Rugger ramble

For those who can’t be bothered with the wild ramblings of a road runner
lured into a fell race under false pretences, the bare facts were these.
Weather – rather too warm and gloriously sunny.  Distance: claimed 12
miles, though I have measured closer to 13.25.  Ascent : claimed 2500’
though I reckon around 1500’.
Dave Jepson – a pleasing 1’59”; Richard Malir – running well for 2’03”, Sue
and Diane; solid looking running for 2’14 – evidently too much running and
not enough talking, and clearly no fag breaks;  and John, 2’19 – and sore
feet.

My utmost respect to Amanda, Richard, Keith, Bernie and Vince, Geoff, and
any others I may have omitted, who took on the full 25miles (or so).

Now, lest my road running chums think I have either jumped ship, or taken
leave of my senses, let me start off by making it very clear that I arrived
at Wharfedale RUFC under false pretences: there is no tell tale “B”
(presumably for boggy) or “M” (mountains?); it definitely says on my
Harriers fixture list that this is a TRAIL race – and to be fair, in many
senses it is.  It runs on trails some of the way, although mainly for the
first couple of hundred yards out of the rugby club.  The sense in which it
wasn’t a trail race was the vast array of serious, ruggedly unclean fell
types with various quantities of survival paraphernalia, which in one
chap’s case must have stretched to a scandinavian self-build mountain hut
judging by his back pack - which was even bigger than an Odeon jumbo
popcorn tub.  I gather one or two people were even carrying cigarettes.
After this, the matter of a few Himalayan summits between start and finish
is, perhaps, a mere bagatelle and it is churlish to moan.  I had also left
home imagining a target of around, perhaps, 1’35”.  The discovery that last
year’s inaugural winner managed all of 1’40” caused a more realistic and
urgent revision, which teetered on the edge of going for a walk along the
river instead: I hadn’t imagined having to book a week off work for this
malarkey.  Added to this a stated 2500’ of climb, which is about 2500’ more
than my long levers prefer (my check after the event managed to tally
around 1500’ so I suspect a bit of artistic licence here), and I didn’t
have a map!

Apart from the fact that I had deposited my keys in John’s car, I have to
admit that it wouldn’t have been the worst moment in my life had the
starter declined to allow me to race, but his pleasingly laissez-faire
“you’re all running under your own risk” served only to stiffen my British
upper lip (my lower lip is also British, before Sue asks). So, around 100
runners with full survival kit, and me with just my number and a strange
lottery type card with scratch off boxes, set off.

The first thing I noted was that we didn’t seem to be running on much road
at all.  The next was that whereas on the road there is one way to go, up
the fell it seems to be a case of “follow your nose”.  John and I were
exchanging observation on the geology, and the firm footing, all the way up
the climb to Conistone, which for the record is about 3 miles of ascent
followed by around 200 yards of virtual freefall, a profile which looks
rather similar to that of the recent performance of my pension fund, with
about the same sense of satisfaction at the end

Hats off to the organisers for the water stops, and at the first I
discovered my lottery card was in fact a pleasingly Heath-Robinson-esque
form of immigration control.  Just as well I didn’t have any coins with me
because I’d have been an hour trying to scratch the panel to see whether I
had revealed five matching sheep / running shoes / bogs.  It appeared that
I was only to be allowed entry into Conistone in return for having my card
stamped.  Talk about panic at the Home Office.

To the road runner all this start-stop nonsense for stiles, gates, sheep
and Blue Peter type fun is all well and good, but it doesn’t do much for
the steady rhythm.  On a warm day though these, and the water stops, were a
godsend.

The climb out of Conistone up Mastiles Lane was route planning of roman
order.  Left to my own devices I’d have gone around the hill, or straight
down the valley back to Threshfield, rather than taking the shortest line
to the highest point, but when all around me decided that running meant
they couldn’t appreciate the unfolding view who was I not to follow their
lead?  This was yet another first: on the road you just run, even up that
silly hill in Woodkirk, you run. Here on the moors there are times when
running is only for the foolhardy, or goats (I think the winner may have
had some goat blood in him).

My plan to race ahead at Conistone so that Richard and John (and their
maps) could recatch me with their superior climbing on the Mastiles Lane
face of the Eiger backfired, as my over zealous pace-making, combined with
John’s unfortunate choice of wet-weather shoes, had opened up a bit of a
gap.  My concerns at the start at being about the only person in road shoes
had long since dissipated and I would have to admit that the sound of
desperate panting emanating from each person I passed on the climb was
quite an invigorating spur.

