Nearly 2 years overdue but I thought it was about time I finished this report with L100 2016 nearly upon us.
I wasn’t in tip-top
condition for this. From being fighting fit a week earlier with 4 PBs for the
month, infection, fever and a strong course of antibiotics that would end as
the race began had left me feeling less than energetic.
The long hot summer
of 2014 was continuing very nicely when I arrived in Coniston on Thursday
afternoon. A notice on the door of the B&B asked guests to check their
shoes for contamination before entering. A recent cheapskate cosmetic tarting-up
of the local roads, combined with the hot sunshine, was resulting in tar and
gravel being trodden in. Friday was forecast to be equally hot. If it was hot
enough to be melting tar I feared melting ultra-runners as well. It was going
to be tough.
Before dinner I
wandered around to the school to begin to soak up the atmosphere. They were
beavering away getting things ready. A major delivery of provisions had just
arrived. I joined many others with the unloading, carrying and storing while
Marc ticked things off his long list. Many hands made light work but even so,
dinner was severely delayed. There was LOADS of stuff. The ‘Rola Cola’ alone
was at risk of creating its own gravitational disturbance. I marvelled at the
logistical enormity of the whole operation.
A hearty breakfast on
Friday continued my strength build-up. I drove around to the school to park up
for the weekend. Registration was slicker than ever:
Follow the barriers
through kit check;
Race pack collection;
SPORTident timing dibber
fitting to wrist;
Weighing – 62.9kg – I’d
lost 2kg.
The rest of the day
was mine to relax, chat with new arrivals, doze in the car (I needed the doors
open for cooling even though I was parked under the shade of a tree), eat
lunch. Mmmm, fish and chips. Stephen McAllister knows what’s good for him.
Pre-race fuelling.
The race briefing at
16:30 was as informative and entertaining as ever. Race Organiser Marc
Laithwaite hit the nail on the head with his analysis of the reason people give
for running an Ultra:
“Why?”
“To challenge
myself.”
But it only becomes a
challenge when it becomes difficult, when the suffering really sets in. When
you’re sitting at a checkpoint feeling bad, you have a choice. You can decide
to call it a day and end your suffering early or you can decide to get up, walk
out and continue your journey to the end. Barring physical injury (forget
superficial tissue damage like blisters) it all depends on mental fortitude to
keep going. Then you’re challenging yourself.
I would try to keep
those thoughts in my mind and hope that they would get me through to the end.
This might have been my 19th Hundred and 4th Lakeland 100
but nothing’s guaranteed and I certainly wasn’t feeling invincible. To add an
extra minor uncertainty I would be trying a brand new pair of Scarpa trail shoes
just picked up on Thursday morning. They felt very comfortable so I wasn’t too
worried.
I had another
lie-down in the cool of the school before the start, delaying until the last
minute my exit to deposit my drop bag in the heat. It contained precious ham
rolls that had to last another 3 days. As we waited to funnel into the starting
pen, Charlie Sharpe came up to say ‘ow do. Although I’d followed his impressive
exploits on Facebook (he’s a bit of an animal is Charlie), the last time we’d
spoken in person was after the Tour de Helvellyn last December. My money was on
him as a possible winner. Garry Scott was another good running acquaintance
that was remade. The Lakeland 100 is good for bringing us together like that.
Finally we filed into
the pen, dibbing to register our participation as we went. I immediately took
up position trespassing near the front line to mix it with the big boys. Crowds
lined the barriers inside the school grounds and out onto the streets. Former
L100 winner Stuart Mills called across from the other side of the barriers.
He’d be running the L50. He wished me luck. I suspect he was thankful not to be
setting off in this oven we were experiencing. It was in the high twenties and
the sun baked us, aided and abetted by high humidity and zero breeze.
Just before the start
the adopted L100 theme song (or dirge if it's not your cup of coffee; I prefer tea), Nessun Dorma, was belted
out over the PA by professional tenor Alexander Wall. He coped amazingly well despite the dodgy PA with blown tweeters (just like the old Peaveys in the school hall) and DJ mode which shut off the orchestra backing whenever he sang. Like a true professional he kept perfect time and tune while having to sing from memory, audible cues only appearing when he paused and the orchestra burst forth once again. Come on Marc, get it sorted for 2016. I offered my services on your blog post but the comment failed to appear.
