Rowbotham’s Round Rotherham 50mi. 17/10/2009

The three triumphant Stockport Harriers - Andy Fowler, Nick Ham, Andy Shirres.

Rowbotham's Round Rotherham
What an amazing ultra-running experience. It has reaffirmed my love of ultra running. It felt so good to have a body that once again did everything I asked of it, but this time even exceeded what I expected of it. Everything went as perfectly as it could go. Three consecutive years of PBs by a few minutes and never being able to break the 10-hour barrier became a PB by 58 minutes and a finishing time of 9:13. Obviously the conditions helped and it would have been ‘PBs all round’, but to improve by 58 minutes on my 4th completion way exceeded my expectations. I averaged 5.42 miles per hour over 50 miles of trail, including checkpoint stops. For many that's not fast (there were 37 finishers ahead of me after all) but for me it’s verging on superhuman, so I'm ecstatic!

I drove over the Woodhead Pass on Friday evening for overnight accommodation in the Sandygate House Hotel in Wath upon Dearne, which is very close to the Dearne Valley College and convenient for the early start on Saturday. Since Geoff H was staying at the same hotel, we went out for a drink and a chin-wag; there was a lot of catching up to do since our events hadn't coincided for many months. Alcohol consumption isn’t my normal pre-race preparation, but why stop a favourite pastime just because of an ultra? We topped the evening off nicely with some last minute carbo-loading from the local chippy at closing time.

Sleep took a long time coming thanks to the disco until midnight, followed by the drunken revelry outside and the boy racers with their sewage pipe exhausts and rubber band tyres. About 4 hours’ fitful sleep were the best we could hope for.

The weather had continued to astound us with its kindness as we gathered in front of the sports hall in the cool pre-dawn to await the timekeeper’s instructions and send-off. There were some minor route changes: a footpath dispute causing a minor deviation, a reinstated bridge to restore the original route of a few years back and an alternative final few hundred yards to the finish.

There had still been little significant rainfall since August and we were looking forward to the driest conditions on record – such a stark contrast to the freezing cold, gale-driven sleet and mud bath of the previous two years. In addition, the fact that the event had been brought forward by two months ensured that head torches would not be needed for most runners. I took a calculated risk and left mine behind in the hall.

The walkers had set off at 6am and the relay runners would set off at 8am, but we runners were sent on our way at 7am along the cycle ways and footpaths, beside the river with the dumped shopping trolleys and fly-tipping towards Elsecar. I ran the first 5 miles to Elsecar at a pace that felt just comfortable yet sustainable. Chris Brown, Geoff Holburt and Mark Dalton (three people I use as pacers, unbeknown to them) were not far behind. After the left turn over the railway and the climb into the woods, as I removed the layer that was now keeping me too warm, Colm McCoy passed me and said: “Thanks for setting the pace there, Nick”. That was very kind I thought, but it did concern me. He’s an ultra runner of much greater capability, so I must have set off too fast. Oops, let’s hope I don’t blow up later on.

Very shortly we were into Wentworth, past the church and looking for the left turn along the concrete track. I never remembered which left turn to take here because of confusion with another event – the Elsecar Skelter – which covers similar ground at that point. Anyway, not to worry; there were loads of markers out this year which begged us to carry on to the second left turn, but once we got there where I knew we HAD to turn left, they didn’t direct us left. That settled it. The tape had been tampered with. With some minor curses of frustration from our group we followed our noses down the track and back across the large ploughed and sown field to the track we should have been on. Fortunately, thanks to the dryness of the finely ploughed soil, not only did our shoes remain dry and uncaked, we left no footprints behind. That made me feel slightly less guilty about our trespass. Now I’ve made the mistake I shall know for evermore to take the first left at the brow of the hill. We’d probably lost 5 minutes or more but I didn’t let it bother me. I just continued to concentrate on running within myself and marvel at the balmy, dry conditions we were enjoying considering it was already mid October.

The uniquely bloated outline of Keppel’s Column folly soon came into view on the climb to the ridge after Thorpe Hesley. The climb up the rough heath to the bulging column brought the first of the photographers into view, just like last year but this time they didn’t have to be concerned about keeping their equipment dry. With 10 miles now done it was a quick descent from the swollen erection (oh behave; it’s a convex-sided tower!) along the road to Grange Park and Checkpoint 1. “Let us eat cake.”

The woods either side of Droppingwell Lane contained some interesting bronze sculptures that quite commanded my attention as I passed by. I still wonder about their significance.

The minor reroute around the disputed path after Hilltop was not a problem. The original route as we passed by on the road below looked overgrown with brambles anyway. At least the new route was clear.

Just after Tinsley and the industrial estate, the sharp right turn footpath junction that remains invisible until you pass it, catches someone out every year. This time it was Geoff. As he passed it I called him back. It allowed me just enough time to sneak in front for a short while.

With 15 miles gone and with Sheffield Airport to our right, a newly waymarked and freshly mown wide path across the lumpy and now fully grassed waste ground guided us to the steps down to pass underneath Sheffield Parkway. The adjacent derelict railway line seemed to be gone and new things were afoot for that area of wasteland now. We ran beneath a scaffolding jungle that enshrouded the motorway bridge above us. I look forward to returning next year to see what new use replaced the dereliction.

With so much building and regeneration going on in these once heavily industrialised or mining areas, there are changes to see every year. It must keep the race organisers on their toes ensuring that the footpaths are accessible each year. It also keeps it interesting for us participants to see the changes as dereliction is replaced by regeneration or, better still, returned to nature.

The restoration of the original route after Catcliffe, thanks to the rebuilding of the footbridge, proved interesting. I’d remembered the right turn onto the main road but the route beside the river had escaped my memory. Our running group at the time appeared to take a non-optimum route too low down, which required a scramble up to the top when ‘jungle’ blocked further progress. However, once up on the top at the field edge, the route became clear and runnable again. Geoff, who’s like a Duracell bunny and just keeps going without seeming to slow, had again built up a good lead and was vanishing into the distance towards Checkpoint 2 at Treeton. The shiny new bridge across the river looked impressive.

CP2’s new location in the entrance to the cricket club was a big improvement – much better than on the road/footpath junction. “More tea vicar, and how about a spot of tiffin to soak it up?” I availed myself of the comestibles, then followed another short stretch of new route that delivered us perfectly onto the concrete causeway over the boggy shores of Treeton Dyke.

