I had been running for about 10 months and had just successfully done the 12 mile Gisborough Moors fell race, my first “Long” class race and I thought that perhaps I should try something a little harder. Oh and before you armchair fell runners out there say anything, I fully realise I’m stretching the meaning of the word “successfully” by applying it to a bottom 15% finish, but in my defence I am pretty crap at this lark. Anyway, I scanned the fixtures list and my eyes fastened on the Duddon Valley Fell Race, a big 18 mile, 6500 ascent race which incorporated the option of a more reasonable 10 mile race. This seemed a good option and so plans were laid.
Now there isn’t much accommodation in the Duddon valley and I had no transport so this was going to be my first camping trip in nearly 10 years. I splashed out and bought a new lightweight tent, a Terra Nova Sololite which proved to be excellent value at under £100 You could also describe it as quite roomy, but if you were one of the Snow White’s associates. I arranged for a friend to pick me up at the nearest railway station and all seemed set fair, until a fortnight before the off I picked up a groin injury. It wasn’t enough to stop me running but being realistic I resigned myself to doing the 10 miler instead. There was always next year for the big one and to tell you the truth I was secretly relieved about this.
The weekend of the race soon came around and I left Newcastle on Friday on the 10.24 train from Newcastle and changed at Carlisle onto a train bound for Barrow which made an unhurried, meandering way down the West Cumbrian coast. I alighted at Foxfield, (excellent pub), where Steve “Merrylegs” Foster, was waiting to pick me up. It was a lovely late spring afternoon when we arrived at Turner Hall Farm where I was introduced to Steve’s wife and his two kids and their enormous castle of a tent. The camp site was the fullest I had ever seen it and it was lucky I had such a small tent. In the early evening Derek and Gerry Dewhurst appeared in their mobile home, or rather their mobile pub as it was popularly known.
We met another friend, Ian who was also camping and had a meal in the pub and afterwards I also ate the pasta I brought along as well, just to be on the safe side, carb-wise. There was plenty of talk of the long race and when I turned in my resolve to do the shorter race was beginning to crumble.
Race Day. Turner Hall Farm Camp-site
When I awoke at 6am after an excellent night’s sleep it was already warm and sunny. I breakfasted on several wholemeal rolls and a bowl of cornflakes. I noticed that Steve was drinking lots of water and I followed suit. At 9.30am George Bate aka “The Master” a moniker earned by his prodigious amount of posting on the FRA forums ,appeared with the eagerly awaited new white Fell Pony Club vests, and very smart they looked too. He wasn’t racing because of a calf injury which surprised me because I didn’t know he kept any livestock.
I had a last short jog round the camp-site and worryingly my leg felt fine for the first time in a fortnight. I was now doubly unsure of which race to do and so I asked the others what they thought, fully expecting them to suggest that in view of my inexperience, the short race would be the best option. To my surprise and to a man they told me to do the long race. I soon learned never to ask such a question again, because if there is one thing that several years of running has taught me, it is that experienced runners always have a very inflated idea of the capabilities of their less experienced brethren
Anyway, today with confidence boosted by the dodgy endorsements of my friends I decided to throw caution to the wind and enter the long race. At 18 miles it was 6 miles further than anything else I’d ever ran and with twice the ascent too, so it was a bit of a gamble to say the least. After registering at the village hall, I wandered through the woods to the starting field and met Karl Edwards, known as Ambrosia Kid because of the amount of rice pudding he ate on his Bob Graham round, who took a team photo. It was already very hot and we sheltered under trees to try and keep cool. George offered to carry some water up for people and said he would be up near Swirl Howe later on. I gave him one of my bottles.
All to soon we were on our way. After leaving the starting field the route follows a boulder strewn farm track bordered by a dry stone wall and it was here that disaster struck for Gerry. She tripped and had the bad luck to bang her head on the wall. She was visibly groggy as Steve and I stopped and helped her up. She told us to go on which we did just as soon as a bystander came and took care of her. When we set off again Steve quipped, “Well, there go our chances of winning!”