Good singer, shame about the equipment.
Coniston to CP1
Seathwaite (7.0 miles)
We were off, running
at conservative pace through Coniston to the cheer of the crowds. We joined the
stony track that climbed out of Coniston, where those with any sense and those
without superhuman tendencies slowed to a walk. I welcomed the break already. It
was hot. Ben Abdelnoor was cheering from the side lines. I assumed he’d be
doing the L50 again and wished him luck, but he wasn’t this year.
The SportSunday
photographers were in their usual place near the start of the Walna Scar Road,
capturing some superb images in the strong evening sunshine.
I sensed right from
the start that my fitness was lacking. Where I ran last year, I jogged. Where I
jogged last year, I walked. Where last year I ran from the summit of the Walna
Scar Road as if on a fell race overtaking all before me, this year I tottered
clumsily and weakly while everyone else overtook me instead. I was already 8
minutes behind last year’s time at CP1 but the thought of not finishing never
entered my head. I’d emptied my drink bottles and needed a major refill plus
electrolyte infusion. That first checkpoint was manic with water all over the
kitchen floor and severely overloaded marshals.
Seathwaite to CP2
Boot (14.0 miles)
I was doing so much
walking as our journey continued in the sultry evening with the setting sun
glaring in our faces. I was 28 minutes down by the time I arrived at CP2 in
fading light, resigned to my slower pace. I’d enjoyed some more banter with the
SportSunday photographers before the checkpoint, to which a fellow runner
remarked: “Would you mind curbing your fan club, Nick.” I laughed some more.
The steep descent to Eskdale before CP2 @ Boot.
Boot to CP3 Wasdale Head (19.4 miles)
Sun shade cap got swapped
for head torch before leaving CP2. It was virtually dark by the time I reached
Burnmoor Tarn. Last year I’d have been at Wasdale Head by now. I’d resisted
switching my head torch on. I took the obligatory photo of the tarn in the
gloaming, this time having to rest the back of the camera on the footbridge cross-member
to steady it for the 1.5 second exposure time.
We were made to feel
loved as we passed through the gate onto the grassy footpath before CP3. An
arrow pointed the way and the notice read: “Beautiful people this way”. The
marshals on this event are second to none with their encouragement. They all wore
marshal T shirts with “Supporting the legends” printed on the back. Cheering
and bell-ringing led us to CP3 in the barn, which was as colourful as ever with
its disco lights and hippy personnel. I was 45 minutes down here but did I
care?
I’d swapped back and
forth with Fredelina Yong. We’d done battle on a couple of local fell races
earlier this year, me beating her once and her beating me once. We were good
competition for each other. She came in to the checkpoint just as I was about
to leave. I’d be seeing more of her I was sure.
Wasdale Head to CP4 Buttermere (26.3 miles)
I left CP3 with
renewed vigour, overtaking others on the climb to Black Sail Pass. The steep
descent to the River Liza and Black Sail Yoof ‘ostel is rough and treacherous
at the best of times, but in the dark it’s something else. Head torches spread
out below me as I descended in their general direction. I soon realised that I
was on a pleasant though very steep grassy descent that was better than I
recalled, and it was dry. A prominence of land loomed to my right. The closer
runners I’d been chasing were no longer in view. I must have inadvertently
drifted off the path to the left and they must have been over the other side on
my right. I wasn’t concerned because I was still descending in the right
direction, and underfoot conditions couldn’t have been better. Further down at
the end of the prominence, the other runners appeared and our paths merged onto
the final boggy descent to the footbridge. (That bit is never dry, even in dry conditions
like now.) At the bottom I looked back up at the pursuing head torches scattered
across the fell side.
I’d forgotten how
tough the next climb and descent to Buttermere is. On the climb a runner was
bent over by the side of the path, vomiting repeatedly. He must have emptied
the contents of his stomach, and some. We asked after his welfare. I asked if
he wanted a message relaying to the next checkpoint. He said yes. I memorised
No. 17. I feared it would be a long delay because I wasn’t moving fast at all.
I walked most of it, taking the right fork and lakeside path for the first time
on the approach to Buttermere (it’s much better with fewer undulations than keeping
straight on).