Our route continued right onto the ex A57, past the dog kennels with the baying hounds, past the joinery works and left onto the Trans Pennine Trail cycleway beside the railway line. The viaduct, then the double-back over the road bridge and back onto the trail, now on the left-hand side of the railway line, provided my next mental targets before entering Rother Valley Country Park, which brought us 20 miles into the run. The sun was shining and this ex-mining area is an oasis of countryside, but this is never a happy point for me (and other runners, by several accounts). Here’s why:

The relatively flat nature of this event means that most of it has to be run. There is less variation and there are fewer 'walking up' and 'running down' breaks than I am used to. Consequently (speaking for myself), even though I keep feeding and watering myself judiciously throughout to avoid a ‘bonk’, there comes a time when the pace cannot be sustained. A slowdown and a more drastic intake of food become necessary. That point ALWAYS occurs here, at 20 miles, all five times I have started this event. It caused my first ever DNF in 2001 when I did not realise that you can bounce back strongly from such lows. Fortunately I did not have to sit down this time. I just walked, took out a mini pork pie and washed it down with Coke. It provided a good opportunity to chat to a couple of walkers I’d caught up with.

Shortly afterwards, Mark and Chris overtook me. I tried to shuffle in their wake but the sustenance was not yet doing a good enough job for me to be able to keep up. I did not feel frustrated by my weakness and inadequacy like I might have done in my less informed past. I bided my time and waited for the body to start cooperating again, which I knew it would do sooner or later.

I continued to shuffle my way, ultraplodder stylie, along the long flat stretch then uphill to the A618, chatting with other walkers as I caught up with them. We had been comprehensively overtaken by relay runners for a good while now. They were easily identifiable by their indecent speed and their absence of equipment. I wasn't carrying much but at least I had a bum bag. I didn’t envy them one bit. I was happy to be going at my own slow pace and experiencing the whole event rather than a small part of it.

I was alone again as I climbed beside the derelict canal towards the M1 underpass. I was struck by the unusual silence, then I noticed that there was no water flowing down the water course, such was the recent lack of rain. That’s a first and probably a last.

Just like in previous years, as I climbed into the fields, energy was being restored to my body and running was becoming easier. I continued to overtake other runners and walkers as we crossed the unbelievably dry, finely ploughed fields to Checkpoint 3 at Harthill. This was 25 miles – the halfway point! “How about a dainty jam sandwich this time? Don’t mind if I do.” I was surprised to see Mark there. He just needed to regroup; he would bounce back, like we all do as long as we can eat and we give it time.

I paused just long enough for the dainty morsel and to refill my bottle before emerging to take the sneaky little snicket on the left up to the road. A feral 'chav' called out some ‘encouragement’ from its car as I waited for it to pass before crossing to the footpath opposite. Thankfully I was soon back into countryside again – lots of fields to cross, many finely ploughed and seeded, the footpath invisible were it not for the faster runners who had already created a faint trail with their light footfall.

I looked out carefully for aircraft as I crossed the end of the grass airstrip with its battered and squashed, vintage red and white barrier.

The marshal at the railway crossing seemed somewhat superfluous, since we were just as capable of spotting and hearing advancing trains from afar as he. However, UK nanny-state law stipulates it. On the other hand, the marshal at the A57 crossing was definitely needed. The 60mph two-way traffic was only allowing one or two runners across at any one time when I crossed. Two sets of eyes were needed for survival.

Checkpoint 4, Woodsetts, nearly 35 miles, was a flurry of activity with relay runners milling about, just arrived or waiting for their team mate to run in. I was amazed to see Chris and Geoff inside – I'd actually caught them up! I kneeled down to squeeze the lactic acid out of my leg muscles and restore life to them as I partook. “Two tuna sandwiches and Coke to please sir?” You bet.

With minimal delay I was out of there ahead of Chris. Geoff was waiting at the other side of the sports field. He wasn't sure of the route and needed a running companion who knew the way. It was good to be running with someone again. It wasn't long before Chris caught us up. His refuelling had kicked in well. We jogged along together, between the hill and the works, past yet more fly-tipping then past Langold Lake, but shortly afterwards, in the woods, they pulled away. They're stronger than I and Geoff now had a new navigator. I found myself alone again. Shortly after that I wasted a few minutes, unsure of the path's exit onto a busy road that was described as a lane on the (excellent) strip map. Some runners I'd passed earlier caught up and confirmed the path's exit onto the road was here. I was off again, shortly to arrive at Checkpoint 5, Firbeck, 35 miles.

A quick bottle refill and biscuit and I was off again, back into the fields. I was prepared this year for the long left – right – left – right – left – right stretch across the wide open fields that in previous years seemed interminable. (If you’ve done the event you’ll know what I mean. If not and you’re curious, I’m not talking about marching. You’ll have to do the event next year to experience the delight for yourselves.) I could see a couple of other runners way ahead and I was able to keep up the shuffle-jog (still faster than walking) in an attempt to close the gap. They became my new target. These fields, and Roche Abbey which wasn’t far away now, provided more of the mental milestones that kept me going.

Roche Abbey always delights yet saddens me. The grandeur of its remains delights me, while the fact that it was mindlessly smashed up, along with all other religious buildings during the dissolution in King Henry VIII’s reign, saddens me; such mindless wanton destruction. It has languished since 1538!

Two more photographers were lurking around the Abbey, watching me take my own pictures before they took mine. I was still alone, the two runners ahead remaining out of sight and seemingly uncatchable. Perhaps I should stop taking pictures.

As I climbed through the woods on the approach to the 40-mile mark, a young couple walking in the opposite direction asked if there was an orienteering event going on. When I told them we were running a 50-mile trail race, the glazed look of incomprehension followed by the gawp of incredulity were familiar. “What, in one day?” came the natural retort.

My next mental target was the church graveyard at Maltby. I nearly caught the two runners on the approach but they got away again when I paused to take more pictures.

Checkpoint 6 at Maltby had an uphill road approach, most of which I walked. The legs were feeling very heavy and running was an effort. I finally caught up with the runners (David Egan and Marla Howard-Cutts) after CP6. This was Marla's first event after her fall in the High Peak 40 a month earlier (I had helped her to her feet when I passed). Her fall had been far more serious than I realised. It had put her out of action until this event. It was good to see her back doing another ultra and going faster than ever. Both she and David had really taken some catching-up. We enjoyed each other's company for a few miles through Hooton Roberts to Old Denaby. On the ascending track prior to Old Denaby they were pulling away from me again and I was struggling to keep up. My legs needed fuel, like they always do at this point, so out came a Kellogg's Elevenses bar, which always does the trick.

By the time I arrived at the final checkpoint (CP7, Old Denaby) the food was already doing its job. I was feeling revived again. With only three miles to go and alone again (the way I like it, feeling like a fugitive trying not to get caught) I could 'smell the barn' and I was off, heading back towards the relative squalor of past industry. My memory was working perfectly and navigation was going like a dream as the route twisted and turned down roads, over bridges, under bridges, by canal, river and railway line, past derelict pub and past a stagnant stretch of canal whose surface culture looked like a manky green shag pile.

