was still reasonably sheltered, in anticipation of the exposed section over Hoof Stones. I also put my camera away because I did not want it getting wet in the expected worsening conditions. Mark Rawlinson overtook me while I faffed. Shortly afterwards the sun came out and I became quite toasty. Typical. Plenty of photo opportunities would be missed.

CP6 (12.0mi.) at the end of the track near Lower Mount Farm was very familiar in a Wuthering Hike sort of way. After that came a right turn up the lane to the main road (such as it is). After turning left along the road I noticed in the far distance to the left a white shape on the ground that resembled a helicopter. Because I couldn’t get any perspective I couldn’t be sure whether it was buildings and tracks whose grouping looked like a helicopter. I monitored it as I shuffled my way along the road, then I noticed a rotation at its rear end. A tail rotor had revealed its presence as it began to rotate. It really was a helicopter after all.

I climbed the stile on the right onto the fell-side at the Lancashire/Yorkshire border to climb the saturated peaty hill towards Hoof Stones Height trig point. The stream below me to the right tumbled down across the bed rock. As I climbed the fell along the boundary line in pursuit of Mark in the distance, the helicopter came buzzing across from my left at very low altitude to skim over the hill and out of sight – the boy-racing tearaway.

Upon my arrival at CP7 (13.3mi.) at Hoof Stones Height I was steeling myself for the Fellsman-like peat-bog-and-hag-fest I’d already reconnoitred along the left side of the fence along the watershed-cum-boundary line, when I noticed that Mark was ahead on the right side. He seemed to know what he was doing so I decided to follow to see what that side was like. The marshal directed me to the stile that was hidden by his tent. The ground was mercifully vegetated and bog-free as I dodged my way along to pick the best lines. The last of the hail showers blew in head-on on the strong wind; I was now thankful for my wind-proof top. I noticed Mark ahead veering to the right away from the fence line. He must have reconnoitred even better than I had. He was going for the direct line between the reservoirs. I made the snap decision to follow him because I’d been wondering what that route choice would be like. Now was the time to find out! I couldn't believe how good the going was compared to the peat bogs along the top. Simon and Clare had caught up with me here and we three picked our way down the fell to join a quad track that led us down to the dam crossing of Gorple Upper Reservoir.

We’d made good progress, the down side being that we had lost quite a bit of height to the dam which we had to regain up Shuttleworth Moor. A quick right and left on footpaths followed by a fork right up and across the fell across dead or burnt heather brought us to the Grouse Butts path we needed to take northwards, to take us to the track down to Widdop Reservoir. Amazingly given the drought in other parts of the country, the reservoir was overflowing – the first time I have seen this in many years. CP8 (17.0mi.) was in the usual place at the parking area near the dam.

From Widdop we continued on the reverse of the Wuthering Hike route towards CP9 (20.9mi.) at Top Withens. I had slowed and been overtaken by a few more runners and I was alone again apart from the occasional walkers I was overtaking, still thankful for the wind-resisting qualities of my featherweight top. At Top Withens I took my camera out again to photograph the plaque on the ‘repaired ruin’, something I’ve wanted to do for a long time but didn’t even do when I did my recce. It was now or never.

Checkpoint 9 @ Top Withens.

Mark Dalton and Danny caught up with me just before I left, still on the reverse of the Wuthering Hike route. I looked out once again (as I had done on my recce) for the path that’s supposed to cut across towards Harbour Hill. I didn’t see it so the familiar route was taken once again down to Bronte Bridge and on towards Penistone Hill. The sun had come out again and I was getting toasty once more by the time I forked right on the Millennium Way to cut the corner to the road. A right turn down the road soon brought me to CP10 (23.7mi.) and turnaround point. The sun was now fully out and the wind would be on my back after the turn, so off came the top. That proved to be a good move because I remained toasty until the end. Heck, I even had to roll my sleeves up before long.

Fuelled by another third of a banana to add to my own food I ran up the track towards Drop Farm and saw Mark and Danny running towards me from Haworth Moor along the converging track I could never get to. I called across to ask how they got there. “From Bronte Bridge” came the reply. Hmm, I’m not sure that route would offer any distance or time advantage over the one I took. I’m not sure I’ll bother.