I was 1hr 5mins down
at CP4 and it had taken me nearly 8 hours to run a marathon. We were still
legends though. I informed a marshal about stricken number 17. I was genuinely
concerned about him and wondered how he’d make it all that way to sanctuary
when so incapacitated. Only afterwards when I checked the results to see what
became of him did I discover that not only did he finish, he actually caught me
up at that checkpoint!
I enjoyed my first
ham roll to get me fuelled and on my way to Braithwaite. So far my fuelling and
hydration had been going well, with no nausea and no extreme lows, but it was
still early days.
Wasdale Head to CP5 Braithwaite (32.8 miles)
I always look forward
to this section. It’s challenging and interesting even in the dark – ascend around
three inlets, fork left, climb some more to the top then navigate and descend
very carefully; it’s steep. We moved under a clear, moonless, starry sky. The
air remained warm and sultry and I was sweating still in the shorts and
sleeveless base layer I started with. I began to dread sunrise and the heat that
would come with it.
The first signs of
dawn were already starting to appear as we descended towards Braithwaite. I
would have left Braithwaite by this point last year. I was pleased though to
see more of my surroundings than I’m used to at this point.
It’s a long descent
before we finally fork left through Barrow Door just before Barrow hill. A
couple of head torches could be seen wandering about on the top. They’d failed
to take the fork. They set off in pursuit when they saw my head torch on the
correct path. They soon overtook me.
As we enter
Braithwaite and the sharp right turn that zigzags down to the bottom, it’s
surprising how others continue straight on to take the long way round. This
year was no exception. I called them back but they knew best. I’d gained on them
and a few more as we arrived at the church hall. I was now 1hr 6mins down –
just about ‘holding my own’.
Every year,
Braithwaite provides the first scene of proper suffering, with runners trying
to nurse themselves back to health with the right amounts of the right food and
the right drink to allow them to carry on. I didn’t feel too bad considering. I
felt like an impostor in an institution of wretchedness. Tony and Giselle
Dudley and helpers do a grand job every year, helping us back to health here.
Images of wretchedness abound at Braithwaite.
Braithwaite to CP6 Blencathra Centre (41.3 miles)
As always, the air
felt frigid upon exiting the church hall even though it was well after
daybreak. It is because this is a low point and the cold air always gathers in
the valleys. It would get much warmer again as we gained altitude.
On the gradual climb
to the first self-dib point I caught up with Raj Madhas, who was taping his
feet. They were not in a good way. Raj was another runner I’d swapped back and
forth with over the miles. As I plodded onward it wasn’t long before he came
running past. He must have some magic tape. As for my own feet, everything felt
fine apart from pressure points making themselves felt on the tops.
The sun rose unbroken
and unobscured in clear sky as we approached the self-dib. I wanted shelter
from it. We got that when we crossed to the other side of the valley for our
descent towards the Blencathra Centre. I walked most of the way. I tried to run
but the legs were having none of it. I got overtaken aplenty.
I knew that CP6 had a
new crew – Team Little Dave – but I did not expect to be greeted by a pink
fairy. Even the Union Jack was colour coordinated. Little Dave, a top bloke if
ever there was one, had excelled himself to lift our spirits and lighten our
early morning Lakeland 100 misery (well, this is a common low point). However I
wasn’t feeling too bad, still managing to avoid any major lows. I was now 1hr
7mins down so still just about ‘holding my own’. Second ham roll got scoffed
here for the next long stage.
CP6 had improved
under its new leadership – less sterile and more homely. The camouflage
‘modesty screens’ probably added that extra feeling of intimacy / cosiness /
homeliness. If you want to know how that works you’ll have to do the event next
year. Little Dave knows what he’s doing.
The fairy flits around his domain at Blencathra.
Blencathra Centre to CP7 Dockray (49.0 miles)
We negotiated the
fallen tree just after CP6 that we’d been warned about. On the descent of the
lane and right turn through the gate to the railway track bed, three open air
campers were sleeping on the left. Either they were pretending to sleep or they
were inebriated, because the regular clanging of that gate since dark o’clock would
surely have prevented any normal sleep.
The climb to the old
coach road was completely dry and bog-free. The sun was higher in the sky than
I’m used to at this point, but thankfully the intensity I’d been fearing overnight
was now being slightly tempered by some high level cloud.