I'm nearly home. I hit the new route to the finish – bear left across the road into the field and follow the markers (thankfully not interfered with this time) on the twisty footpath to the cycle track (much better than the longer way round the road we used to do). Down the cycle track, college buildings coming into view and there's no-one behind to catch me. Nonetheless I give it my all, running as fast as I can down that dry, gently descending track to another new section. Tape directs me to the left, across soft cushioned grass, past groups of cheering spectators and through a gate left open in our honour to the sports courts. A final, gravity-assisted sprint down the ramp to the finish makes me feel superhuman considering I've just run 50 miles. I can hardly believe how emphatically I have PBd. I arrive just 5 minutes behind Chris and Geoff, having not seen them for over 15 miles.

Mark did bounce back. He finished 37 minutes later.

In view of the dryness, the camera mostly behaved itself and I took quite a few pictures. Without them I might have been 5 minutes quicker ;-)

Vasque series race 12 – Longmynd Hike 50mi. 03-04/10/2009

Longmynd Hike
Despite my body’s unwilling exertions in the High Peak 40 and Pumlumon Challenge the week before it, my recovery continued in the two weeks leading up to the Longmynd Hike. Gone was the constant tiredness and disinterest in life; back was the desire to write my race reports and upload the pictures I had taken, and back was the desire to start running to work again in the week leading up to Longmynd.

I drove down to the Church Stretton School to arrive 3 hours before the 1pm start to get checked in and kit checked. First priority was to get my bed set out ready for my return. The carpeted classrooms were fast filling up with an assortment of mats and sleeping bags. Soon they would be spilling out into the corridor as the prime spots were taken. That’s why you need to arrive early. With that essential priority out of the way, check-in and kit check were very efficient and the best ever, thanks to lots of officials working in parallel in separate halls.

Unlike the previous two times I have done this event, when my rucksack felt impossibly heavy and cumbersome for running, I was very careful with my kit selection to satisfy kit requirements without taking unnecessary extra plus the kitchen sink.
Out was the heavyweight rucksack liner that’s good for keeping your stuff dry even if you have to use your rucksack as a flotation aid, in was a plastic bag as the liner.
Out was the heavyweight survival bag, in was the featherweight silver blanket (still within the kit rules).
Out was the second spare long-sleeved top (I never need to wear three).
I was particularly pleased at persuading the official to allow me to take my 1:25,000 Tracklogs maps with the full route plotted on, in place of the three heavy paper maps. He only agreed to this after I’d demonstrated their waterfastness by squirting my water bottle over them, and his desk (the desk wetting was unintentional). He was so impressed he simply had to say yes.
I did not skimp on the food. We had to be self sufficient so I took four SIS gels, an assortment of cereal bars, a Marathon bar (I refuse to use that ridiculous-sounding new-fangled ‘S’ word), three Marmite rolls, a turkey roll, six fig rolls, two mini pork pies and half a chewed malt loaf left over from Pumlumon. I knew I wouldn’t eat all the food but we did need to have emergency rations in reserve as well. I thought I was covered, so did the official.
In addition to my two hand-held bottles with one dose of electrolyte turbo powder for the final quarter of the race, I carried two small bottles of Coke for that essential sugar & caffeine boost to keep the legs moving when energy levels started to run low. Most of the weight came from the food and drink.
[By the end of the race I had consumed the Coke, three gels, three fig rolls, a peanut butter Cliff bar, both pork pies, a turkey roll, a Marmite roll and the electrolyte turbo powder mix. Add to that the cold drinks, mushroom soup, chicken soup, Bovril drink and coffee at the checkpoints, I kept pretty well fuelled throughout.]

At 12:30pm we sauntered the mile or so along the side streets and footpaths across the railway line and main road to the starting field. I had never seen such a big turn-out. Loads of officials lined up along the fence at the bottom of the field with our tallies, which we collected in exchange for our chitties signed earlier at kit check. As we awaited the 1pm send-off I wandered up to the front, where the speedy ones had gathered ready for their quick getaway. I had previously noticed the modest size of Andy Rankin’s pack; his bum bag now looked even smaller alongside the backpacks everyone else was wearing. He did assure us that it contained the full kit requirement. Perhaps he was telling the truth, since I don’t think he eats much on his long runs and he certainly has no time for washing up. I felt quite envious. I give my best performances when wearing a bum bag rather than a rucksack. Having said that, mine was feeling a lot less burdensome this year.

I quickly moved back from the front line to my rightful place in the pack just before we were sent on our way. I shuffled up the trail at the edge of the field with the 500-plus other runners and walkers. I was noticing the ravages of drought. It had hardly rained in over a month – since August in fact – so the ground was very dry and the grass was quite brown and stunted under the shelter of the trees. How surreal to be running in such conditions in October. The weather was finally beginning to turn but giving no cause for concern. The first vigorous Atlantic depression of the autumn was tracking eastwards across Scotland. The forecast had predicted strong winds and only drizzly showers for Saturday, with everything calming down and clearing up by the evening. I was not worried and was looking forward to a cool, dry run.

Most of us mere mortals walked up to the top of the first of twelve hills – Caer Caradoc. It was quite a sight to see the runners (actually walkers at this point) snaking their way up to the summit, where Checkpoint 1 (1.5 miles) was situated. As we ascended we soon noticed the familiar theme – the wind got stronger the higher we climbed. It wasn’t really a problem, it added to the excitement. I braced myself to take pictures.

The run down Caer Caradoc and around the right of Little Caradoc’s summit was steep and fast, with only one slip on the shiny grass. My landing on my hand-held bottles was soft as they ejected two high pressure jets of liquid. A short stretch of road brought us to the foot of hill 2 – The Lawley. The ascent to CP2 (3.5 miles) at the summit and the descent provided the first out-and-back. This event is already very friendly with great camaraderie. The greetings, “how-do”s and “well done”s as we first pass the faster ones on the way up, then the slower ones on the way down, make it even more so. It’s amazing how many acquaintances one can build up over thirteen years of eventing. The run off The Lawley was entertaining. It was necessary to run at a tilt, leaning to the right against the wind over the steep drop-off.

After the descent back to the road and calmer conditions, there was a flat section across fields and roads before beginning the slow, steady climb via CP3 (High Park, 6.9 miles) to CP4 (Pole Bank, 9.7 miles) at the summit of hill 3. The so-called drizzle showers had been getting heavier and more persistent since High Park as we gained altitude, but I wasn’t worried. It was only drizzle and they were only supposed to be showers. It was just the wind that was making it seem heavier. I was running in a thin long-sleeved top but I was comfortable, so I resisted putting on any more clothes. I didn’t want to overheat. I kept telling myself the rain would stop soon.

