Lakeland 50/100. 27-29/07/2012.

Update 12/08/2012. All 348 photographs finally uploaded. (See link at the end of the report.)

In anticipation of getting a UTMB entry I had entered the L50 this year.

[Some might regard last year's L100 + UTMB double as ambitious and a possible reason for the UTMB DNF. However I'm not convinced by this argument. I was going well and holding it together until retirement was forced upon me because I couldn't walk any more, caused by a transient injury that arose during that event and was gone after two weeks of rest. Nevertheless I played it safe in 2012, just in case. I didn't need to. Like many others I didn't get into the UTMB. So next year it is then, but after the L50 or L100? I suppose it depends on how ambitious I'm feeling (or how much wine I've drunk) when it's time to enter, but I'm already leaning towards the L100. It's just so epic.]

The lead-up to this year's L50 was not very auspicious:

2 weeks before L50. On the day after the White Peak Walk, heart palpitations began, with seriously raised heart rate and extra beats or missing beats thrown in for good measure. It's happened in the past and assumed to be my body fighting some evil lurgy that's lurking within.

1.5 weeks before L50. On the Wednesday I had a Basal Cell Carcinoma cut out from the back of my neck (the appointment had been planned well ahead). I was not concerned about this and was quite prepared to run Lakeland with a stitched-up 'Frankenstein neck'.

1 week before L50. The palpitations had eased and I was feeling better so I walk-jogged the final 22 miles of the Bullock Smithy Hike route with a friend. I was more than happy not to be running it. I enjoyed the views and conversation for a change. On the following day I began to feel unwell - usual thing, sore throat, irritated lungs, cough just starting.

On the Monday my neck wound was more painful than after the operation. The Doctor said it was infected and set me on my first course of antibiotics in years / a decade / who knows when.

2 days before L50. The lurgy did not follow the usual pattern of niggling then buggering off. It ratcheted up day by day and climaxed on the Thursday, finally forcing me to take time off work for the first time in years / who knows when.

Was something trying to tell me that I should not run Lakeland this year? I didn't feel well enough to go anywhere, let alone run a step. My lacklustre bicycle journeys to work on Monday to Wednesday had my throat burning as it was. I cancelled my B&B accommodation and emailed Marc and Terry that I would not be able to run.

On Thursday evening I took a different cold and flu remedy that can only be described as good sh1t. It had ingredients I've never heard of before but their vapours calmed the lung irritation and stopped the bloody-tasting hacking that had already firmed up my abs no end. By Friday I could tell I'd turned the corner. I'd spent a more comfortable night and my mind had been scheming. On the assumption that I would continue to improve, I might just be able to drive up to Coniston and support instead. The clincher would be the B&B. If it was still available I'd go. It was so I did.

Well, what a weekend! I might have been denied my weekly exercise but the slightly more sedentary alternative was a privilege to be a part of. Slogging out 50 tough, rugged, wet miles was replaced by chatting, car-park duty, chin-wagging, rubbish clearing, ear-bending, photo-taking, nattering, litter-picking, mingling, bagging of nuts and jelly-babies at Tilberthwaite (don't worry, that's after hand sanitisation), chewing the fat, running with Terry Conway for a hundred yards or so (I could keep up with him with 100 miles in his legs and none in mine), fetching tea for finishers, and removing Stuart Mills' soggy shoes at the finish (I was the right person for that task because my sense of smell had deserted me). I would say I'll never wash my hands again but in the interests of hygiene......;-)

I received a few surprised comments after my arrival. "I thought you weren't .....", etc. No I'm not running but I'm here anyway, like a bad smell. It felt surreal to be in this familiar situation chatting to all these Ultra buddies but without the frisson of excitement that I'd be joining them on the weekend's adventure. I searched out training buddies (no, not mine!) Terry Conway, Barry Murray and Paul Tierney to wish them well. I chatted with Terry last year after he'd won the L100 in 21:58. He has inciteful Ultra fuelling tips which I really must try, to see what it does for my performance - one gel every 30 - 45 minutes until finished. If it works it might even get me into the top half of finishers. Now there's a heady thought. Barry is a stalwart of the Brecon Beacons Ultra series. Our paths cross on the Brecon Beacons 40. Paul, on the other hand, is a rare species in my experience, only ever seen on the Lakeland 100. My conversation finished with Terry. "Have a good race" I said as I prepared to depart. "It's not a race, it's a run" came the reply. That took me aback and is the very thing I hear among LDWA friends (except replace "run" by "walk"). That short reply spoke volumes to me. Humility and absence of elitism, the removal of pressure to compete with others but just do your best on the day. This is the purest form of sport devoid of prize money and commercialism, where you pay for the privilege of taking part and the prize is little more than a handshake and a "Well done" from fellow runners.

The L100 briefing was poignant and nostalgic for me as I tried to recall the previous two years' emotions associated with up to 40 hours of imminent physical exertion, exquisite pain and vivid hallucinations. The Paparazzi was there in force this year, with long lenses and big woolly sausages hiding microphones. I hope most of the runners remembered Marc's instruction to grimace in pain at the cameras out on the course.

I chatted at length with good friend Garry Scott, for whom this was his first Hundred last year. He suffered badly and finished in great pain in 36:33. He expected to beat that time this year. I didn't expect, I knew. Pain is a common feature of this event. His personal account is moving and relevant to the majority of those who might consider taking on this challenge. From the many runners I've spoken to I know it would be lapped up. It just awaits a host site so it can be linked and read by the masses. The L100 organisers were not interested (shame on them ;-). I really must investigate activating my Virgin Media web space to give it the airing it deserves.

The starting dib.