The coach road
dragged on interminably, especially when mostly walked. As we approached CP7 we
were greeted by cheering, bell-ringing marshals. Such encouragement is
priceless on an event like this. One of them commented to me: “I’m glad I
didn’t have to come out to meet you this year.” Quite, and what a memory. No
fuelling problems this year. J I was now back to 48
minutes down, due mainly to the multiple sit-downs I had to take last year until
the digestion came back to life.
I tried to recapture
some of last year’s fuelling magic at Dockray. I finished the third ham roll
I’d started on the coach road and washed it down with the first strong coffee of
the event to really kick the digestion into action like it did last year.
Dockray to CP8 Dalemain (59.1 miles)
The fuelling worked
to a degree. I was running and catching people again for a few miles. On the
path around Gowbarrow Park overlooking Ullswater it was as hot as ever. 2014
was right up there with the hottest of them.
By the time we
reached the lanes into Dacre I was reduced once more to a walk. Those I’d
caught and been running with disappeared into the distance. I needed a bottle
refill to mix some electrolytes and started to scan buildings for outside taps.
Soon I passed a farm with someone working outside. I walked up to beg for water.
He already seemed to know what we were doing and was happy to oblige. He led me
into a dingy barn and switched on the 60W bulb. It made no difference. We could
just about make out two taps on the wall, one hot and one cold. He tried both.
“I’m not sure which one’s the cold one. I think it’s this one.” He left it
running for me to fill my bottle. It was tepid but I put that down to the
exceptionally warm summer we were enjoying. I thanked him and wandered up the
road to sit cross-legged to get the electrolyte tablet to pop in. I thought
about the taps, their plumbing arrangement and the sound the water had made as
it came out. A horrible thought began to dawn on me. There had been an absence
of hiss, which suggested an absence of pressure:
“That was the hot tap
he made me fill my bottle from!”
Images of a polluted
header tank with unmentionable dead things in it flooded my mind. This might
provide the tipping point to hospitalisation on top of the sweating and gently festering
ham rolls that were keeping me going.
Due to my slower pace
and the half-hour earlier start time of the Lakeland 50 (11:30 instead of
12:00) I had not expected to see any L50 runners, so I was delighted to see
streams of runners circling the perimeter of the Dalemain Estate as I entered.
I found their encouragement to be really uplifting when they saw the L100 race
number on my backpack and broke out into spontaneous applause. This event
really has got every detail covered to create the best possible ultra-running family
of mutual understanding and respect. Name, number and event on backpack inform following
runners, allowing them to pass comment or whatever, should they so wish.
Applauding 50-milers leave me standing at Dalemain.
I was ready for a
sit-down upon my arrival at CP8. I was back to 1 hour down but I couldn’t give
a whatsit. I was doing the best I could and I was resigned to it taking longer.
I was still moving forward and feeling as contented as it was possible to feel
at 59 miles of the Lakeland 100. I sat cross-legged on the grass in the
marquee. A marshal brought my drop bag in double quick time and I gave my
camera lens its first proper clean (rather than a smearing on my shorts) using
a fresh sock. Ultra-running animals and legends Jon Steele and John Vernon gave
their encouragement from outside (penetration of our inner sanctum was
forbidden). I was waited on with meat stew and bread, Swiss roll and custard,
and tea. Raj Madhas sat in the corner tending to his feet again. This would be
the last time I’d see him before the finish (and finish he did). With a fresh
pair of socks and a restocking of supplies including three more ham rolls, nicely
warmed and humming quietly to themselves, I gave my thanks and departed.
The Dalemain sanctuary.
Jon and John look in from beyond the threshold.
Dalemain to CP9 Howtown (66.2 miles)
The early afternoon
sunshine was at full strength again as I walked away feeling contentedly
fuelled. I was alone again but it wasn’t long before I caught up with a lone
100-miler followed by the 50-mile back marker. It was nice to chat in passing. On
the climb out of Pooley Bridge the suffering really began to set in. Digestion
was showing the first signs of rebellion and I was not able to drink as much as
I should. I walked virtually every step to Howtown, by which point I was in serious
drink deficit.
