From Dan McKeown…
I signed up for the inaugural Leeds edition of ‘The Drop’ where competitors are taken blindfolded on a coach to somewhere 15 miles from race HQ, then turned loose with no navigational aids and a four-hour time limit to make it back. It’s 15 miles as the crow flies, so that could translate into any distance as the runner rambles.
Having done very minimal work on potential drop points, I reckoned I’d be OK if we got dropped somewhere between Halifax and Knaresborough, otherwise the organisers would most likely be filling out a missing persons report. All competitors had to sign disclaimers stating – among other things – that we would have to pay for our own repatriation if the need arose.
When we set off on the coach, the little sun filtering through my blindfold (and whispered conversations from the other hostag- er, runners) informed me that we were heading south, which meant my ideal drop point of Swinsty / Fewston wasn’t looking likely. After a bit, we seemed to head west, then it got a bit confusing. Someone behind me was muttering darkly about ‘Cleckhuddersfax’ (wherever that is), but I thought we might be heading north again. My second favourite dropoff option would be anywhere in the Aire Valley, where I could just get on the canal and pound out the miles back to town, so I was starting to feel a bit more relaxed about not having read that disclaimer in more detail.
After ditching the 10-mile runners, the coach lumbered on for a bit, then came to a stop and disgorged the blinking and disoriented 15-milers into a leafy neighbourhood in what appeared to be a small village. There was a signed roundabout at the bottom of the hill, but most of the runners immediately hared off in the opposite direction with unnerving confidence. I went along with one other lad to have a look at the sign, which gave us Haworth to the left, Keighley straight on, or Bingley to the right.
This, I felt, was about the best result I could have hoped for: a couple of miles to Bingley, then a pan-flat, no-danger-of-wrong-turns trot down the canal and maybe even get back in time for lunch.
(For those who know the area, I later discovered we’d been dropped off in Cullingworth. Wherever that is.)
The pair of us set off at a decent clip. I introduced myself to my companion and asked if he knew how to play pub cricket. He didn’t, so I explained the rules: I would bat first and could claim runs for pubs where the name was something with legs (eg The Black Horse = 4 runs). He would be looking out for pubs with no legs (eg The Railway Tavern). If he got one, he could claim my wicket and it would be his turn to bat. I always play ‘Head’ (eg The King’s Head) or ‘Arms’ (The Devonshire Arms) as a dot ball, but that’s entirely personal preference.
I got off the mark as we went past The George (2 runs) but was soon out when we went past The Golden Fleece in Harden (wherever that is). On the descent into Bingley, we went past The Brown Cow (4 runs to him), crossed onto the canal by Damart (a welcome familiar sight from the Winter Fools relays) and continued together to the Fisherman’s Inn (another 2 runs to him).
When we got to Saltaire, the other lad said he needed to walk for a bit and that I should carry on. This might have been his tactful way of saying that he didn’t trust my navigation, or that he was just sick of my waffle and my asinine pub cricket game.
On I went, hopeful that I might catch up with some of the other runners who would surely be joining the canal at some point closer to Leeds. However, as mile after mile went by, I didn’t see anyone other than some back markers from the 10-mile race who’d stopped at a tea shop en route. Clearly, my decision to buck the trend and head to Bingley at the start had either been a navigational masterstroke, or something else entirely. I consoled myself with the fact that, even if I was an hour behind the winner, I’d come up with my own route and not just followed everyone else.
Eventually, I popped off the canal by Leeds station and scuttled along Boar Lane back to Race HQ (Up & Running), to find that there was only one runner there from the 15 miler. I was then informed that he’d only been there for about 20 seconds. At this point, I reflected ruefully on the minute or so I’d spent trying to get a photo of a heron at Aire Valley Marina (the photo didn’t even come out).
It turned out the winner had come an entirely different route, via Rodley, that never came along the canal and crossed it into Kirkstall (wherever that is). Hats off to the lad – he managed to get the whole thing done in just under 19 miles (I was closer to 20).
So, second best at pub cricket and second best at The Drop. I could console myself with the fact that the first place finisher simply got the same prize as everyone else: a mug, appropriately enough.
Presumably The Drop will return to Leeds next year, although I imagine they’ll choose a different drop point to keep it fresh. In the meantime, I’ll try to brush up on Cleckhuddersfax.