It was not long before the L100 runners were filing through the first Sportident dibber station into the starting pen. I waited in jealous anticipation as the clock counted down to 5:30pm and they were sent off, lolloping up the road in the direction of the fells and soon out of sight. I then made myself useful spending a few hours on car-park duty, welcoming the evening arrivals for camping on the massive school field. It would fill to capacity with the 800-odd competitors. I dragged myself away before dark to my B&B across Coniston for a final comfortable night's sleep. I was woken by heavy rain falling. "This is not right", I said to myself. The forecast predicted a clear, dry night. I thought about them all out there and hoped that the showers were localised and short lived.

I returned on Saturday as the L50 briefing was already underway. It was standing room only in the hall, with entrants spilling out of the back and side doors. One thing's for sure, not everyone will have heard that briefing. At 10am a fleet of coaches ferried them to Dalemain for their 12pm start.

The refectory and hall were already humming gently with a few retirees who had been ferried back to base, possibly some supporters, some marshals, and timekeepers who grappled with the internet connection that was giving the live Sportident timing updates. They got it working reliably again after a protracted internet outage. The kitchen staff were doing a sterling job with the food and drink provision. I needed plenty of tea to keep me going and they were always willing to supply, a Pound a time until they realised I was supporting. I also necked another of those turbo flu remedies to maintain recovery, with the added pleasurable benefit of the vapour. We monitored runner progress on the screens. Terry was proving to be a machine and was extending his lead as the race run progressed. A television had been set up to show the Olympics. I wasn't interested. This was far more exciting.

With Terry through Chapel Stile/Langdale I drove up to Tilberthwaite after 11am to help out on the checkpoint if required and await his arrival. The rain started in persistent showers while the sun tried to shine through watery, wind-blown cloud. It was novel to be at this location in daylight. It was even more novel to look back at the track we run down before joining the road to the checkpoint. That strip of track down the distant hill became etched on our eyeballs as we waited for our first customer. I made myself useful by filling little bags with jelly-babies and mixed nuts (not sure how they would go down; I'd pass if I were running the event). Even though my hands were well washed before leaving Coniston, hygiene protocol made sure that our hands were well and truly wiped by baby wipes before handling the food. The baby wipes were scented quite strongly and very florally, as befits babies. Even I could tell with my medical condition. I hope the runners, those that partook, did not mind their floral nuts and scented jelly-babies.

We got a false alarm when a recreational runner ran down the distant track. Nevertheless the fruitless run up the lane gave me much-needed exercise. Then we were informed what colour shirt to look out for: white with short red sleeves. The time ticked past 12:30pm and we wondered whether the magical sub 20 finish was now out of the window (a pre 1:30pm finish was required). Then a lone white shirt with red extremities appeared, running steadily and strongly down the distant rocky track. We ran up the lane to intercept. As I ran back with him, Terry remarked: "That last section was tough", yet he was still running, not plodding in a self-pitying way like we mere mortals would be doing after 100 miles. He spent the minimum time replenishing supplies - dripping a few drops of Elete into his refilled water bottle before leaving. We had just explained to spectators that no-one, not even the leaders, run up the steps of Tilberthwaite quarry after running 100 miles. Terry turned us into instant liars by running all the way up to the top and out of sight over the brow of the climb. I got back into my car, filled with emotion at the athletic spectacle we had just witnessed, and drove back to Coniston to await his arrival. Loud exclamations of incredulity were shouted at the windscreen all the way back.

Terry at Tilberthwaite.

Forty-one minutes after arriving at Tilberthwaite, Terry came running down the road to dib in at the gates of the John Ruskin School, Coniston, looking as fresh as a daisy considering what he'd just done. He smashed 20 hours. His time of 19:50 was 2 hours 8 minutes faster than his own record of 2011. I never thought it would be possible but my idea of reality does not match Terry Conway's world. The crash mat was prepared in the hall for him to recline on in case he was overcome like last year. With all the marshals at his disposal he was treated like royalty.

We continued to follow the results screen and guessed how much later to expect the runners after they entered Tilberthwaite. The welcoming committee was outside ready for Barry Murray and Paul Tierney, who breezed effortlessly down the road to finish equal second in 22:01. That was 2:34 faster for Paul and 3:50 faster for Barry compared to last year. They looked as fresh as Terry did. Their training has obviously paid off.

Paul Tierney and Barry Murray run home for equal second.



Ian Symington loped down the road in 4th place in 22:47 to maintain the Irish superstud theme. All the finishers so far seemed to be Irish, though not so sure about Terry. I won't call him a stud either because he might object. It's just a run, remember? ;-) Alright, I can't resist. TERRY YOU'RE A STUD.

Stuart Mills seemed to be the first one who was suffering and forcing a run out of reluctant legs as he finished 5th in 23:46. He commented that he hadn't looked after himself properly and suffered towards the end. I know what he means. That's normal for most of us even if we do look after ourselves. It was evident the next day as he hobbled around on atypically trashed quads that he really had pushed himself to the limit. It got him a PB by 25 minutes over 2010 though, so I'm sure the pain was worth it. His achievement is even more impressive for someone who's nudging the M50 category. Well done that man. I'm not far behind you, in age but certainly not in speed.

Gancho Slavov was hot on Stuart's heels so I missed his arrival. He was 6th in 23:49 and the final runner to finish in under 24 hours. That's a record for this event and proof that the talent is hotting up year by year. Last year only one person (Terry) finished in under 24 hours. In 2010, no-one did.

Warm glow of success from Gancho and Stuart.