Little Dave was on
his way back up the hill as I descended to CP9. He was doing the L50 with his
brother. Mutual encouragement flowed freely. He told me afterwards that I’d
looked rough.
I wandered into the
checkpoint 1hr 17mins down, worried at the state I’d suddenly found myself in
and genuinely fearful for the next long, tough, hot, exposed stage to Mardale
Head. It would be foolhardy to start it. Garry Scott reminded me afterwards
that he spoke to me and helped while he was waiting for the bus transport back
to base. He had retired a few hours earlier. I had little recollection of this.
Was I really that far gone?
What I do remember is
struggling to find level ground for the chair I was sitting on and a marshal
expressing concern for the runner who’d been lying down to recover before going
off for a swim in the lake to cool off. She’d given him strict instructions to
paddle, not swim (for obvious safety reasons) and he still wasn’t back. A short
while later, Brian ‘Stolly’ Stallwood appeared looking very wet.
“Did you swim?” she asked.
“Yes”.
“Naughty boy. I’ll
confiscate your strawberries for disobeying orders.”
Stolly had decided to
call it a day. He was burning up in the heat and could not imagine embarking on
the next stage up Fusedale. This reinforced my own fears. I downed the
remainder of the electrolyte drink made with the header tank water at Dacre plus
another bottle with the last of the checkpoint’s orange squash. I began to feel
a bit more lucid.
With drink bottles
topped up (water in right hand and Cola in left as usual) I stood up with Marc
Laithwaite’s words ringing in my ears. I chose to walk out and continue on my
way despite the voice of sense and rationality in my head telling me to stop. A
sign at the exit that said “Just get on with it” helped to galvanise me into
action.
Venturing forth into the unknown.
Howtown to CP10 Mardale Head (75.6 miles)
I knew I was doing
everything in my power not to fail as I walked up that lane in ‘the oven’. I
had as much drink as I could carry and I knew the streams where I could top up
when (not if) it ran out. I had more than enough food to keep me going for
hours. I had my sun cap to keep the worst of the sun’s heat off my head. I had
the emergency survival gear we must take on events of this nature. I’d just
keep putting one foot in front of the other. If it went really pear shaped on
the climb I could turn around and go back to the checkpoint.
I crossed the
footbridge that led us back onto the fell. A female runner was in distress by
the side of the path with a male runner giving advice and spelling out her
options, one of which was to return to Howtown. It was sobering. As we ascended
Fusedale I realised that I was catching and overtaking both L50 and L100
runners (don’t know why but that always seems to happen here, no matter how
slowly I think I’m going). I arrived at the oasis where the stream passed
underneath the path and a weather-beaten tree provided shade. Runners were
sitting in recovery, drinking from the stream or cooling themselves in it,
dipping caps and refilling water bottles. I felt no need for any of that and
walked on through.
Resting in the shadow by the oasis.
As I climbed, people
in varying states of disrepair rested by the side of the path, sitting, bent
over looking quite ill, vomiting, or lying down trying to grab 40 winks in the
blazing sunshine. As the path became rather steep a woman was sitting by the
side in tears. I asked what was wrong. She was having a panic attack over the
enormity of what she had taken on. I could understand because I hadn’t been far
off that myself. I tried to help her to rationalise her thoughts:
Did she have plenty
of drink with her? Check.
Did she have plenty
of food? Check.
Sun protection, cap,
etc.? Check.
I explained that
there are streams where she can refill her bottles if her supplies ran out. If
she carried on putting one foot in front of the other, looking after herself
along the way, she’d get there no problem. If she really didn’t think she could
go on, the best would be to walk back down to Howtown. I don’t know if she
continued. I hope she did.
I began to realise
that the sun wasn’t as intense as it could have been. A high layer of thin
cloud had moved in to take the heat off. In addition, a cooling breeze kept
blowing from over the hill. By the time I reached the high point of the event
at High Kop, conditions were quite pleasant and bearable. However the oomph was
deserting my legs once again and the runners I’d overtaken on the climb now began
to overtake me on the descent.
