The Long Hard Road Out Of Hell

I still don’t know why I take on events like Mountain Marathons or this because I don’t do ascents well. I don’t know if this is partly psychological or a biomechanical or even weight-related issue but it doesn’t take me long to start puffing and panting up a steep slope. Still, not much alternative so I amused myself by trying to come up with a haiku about the situtation. That proved a little difficult to make scan correctly, so I settled for something more conventional:

I see you, Black Sail Pass
With your rugged tracks and fucking steep paths.
You think you’re so great with your rugged good looks
Something something something crannies and nooks
But you’re not going to defeat me this time
You absolute sodding bastard.

Yeah, I know – not exactly Oscar Wilde.

A combined strategy of swearing loudly and stopping for frequent rests paid off and I clambered to the top of the pass. The descent was still tricky but less hair-raising than last year because I’d paid better attention to maps and videos and worked out where the path was meant to go. Past the YHA and up to Scarth Gap. The descent down the other side didn’t seem anywhere near as bad as I remembered it being and I soon found myself on the very runnable track alongside Buttermere.

Checkpoint: first marathon down, 45 minutes up on last year and feeling so much better. The guys from Outdoor Warehouse were very welcoming and friendly and seemed like they would bend over backwards to help us out. Once again I tried not to hang around and left at the same time as the guy I’d arrived with, Jonathan, and we hooked up with another chap called Colin pretty much straight away. We began the climb up past Sail Beck I did wonder whether any of the contouring sections were runnable but they were narrow and slippery so it seemed a fruitless task. Marilyn Manson’s “Long Hard Road Out Of Hell” appropriately cranked up on the old internal jukebox and set a banging rhythym to hike to.

One again I got waylaid by some of the steeper sections of the climb. Seriously, why do I find these so difficult? I’ll work it out one day. The other two guys disappeared off up the track and there was no way I was going to catch them. I pushed on to the top and soon hit the descent past Scar Crags – a very scary descent that I’d forgotten about. I was glad that I couldn’t see the drop to our left – there was no way I was going to attempt going down this at speed. Not a problem – I wasn’t in a hurry. The track soon evened out and I on the descent into Braithwaite I buddied up with Jan-Frederick, a German born runner from Kendal before catching Colin again at the bottom just as we hit the road.

In the CP I decided to change into my Helly and pick at some of the pork pie and chocolate on the table. I wasn’t that hungry so I didn’t concern myself with making myself eat. Something tickled the back of my mind and I suddenly realised that the runner who was sitting near the door, nursing his ankle and who had obviously retired struck more than a passing resemblance to Sam – and so it turned out to be. We’d chatted on Twitter and read each others blogs but hadn’t actually met. So I stopped for a quick chat with him which meant I didn’t get away as quickly as I wanted but it was good to meet him and chew the fat for a while. I could have happily spent more time there but I was aware that I was well ahead of last years time (1h10 as it turns out) and wanted to push on.

Making sure I didn’t repeat last years mistake of leaving my headtorch at the CP, I set out into the darkness and up the A66. I remembered how much I loved this section, especially the run around Glenderaterra. I caught up with a group who had obviously missed a turning and passed them up Spooney Green Lane, striding hard. Uphills on road or track I can do. But things started to go a little pear-shaped at the top when I was overtaken by the Sleepmonsters. Suddenly it felt like someone had sewn little lead weights to my eyelids and I slowed right down.

I got caught by a couple of runners, Angela and Stephen, who I’d first seen coming down from Scarth Gap and had been leapfrogging with them since then. Fortunately, rather than push past they engaged me in conversation which frightened the Sleepmonsters away. John Kynaston came past at a very respectable pace as we headed up the compulsory dibber point on the Sheepfold. We, like many others, went up the track but only about 10m or so before turning around so negligble time lost. I pushed hard down the hill after dibbing and then hard along the track to Blencathra watching the light break into the sky. That track is definitely one of my favourite parts of the course.

I spent a little too long at this checkpoint too – not sure why – and watched Angela and Stephen come straight in and out. I wouldn’t see them again. (Angela ended up being joint 3rd female and they both finished at just about midnight. Well done to both of them.) A slight fuck-up when I left meant I’d forgotten one of my bottles so I had to turn around after 200m and go back to get it. Stupid bastard. Never mind, push on – down to the old railway and plod along.