  

As Stuart collapsed into a seat after finishing, and detecting his depleted condition, I asked if he wanted a cup of tea or anything else. He said no, 'but you can remove my shoes if you like'. I sat cross-legged at his small and once perfectly formed feet (before he took up ultra running) like a humble servant to a king and pulled one of the sodden lace ends. It was fixed solid. 'Ah right, a double knot. This could take some time.' It's a good job I don't bite my fingernails because they were needed, clamped either side of the most likely part of the knot to pull, tweak and wiggle from side to side until something started to give. Then it was possible to tease the knots apart to the standard lace knot where a tug of one end released it. I was careful not to just pull the shoes off because of the counterforce that would be required. I know from experience that this can set off calf cramp if it's lurking in the wings. I made sure to hold his ankle with one hand while I pulled the loosened shoe off with the other. (Did you notice the loving care and attention I lavished on this shoe removal process, Stu?) My offer to remove his socks as well to begin the foot drying and recovery process was politely declined. I can be thankful for small mercies.

1 hour and 21 minutes after Gancho, Kevin Perry ran down the road to finish in 7th place in 25:10. Kevin is an impressive M50 stalwart who just keeps going and producing impressive times in the process. His son Adam is following in his footsteps, but he wasn't running it this year.

Hot on Kevin's heels was 8th place finisher Alan Lucker. Again, he looked effortless and running well within himself (which you have to do on extreme Ultras like these otherwise you might never finish). His time of 25:11 was nearly three hours faster than his last completion in 2010. Everyone had certainly upped their game for this year. He had an interesting recovery strategy afterwards.

Alan recovers.

Scott Bradley was the 9th finisher to run without any apparent stress to the finish in a time of 25:29. I suspect that his Dad might have been even more elated than he was.

Dave Troman completed the top 10 finishers in a time of 25:52.

The first female finisher and 27th overall was Rachel Hill in a time of 28:48.

In the L50, Steve Angus was the first to finish in 8:30:51. He looked a little used up for a while, seemingly having pushed hard to the finish. Perhaps it was because 2nd and 3rd were not far behind. Grant MacDonald was second in 8:34:36 and Matty Brennan was a very close third in 8:35:40. The first female finisher and 5th overall was Tracy Dean in 8:38:08. She jumped up and down with the most enthusiastic celebration of any. F2 Annie Conway was close behind, finishing 6th in 8:41:35.

Garry Scott (he who suffered to a 36:33 finish last year) completed this one with much wetter underfoot conditions in 31:03. I knew he would. Good effort Garry.

It was a privilege and a pleasure to be mingling at the finish from the word go as the runners began to return. We became quite adept at guessing when each runner would arrive after passing through Tilberthwaite. It is an occasion I would never normally get to experience. Incapacitation through lurgy can have its benefits. I carried on chatting and made myself useful on another rubbish clearing round before retiring to my car at gone 2am on Sunday for 4 hours of fitful slumber. The rain hammered on the roof in fits and starts. I felt sorry once again for all the runners still out there.

A 7am rise and more finishers to applaud, more chatting to bleary-eyed runners, more litter rounds to be done, more food to be consumed (very reasonably priced yet £4,000 was raised for a disabled chidren's charity) and more tea to be drunk. I like my tea. I even had my own mug for the purpose.

The endorphins I experience from completing major challenges like these were starkly evident in all the runners I chatted with. The positivity, the highs, the achievements are so infectious. This was proven as I chatted to one of the kitchen volunteers (they are true stalwarts in their own right who toiled for 48 hours to feed the masses - an army marches on its stomach an' all that). This volunteer, although tired had an exited and fulfilled spark of life in her eyes. She knew she would and could never do what the runners had done that weekend, yet she had been so enthused by what she observed from behind the serving hatch that she wants to marshal in the event next year. What the runners undertake and go through makes the volunteers want to serve them to the best of their ability to ease their journey and ease their pain.

I waited until the 1pm presentation. Marc gave his usual entertaining performance as he gave the results, presented the prizes and told the funny stories. Apparently, Mark Willett encountered Paul Potts on the path to Langdale. Nessun Dorma - None Shall Sleep. Was it a hallucination? Twitter was consulted. It was true. (I had no idea who Paul Potts was but Marc explains very well. He tells a good story.)

I said something similar last year but it's even truer now: the Lakeland 50/100 has matured into one amazing, well-supported, world-class challenging Ultra marathon. I hope it retains the goodwill of Coniston and the highly pressured rough, tough outdoor recreation region known as the Lake District so it can thrive for many years to come. It deserves to considering the money it brings into the area, not just on race weekend but throughout the year on all the organised and personal reconnoitres that take place as well. I did my puny best to maintain the goodwill of Coniston by scouring the road, pavements and verges outside the school for litter. None of it was from the event. It was just the usual school kid detritus, but it got cleared anyway.

I took nearly 400 pictures until the camera battery ran flat. Here's the pick of the crop. I ain't no SportSunday photographer and my equipment is small and amateurish (missus), so the outcomes will not be a patch on theirs. However, with all the faults arising from the puny inbuilt camera flash that causes uneven lighting and horrible shadows, I hope my efforts complement SportSunday's to provide an even more complete pictorial record of the weekend. I don't feel guilty in saying that mine are free for download as always, since we did not take the same pictures; we complement, not compete (that's the disclaimer sorted. ;-)

White Peak Walk 26mi. 14/07/2012.



This un-advertised and un-promoted trail marathon favourite of the initiated few comes around quickly and always fills months in advance. Originally aimed at and frequented mostly by walkers (traditional LDWA style even though this is not an LDWA event), the 10am start time seems more suited to runners. Some runners do always take part and the fastest (note, not 'winning') time is always around the 4 hour mark, sometimes slightly less depending on conditions. Times this year would have been lengthened slightly because the Derbyshire Dales were more waterlogged than I have ever known in all the years I've been doing this event. There were even flooded lanes to negotiate. Whatever next, at this time of year, I ask you, tsk!, etc. Despite that, the weather just about behaved itself in time for the day and was nigh on perfect - coolish, mostly sunny with only one or two light sprinkles of rain.