By the descent
towards Haweswater I had to sit down to eat ham roll number 4 (the first of the
ones that had stewed in my drop bag). I washed it down with the remainder of
the Cola I’d carried from Howtown. At the big footbridge I refilled the freshly
emptied bottle in the stream. I found the new improved path to the right that
joined the narrow, undulating rocky path beside Haweswater, by which point I
was feeling surprisingly energetic again. I ran most of that path (at least the
parts that are runnable) to Mardale Head, overtaking many L50 and a few L100
runners in the process. Even so, the checkpoint took much longer to appear than
I thought it would. That path really does drag on.
I was 1hr 37mins down
by the time I arrived. Steve Mee was a familiar friendly face helping out on
the checkpoint. I asked for a Cola top-up. “Sorry, none left.” The checkpoint
looked rather depleted as if I was Tail End Charlie, but cut-off was still a
long way off yet and there were still plenty of runners behind me. This was the
only checkpoint that appeared prematurely run-down like this. I know it’s
remote but I hope it can be better supplied in future.
Arriving at Mardale Head. The Rola Cola wasn't the only thing in drought.
Mardale Head to CP11 Kentmere (82.1 miles)
I set off climbing to
the next pass and soon forgot about the Cola denial. As in previous years, the
clouds were beginning to thicken. The descent of the other side down that
rocky, treacherous track was even more interminable and unrunnable than ever. I
couldn’t do anything other than walk. As Kentmere gradually drew closer, true
to form the first rain started to fall. I just avoided having to put
waterproofs on before arriving at the Institute. Does it ever not rain at
Kentmere? I was now 1hr 43mins down.
Jenn Gaskell provided
a warm welcome and waited on me admirably with tea, smoothie and savoury pasta.
They really hit the spot. Jenn has taken on some serious Ultra challenges in
recent years so she instinctively knew what we needed. I took my time emptying
my shoes of stones and letting my increasingly sore feet dry out a little. All
this walking was tugging at the soles, causing them to break down. That’s
normal. What wasn’t normal was the pressure point that had definitely developed
on the 5th metatarsal on my right foot. The shoe uppers seemed to be
less than ideal.
Jenn provides a nice welcome at Kentmere.
The rain was still
coming down so on went the waterproof top and bottoms. It was also well on the
way to getting dark so camera got put away and sun cap got swapped for head
torch once more in readiness for the second night. I felt in no mood to venture
out again but “I’ve started so I’ll finish”.
Kentmere to CP12 Ambleside (89.4 miles)
I left the checkpoint
with freshly filled Cola and water bottles. Within 30 seconds there was an
explosion to my left and something hit the side of my face before landing on
the grass verge. The Cola gas pressure had blown the top off my drink bottle. I
made sure I released the pressure more regularly after that.
I resumed my
walk-cum-shuffle and immediately began to overheat. Typical. Unzipping jacket
and rolling up sleeves wasn’t enough. I was burning up. I stopped to take the jacket
off and put it back in my rucksack. A minute later, big rain drops started to
hammer down. TYPICAL. I carried on for a few more seconds to see if it would
stop but it only got heavier. I hurled verbal abuse at the sky as I took
rucksack off again to retrieve jacket, during which time I got soaked and
nicely cooled down. After that I was able to move in comfort through the deluge
even with the jacket on. Bonus!
I wasn’t used to
doing this in the dark without the visual cues to jog my memory. I caught up and
tagged along with runners ahead, moving forwards to join other runners whenever
I felt able. Running was off limits; we just walked or shuffled as fast as we
were able. The rain was mercifully short-lived and soon died out to reveal
another moonless starlit sky. As we approached Skelghyll Woods I was moving
ahead but there were no more head torches in sight. I knew not to descend left
too early like I did last year. Navigation went perfectly into Ambleside then
went awry just before the checkpoint when I turned left too early. I and
another runner who’d followed me floundered about in the church yard trying to
get to the checkpoint building which we could see, before realising that we had
to exit the way we’d gone in and follow the road round to reach it.
We entered the sauna
that is CP12 (it’s always too hot in there). I was now 2hrs 13mins down. Ham
roll number 5 got washed down by another cup of tea to set me up for what I
always feel is the homeward stretch: only 15 miles to go.
Ambleside to CP13 Chapel Stile (95.0 miles)
I tried not to linger
too long before heading out across the park to hit that steep track upwards and
chase down the next head torch beams. I was feeling much less alert than I
usually do. In fact I felt as if my brain was shut down and just functioning
enough for survival. What was strange was that, even though I was so tired
there were no visual anomalies in my peripheral vision, no hallucinations, nothing.