I turned left to descend towards Leeshaw Reservoir, looking longingly as always at the benefit we would get if there were a path across the dam. Unfortunately it is out of bounds and we must descend around and below the dam to lose more height before climbing back up past the dam on the long, rocky trudge on tired legs to Top of Stairs. I was running with Nigel now as we topped out and ran, Stoodley Pike way ahead in the far distance, down to CP11 (26.8mi.) at Grain Water Bridge. This location always seems to be sheltered, warm and sunny whenever I pass through. It would be a nice place for a dwelling.

Still on the reverse of the Wuthering Hike route we climbed the track to the next summit before the long run down to CP12 (29.0mi.) at New Bridge. “We must be making good time now with all this running”, I thought to myself. A quick stop and a tuna sandwich grabbed for later and we were off down to the road and another ‘about turn’ to climb back up towards Pecket Well, along the main road a little before continuing the climb in the same direction along another track to CP13 (30.4mi.) at Delf End.

From Delf End I overtook some more walkers on the climb to the old quarry and the top of the ridge, then came a quick right on the main path before forking left on the diagonal trod that’s difficult to pick out on the ground but is in fact the dotted green footpath line on the map. I overtook all the others who were taking the long route along two sides of the triangle as I took just the one.

Joining back up with the main path after the first ventilation tower I ran down to the second tower, beyond which is located the ever-present bog and 'Area of Standing Natural Water' (if you’ve been there, you’ll know). A short moor traverse brought me to the wall and dreadfully waterlogged path which, unlike on my recce, I aimed to follow for quite a long way. However I became confused when I eventually reached an unexpected fork in the path. A chasing pack of runners caught up at that moment to rescue me from my predicament and pull me back onto a footpath that cut down across the fields to the lower track. It got us to where we needed to be in the end but the route I ended up taking was even worse than the route I’d reconnoitred, and I was trying to improve on that. Not to worry. I’ll know for next year to knock another minute off. The Calderdale Hike is a navigation exercise after all and ripe for optimisation. This would prove to be my only non-optimum bit of navigation.

We ran in to CP14 (33.2mi.) at Jerusalem Farm. Up the stairs I climbed to the smartly refurbished room (I think it’s an outdoor centre) for a top-up of water before re-descending without too much difficulty (my legs might be strong but my engine is weak). The biggest crowd of runners for many hours had converged and was about to set off, but I found myself alone again within ten seconds as I elected to take the steeply climbing path diagonally up the fields to the right while they took the lower level road route around to the next checkpoint. I wondered if I’d made the right decision as I toiled upwards. Nevertheless I did enjoy the peaceful, off-road traverse of more countryside. I finally topped out and followed the lanes and tracks down to the A646, where a left turn for a while brought me to the road exit where the other route joined. The other runners arrived at exactly the same time. There was nothing in it time-wise. My route was shorter but with more climbing. I’d choose the scenic route every time.

Crossing the main road brought us to CP15 (35.3mi.) at Luddenden Foot (also the reverse of “Walk to ‘Ell And Back”), then it was a mercifully short run along the canal towpath before turning right onto the lanes that climbed steeply back up to the finish. Phew! 37 tough miles in 8:34 was ‘par for the course’ for me bearing in mind that last year’s time over an easier 35-mile route was 7:45. It could have been a lot worse given the lead-up. My average heart rate was 165bpm (maximum 181), which is spot on for eking the maximum performance out of myself. I could not have gone any faster.

As I recovered and cooled down outside, Rick came out looking refreshed, changed and squeaky clean. “I never saw you overtake me” I said (in my delirious state I thought I'd set off in front of him but photographic evidence suggests the opposite); “How did you do?” As I prepared to offer my commiserations for his forced retirement he said: “Oh, around 6:50”. I should have suspected. He did come across as a bit of a racing snake, even on the way back from injury. Well done, Rick.