By now I was running in what athletes refer to as, I believe, “the zone”:
this zone being a large expanse of barren moor somewhere between Airedale
and Wharfedale with nabbut a few sheep for company.  I had learned one
thing from my previous foray into the fells, which was to follow the
markers, and was greatly cheered by a marshal on a bike cutting a corner
that saved about a mile whilst helpfully pointing out the extra bit I had
to run around a far distant flag.  A few minutes behind me this same
stretch presented John, who had graciously slowed down to allow Sue and
Diane to join him for a chat, a dilemma, as, I gather, more energy was
spent debating the cutting of the corner – or not – than would in any case
have been saved by doing so.  Be pleased to note that my fellow Harriers
did the right thing.

On the third of the big climbs, up a field that really required crampons
and karibiners, I was pleased to pass the same marshall with his bike – not
least as evidence that there were still humans inhabiting earth, though not
half so cocky now that he had to lug it up the hill.  I checked the
distance to go with him, and was offered “about 4 miles”, which was the
same offer as his chums had given me about a mile back!  He did append it
with “but it’s all downhill from the top”.  Presumably his cheque’s in the
post as well.  At the top of this climb it would appear that the organisers
hadn’t got around to erecting the oxygen tent – never mind.

Further on up the “track” I was continuing to collect my array of
McDonald’s badges, albeit more by good luck at the unmanned stations.  At
one point I had to check the guy behind me for the route, only to find him
behaving suspiciously with the gate post.  I was on the cusp of saying “Oi,
what are you doing to the gatepost?”, when I realised he was collecting his
last stamp; I would have just breezed merrily on towards a DQ!

The only bit of bog was a disappointingly half-hearted affair, and such was
my mental state by this point that I got to pondering why all boggy ground
is always just too wide to leap across.  Perhaps there’s an EU standard.
Anyway, the slack air in the lee of the ridge was by now pretty warm, so
cool damp feet were actually welcome to offset the early stages of sun
stroke.

And then, almost as soon as it had disappeared from view (well, not quite),
once more, looming in the distance, Threshfield, and the final mile or so
down dale and into the village.  A major dilemma was whether to stay with
the guy behind, who had a map but absolutely no sense of urgency, or to
push on and risk yet another erroneous detour.  Then, just like an episode
of Mr Benn, an Otley runner appeared from nowhere to tow me in.  More by
good luck than good management I managed to dip just under my revised
target of two hours.

With such a small field, by now spread out over much of the southern Dales
(and I wouldn’t be surprised if one or two missed a turn and were by now
bearing down on Morecambe Bay), the finish line was a strangely muted
place, but no less welcome for that.

I have to say that I really would recommend this run – though perhaps not
in Walshes, John.  The scenery is probably fab, though I spent so long
watching the ground 2 metres in front for my next safe footfall that I had
a cricked neck by the finish and really had no sense of where I’d been.  I
only got lost four times, and there were usually walkers around to point
the way (this event includes the same long and not so long variants for
walkers, who start about a week before) whilst chomping on their lard
sandwiches: at one point a young lad was having great fun opening the gate
for passing runners.  You don’t get that on the road, but then nor do you
get gates.  Best of all though, you are liberated from the regular mental
whispers of “ooh, you’re slowing down” and “oh no, you won’t catch Fisher
running like that” that accompany each approaching mile marker.  I think,
for a moment, I understood the refrain of those who talk of the freedom of
running in the fells.  This latter, it must be said, was significantly
assisted by the fact that I don’t think I saw another runner between miles
7 and 11; for once in my life I knew how Ian Fisher must feel.

So, allowing around five minutes for gates and stiles, another minute for
collecting my scout badges, let’s say eight minutes for the walking where
the form seemed to be that it was rude not to enjoy the view, three minutes
for various bits of dithering for the course, and a minute or so for the
bogs…I reckon that’s 1’40” in anyone’s money.  What do you mean it doesn’t
work like that?

FOOTNOTES – or should that be feetnotes.  Despite the fact that I was, on
paper, rather ill-shod, I think I was the only one not hobbling by the end.
Sue had a blister the size of France which (look away now if you’re
squeamish) deposited blood as far away as Harrogate when she popped it, and
John seemed to have lost all sensation below his knees.

Dave Jepson