My time of 5 hours dead was 3 minutes slower than last year's. I'll blame the mud and pretend that I'm not really over the hill yet.

The following two pictures from November 2011 and July 2012 illustrate our topsy-turvy weather these days.

Bradford Dale on Six Dales Circuit, 12 November 2011.

Bradford Dale on White Peak Walk, 14 July 2012.

Our green and pleasant land wouldn't be so green and pleasant without the rain. Just look at all of the pictures to see what I mean. If you don't live here you'll be envious. If you do you'll be thankful.

Many people post their entries immediately after the event for the following year. Rest assured mine's already in.

Osmotherley Phoenix 33mi. 07/07/2012.

 Race 7 of 12 in the 2012 Runfurther series.





Half the race organisation Gerry (the other half being Julie) emphasised at the race briefing (aka mud warning) our good fortune in snaffling a brief window in the weather. How right he was. Although we had our very own low pressure system loitering over us for a week, the atmosphere was calm, humid and warm with 'cloud forest fog' lurking in the wings. The monsoon had now rotated anticlockwise to flood other parts of the country. Now the southwest was getting hit from the west after the east had been hit from the south and the north from the east.

I drove north eastwards from Stockport on Friday afternoon in the most hideous downpours as the north copped it from the east. Spray on the M62 cut visibility to virtually zero, that is when we were able to move, because for much of the time we were in a linear carpark or a stop-start conveyor. The journey to Osmotherley (with precious Runfurther sponsors' flags on board taken home on the train from the Classic Quarter two weeks earlier) took all of 3 hours while the return journey on Sunday took just two.

After erecting the Runfurther flags and getting registered first thing on Saturday, it was time to do some catching up - too many friends and not enough time as always. Brief words were grabbed with Dave Cumins (a fast 'b' who drives all the way from the south coast to do these races, including the Kinder Downfall fell race!), Helen Skelton (needs little introduction - a right live wire who wins most races she starts and will probably win the Runfurther series again), Henry Morris (personal trainer and conqueror (finally) of the Hardmoors 110), Jon Steele (Hardmoors race series organiser and weekly ultra marathon runner), Mick Plummer (the other Runfurther grand slammer this year), Jim Mann, David Cremins, Chris Webb, Simon Deakin and more. This event is a massive ultra runner's magnet that draws runners from far and wide. It sold out well in advance, which is not surprising. It is one of the best events in the calendar and one I hope will always be in the Runfurther series. If truth be told, the Runfurther series has turned what used to be a predominantly walking event into a predominantly running event, with some big names and fast times.

Mark Robinson searched me out to ask if he could run with me as he wasn't familiar with the route. Of course the answer was yes. I don't often get the chance to run whole events with anyone. This would be his longest run to date and his second ultra marathon. I told him a lie that it would be my 117th ultra marathon. In fact it was my 152nd.

I chatted at length with Garry Scott, whose first Hundred was last year's Lakeland 100, completed against the odds amidst great personal sacrifice and suffering. [He wrote a moving and personal account that captures perfectly the raw essence of such an undertaking, and which deserves to be in the public domain as testament to the toughness of that event and the human spirit. The Lakeland 100 organisers were not interested - too long / readers won't be interested/get bored, etc. Wanna bet? I wonder how interested they'd have been if he'd won the race?] Since then he's turned into a running machine who leaves me and many others for dead from the off.

At 9am we were sent on our way up the road out of the village and soon into the fog. It was calm, very warm and humid and we were soon sweating. The first mud hit within the first mile. We stumbled, slipped and slid our way across the hoof-pitted sod riddled with shoe skid marks towards the woods, but the scene had already been set for the day; puddles and mud were never far away. Every other time I have run this event the ground has been dry as you would expect for this time of year, yet already our legs were mud-spattered as if we were running a mid-winter fell race. It all added to the fun.

We dumped our wooden numbered tags at the bucket drop at 1.7 miles beside the communication masts as we headed out along the Cleveland Way. The first descent to the lane on wet, slippery rocks required a large dose of mince to avoid catastrophe. Then it was into the woods for another muddy run before we dropped out of the fog for a while as we descended Scugdale towards Scugdale Beck. A quick refuel at CP1 (Scugdale, 4.6mi.) saw us heading up towards Carlton Moor and back into the fog. There was to be a mystery self clip somewhere along the route. I was expecting it to be on the trig point at the summit as I've heard stories that some runners take a faster lower route to the left. The trig point was naked with not a day-glo jacket or piece of tape in sight. Where else could it be then? The plot thickened.

Checkpoint 1 @ 4.6 miles. It was a humid day.

The steep descent to CP2 (Carlton Bank, 7.5mi.) on wet slippery rocks required the cracking open of another jar of mince, as wipeout could easily result in broken bones (in fact it did for one unfortunate participant a year or two back). Another quick refuel had us on our way across the lane and into the plantation, which grows and thickens noticeably by the year. Mark and I caught up with Dick Scroop at this point (Dick's a speedy and competitive OAP who gives me a good run for my money on the Ultras.) For the first time ever we couldn't see where we had to go. The fog was dense. With a large choice of paths to choose from, the compass came out to make sure we picked the right one. Checkpoint numbering issues meant that I looked at the wrong checkpoint on my map and set off on the wrong heading. We went too far left and floundered around in the plantation on a network of little boggy paths that do not appear on the map. A while later we heard voices to our right. After realising which part of the map we should be looking at and finding a path that took us back towards the track we should have been on, we got on our way along the low level path below the ridge having wasted 10 minutes or more.

