From Forrest and Robert Hamilton…
I’d eyed this race up for a few years now but life, cricket and injuries had conspired to get in the way until this year. My plan was to do the race as a training session in the middle of an 80 mile bike ride as preparation for the 125 mile White Rose Classic the following weekend.
I called Forrest the day before, having seen the forecast for 31 degrees, offering some rare fatherly advice. I suggested that after the cycle he’d never be able to rehydrate in time to avoid having a terrible race and then dying on the ride back home. Remarkably, for once, he listened to me.
The race, circa 8 miles and 1,100ft of climbing, gets most of the ascent done in the first two miles up nice, mostly runnable grass tracks. Apart from the occasional windless, heat chamber spots, it wasn’t TOO bad.
I sat in third for most of the race, swapping back and forth between 2nd and 4th until the race opened up on the long gradual descent back to the village and I was able to cement a pretty big gap to fourth, thus able to soak up the village applause whilst cruising to the line. I even had the time and wherewithal to stop before the finish to give my wife a kiss. Much to the delight of her and the crowd, who wondered whether we knew each other.
Oh, to be so young! My intention wasn’t so much to race but simply enjoy a stunningly beautiful route. With the legs not having come back after a couple of recent fell races, on the back of the Boston Marathon too, I’d made a promise not to push too hard. I got the camera out early on to take a few pictures and to help avoid getting my race head-on. I didn’t feel stressed in the first half, finding myself overtaking a few people, including a good mate, who I was surprised to see, and clearly suffering – or perhaps just being sensible? I stopped being sensible and tried to push on, feeling like I could pick off more places.
What I’m asking now is: where was the sage advice from my son to complement my own to him? Why was he not telling me that it wasn’t wise for an old man to be racing in temperatures in the thirties? Why was he not telling me to have a cold beer and take pride in watching his son race at the head of the field?
The best part of racing is the moment of crossing the finish line, in whatever position you happen to be knowing you’ve given the event your all. Well, it appeared that I gave it more than my all. I can’t be accused of having left anything on the fell. I have no memory of the end of the race.
Thankfully I do remember! I saw him over the crest of the hill running with a marshal instep, which was a bit odd, then saw him hunched over and veering off to the right, which was odder and more alarming. After a little jog to grab him and help him through the finish (his only concern had been stopping his watch, thinking he had already crossed the line), it was onto a cold cement floor with wet towels and first responders draped over him. He’s quite the drama queen.
Lying flat on the floor, I was in the company of another V70, with a competition soon going to see who could cool down the fastest. I triumphed in that to the extent that they soon had to wrap me in a space blanket to heat me back up again! The lesson learned is that the body doesn’t handle extreme stress so well as you get older. I will be more careful in future.
It’s a race I’d love to do again next year as the village fair makes it a lovely family day out. It would be good to see a few more Harriers vests too. I might just suggest Dad enjoys watching with a few pints next year, even if he won’t be getting a finish line kiss.
Eww. He’s not putting me out to pasture quite yet. I fully intend to come back next year, when conditions will hopefully be more conducive to racing. There’s unfinished business here. Plus it really is the most beautiful race.
That said, climate change might mean these temperatures are going to be more common, even in May, in which case—bring on the cold beer.