A little later inside the clubhouse, Geoff Holburt (who’s always in the fastest walking team on this event) asked where I’d been and had I got lost. (This isn’t the first time he’s asked such a question. He thinks I’m more athletically gifted than I am.) No Geoff, I was running and I followed an almost perfect route. He then proceeded to tell me that I’d been beaten by the fastest walker, who’d completed in 7:57. That was the icing on the cake. I felt so special.

I began my recovery with tea and chilli and cheese on baked potato. Before I’d finished I had to have a lie-down by the fire exit. I felt wasted, confirming to me that I’d given my all that day.

Later on the way out I asked the timekeepers about the fastest walker, and how can he be so much faster than so many runners? It transpired that he was a serious speed walker, straight legs, wiggling hips, the full works. Because his checkpoint arrival times were so incredible, he was probably the most ‘observed’ competitor on the event. (Understandably there are strict rules against running on the walking event, with disqualification the penalty). He was never seen to run a step and all the visible signs of his locomotion suggested that he should be competing for the country. I am seriously impressed and wonder how fast he could go if he actually did run.

After her early upset and having recced the route on the day using Ian’s map, Karen finished in a little over 9 hours. What a success. I love it when a plan comes together.

Map donor Ian Symington went on to win in 5:28. Second was Stuart Walker in 5:33 and third was Martin Beale in 5:39. First female finisher was Helen Skelton in 6:36 (=15th overall) – all amazing performances.

Because I was pushing my limits and my camera was hidden away for nine miles of the route, pictures are a little limited.

Stop press! Results just out. In the runners' category I finished 70th out of 98 finishers. Top half? Call the medics! I may have ruptured a side through hysterical laughter.

The Three Shires 29mi. / 5,355'. 31/03/2012.



In the beginning I started with LDWA events and I shall end with LDWA events. The Three Shires convinces me of this fact every time I go near it. Staffs LDWA wait on us with the most wonderful food befitting the flagship annual Hundred. It is so low-key and uncompetitive that some of us weren't even aware that the runners' start had occurred; we waited at the back of the hall for our send-off speech like the walkers had had an hour earlier, then we suddenly saw a group of runners jogging away up the road. I didn't bust a gut trying to chase them. That would be feudal (sorry, futile; I'm not in America now).

There are 20, 22, 27 and 29 mile options. For the first time I would be doing the Full Fat 29, including the 2-mile excursion up and around the back of Shutlingsloe followed by the 7-mile Cheshire loop that starts and finishes at Wildboarclough Village Hall (checkpoint 2, the first checkpoint being at Roach End). From my memory, the route took in parts of the old Kipling Kaper which this event replaces, Bullock Smithy Hike, Roaches Fell Race, Staffordshire Moorlands Christmas Cracker and Cloud 7 Circuit (long since defunct). There must be others I've forgotten, like how about Leek Moors Marathon (also long since defunct)?

Wildboarclough village hall deserves special mention. It shall always be remembered as that life-giving oasis with giant dining table you can sit at and stuff your face with warm cheesy oatcakes washed down with a cup of tea (provided you took your mug along). Dessert was rice pudding and peaches. If that wasn't enough there were cakes and nibbles on the side. Only the Full Fat participants got to indulge twice, and did I need to indulge twice. Both times I arrived depleted, hungry and slowed. Both times I departed with a new lease of life and a spring in my step, not to mention a (slightly) fat belly.

Wildboarclough dining facility.

Conditions underfoot were the driest I have known for this event. The daffodils were in full bloom and the trees were just beginning to burst into bud, while the birds screamed their little heads off to celebrate the arrival of spring. On the return leg and the steep descent to Gradbach Youth Hostel (where Alison caught me up for the umpteenth time), the dry, gorse-lined path made it feel more like summer. The sun even showed itself a little to complete the illusion.

Alison descends to Gradbach YH.

The event filled to its 160 capacity quicker than ever before. Its reputation is spreading.

Here are the pictures. I make no apologies for the preponderance of food.

Canyon Meadow 50k. 17/03/2012.

This is California.