As we ran along the undulating path with rocky intrusions, I recalled how the sun always beat down and how dry the ground was on the four previous times I ran this race. This year was so different. Mud and water invaded everything and our views faded to white within a few yards in all directions. It was still warm though, which was nice. The track through Broughton Plantation was an absolute shambles for summertime and deserved a stiff letter of complaint to those in charge of the Jet Stream. We gave up trying to dodge the mud and water and just enjoyed getting wet and dirty instead. I was having fun and I laughed at the absurdity of it all. Suddenly, as we rounded White Hill we ran out of the fog bank and a beautifully sunlit vista opened up in front of us, with lush green rolling hills extending to the horizon. We minced for a third time to descend safely the rocky path to CP3 (Clay Bank, 11.2mi.). Not all of us minced, mind you. Dick sprinted in front down to the road with reckless abandon, ignoring the ice-like qualities of the terrain underfoot.

After another tasty morsel at CP3 (date slices this time) we began the long climb towards Round Hill in the hot sunshine. This felt more like it and what we are used to. The out and back to the self clip at the top (CP4, 13.0mi.) allowed quick exchanges of pleasantries with those just ahead and just behind, then came the long, gentle run down towards Chop Gate. The expansive sunlit views with scattered clouds were captivating (see top picture). The fog bank that we had been in earlier was still visible to our right. It looked like that mountain cloud that's a permanent feature on the peaks, and which dissipates on the leeward side, yet these were no mountains.

Mark and I ran into the carpark and CP5 (Chop Gate, 16.1mi.). Almost unbelievably, the chocolate fancies were melting in the sunshine. 'This is what we want', I thought to myself. 'Let it melt, and melt some more. Go on, prove it's really summertime.' I delayed longer than usual at this checkpoint. I'd been putting off answering the call of nature for a good few miles, so when Mark made a beeline for the conveniences for a comfort break I seized the opportunity to do the same. Perfect timing I thought, and a chance to wash sweat, mud and gel gunk from my hands.

The chocolate fancies @ CP5.



Suitably 'comforted' and with a fond farewell to the friendly marshals and a last longing look at the chocolate fancies (I denied myself this time like a good boy), we were off on the next steep climb upwards into the sky, past the first stile on the left to the second one which we had to cross. It was as hot and sweaty as it always is at this point. I had long since been using my Buff as a sweat band around my head to prevent the salted eyes syndrome. (It worked a treat to the the end, with not one single stinging moment.) We could see others snaking their way upwards to the Cleveland Hills on the horizon as we toiled our way upwards in their wake.

Down on the other side we arrived at CP6 (Wheat Beck, 20.7mi.). Mark handed to the marshal a blue coloured Buff he had picked up that someone had dropped. I'd already picked up a food bar or two to add to the wrappers that others had dropped. (This was a rare race where I finished with more food than I started with.) We didn't hang around for long. I was looking forward to the fiddly navigation through the fields. A sign warned us of the mystery self clip some time after Lower Locker Farm. They hadn't been bluffing after all, but why here? I can't guess where short-cutting could occur around these parts. We jogged our way along in the heat and humidity following the line left by the previous runners through the lush green sodden pastures. Navigation was so much easier than in previous dry years. I warned Mark not to loiter because giant man-eating ants live around these parts. There were hardly any this year. They were probably drowned.

We navigated our way without a hitch via the mystery self clip ("punch your tally anywhere at the bottom") to CP7 @ 24.4mi (described as Hawnby but much closer to and just below Coomb Hill). This, the last manned checkpoint always seems to be hot and sunny with little or no cooling breeze. This year was no exception. I know from experience that I need to refill all water and electrolyte supplies here, so I made sure I took care of business properly.

The mystery self clip.

Shortly after leaving CP7 we came upon a chap on the bank at the side of the lane with his concerned wife leaning over him. As he lay prostrate by the wayside he kept saying to his wife: "Just go, leave me" as if he wanted to be left alone to die in peace. She was having none of it. I sensed that she had never been in this situation before. I asked what the problem was. "Cramp" came the answer. Next question: "Have you taken any electrolytes?" "No". 'This should be easy' I thought to myself, 'Doctor Ham to the rescue.' (I was a pretender in the presence of a real Doctor. I hope he didn't mind me taking charge of this medical emergency.) I'd just mixed a fresh bottle of High 5 Zero electrolyte at the checkpoint. I pulled off the top of the bottle so he could get some good swigs out of it. After some initial reticence he took two big gulps. We checked that he was happy to rest awhile and walk back to the checkpoint to retire, while his wife plucked up the courage to leave him and tag along with us for the final 9 miles. We set off run-walking the final climb and long haul towards Arden Great Moor. I felt sorry that the stricken one would probably recover and bitterly regret retiring. A wilder notion flitted through my mind that he would spring to life and decide to continue.

As we topped out onto the open moor a large area of heavy cloud threatened to our right. Could this be our first shower of the day? Could we run fast enough to beat it to the finish? Wifey looked back, probably in vain hope and let out an exclamation of shocked surprise. "Is that my husband?" I looked back into the distance. His profile wasn't as familiar to me as it was to her, but it sure looked like it. He caught us up at the self clip and final water station on the top of the moor (26.9 miles if you're still interested). He had sprung to life alright and exceeded even my wildest expectations with how fast he caught back up. I offered him another swig of the elixir to keep him going to the end.

Mark Robinson, Andy Norman and Sarah Booth at self clip 1.

The long, undulating, gently climbing miles across the moor always seem to be a struggle and take forever before our left turn and descent back to Osmotherley. The ominous black mass had launched a few drops onto the breeze from afar which found their way to us, but the threat seemed to be receding to be replaced by sunshine once again as we neared the descent. Dick had been proving difficult to hold onto. We'd caught him on a few occasions only for him to pull away again because he never stopped anywhere for more than 30 seconds. He always seemed to be that un-catchable spec in the far distance, but now we seemed to be slowly gaining on him once again.