I was just a brain-dead zombie in pursuit of head torch beams ahead.
I soon tagged onto
another group. By the time we reached the flat, oh-so-runnable riverside path
to Elterwater I could only walk at 2mph. The others went ahead. When I reached
the other end I went around the car-park in circles trying to find my way out to
the road. My brain was frazzled. At that point the others came back down the
road, having turned right by mistake. We found our way to the track on the left
hand side of the river up to the quarry. I caused a bit more off-route
floundering in Chapel Stile before we found the track to the camp site then
CP13 with the aid of someone’s GPS. (2hrs 33mins down.)
The Langdale
checkpoint was big, spacious and an oasis of calm. The meat stew has always
worked wonders here, restoring energy to tired legs, so I had some with bread,
and coffee for that extra caffeine kick. I was ready to go but the people I’d
entered the checkpoint with weren’t, so I jumped up to join another group that
was just leaving.
Chapel Stile to CP14 Tilberthwaite (101.5 miles)
Unlike last year when
I led a group of 50-milers from CP13 in unbelievably energetic haste, this time
I was following, dragging my sorry a*se and trying to stay awake. We came to
the high ladder stile with Conservative tendencies (pronounced leaning to the right).
I made a hash of descending the other side on my uncharacteristically tired
legs, missing the bottom rung and landing in haste on all fours between and
astride rocks. No damage was done but the top popped off my drink bottle again.
The Cola I’d carried from Kentmere soaked into the ground. There’d be no more after
that.
In stark contrast to
last year I trudged weakly up the steep climb after the left turn, always bringing
up the rear. The first hint of daylight just allowed us to glimpse Blea Tarn on
our left as we headed towards the dreaded rocky then boggy navigation to the second
and final self-dib at the lane. I’m not used to having daylight to navigate by at
this point. We walked down the lane to turn right onto the interminable track up
and over to Tilberthwaite. ‘Interminable’ becomes a lifetime when you can hardly
walk. I was utterly spent with nothing left in the legs. Those I’d been
shuffling with quickly disappeared into the distance and over the horizon,
leaving me to trudge in self-pity and utter wretchedness. My legs were dead and
my feet were sore. The Scarpas weren’t doing me any favours after all. I
eventually trudged into the final checkpoint 3hrs 12mins down.
Tilberthwaite to FINISH Coniston (105.0 miles)
I spent as little
time as possible sitting down at Tilberthwaite, just enough for a bit of food
and another coffee in the hopes that the caffeine might kick-start something,
anything, into action. I walked up the steps and paused at the top to look back
down onto the checkpoint. I rarely get to see it in daylight. I wished I had my
camera out. As I walked slowly to the final high point I got overtaken by
another 100-miler who was also walking, but not as slowly as I was. Then I was
alone again for the steep, rocky descent, which I took painfully slowly and clumsily.
Once onto the
runnable track down into Coniston I was too weak to take advantage. I tried to
run and failed. I could only trudge at barely 2mph. As I did so, “Huge Guy”
came bounding past me at speed to finish 3 places and 9 minutes ahead. I had
run with him and swapped back and forth for most of the event. His name was
Hugh-Guy but his rucksack strap covered the label to leave “Hug Guy”, so he effectively
became “Huge Guy” for the duration of that event until his rucksack was
unbuckled.
When I hit the tarmac
at the bottom of the track I took my shoes off to ease the foot pain and walk
the final half mile to the finish in socks only. The relief was immense. The
strappy uppers of the shoes (part of the lacing system) had pressed into the
tops of my feet and bruised the metatarsals. Someone who was walking up the
track must have taken pity on me. He turned around and walked with me to the
school, offering words of encouragement. My final dib in 37:21 was 3hrs 43mins
behind last year’s time. I was led into the hall to an announcement and a round
of applause, draping of medal, issuing of finisher’s T-shirt, surgical removal
of dibber and printout of split times. I was elated to have finally finished so
the recovery process could commence – drying out, mug of tea, large bacon and 2
egg barm and crash-out on the crash mat with distant sounds of finishers and
applause ringing in my subconscious.
It was hard won this year.