I arrived in a cold, wet California late on Friday evening after the flight from Minneapolis had been delayed by 3 hours. Air traffic control was rationing flights because of the bad weather in the San Francisco area. The weather in USA has been topsy-turvy. California was being uncharacteristically cold, wet and stormy, while the mid west was being uncharacteristically hot and breaking all-time records. Earlier in the week while in Indianapolis it had reached 27°C (81°F) – it got even hotter after I left, and later in Minneapolis it was at 24°C (75°F). The lakes were still frozen and there should have been three feet of snow on the ground. Instead there was no snow in sight and I was able to go for morning runs beside the Mississippi before sunrise in perfect running conditions wearing only shorts and T-shirt. I even had to wipe the sweat off my brow.

I finally rolled into my hotel in Oakland, just across the water from San Francisco, shortly before midnight. It was way too late for dinner. A bag of crisps and a Clif Bar had to suffice. 4.5 hours’ sleep saw me rise too early for breakfast (a banana had to suffice this time) for the magical mystery tour by taxi to Redwood Regional Park up in the hills. Canyon Meadow Trail Runs Race Director Wendell Doman and his team were already set up and runners were milling around at registration in the open picnic area. ‘Mountain Man’ Steve Ansell called across to me. I joined him huddled beside the portable gas heater for warmth. I had first met him at Coyote Two Moons in 2008 then again at Western States in 2008 – 2009. Here was another reunion of like-minded friends of old. The international running community is close even when it’s far apart.

Fortunately the rain had finally stopped overnight but it remained cold and damp, while mist hung in the trees. Everywhere was green and wet – just like home, except that home was warmer and drier. The temperature here in California was well down into single figures Centigrade, but it could have been worse. At least the air was calm and it wasn’t raining anymore!

The timing clock was counting down the minutes and seconds to the 8am start. There would be a choice of distances on undulating trails and some single-track around a half-marathon loop (pink ribbons) and a 5-mile loop (yellow ribbons). The choices were:
5 miles (1 x yellow);
Half marathon (1 x pink);
30km (1 x pink + 1 x yellow);
Marathon (2 x pink);
50km (2 x pink + 1 x yellow).
Junctions / turns would be forewarned by white ribbons with red polka dots on the side of the trail where the turn was to occur (I kid you not). I looked forward to the luxury of well-marked trails with no navigational issues to worry about. We rarely if ever enjoy such luxury in the UK. Even if we did I’m not sure that we would subscribe to such unseemly gaudiness as pink ribbons. A more subtle earthen tone that blends better with the surroundings may be more appropriate. I’m thinking puce.



Wendell gives his instructions.



A comprehensive speech and instructions from Wendell by loud hailer (I wish more race organisers back home would use such aids so we can hear them) ensured that we knew what to do once out there. Then we were sent on our way to stumble across the wet grass through the fixed outdoor barbecue equipment (which was all too easy to run into in the mêlée) and onto the trail proper to climb steeply onto the ridge. It was very wet and just waiting to be churned into a sticky, cloying mess by hundreds of pairs of feet. We 50km-ers would have to traverse it three times. Each time would prove to be worse, our shoes becoming heavier and our height increasing by dint of mud platforms until the next area of water draining across the trail allowed a decontaminating wash. Shortly the process would be repeated, several times over.

The first half-marathon loop went well, subject to an inevitable slowdown before the 13.1 miles were up. The split point where the 5-mile loop went left and the half marathon loop went right was very well signed. However this did not prevent one unfortunate guy taking the wrong turn and only finding out that he wasn’t doing the 5-mile race when he arrived at the next aid station on the long loop. He may have had a “D’oh!” moment. Further on, when views suddenly opened up of the tree-clad, misty valley down towards civilisation, I had to stop and stare and take pictures.

The technical steep downhill sections with roots and rocks were the favourite on legs that were not yet tired. Steve caught up and overtook me after the final single-track descent of the first loop (he’s also good on the descents). I got to enjoy the (in)famous American delicacy at the next aid station – peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with white bread. There’s a time and place for a PBJ and this was it.

I found myself captivated by the unfamiliar smells of the woodlands that were foreign to me. The chief culprits were the eucalyptus trees with their sweet, enticing smell. They were very big and they looked old, decrepit and tatty with peeling strips of bark, which littered the ground.