The overtaking manoeuvre finally occurred on the rocky stepped descent towards Osmotherley. I like this part of the route because it's where I usually seem to do some overtaking. No mince needed to be expended this time because the rocks were dry. Now it was my turn to exhibit some (not so) reckless abandon but I knew I'd be left wanting again as soon as the descent levelled off. Dick would be breathing down my neck. As I passed the reservoir in Oak Dale I was surprised by how empty it was. I had never seen it so low. The earlier drought in the East must have been serious before these monsoons set in. It was never that dry in the West.

Mark and I pushed ourselves over the final mile with its sting in the tail of short, sharp ups and downs that make you lightheaded in the heat. I could not believe how perfectly matched our paces had been. We had also caught up with Marie Mitton and Tracy Wilson, who were pushing a healthy pace to the finish line. We finished as a foursome in 7:21. Dick was indeed breathing down our necks because he finished just 1 minute later. If there'd been a little more flat he would have caught us again. One thing's for sure, I won't be able to do what he does when I'm an OAP.

The stricken one, later found out to be Marc Corner, got a successful finish in 7:35. I am dead chuffed. Well done Marc. I was feeling so sorry when I thought you might not finish when I knew you could with the right fuel. When you did in the end, justice was done.

The weather exceeded all expectations. We were able to lounge outside in the warm sunshine afterwards like we always do. It was good to see and chat with Runfurther Simon Berry at the finish. He was there to take charge of the sponsors' flags ready for the next event (Long Tour of Bradwell). The local fish and chip shop was doing its usual roaring trade fuelling the runners and the revellers at Osmotherley summer fair.

Talking of refuelling, mine consisted of a large cod and chips washed down by a pint of tea, then a selection of homemade cakes from the village fair washed down my another pint of tea. That was after the can of beer that took care of immediate post-race rehydration. I can't think of any better accompaniment to post-race conversation in a village hall with sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of breakage lurching transiently through the open doors from the crockery-smashing stall outside.

Evening festivities in the Queen Catherine pub included a live band, which was so good I had to delay my retirement up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire to watch and listen. The young exhuberant locals were making merry and involved me in their jollity. I only wanted to admire the musicianship but that was soon supplemented by animated conversation, joking, talking through the desk fan on the bar (yes Duncan), laughter (from me because the fan speech was rather funny), dancing and chasers (a transparent pale green liquid that tasted pleasantly of apples but was probably quite dangerous). Some of the merrymakers were involved in the Phoenix. Duncan had marshalled in 2010, ran the 17 mile in 2011 (very fast it must be said) and ran the 26 mile this year. Unfortunately a knee niggle resulting from recent surgery forced him to stop at 18 miles, but he was blisteringly fast to that point. If he returns next year with a fully recovered knee he could win whatever distance he chooses to do, as long as it's not the 33 because the competition is a bit hot in that one, for obvious reasons (Runfurther talent an' all that).

Here are the pictures - a sunny Osmotherley Phoenix once again even in 'summer' 2012, with gorgeous views of gorgeous countryside. We are so lucky and life feels good.

Offerton 10k. Wed 04/07/2012.

This was a rare blast from the past. The first and last time I ran this race, expertly organised as always by the ever-friendly, supportive and encouraging Stockport Harriers, was in 2005. Not only that, this would only be my third 10k race in all my years of running.

We set off in a light shower, whose cooling effect was much appreciated but all too short-lived; the evening was warm and humid. The route follows an extended version of the Woodbank Parkrun, beginning with two laps of the track before emerging into Woodbank Park then delivering us to the very bottom and furthest reaches of Vernon Park. The return route then brings us back up THAT hill into Woodbank Park and back to the track (but not quite). We have to do three laps, meaning three 'brutal' climbs. I'd forgotten that we had to do three.

The lead runner overtook me on my second hill climb. He probably finished before I'd finished my second lap and I had to do it all again. Quite awesome. I applauded him and offered words of encouragement as he passed but his focus and grim determination meant that any extraneous goings-on were blanked.

After the third lap we turned right back to the track for a final victory lap to the finish line. As I approached the track, fellow Stockport Harrier Tony Audenshaw (Bob Hope from Emmerdale) bellowed out my name and words of encouragement from the side (he's much faster than I and had finished minutes before). Like the front runner, I was also at my limit and could muster nothing with which to respond as I entered the springy track. I could hear another runner behind me and waited for the familiar sprint finish overtaking manoeuvre. It happened later than expected, just off the final bend and short straight to the finish chute. I always think that runners who can pull a sprint finish out of the bag have not been trying hard enough during the race. I'm always at my absolute limit as I approach the line, with nothing in reserve for anything like a sprint finish, ever.

My time of 0:48:28 was four seconds faster than in 2005, which can't be bad after thousands more miles in the legs and seven more years pushing me towards the big five-o. Here's another interesting statistic. My heart rate averaged at 179bpm (identical to what it was in 2005's race) and peaked at 189bpm. I was at my limit alright.

The winning time was 0:32:12. Did I say awesome?

Not long after my cycle ride back home, the heavens opened and the road flooded (thanks to all the blocked drains that never get vacuumed from one decade to the next). It held off just long enough.


I had planned to run the first of the series of four 5k Sale Sizzlers on Thursday evening to finally hone my (ahem) athletic 'prowess' for Saturday's Osmotherley Phoenix but had to abandon the idea through lack of time. Instead I had to get ready for Friday departure immediately after work.

Whaley Waltz 5.8mi fell race. 30/06/2012.

The Whaley Waltz is one of the many excellent fell races orgainised by Goyt Valley Striders. It is a 5.8 mile race from Whaley Bridge uphill to Windgather Rocks and back, to end with a plunge into the river Goyt to cross it before running up to the finish line. It is combined with the Whaley Bridge Carnival to increase the entertainment factor for the spectators. We fell runners are more than happy to oblige, of course. (This also offered me the rare chance of a short, sharp, up 'n' down blast to blow out the cobwebs from running only Ultras.)