The final ascent to Pole Bank provided another brief out-and-back and a few more friendly “how-do”s before the left turn and long gradual descent across the fells to Coates farm, where our route joined the return route we would be following much later in the dark. I crossed the forbidden cattle grid (you'll have to do the event if you're wondering what I'm going on about). As I descended, the rain eased off as I had been expecting. Checkpoint 5 (12.4 miles) at Bridges provided a low point (geographically speaking) before the long, slow climb up the road towards Stiperstones, but BAD NEWS, the rain started again, more intensely than before. As we plodded up the road, all we could see was a wall of black cloud ahead as we battled our way into the driving rain. I and those around me were saying: “This shouldn’t be happening. The forecast didn’t predict this.” Still I held off putting my waterproof on as I climbed towards the Stiperstones Carpark. After all, it was only supposed to be drizzle showers, right?

The tent we would be using as a checkpoint on the return leg was already erected on the far edge of the carpark and occupied by a marshal who was sheltering from weather to which we had become most unaccustomed. As I departed from the return route I NEARLY diverted there for some shelter to get my showerproof top on, but at the last instant I didn’t bother and instead continued through the gate up onto Stiperstones. The wind was howling from my left and I was finally beginning to get cold, but I could see the first signs of brightening sky to the west, while the rain seemed to be easing.

I picked my way carefully across the exposed rocks and stones to the summit of hill 4 and CP6 (Stiperstones, 14.9 miles). At the first rock outcrop that provided shelter from the gale, even though the rain had all but stopped I was now officially cold and needed to reduce the wind chill, so I finally relented and put my lightweight windproof layer on. I needed to get running to get warm, but not just yet, not across the lethal rocks of Stiperstones. They are an accident waiting to happen. I bided my time.

Shortly after leaving CP6 I was surprised to see Mark Rawlinson going in the opposite direction back up to the checkpoint. He said there’d been a serious accident and he was returning to warn the marshals. Further down the trail, where the lethal rocks were fewer and it was just about safe to start running again, I saw Ian Hodge, knee tightly bandaged, being helped very slowly back up the trail. He had tripped and fallen and gashed his knee very badly. He was out of the race, which was very sad. He had put his first aid kit to good use and demonstrated the importance of the compulsory kit requirement. The accident also demonstrated the selflessness of our fellow runners by the help and support given by two of them. After checking that they were alright and didn’t need any further assistance from me, I continued my descent towards Habberley. The rain had stopped, the sky was turning blue, the sun began to shine and I was warm again.

From Habberley, hill number 5 – Earl’s Hill – was another out-and-back. Although I was now very warm I resisted taking off my windproof layer until I had completed that exposed, windy section. Checkpoint 7 (20.1 miles) was at the summit. As I descended back down I passed Mark on his way up. I know he’s faster than I but I was still amazed that he’d caught up again so quickly. I expected him to pass me before the next checkpoint, which saddened me a little because I would quite have liked to have him in my night-time group, but he'll be too fast and get grouped earlier with a faster group. Oh well, this event is the luck of the draw when it comes to the night-time grouping.

Once back down and out of the woods I was officially hot and had to strip (oo-er missus), so off came the windproof and cap and on went the Buff to keep my head warm against the worst of the wind chill, since the passing of the rain had introduced cooler air and a cold night was forecast. I had been keeping the food and drink (including the life-giving elixir for the ultra runner – Coke) trickling in as I progressed and I was feeling good. I was at just the right temperature, I felt lean and mean and raring to go. I set off running back along the track, passing and acknowledging other runners on their way towards Earl’s Hill, overjoyed at how well I was feeling compared to how I felt on the previous two events. I seemed to be back in the running again.

I ran most of the road stretch, overtaking a couple of other runners on the way, to CP8 (Bank Farm, 22 miles), where I had my first soup (mushroom). It went down a treat and set me up well for the next stage, which I had really been looking forward to. I wanted to get to Shelve (where I would be grouped) in daylight and I was looking forward to navigating my way on what I believe to be the optimum route, on my own for the first time. As I left CP8, Mark was just arriving. He would catch me very soon now. My navigation through Maddox’s Coppice to Snailbeach, along the mining railway bed then along the road and footpath to Shelve went like a dream. I ran most of it, eating a mini pork pie on the way to keep my energy up, and I was catching and overtaking other runners, but where was Mark? He still hadn’t caught me. I caught up with Giles, who was running his first Longmynd Hike in 18 years (!) We ran across the fields and into CP9 (Shelve, 27.6 miles) together. In the distance to our left in the advancing gloom was the looming black mass of Corndon Hill. The dim lights on top marked the next checkpoint. Then Giles drew my attention to the full moon that was rising behind us. The wind had all but dropped, the sky had cleared and it promised to be a glorious night for running. I was feeling good. Bring it on!

The tent at Shelve was dry and cosy (you could have sat on the ground it was so dry) and the compulsory grouping into three or more occurred for us here. I had some more soup (chicken this time) and a turkey sandwich. I put my head torch on and put on a second lightweight long-sleeved top, since it would be quite chilly when we emerged back out into the night. Giles and I were grouped. All we needed was a third person and we could be off. Suddenly Mark arrived. He’d taken a less than optimum route through the woods to Snailbeach. He had pushed hard to catch up since Stiperstones and had done really well to succeed. He was keen to be grouped with us and I was keen to have him grouped with us. I knew we would make a really good team. I couldn't have been more happy.

We were soon off into the night down Shelve Hill in the woods, which was drier than usual after so little rain in such a long time. Unfortunately there was still a muddy patch, which Giles slipped on and launched himself to the left to land in the undergrowth, just falling short of smashing his head into a tree as he landed. It was a close call. I pulled him back up and we were on our way again. We three struck up an animated conversation and as we progressed it soon became clear that navigation would not be an issue. Giles had reconnoitred the route carefully and knew exactly where to go. I also felt very confident of where I was going. I hadn’t done the route in two years but I was amazing myself at how I was remembering the intricacies of the route. I had no concerns. It was imprinted on my mind and I could have done it alone. It was great that we were in such total agreement about the optimum route.

We made good progress along the lanes and track to the base of hill 6 – Corndon Hill. It was now fully dark. We took it steadily up the steep climb through the heather on the good path that does not appear on the map. As we neared the top we could see the lights of the next group at the bottom of the hill, which unnerved me a little. I didn't want to get caught. Checkpoint 10 (30.1 miles) was at the summit. A quick tally clip and left turn and we were off, following the fence off the hill. With markers to keep us on the right route to avoid upsetting the sensitive farmer, our navigation was a breeze down to CP11 (Woodgate Farm, 31.5 miles). We allowed ourselves a brief refreshment stop here. I had a cup of coffee for the caffeine boost and to wash down the second pork pie. As we left the checkpoint we could see the head torches of our chasing group descending the hill. It made me want to run and get away. I really didn't want to get caught.