I completed the first loop in 2:12. “That’s a bit rubbish for a half marathon”, I hear you say. In my defence it’s not a flat road race. I had become rather warm so I took the opportunity while at base to remove my long-sleeved base layer and stuff it into my bag, which was keeping the other bags company on the picnic tables. Most important was to keep my running vest on with race number visible. Could this be the first airing of a Fell Ponies vest in the good ol’ USA?

The second loop was more of a struggle. The mud was stickier and the legs were ‘tireder’. All the hills were walked this time. The trail was also much lonelier now that the field had spread out, all the faster runners were in front and most of the 5-milers had finished. However I did find myself swapping back and forth with Jorge Medina several times. When he was in front I used him as my target to pull me along. I caught him on the downhill before the last aid station (the PBJ one). I left him at the aid station removing a “rock” from his shoe (even grit is bigger in the US) to run back to the base.

Jorge attends to his rock.

The second loop took me 2:47. “That’s a bit rubbish for a half marathon”, I hear you say. (Haven’t we been here before?) Taking both half marathons together, a full marathon of considerable undulation in 4:59 on trails that were not always easy to run was just about spot on to what I’d hoped for. I was hoping for sub 5 hours on more runnable trails.

I wanted to complete the 50k in sub 6 hours, which meant keeping up an average pace of at least 5mph from now on. I wasted no time at the base before heading back up the hill for a third and final time to do 5 miles in less than 1 hour. I seemed to be struggling even more than on the second loop. Not only were the ups being walked but some of the flats were too. I was alone; no other runners were in sight. I felt as though I was the last one out there. I walked, shuffled, slipped and jogged my way weakly to the decision point for the final time. Instead of turning right uphill, now was the time to turn left downhill to follow the yellow ribbons back to the finish. I was over halfway through my allotted hour and I hoped the downhill route back would be much more direct than the uphill route out to the turn point. The trail quickly became very steep, muddy, churned-up and treacherous. As I ran downhill I suddenly found myself barely in control with tired legs on the worst piece of trail so far. A hiker was climbing up in the opposite direction. He was probably expecting a dramatic display that would end with me prostrate on the ground, but fortunately previous experience on the fells enabled me to hold it together.

The time slipped away as I descended through the dank forest to the point where the half marathon loop would rejoin the track I was already on. It was a long time coming. Six hours were nearly up when it finally arrived, when I knew for certain that a sub 6 finish was impossible. I rolled into the finish for the third and final time to complete the final 5 miles in 1:06, for a total time of 6:05. That earned me 25th place. Jorge was next to finish 3 minutes later. Steve had finished 20th in 5:42. The winning time was 4:23. There were 46 finishers.

As evidenced by the ice line, the gas bottle supplying the heater was running low as we huddled around it afterwards while we chatted and refuelled. The post-race banter was in full flow as we cheered other runners who were either finishing or just passing through before going out on their final loop.

Mr Heater was our friend.

Steve very generously gave me a lift back to my hotel in Oakland afterwards, via Starbucks for additional refuelling. Fortunately his Jeep had plenty of room to accommodate me as well as his two other passengers. The day ended with me feeling fulfilled, happy and rejuvenated. Wherever I go in the world, the camaraderie among ultra runners is the same.

Happy enough at the finish line (copyright Coastal Trail Runs).

I took quite a few pictures but you’ll have to wait until I can get home to upload them. Don’t forget to check back.

I'm back. Here they are.

Wuthering Hike 32mi. 10/03/2012.

Race 1 of 12 in the 2012 Runfurther series.



Although I never really stop from one season to the next, the arrival of the first Runfurther race felt like the beginning of the racing season proper because it brought out the first seriously competitive field of the year. It also gave Mr. Tat his first public airing: “Come on Nick, let’s see it then.” Even people who didn’t know what it represented passed comment. They soon learned all about Runfurther! :-)

The race was a sell-out; the biggest crowd in my experience swarmed onto the little cobbled street in Haworth to await the start. The front of the crowd was out of sight halfway up the lane, giving them a nice head start. Race organiser Brett, who I assumed set us off, was also out of sight and inaudible. I was chatting to someone next to me when I suddenly became aware of massed movement in front up the hill. “Oh, we must have started. Best get moving then.”