To prepare myself for the afternoon shock I ran my local Woodbank Parkrun in the morning, to remind myself what fast running feels like. It's never pleasant, especially for one so unaccustomed. The 23:39 result was average, therefore good. Although it wasn't a PB (impossible under the circumstances) it was nowhere near a PW. Interestingly it was identical, to the second, to two years ago when I did the Woodbank Parkrun + Whaley Waltz double.

I took the midday train a few stations up the Buxton line to Whaley Bridge for early registration, to check out the river depth, to see if I could remember the out and finish route from two years earlier, to chill out in the sunshine in the park, to have a natter with all the familiar faces and to catch the start of the carnival. The arid heatwave of 2010 was replaced by pleasant coolness, saturated ground, brimming water tables and yet more rain waiting in the wings.

The first monsoon shower hit as we gathered for the start. This sent the hordes scuttling up the side road to the shelter of the railway bridge. By the start, the rain just oozed out of brightening cloud with patchy blue sky. Steam rose from cars and road as the warm sun began to re-emerge.

We were sent on our way along the main road through Whaley Bridge in the wake of the carnival procession before we turned right down a track, into the park and right uphill onto single paths. The mud-and-bog-laden field of cows was unnerving as we crowded in the top left corner, waiting for our turn to climb the stile onto the single path with overhanging branches and fences to weave under or around. Our rest break was welcome for us but unsettling for the agitated bovines, who tried to ram their way through the barbed wire fence in the direction of the footpath-restricted single line of runners after the stile.

We eventually emerged into open fields and onto open fell, when the next rain storm moved in. I was quite cool enough while running and already began to dread the water immersion at the end. Rest breaks while running in the single path queues allowed recovery and marginally energetic overtaking manoeuvres when the path widened a little, with a few places gained on the climb to Windgather Rocks. I had Daz Burns (my Old County Tops partner) in my sights on most of the climb and got within 10 yards of him at the top. Tom Snaith, who had been on his usual barcode timing duty at the Woodbank Parkrun in the morning, was on marshal duty at the top to direct us on the right turn around the cone. The familiar rock climbers' paraphernalia was on the ground as we traversed along the top before beginning our long descent. The big difference this year compared to 2010 was that the grass on top was green instead of brown.

I ran downhill as fast as I was able or dared, but my chosen target for the day (Daz) was already pulling away as his long legs covered the ground much more efficiently than mine. The wet, muddy paths with roots and rocks made me take more care and go more slowly than I was able to do two years ago. Another thing that made me hold back was the river plunge at the end, and the fact that I needed to be able to be composed and not gasping my last breath when unable to do so under water.

The runners I had overtaken on the climb soon overtook me on the descent, and some. We crossed the same road we had crossed on the outward leg. Paul Hunt (also at the Woodbank Parkrun in the morning) marshalled us across safely and offered encouragement for the final descent past Toddbrook Reservoir dam and that dreaded immersion. I could hear the cheers of the crowd as I got closer. I got overtaken some more as I made sure I could survive that high risk environment for air breathers. I waited on the muddy bank for a second or two to wait for the two women and a man who had just overtaken me to move out of the way before jumping as far as I could. I landed in deep water with the river bed sloping steeply upwards. I stumbled forwards and discovered that my hands were resting on the bottom. It didn't feel so bad after all, even for this non-swimmer. In fact it felt surprisingly non-frigid. I started to have fun as I kicked my feet wildly to clean the cow poo and mud off my shoes. I looked up and saw a camera lense in my face. Big Fat Jim's handywork can be found here; rather good it is too. I got overtaken some more by others wading around this lover of dry land whose race-long fear had suddenly evaporated.



I got up and dragged myself up the bank and onto the track. I got overtaken some more again as I ran up the final few yards to the finish line, just 34 seconds slower than two years ago, which sounds about right for the more conservative descent this year. What is it about this race that makes it so addictive? Why do I want to return immediately to do it all again?

Daz finished 1:29 in front of me, having made up most of that lead on the descent. Well done Daz. If I do more of these fell races I may be giving you a better run for your money next year! ;-)

An excellent three-part video of the finishing plunge has been uploaded to YouTube by Stephen Bull. Here's part two (the most important one of course). Daz is at 7:10. I'm at 8:30.



A few more pictures of the day are here, mostly courtesy of my dad.

Endurancelife Classic Quarter 44mi. 23/06/2012.

Race 6 of 12 in the 2012 Runfurther series.

I'd been relishing my first experience of the South West Coast Path for months, ever since this race was added to the Runfurther series and my Grand Slam quest demanded that I get myself an entry. Runfurther was introducing me to yet another part of our beautiful country and so my 151st ultra marathon became my first Endurancelife event.

I was not disappointed by the sights, sounds and smells that greeted our senses. Our route took us along the most southerly and westerly extremity of Britain's coastline, in a westerly direction from Lizard Point to Land's End. The coastal scenery with its old mining relics was spectacular. The ocean was never far away and almost always within earshot, while the smell of honeysuckle and other sweet scented shrubs complemented the fresh Atlantic air.

After a comfortable yet criminally short night in the Land's End Hostel (far too good to be called a hostel in my opinion), a 02:45 alarm call got me standing with Alison Brind on the Land's End car park at 03:45 in the gathering light, waiting for the bus to take us to Lizard Point. Stuart Mills recognised me in the gloaming and came over for a chat. The last time we saw each other was at last year's Lakeland 100, when he was giving us enthusiastic support and taking some pretty cool photographs in the process. He will be back competing this year, as he would be today. "There go our Runfurther points", I thought to myself. He's simply too fast for our own good is Stu.