The so-called footpath from Little Cefn Farm to Welsh Lodge is neglected, flooded, overgrown and decrepit, with decayed/rotten/collapsed stiles. The locked metal gate with barbed wire wrapped around the top and a collapsed stile as the only means of getting over the fence is a disgrace. The farmer obviously likes walkers a lot and honours his obligations to maintain the footpaths that cross his land – NOT! Giles did an excellent job of leading us faultlessly through this wilderness. We proceeded on our privileged access onto hill 7 – Black Rhadley. The moon was shining so brightly we could see without our head torches. Checkpoint 12 (34 miles) was at the summit of the stiff climb. It was strange to climb through heather over such steep, rugged terrain to a caravan at the top. The track it was parked on went right up to the edge of the hill. There was no longer any sign of our pursuing group now. We must be making good progress.

From Black Rhadley with the checkpoint's excitable dog in tow for a while, it was a gentle jogging descent down the track to the lane. All systems were go; Mark was doing a good job of keeping a check on everyone, that we were eating and drinking OK and there were no issues threatening. Keeping the communication going like this was good. The biggest issue seemed to be Giles' tired legs and knees that screamed to him on steep descents, which was hardly surprising considering he was not used to running ultras. (I mentioned before that he last ran Longmynd 18 years ago.) His pace and ability to push through the pain were astounding in the circumstances.

We followed the undulating lane – footpath – road to CP13 (36.3 miles) in the Stiperstones carpark. NOW was the correct time to enter that tent. We proceeded through to the inner sanctum where the timekeepers were and where it was surprisingly warm. A runner was already there, head covered, wrapped up and stretched out with a blanket over himself. What I could see of his face rang distant bells with me but I couldn't be sure. Most blokes look the same to me. I asked if he had retired, to which he replied no, he was just resting. As we were about to leave he asked if he could join our group. I said he could, but we were doing quite a bit of running, and could he run? “Yes” came the reply. We were soon back out onto the road we had last traversed in the opposite direction in daylight in the driving rain. Things were so different now. It was cold and dry, the wind had dropped and we could run by moonlight. We introduced ourselves to our new recruit and it transpired that he was none other than Paul Dickens, another Grand Slammer and a fast one at that. My poor powers of recognition came to embarrass me yet again. But what was he doing this far back in the field? He should have finished by now. It transpired that he was another near casualty of Stiperstones much earlier in the day. He had twisted his ankle and hobbled from there, eventually to rest for a long time at CP13. He wasn't letting his G.S. slip through his fingers now. Even though he was so much slower than he was accustomed to, he still had plenty of time to finish, so on he persevered.

Considering our two sufferers, we continued at a respectable pace as a new, friendly group of four. We jogged down the road, through Bridges, then walked up the hill to Coates Farm (recrossing the forbidden cattle grid on the way back) then we split from the outward route as we continued straight on towards Medlicott. After Medlicott Cottage we turned right up hill 8 to CP14 (Pole Cottage, 40.8 miles) at the top. This was a gentle climb compared to the others, but the path was all but hidden by the heather in places. I enjoyed a Bovril drink at CP14, which really hit the spot. Paul was struck by a bout of nausea and vomited, but we were soon on our way again. The night seemed very cold now.

Giles set the pace along the road across the top (he didn't want to be dragged along too fast). As we jogged along, a couple of boy racers came from behind in their little cars. We kept to the side to let them pass. Acceleration was violent as they did so. They disappeared over the brow of the hill and we heard the sound of revving engines and screeching tyres. Within a few minutes we could hear them coming back again. We took fewer chances this time and kept well out of the way on the grass verge. One of them said something from his open window as he passed, but it was so fleeting I didn't quite catch it. I think he said “Thank you” for keeping well off the road for them.

Just after that disconcerting experience, at the brow of the hill we turned left off the road onto the track across the fells to Minton. The trail undulated before the final steep descent to CP15 (43.4 miles) and the only self clip of the event, which was well identified by a flashing red cycle light. From there came another undulating, low level section by country lane, ploughed field, main road and track to the foot of (final) hill 9 – Ragleth Hill. The climb up there was very steep, slow and laboured, particularly at this late stage in the game. We saw some head torches ahead. Hey, was this another group we were about to overtake? Doubts arose when I could only see two lights, when groups were supposed to be at least three. We soon caught up with them. They were two chaps who were walking the route self supported because they had not been able to get a place on the event. They had set off at 8am (5 hours earlier than we had). That's commitment for you. We bade them farewell as we continued up over the summit to CP16 (45.5 miles). We were doing well and I was feeling surprisingly strong. To tell the truth I would have liked to be going a touch faster, but all things considered we were doing amazingly well. We were particularly impressed with Giles' performance considering he wasn't used to this, and I sensed that Paul was battling on valiantly and suffering in silence.

My previous Personal Best on this event was 12:04. We had 2 miles to go (yes, our optimum route according to Tracklogs is 47.5 miles long) and I had less than half an hour to equal it. It was a downhill finish and my legs were still strong so I was sure I could do it, but we had to stick together as a group so I didn't think it was possible. Paul had been resolutely quiet (suffering in silence?) but seemed to be holding on to Giles' pace. We offered our best encouraging words to Giles and we set off on our mission. There was another minor climb along the ridge before our descent to the left off the ridge finally commenced. I wanted to blast it but Giles' screaming knees set our pace. Down the steep, slippery, treacherous, knee-wrecking path we went, which eventually brought us into the back entrance to the civilisation of Church Stretton. I kept jogging a few yards before waiting for the others to catch up. I checked my watch. 'No chance', I thought. 'I'll just go along for the ride and enjoy Giles' triumph.' We descended to and crossed the main road and turned right then left past the station. I managed to persuade everyone to allow me to show them the short cut to the right across the playing fields. Then Mark said “Come on, let's help Nick to get his PB” before setting off across the field. I couldn't believe it. I looked back to check on Paul and Giles. They were holding on. Mark led the way onto the road and turned right on the final 100 yard dash to the school while I held back and bridged the gap between him and Giles & Paul. We pulled each other through the gate and along the passage to the hall where the timekeepers were sitting at their desks. I stopped my stopwatch as they cut off our tallies and noted the time. I made a quick calculation to subtract the bonus time that had been awarded while I waited to be grouped at Shelve. 12:04 I reckoned. I'd equalled my PB. We offered each other our most heartfelt congratulations on a job well done. It was a friendly experience of great camaraderie. Giles had pushed his body, which was unaccustomed to such exertion, to an amazing finish and was in obvious discomfort as a result. Paul had overcome injury and nausea to finish in style against adversity, while Mark just finished in style, having run several miles more than the rest of us. It was unique to have two Grand Slammers complete their Grand Slam successfully together in the same team on the final event. I felt privileged to have run with Paul because he's always out of sight ahead of me (when not injured).
[Paul was due to travel out to Brazil in a couple of days to take part in the Brazil 135 mile stage race in the Amazon Jungle. Good luck with that, Paul. If you can keep hydrated, a man of your calibre will do very well. Just get that ankle better in time (within the week?!)]