Straight On Until Morning

This was where I got caught by the Sleepmonsters last year and, having failed to get me on the last leg, they were lying in wait in the woods again. I suddenly felt shattered and could barely keep my eyes open. Reasoning that I had plenty of time in hand, enough to sleep for a couple of hours if need be, I ended up deciding to take a 15 minute nap under the A66 road bridge. I set my watch alarm for 20 minutes from then, put my head on my pack and closed my eyes.

It took about 5 minutes before my body temperature dropped so much that I was shivering and my teeth were chattering. Sleep wasn’t going to happen and I wasn’t about to risk hypothermia so I picked myself up and pushed on at a jog to warm myself up.

The field up to the Old Coach Road was harder than I remembered it being and once again, my pace dropped the more tired I got. Footsteps behind me and a chap called Toby caught up with me. Toby had been in a team with Dave, my campsite neighbour, but Dave had started suffering early on and dropped out at Wasdale. Toby, an extremely capable runner (who’d end up finishing 37th in just under 30 hours), had pushed on by himself. I was glad of the company and talking to him once again woke me up. After a while I sent him on his way but then decided to run after him and kept pace until we got to the checkpoint. Even though I’d stopped for a nap, I was still an hour ahead of last years time.

I grabbed some soup, coffee and fig rolls (mmm… fig rolls) then left quickly with another pair of runners, Andrew and Andrew. On the road down to Dockray village, I realised that my ITB and right knee were niggling. This wasn’t good but it also wasn’t catastrophic. Running was a little painful but possible if I took it easy.

I kept pace with the two Andrews until we got into Golbarrow Fell when we caught up with a chap called Will (who, I worked out later, was a club mate of Mick Wren’s). He wasn’t happy and while the Andrews forged on ahead, I stuck with Will for a bit, once again captivated by the beautiful views of Ullswater. When he admitted that he was thinking of dropping out at Dalemain, I urged him to just take his time and get himself sorted as he had lots of time in hand. (Unfortunately my pep talk didn’t work and he dropped at Dalemain too).

We got to Swinburn’s Park and I said goodbye to Will and ran into the forestry. I felt a little bad at being somewhat heartless but I had my own race to run. I love running through woods and wasn’t about to pass over this opportunity to make some decent progress. The rest of the leg flew by and I found it far less of a drag than I did last year and even managed to make some time on the road section. This gave me a chance to sort out in my head what I was going to do at the half way point. Primary goal? Not to piss around as much as I did last year.

I gained 15 minutes on that leg and got into Dalemain at about 9:30. I wanted to be away by 10am at the latest so that I had two hours on the 50 mile runners, but not at the expense of my race. I had to finish and messing up this checkpoint last year was where my race started to fall apart.

The last thing I needed to was fuck it up again.

I changed my kit, restocked my powders, swapped my batteries and picked up my MP3 player. Overjoyed at the discovery of pink shrimps (sweets, not seafood) I grabbed a couple – only to realise that they tasted much better when I was 7 years old. I still wasn’t that hungry but had half a cup of soup and a slice of bread. The main thing was to grab an extra bottle of sports drink to give me three bottles for the climb up Fusedale. The sun was out and I was not going to be going unprepared like last year.

The last thing to do was see the physio and get my knee strapped as a preventative measure, down some paracetamol and then it was off. The checkpoint layout was much better this year – the tent exit was pointing in the right direction so no wondering which way to go like I did last yaer. Out of the checkpoint I caught up with Colin, Jonathan and Jan-Frederick again and we jogged into Pooley Bridge and headed up the track to The Cockpit. I made a mental note of how relaxed I felt and took another moment to look over Ullswater and appreciate the view. I chatted with Colin and played with some numbers to work out how far we could make it before the 50s started catching us but it wasn’t exactly scientific.

Then, Howtown. I took an extra moment to get focussed. This was it. This was the climb I was antcipating with a mixture of apprehension and trepidation with a side order of vengeance, a soupçon of determination and a sprinkling of anger.