We were ‘enjoying’ the one patch of drizzly clag to afflict the country as we ran up onto the moors and into the stiff breeze. Thankfully it wasn’t too cold and the sun did make an appearance later to make it quite warm. Before that, however, Top Withins was as cold, wet, windswept, enshrouded and desolate as it always was. The wet stone slabs that followed, intermittently forming the footpath over the moors, were as slippery and dangerous as they always were too.

Widdop Reservoir soon arrived, the newly ‘carpeted’ dam of last year appearing out of the cloud now with a healthy crop of grass. After Widdop on the long drag to Long Causeway, true to form my pace was dropping to one that I could sustain by the refuelling I had already started (as opposed to the early pace that is sustained by the fuel already stored). I began to get overtaken as running became more difficult and the plod set in. I can’t even claim ‘ultraplod’ yet because I’d only done 10 miles. Is everyone else affected the same way or is it just me? Jon Steele was one of the many to overtake: “I’d recognise that tattoo anywhere” came the comment as he caught me up on another Ultra in his year of consecutive Ultras.

The wind turbines at Long Causeway remained out of sight in the cloud. We left the road and hit the farm track and stile to the right off it into the pathless boggy fields to stumble parallel to the track before re-emerging onto it via another stile, to the sound of a gun ‘banging’ away. That was probably the warning to anyone who should dare to take the logical route straight down the track, as indicated on the map. I wonder if anyone who dared to take that logical option survived?

A descent and climb through more fields brought us to another farm track. The checkpoint arrived a little earlier than expected; it was at the end of the track at the top road junction instead of lower down at the turn-off from the lane. At 15 miles, this checkpoint offers the first substantial food. I repeated last year's strategy of a hot dog with ketchup and a doughnut for the road. I knew it might slow me down temporarily but past experience has shown me that it will pay dividends later on.

As we ran down the track after the checkpoint, Wendy Dodds came running up in the opposite direction. She said something but I didn’t hear what it was; I thought there had been an accident and she was running back to the checkpoint for help. Another runner came running back. I asked what was wrong. This time I understood; they had gone off route and they were running back to the checkpoint. I learned afterwards from Wendy that she had followed the wrong wall downhill to the right in the fields where we are diverted off the track for a while.

Underfoot conditions were the wettest, muddiest and greasiest I remember on this event. On the final descent into Todmorden I slipped and fell on some greasy cobbles, drawing blood from my right knee and leg. I wasted little time in crossing the main road and powering up the other side of the valley to Mankinholes where I knew medicament awaited. ;-)

Last year I found out after the event that whisky had been on offer at the Mankinholes checkpoint (19mi). I wasn’t going to miss out this time. When I arrived I saw half a bottle of Jura and a shot glass on its own table. Luke, aka ‘Mr B’ was doing us proud with some quality gear. How fortuitous that he doesn’t like whisky. With a handshake by way of introduction and words of gratitude for what I was about to receive, I took a couple of sips (only). I thought he might be taking some back home but it all went. Top bloke is Luke.

Stoodley Pike had been lost in cloud and was only beginning to appear after Mankinholes, where the sun had come out. Things got better from there as the cloud continued to recede. After the steep slog up to the Pike, the wind was very strong at the edge but it was from behind to blow us along almost too forcefully. However it soon reduced away from the edge. I was surprised to catch up with Mike D-H again at the left turn stile (I can’t remember when he last went ahead). I had told him about the efficacy of low dose Ibuprofen to combat muscle and tendon soreness after it has set in. He now had such soreness and had virtually ground to a halt. His mind now sullied and in a time of need, he was about to take his first performance-enhancing drug.

I continued ahead on the long descent to the next major road crossing at Hebden Bridge. Before the final descent a rainbow hung low over Heptonstall, our next target on the other side of the valley. The climb up was as tough as ever: just put one foot in front of the other and keep walking until the gradient eases sufficiently to begin running again. On the way up, like last year we passed Clive once again on his doorstep offering water and Jellybabies. I was sucking on another gel at the time and had to pass on his generosity, but plenty of others availed themselves gratefully.