I went to the other hall to remove my shoes and socks and excess baggage and clothing, then get some food and drink. Mark came through and said “12:03”. What? I had miscalculated. We had actually managed to force a PB for me by 1 whole minute over 50 miles. That's the icing on the cake. Not only had I completed my Grand Slam, I had returned from the brink to do so and I had finished in style with a Personal Best. What a result. I feel absolutely elated. This ultra running lark is simply the best.

Right, that's …... 12 down and zero, zilch, none, zippo, nada, not a sausage to go. Target achieved!

Pictures are here (until the rain ravaged the camera to deleterious effect).

Andy Rankin, he of the enviable bum bag, won the race in 8:02. Not only that, he won the whole series, snatching an extra 32 points over Jez Bragg. Well done Andy!

Vasque series race 11 - High Peak Challenge 40mi. Sat 19/09/2009

High Peak 40
Never have I felt so unenthusiastic about a race, even life, as I felt before this one. Even though the fever had left my body and I had been to work all week, I’d had no desire to run there and all I could think about all week was bed. I’d felt drained ever since the previous weekend’s Pumlumon Challenge (and long before that). I was only sitting in that registration hall in Buxton Community School to keep my Grand Slam dream alive, not for the pleasure of running ultras. I couldn’t imagine running an ultra being very pleasurable at the moment, which was sad because I knew there was yet another warm, dry day in prospect for one of my favourite, most runnable ultras. More than that, it would be my tenth completion if I could just get round. Those prospects, and the sight of more familiar running and walking friends (there was another healthy turn-out from my running club Stockport Harriers) bucked me up somewhat, although it might not have been obvious at the time.

I was soon wandering down with the others to the start area on Broadwalk. The timekeeper stood there, wall clock in hand, ready to send us on our way at 8am. The first few miles felt painless as I jogged along, only slowing to a walk when the gradient steepened for the climb up to the first stile. I found myself further back in the pack than I was accustomed to, but I was quite happy to be queuing and resting for a few seconds. We were soon over the top and down onto the railway bed that contoured round to Checkpoint 1 (Bonsal Incline); then came the easy, gravity-assisted coasting run down the Bonsal Incline to the Goyt Valley and the bank of Fernilee Reservoir. I was already in the groove and enjoying myself.

All systems were go and feeling sustainable through Checkpoint 2 (Taxal layby), through the best jungle Derbyshire has to offer on the diversion around Cadster Farm to Checkpoint 3 (Digleach Farm) and Checkpoint 4 (Beet Farm). I was keeping the food and drink trickling in to keep the energy up, running the downs and walking the ups to keep things ticking over sustainably. On the descent from South Head down the rocky track I came across Marla with concerned friend in attendance. She had taken a bad tumble. After confirming that nothing was broken and she was just badly shaken, we helped her to her feet. I jogged on down the track to the stream-crossing and began the climb up the other side towards Checkpoint 5 (Rushup Edge). Energy was deserting me already and the digestion was showing the first signs of rebelling. I was just 13 miles into the event and my race number was 13. Is there something significant here? I’m not superstitious so I ignored the irrational number thing.

The plod had begun and I began to get overtaken quite comprehensively. I had entered survival mode ridiculously early. What damage was I doing to myself by continuing? Would whatever virus that may still be infesting my person be driven deeper into an organ to do serious damage if I battled on? I wanted to go to sleep and imagined the quickest route to my nice warm bed: drop out at CP5 and get transported to the finish. I could drive home in an hour; but what about the G.S.? How would I make my excuses about failing at the penultimate hurdle? Could I make them sound convincing enough or would I come across as a ‘wuss’? If I did drop out there would be no need to do the Grand Slam finale – the Longmynd Hike in two weeks’ time, which I couldn’t even contemplate doing at the moment. Would I regret dropping? Of course I would. Would I regret making myself even more ill by continuing in my wretchedness? Of course I would. My mind was a whir and preoccupied with constructing the most dramatic, convincing excuse for dropping out. Karen passed me and asked how I was doing. She was left in no doubt about my negative thoughts. “But you can’t drop out now. Just walk it. I’ve already got your T-shirt so you’ve got to finish.” It bucked me up a little but the negative thoughts continued to rage overwhelmingly. Marla passed me at a slow jog and soon disappeared on her way to CP5. That was great to see and bucked me up a little more, but the negative thoughts were still there.

I trudged up to CP5 and sat down. The thin layer of low cloud was receding, a straight line separating it ahead and a cloudless blue sky behind. The sun came out to provide some luxurious warmth and enhance the beautiful rolling Derbyshire countryside. It was another gorgeous day. I topped up my hand-held bottles and had another bite to eat. My stubborn streak was kicking in; I’d started a challenge that needed finishing and with as little further thought as possible I got up to begin the long trudge up Rushup Edge. Let’s see if I still wanted to drop out so much at the next checkpoint.

Trudge I did. Any attempt at running was a 10-second shuffle at best. Other runners continued to overtake me, though not as often as before, since most of them had most likely already passed. I had to sit down twice more on the top of Rushup Edge; first I gazed at the Edale valley below and took five portrait images for stitching together later to create a panorama through almost 180°, then I watched a parascender launch himself in the opposite direction off the ridge into the breeze.

The short sharp drag to the summit of Mam Tor went at a crawl with my heart rate at 178bpm. I don’t know what the members of the public must have thought of the sight of a so-called 'runner' (insofar as he was wearing a club vest and running shorts) dragging himself along at that pace. I couldn’t care. I was concentrating on surviving, not what others may be thinking. I continued down the ridge among the hikers, walkers and mountain bikers to Hollins Cross, which was like Piccadilly Circus it was so busy. The right fork down towards Castleton soon brought relative peace again (you can’t get mountain bikes down there). As I walk-shuffled my way down the lane towards Castleton and Checkpoint 6, another group of runners overtook me, asking how it was going. I replied honestly and mentioned something about being ill. As they pulled away to a few yards ahead I swear I heard one of them say something about getting some weight on, as if my weight has anything to do with contracting a virus and performing poorly in an ultra. Impudent baggage; I’ve not been ill for years, but what does he know, fatty!

Having been able to jog a little down to CP6 (19 miles) I realised that my digestion was not quite as rebellious as it had been feeling. My early drop in pace had just about saved the day. I had another bite to eat and drink before jogging down to the main road and walking up to the entrance to Cavedale. ‘You know, I think I might just finish this thing. I can envisage the highlights of the route all the way to the end and I really look forward to reaching them one-by-one. I’ll plod for as long as I have to and jog for as long as I’m able.’ On the approach to Cavedale, I and a couple of other runners gratefully accepted the offer of some electrolyte drink from a supporter at the side of the road, who was there to support her runner.