Steve soon pulled ahead but I just kept plodding gently along by Wallowbarrow Crag before turning to go up the first climb of the day, Harter Fell. My plan was to take it nice and steady on the climbs to keep something back for the flat and the downhill bits later in the race and I arrived on the summit after 56 minutes feeling reasonably fresh. I had a good run down to the Hardknott Pass road and although I didn’t know it this point marked the end of the days enjoyment, at least as far as the race was concerned.
The next climb up to The Knott (1 hour 30 minutes), passed off uneventfully and now I turned due East as the race makes a beeline for the next hill and you run down into the depths of Mosedale. This enjoyable interlude is tempered by the knowledge of what comes next. From the valley the race takes a direct line up the badly misnamed Little Stand which is, to use the technical fell running term, “a real bastard” as even a cursory glance at the narrowly spaced contour lines should tell you. It just keeps coming at you. Thankfully by the time I reached it, the sun had disappeared behind some clouds which for a while threatened to provide what would have been some welcome rain. But threaten rain was all they did and the sun came out again on the descent to the Three Shires Stone.
Half way along this rather meandering, undulating descent, somewhere about the 9 mile mark, I began to struggle and struggle really badly. I was even struggling to keep moving when I was going downhill, something which rarely improves your morale. Drinking and eating made no difference. The feeling that I just could not go any further began to take hold and the mere thought of having to tackle the looming 1400 foot climb up to Swirl Howe appalled me. And so as the road at the Three Shire’s Stone came into view I made a decision. I was going to pack it in. I would say that as well as being simply knackered, my groin was hurting again and I felt that with this added impediment I couldn’t go any further.
Approaching the road crossing, I may even have assumed a slight limp, I was certainly shaking my head in a resigned sort of way when I heard voices I recognised. It was Gerry and Derek. Gerry seemed to sense my mood because she yelled out something like “Pull yourself together, just keep going you lazy F***er ”. Derek, being more of a gentleman in all senses of the word, gave me a drink of orange juice. Far from encouraging me, I rather resented their intervention, because now I felt I had to go on with it and so resigning myself to my fate I reluctantly started on the long climb up to Swirl Howe.
After a hundred yards or so I was once again wallowing in self pity because no matter how slow I went I just felt more and more wrecked. Just as I was thinking that I was finished a runner drew up along side and she asked If I thought a faint track branching off from the walker’s path was a short cut. I said I thought it could be and we decided to follow it and from then on I had something of a recovery. Whether it was a belated effect of the food I’d eaten, the result of Derek’s drink, or the prospect of some company to spur me on, I couldn’t say, but my physical condition, at least as my brain perceived it, improved from extremely exhausted to just exhausted. The rest of the climb was almost bearable. There was even time for a laugh with my companion. We came to a fork in the path and were wondering which was the best line. I said “It’s typical isn’t it, in every race I’ve done over here I’ve always been just behind the same local runner who always knows where to go”. No sooner had I said this then the said chap, Karl Fursey of BCR appeared on the hillside just above us. I said in an exaggerated stage whisper “Psst, that’s him!!!” which made her laugh.
Another runner joined us as we trotted together along to the Summit of Swirl Howe.
Now, even though there were still 6 miles and 1200 feet of climbing left I somehow knew I was going to do it, barring a catastrophic attack of cramp, something I’d never suffered from before. I was slightly worried about the lack of water because there was no sign of George and my water bottle at Swirl Howe. I needn’t have worried because a couple of hundred yards further on, there he was with his dog, Mitch and the all important water.
On the long descent to Goat’s Hause, I left the two ladies behind and and began to close on Karl. As the descent wasn’t exactly done at breakneck speed, I had time to pick out my favourite rock climbs on Dow Crag. Arete, Chimney and Crack, Murray’s Route, Leopards Crawl, Eliminate A, Eliminate B, C Ordinary, all good friends of my climbing days and I couldn’t help but think how easy climbing was compared to fell running! A stumble brought me out of my reverie and back to the harsh reality of the day’s task and more specifically, the 750 foot climb up to Dow Crag.