Heptonstall on the other side.

After the gratuitous climb to Heptonstall came the rough steep descent back down to the valley and the checkpoint at New Bridge. Legs were now tired and jellified. I took another broken biscuit from the checkpoint to keep the legs fuelled for the next long climb. It turned out to be savoury, which was pleasant but probably not the best choice for quick energy release. (I was amused how the event’s supply of broken assorted biscuits came in boxes marked “Fragile” – hardly appropriate I thought. You could drop them from a skyscraper and it wouldn’t make any difference.)

Mike, now drugged up to the eyeballs with ‘I’s, breezed past me effortlessly near the summit before the final checkpoint. I tried to shuffle in his wake but it wasn’t happening. I had to watch him descend alarmingly quickly into the distance and out of sight.

I caught up with Andrew, aka Derby Tup at the final checkpoint at 27 miles, which came as a surprise. I had been running with him much earlier before he went ahead. He had had issues at the stile after Stoodley Pike where I had found Mike about to ‘succumb’. He recounted how he had stumbled off the stile and fallen to the ground, his whole body cramped up like never before. He had slowed down but amazingly was still going. I cannot imagine what it must feel like to have so much cramp, let alone keep going as well.

I pulled ahead of Andrew on the final climb towards Top of Stairs. However it wasn’t long before he, and Wendy who had finally caught up, breezed past. I watched them disappear quickly out of sight as I stumbled clumsily down the rocky, ankle-twisting track towards Leeshaw Reservoir. My legs were shot, not muscle soreness (I rarely get DOMS), just leaden and devoid of energy as usual. I had done all I could to fuel them and ease their discomfort, including taking two ‘I’s during the course of the day. There was no more I could do now except walk.

I walked some of the flat road but fortunately there was no-one else around to witness this lack of athleticism. There was slightly less shame in walking the uphill road towards Penistone Hill; it is quite steep after all. At the right turn I forced myself to run again, all the way up around the hill and down to the finish. There were plenty of walkers out who offered their friendly encouragement. My uphill shuffle, equivalent to a robust walk, must have looked pathetic. At times like that I aspire to be a proper jogger. By the final descent I made maximum use of gravity to tease out a half decent semblance of a run back to the school.

I romped home in 6:21, which was a minute or two slower than I managed last year – not bad I suppose after a month without running a step. The busted toe was a little sore but not sore enough to hold me back. It has just about recovered just in time for The Series. How lucky is that?

As always, many thanks go to Brett and his helpers for putting on such an excellent event whose ups, downs, terrain and runnability make it quite a toughie to begin the Runfurther series.

I took a handful of pictures.

A quick update

I know I've been a bit quiet. That's because there's been nothing to report. I've done no running since Anglezarke Amble (and I didn't run much then, either). Da poor ickle wickle toe wot got busted four days before Anglezarke complains if I have to wear shoes to get around. It doesn't like being squashed by footwear that, without exception, is not designed to conform to the shape of real human feet. (At least I thought I was human, the last time I checked.)

My first exercise since Anglezarke was a reconnoitre of the new Calderdale Hike route last Friday and Saturday with a couple of walking friends (26 miles in 8:34 and 17 miles in 5:42). It was leisurely and very enjoyable to investigate new paths among the Calderdale infestation of such, but the toe swelled painfully in sympathy. For obvious reasons I didn't do Peelers Hike on Sunday.

Next Saturday brings the first race in this year's Runfurther series - the 32-mile Wuthering Hike. I won't be running another step between now and then in the hopes that the toe improves a little further. I shall be hideously unfit and prime PW material, but I reckon a PW is better that a DNF or, worse still, a DNS. I've been there before and don't want to be there again if I can help it.

For the following Saturday (March 17) I've seized the opportunity of being in the San Francisco area to enter the Canyon Meadow 50k trail race. The Rivington Pike fell race on Easter Saturday has also come to my attention. It would be a shame to miss that one on a weekend that is usually race-free. The race schedule needs another update but it'll have to wait. As I'm rather busy these days, don't hold your breath for big race reports or pictures at least until April. In the meantime, Happy Running and stay injury-free.