The drag up Cavedale was slow and steady but thankfully not too much of a chore. I had found equilibrium and was feeling considerably better than I had been feeling. As I emerged onto Old Moor, on the way retrieving a shiny new compass that someone had dropped, I began to close on other runners in the distance. I had targets to aim for and I found I was able to jog to get closer to them. Anyway I needed to find out who this compass belonged to! At CP7 (Bushy Heath) I still hadn’t found the owner of the compass, so I left it with the marshals for later return to base. Shortly afterwards on the long downhill jog (yes, I was still running!) towards Tideswell, the next runner I caught up to proved to be the compass’ owner. He didn’t realise he’d dropped it but at least he now knew that he had, and where to retrieve it.

It was like old times as I managed to run virtually every step to CP8 (Tideswell Dale). With continued careful fuelling I was able to sustain the catch-up-and-overtake strategy to the end, which invited a few comments from those who had overtaken me earlier and thought I was on my last legs. They couldn’t believe it and neither could I, but I was finally enjoying this event like I always have done. The fact that I was so much slower than normal is immaterial. It felt like PB fodder to me. I was eking the max out of what my body could manage at each moment, I was running again, I was catching up with other runners and conversing a little before moving on with the next one as my target. I was feeling like I usually feel as I’m pushing the limits yet still in control. What a turnaround. Thank goodness I didn’t wimp out after all. What a fraud I would have been and wouldn’t I have cheated myself, big time. The stubbornness got me through the low patch. It never ceases to amaze me how ultrarunners can come back relatively strongly from such low points. It’s just abnormal to get the low point so early on.

After Tideswell Dale I continued my pursuit through CP9 (Upper Dale on the Monsal Trail), CP10 (High Low) and CP11 (King Sterndale - always a lovely warm welcome there); and get this, I actually managed to run most of that never-ending road from High Low to Chelmorton. Things really were looking up.

I always look forward to the sight of the viaduct on the outskirts of Buxton, and the footpath we take on the raised terrace near the roof of the leftmost arch. It signifies a near finish and another personal victory. I so nearly never got to see it this year. As I walked up the final hill I saw Julie (another Grand Slammer and a very capable one at that) on her way home by bicycle after another blistering finish. I exchanged a few words with 'superwoman' across the roofs of the speeding cars before we continued on our separate ways.

I shuffled up the access road to the finish, pausing long enough to take the final picture. My time of 9:20 was not far off 2 hours slower than it should have been, but I was chuffed. Chuffed to have finished, chuffed to have completed my tenth HP40, chuffed that the Grand Slam was surviving by the skin of its teeth and chuffed to be feeling as well as I was feeling. My state of health continued to improve in the following week. I did not feel at all trashed or wasted like I did after Pumlumon. The enforced exercise seemed to kick the virus into touch finally, not allow it to take hold again (thank goodness). Bring on Race 12 and the Longmynd Hike in two weeks’ time!

11 down, 1 to go.

All the pictures are here.

Vasque series race 10 - Pumlumon Challenge 26mi. Sat 12/09/2009

Pumlumon Challenge

It’s a long time since I’ve written a race report; this one is almost three weeks late. I apologise for the silence but I’ve been off the boil for a few weeks (since my aborted UTMB attempt, in fact). It’s taken all my effort to hold onto the Grand Slam by the skin of my teeth and fulfil as many essential obligations of life as I can. Secondary activities like blog-writing have taken a necessary back seat in favour of bed.

The fever having deserted my body, I dragged my depleted self, now down to 9st 11lbs, prematurely from my sickbed a couple of days before driving the two-and-three-quarter-hour journey to the Nant Yr Arian Forestry Centre for the Pumlumon Challenge. For the second year in a row we were blessed with gorgeously warm, calm, sunny weather. Upon arrival I soon saw Martin Beale and asked him if he was going to pull a win out of the bag after a couple of near misses. I fancied he might just do it this year (if I didn’t beat him to it – HA, in my dreams even if I was fit). Other familiar faces were there to greet – the other Martin, Julie with her pooches, Paul, Ozzy, Tim, Will, Simon…. As I gathered with the small but perfectly formed group of runners and listened to Wynn give the starting instructions, I marvelled at how much better I was feeling than I did only two days ago.

Suddenly we were off, jogging round the lake in the direction of the Cambrian Mountains and wide blue sky. I went at a pace that felt comfortable and sustainable as we made our way up Dinas to Checkpoint 1 on the summit. The climb up to the lane after crossing the Afon Rheidol was waymarked this time to make sure there was no short cutting across the field and over the fence. There had been complaints and we had been warned.

Checkpoint 2 brought the first drink but no food. Then it was a quick descent to the temporary footbridge (how thoughtful) before the long climb up Pumlumon Fawr with big views of the Nant-y-moch reservoir and its dam far to the left. Later in the day we would be viewing it from the other side from atop Drosgol.

At the summit of PF was the second refreshment stop. I was looking forward to a piece of banana (I recall bananas being dispensed here in previous years), but no food this year, only the bottled water again with pink tops. Not good. I was thankful that I’d brought more than the suggested emergency rations. I chewed on my malt loaf, among other comestibles.

I delighted in the expansive views as I took the long, undulating path across the tops towards the meteorological station and Checkpoint 3 (no food again). I was beginning to flag, walk more and run less. The sun was hot and I wasn’t thinking as clearly as I should have been. Foolishly I did not refill both water bottles but I still had at least half a litre left. I turned left in the forest and walk-jogged down the track, looking out for the left turn out of the forest up the Severn Way. Save for the odd recreational walker on the forest track, I had been alone for a good while. Most of the runners were well ahead and out of sight. I had done around 11 miles and I was done with running. I plodded up to the source of the River Severn. That was where the footpath ended. It’s normal to turn back from there, but not us. We continued off-path down the fell side, following occasional fluorescent orange markers to the stream crossing and Checkpoint 4, which wasn’t there this year (Wynn had warned us of its absence during the pre-race briefing).

At “Checkpoint 4” I was surprised to see Simon sitting down with his feet in the stream. He needed to cool off and had stomach issues. I needed more water, so I availed myself of the stream as well, making sure to fill my bottle upstream of Simon’s feet ;-) We were both suffering in our own ways and set off together on the worst section so far – 2 miles of tussock-bashing, bog-dodging slog with no consistent trod to follow. It’s the last thing you want when you’re feeling less than energetic. It becomes a survival thing.

We eventually arrived at the refreshment stop at 15 miles, where the walkers finished their event this year. Yippee – the first food. Oh, half flapjacks. That should keep me going until the next checkpoint then. Worse than that, they tried to ration the water. They’d only been issued with one bottle (500ml) per person. I was complained at for filling both water bottles – a whole litre! Water rationing is inexcusable. Anyway what’s wrong with tap water, which is limitless and costs nothing? Bottled water isn’t limitless, costs money and is unnecessary.

Next came another leg-wrenching tussock ‘n’ bog slog. I can never find the ‘footpath’ that jumps out at me so clearly from the map. The off-path theme continued another mile virtually to the bridge over Afon Llechwedd-mawr to the foot of Drosgol. I inched my way up Drosgol with recovery sit-downs as Simon slowly overtook me, letting out occasional mooing sounds as he tried to keep the technicolour yawn at bay. I was thankful I only felt as weak as a kitten.