The bus was a few minutes late leaving. Registration in the reading room at the Lizard, the fitting of SPORTident timing 'dibbers', the pinning on of race numbers, the longer than expected walk down to the start and the race briefing* meant that we started running 25 minutes late at 06:25. The sun had already risen and it promised to be a warm sunny day (that is until the forecast rain would arrive).

* The race briefing. When describing how to 'dib in' at the timing stations, and holding up a SPORTident timing box, the Endurancelife MC said: "You stick the knob-end in this hole here". I waited for schoolboy sniggers to ripple through the impatient throng but nary a titter was uttered. Time had obviously dragged on too much and nostalgic memories of Viz, Carry On, Ealing Comedies and various other British institutions of smut and double entendre must have been temporarily forgotten.

The briefing.

The early few miles along gently undulating grassy cliff tops lulled us into a false sense of security. The healthy head wind was nothing that a plodder couldn't take in his stride, though I didn't fancy the chances of the speedsters. I'd started reasonably near the front to avoid the early bottleneck and I was keeping up quite easily, but that can never last for more than half an hour. I was soon getting overtaken as I settled into my survival pace. Although I didn't see, I heard afterwards that someone had shot off ahead of everyone else at the start. That had to have been Stu. There's no-one else who could pull off that strategy. He would be immune to the head wind, of course.

Water station 1 at Mullion Cove (6.3mi.) was welcome but the first timing checkpoint at Church Cove (9.0mi.) would do just nicely for the first water refill and electrolyte infusion, so I pressed on.

Our first beach crossing came at Loe Bar, an impressive strip of coarse sand that separates the sea from a lake of calm water on the same level on the landward side, which must surely be salt water. A sit-down after the crossing was necessary to remove grit from shoes. How on earth do MdS runners manage?

Water station 2 at the "Nauti But Ice" emporium (15.0mi.) was very picturesque. I don't know the name of the inlet but here it is:

Nauti But Ice (off stage to the left).

The following sections induced feelings of vertigo as cliff erosion had forced the path inland, across and back down towards the sea to apparently plunge us into that frigid death fluid that cannot be breathed. Being an avowed land lubber, I suddenly felt uneasy.

It felt like walking the plank to certain death.

The path zig-zagged its way, runners dotted along its length to the horizon to bring us to the derelict mine buildings that I had spied a long time earlier across the bay.



Two of many disused mines.

A warm welcome greeted us from the supporters and relay runners waiting for their runners at the halfway checkpoint at Perranuthnoe (22.0mi.), where we solo runners had our drop bags. I'd been looking forward to this point because my 600ml of Coke had run out and I needed a refill. Martin Beale, who was waiting for his relay runner to arrive, greeted me like a long lost friend, and I wasn't even in his team. (We do go back a few Runfurther years, admittedly.) He grabbed my camera to capture some moments. Picture on right shows dibbing-in (recall the race briefing if you will).

After CP2 came the boring interminable flat section, where continuous running became too much of an effort. The flat running along the cycleway beside the railway line was like running through treacle. My running pace was others' walking pace. I got overtaken some more. I walked for some relief from the purgatory. I stopped to take pictures of the special charter train at the Penzance terminus for even more relief. It had vintage Diesel locomotives and old coaches with table lamps at the windows. I've ridden and enjoyed a few in my time. My interest was piqued, but not in the way that dibbing does, you'll understand.

After water station 3 beside Penzance bus station (26.0mi.), the Penzance festival required that we fight our way through a fairground to maintain the coastal path. The road had been closed and traffic had been replaced by joy rides, blaring music, commentary, screams and ghost train sirens.

Our ultra marathon route goes somewhere through there.

Shortly afterwards we were free and making our way towards the blessed relief of some undulations in the terrain - at last a valid excuse to walk and recover on the ups then run and let rip a little on the downs. The roads continued for a while but I didn't care because they were beginning to undulate on their way to Mousehole and CP3 at Lamorna Cove (34.0mi.), which was a long time coming.

A runner gets fed at CP3.

The route had already become mercifully rugged again. It continued in similar vein with a spot of rock climbing and boulder scrambling. The rain was beginning to threaten on the violently steep climb to the final water station at Porth Curno (39.0mi.). I loved it really. At least I wasn't getting overtaken now. The opposite was the case. Even some relay runners were now at my mercy.

I'd been playing cat and mouse with Alison until she disappeared ahead, I assumed never to be seen again until after the finish. However in the final four miles I spotted her characteristic speed walk (I have to jog to keep up) way ahead in the distance. I shuffled as best I could and slowly reeled her in. She spotted me when I was within ten yards, which encouraged her to try a bit harder and pull ahead again. Right, competition time (friendly of course). She used me as an incentive to push on and I used her as an incentive to hang on and catch up. We ended up running across the line in 10:28, together, the only way it should be. We both commented how tough the day had been. The course was so runnable much of the time, yet so rugged and steep at times as well.

Sadly there was no finish venue, no shelter, no post-race refreshment, chat or camaraderie. The local hotel and bar was closed for a special function. With half the enjoyment of doing these events denied us and everyone going their own way upon finishing, we both walked the mile back to the hostel, to a wonderful welcome back from Susie before the rain became a problem. However at 7pm by the time we emerged to go to the pub for dinner, the gale was blowing and the rain was hammering down. I felt truly thankful for the wonderful day we had enjoyed, and felt desperately sorry for the 100 mile runners who had started on Friday evening and were still out there, about to embark on their second night.

Runfurther Karen MacD soon found us in the pub and we were able to enjoy our own threesome of camaraderie, laughter and reminiscences of the day. The local crab salad with Pinot Grigio was food straight from the gods to begin the refuelling - a perfect evening to top off a perfect day.

All the pictures I took are here.