I passed Karl half way up Dow Crag. I also passed another guy who was suffering from cramp who said he was giving up at Dow and I tried to encourage him to go on. It seemed a shame to get so far and not finish, but then I didn’t know how much he was hurting, I like to think he stuck at it.
From the checkpoint on Dow I started to gain on two more people, one was an older chap who was also suffering with cramp but he started again soon after I passed by and the other was a woman who collapsed with the same trouble just as I reached her. She didn’t look it, but she swore she was OK. Feeling slightly guilty about leaving her, I pressed slowly on. I needn’t have worried because she certainly was OK when she passed me just before White Pike.
Plodding on and looking ahead it was a bit demoralising to realise just how far I had to drop down before starting the climb to the top of Caw, the final summit, but it had to be done, so on I went taking it very easy on the way down. At the col I went thigh deep into what must have been the only bit of bog in the race. It was a considerable struggle to get out, but at least it cooled me down a bit.
My race plan was certainly working because I was rapidly gaining on yet another runner as I approached Caw Fell but I made a conscious decision to stay behind him all the way up. I did not want to risk a blow up so close to the finish and as a result on the summit I felt as fresh as could be expected after 17 or so miles of effort.. Just before the top I clocked where some other runners were descending but this knowledge didn’t stop me missing their path. I’d turned too soon but fortunately it turned into a bit of a short cut when I rejoined the right path ahead of the guy I’d been following. I thought I was descending quite well despite my wobbly legs when footsteps heralded someone rapidly catching me. It was a local club runner and he fairly flew down to the valley. This example aided by the sight of the finishing field and pub helped me to pick up speed and pass two totally spent runners just before the finish. It was good to realise there were people suffering more than me.
The other Ponies cheered me in and were really nice in congratulating me on what was nothing for them but a really big something for me. My time was slow, almost glacial, 5 hours 6 minutes, and I was 205th out of 240 starters of whom 17 failed to finish, a high attrition rate probably due to the heat and humidity.
Duddon Split Times for all you geeks out here
|
Section
|
Miles
|
Ascent
|
Time
|
Speed
|
|
Start to Harter
|
3.6
|
2093
|
56.2
|
3.84
|
|
Harter to The Knott
|
2.25
|
700
|
33
|
4.09
|
|
Knott to Little Stand
|
1.5
|
1300
|
44.8
|
2.00
|
|
Little S to 3 Shires
|
2.1
|
0
|
26
|
4.84
|
|
3 Shires to Swirl
|
1.9
|
1352
|
48.16
|
2.37
|
|
Swirl to Dow
|
2.02
|
750
|
30
|
4.04
|
|
Dow to White P
|
1.8
|
0
|
22.2
|
4.86
|
|
White P to Caw
|
1.65
|
479
|
31.4
|
3.15
|
|
Caw to End
|
1.2
|
0
|
14.4
|
5.00
|
|
18.02
|
6674
|
306.16
|
|
I stayed for the prize giving and drinking glass after glass of orange, relaxed in the hot afternoon sunshine. On the way back to the campsite I had a paddle in the river to get rid of the bog mud and back at Turner Hall Farm, Derek handed over a can of ice cold lager from his motor home’s fridge. Even although it was only lager, it tasted beautiful.
At 6pm we were back at the Newfield to eat and to listen to the band. We chatted with many other runners including one guy who had finished in over 6 hours after spewing up six times en route. Now that was heroic. At 9.30 the midges and tiredness prompted me to turn in. As I lay in my little tent, exhausted but content, one thought in particular struck me. Gerry’s bad luck had turned out to be my good luck. If she hadn’t fallen at the start, she and her husband wouldn’t have been at The Three Shires Stone to encourage me to go on. Without them I would have packed it in, of that there was no doubt and the disappointment would have been so intense that I might have even packed in running. It was a rather sobering thought.
I finally drifted off to sleep thinking and this sounds rather silly, that with this race under my belt I had finally served out my apprenticeship. I felt that now I was no longer the novice, but a real hard, gnarly fell runner! It all seemed slightly unreal.
The next day it was raining and everyone went home.
Polyfellers 