Checkpoint 5 was at the summit of Drosgol. Amazing views opened up on the descent, where you have to guess the best route down to the reservoir inlet crossing (this year’s choice was my worst so far). I seized the opportunity to take a panoramic view (any excuse for another rest). Simon was running down quite fast and appeared on two exposures, so you see two Simons running off Drosgol on the stitched result!

I was looking forward to the next refreshment stop at the junction of the mine track, where we have always got Belgian toffee waffles. I plodded my way up the hill to the T junction to be greeted by more pink-topped water. “Sorry, they didn’t give us any food this year.” This was getting all too familiar. The malt loaf got another good seeing to, along with the remains of a Snickers bar, washed down by the last of my Coke. My bum bag was getting much lighter now. A left turn and feeling newly energised by the sugar and caffeine rush, I shuffled my way up the track to the self clip at Checkpoint 6, still alone. The plod to the next water stop took longer than it should have done. I observed that the ‘cupboard was bare’ on the food front and was no longer disappointed. I didn’t need their food now and I remained thankful that my own emergency supplies were more like a day’s survival rations.

Once across the stream I veered left off the track in the direction of Disgwylfa Fawr. As I tried to find a route through the mountainous tussocks I tripped and stumbled like a drunkard, wrenching my tired legs and nearly switching on assorted muscles permanently, with potentially crippling consequences. I stopped dead to let them calm down before looking again for the waymarker that I was sure should be there somewhere. I saw it much further up the track. I carefully stumbled back down to the track and turned left to the marker, where I turned left again up the fell. However, now we seemed to be too far down the track and the route seemed to be directing us around the right side of Disgwylfa Fawr instead of the left side. What the heck, I’ll try out a new route round the right side, then. I made my way across the tussocks on the shortest route to higher ground on the shoulder of the hill, which was tussock-free and runnable. On the way I caught up with Simon again, a chap (Dick according to the results) with whom I’d been playing cat and mouse earlier before he left me for dead, and a group of four runners. I left them all behind as I found my way round (further than I expected) to the self clip at Checkpoint 7. That lake in the gateway is a laugh. I managed to do the splits on a rock on one side and a bit of wood on the other and keep my feet dry.

I was shuffling along surprisingly well, I had just overtaken six people and I hoped desperately not to get caught again before the finish. I gave it all I had, even shuffling (i.e. a fraction of an mph faster than walking) up the hill towards the final woods to the finish. I didn’t dare look back, but when I heard voices they didn’t sound too close. I was feeling invincible. I dragged myself up the final climb before running somewhat clumsily down to the finish, pausing just long enough to photograph the finish line, only 1 hour later than I should have done. My time was 6:43. The group of four finished just one minute later. I was nearly caught.

Although the pasty meal at the finish was nice, I did miss the traditional Welsh Cawl. Nonetheless the food and tea went down a treat as I chatted with Julie and others and caught the last 30 seconds of the presentation. Martin Beale did win in 4:19, two minutes ahead of Hugh Aggleton. Paul Dickens (another Grand Slammer, and a fast one at that) came third in 4:53. They were the only ones to get a gold medal for finishing in less than 5 hours.

I felt absolutely wasted after this event. There was no way I could drive up to 3 hours home, even less so after such a late finish. I simply had to get accommodation, no question. I had come prepared for the possibility in view of my recent state of health. I set off driving eastwards, looking out for B&Bs and hotels, the first B&B was full. I stopped in at the George Borrow Hotel in Ponterwyd, barely 2 miles from Nant Yr Arian. They had one single room left at very reasonable cost. Someone up there was looking after me. I got cleaned up and crashed out for 12 hours (only for half of that was I able to sleep).

By Sunday I felt somewhat more human and ready to continue my journey home. I was soon back into the fog that was spilling over the hill, from which I had emerged on Saturday morning on the drive in.

That's ten down two to go. My Grand Slam survives - just. All the pictures I took are here.

Bullock Smithy Hike 56mi. 05-06/09/2009

Bullock Smithy Hike
Live Hiker progress updates are available on the BSH link above, as it happens.

For the first time in 13 years I'm not running this race. I have volunteered my services instead. (I wouldn't want to overdo it after last weekend's excesses, after all.) I will be helping at penultimate checkpoint Walker Barn, 46 miles, which we will be setting up at 6pm this evening.

I watched the Hikers set off at midday today. It is a good turn-out considering it's not part of the Vasque Runfurther series this year. I have uploaded 12 pictures so far, hot off the press. More will follow if the camera can hack humidity levels that might approach 30%. :-(

Ultra Tour du Mont Blanc 166km. 28-30/08/2009

Ultra Tour du Mont Blanc

You no doubt will have gathered by now that I bagged my second DNF of the year last weekend at UTMB. I managed 77 of the 104 miles in 25:42. It was a truly awesome experience in all respects - the carnival atmosphere; the crowds, not just on the sidelines but in the event as well (over 2,000 took part); the cheering and support: "Bravo", "Courage", Allez - allez - allez"; the scenery; those rugged, jagged mountain peaks touching the sky with glaciers draped between them.

The weather was just about perfect - cooler after the first evening, sunny by day and dry. My stomach, aided by medication, was behaving itself and I was able to drink and eat. The climbs and descents were monumental and on a scale never before experienced. The line of torch lights zig-zagging into the sky above and stretching out to the horizon in the valley below is a sight you will never see unless you do this event.

Things went well for me well into Saturday as I braved the walking poles and overtook on the ups and downs. Problems began later on when I wasn't eating enough in the end. I had been banking on more checkpoint food than there turned out to be. Lack of advance knowledge leading to less than perfect planning led to me running on empty for a little too long. My body started to eat itself and trashed my leg muscles beyond the point of no return. Even after a long rest and copious refuelling at La Fouly, my legs didn't want to know. I could only plod downhill, while uphills were virtually stationary. I got as far as Champex-Lac. It might only have been 27 miles to the finish but there were three major climbs still to do that I could not face in my weakened state. I might have been able to wing it on an LDWA 100, but not here. This was not the time or place.

I have no regrets about my decision to take a bus journey back to Chamonix from Champex-Lac. Subsequent developments confirmed my decision so strongly I reckon I was psychic. The medication had solved one problem and created another (years of ultra running and learning to listen to my body are paying dividends). I would not have been in any fit state to fly back home on Monday if I had continued.

I look forward to returning again to do it properly with better prior knowledge and a few packed lunches to keep me fuelled as I go, no stomach medication and another day of recovery time before my return flight. We'll be extremely lucky if the weather is as good as it was this year, though.

My camera succumbed to the humidity again, so there were no pictures between nightfall on Friday and Saturday afternoon. The pictures I did take are here (click on Slideshow).