Running

Some more long-winded nonsense about running. Feedback very welcome.

Getting back on the Horseshoe (a ramble about the Relay Champs, kinda).

I’ve had a pretty good year so far. I planned to train for, and then run a proper Lakes AL. From January to June I put the hours and miles in, culminating at the Ennerdale fell race at the start of June. My little training chart - compiled by a mystical computer algorithm - had a lovely upward trending squiggle. And I do love a bit of data based reassurance. I was running well and completed my goal – albeit with a performance slightly dampened by a cold – so I promptly took a few weeks off.
My little squiggle took a downward turn, but with my desires sated it wasn’t a concern. Training and rest must be balanced carefully if you want the scales of performance to tip in your favour, after all. But then Kentmere Horseshoe appeared on the horizon. It had been my first Lakes race the year previous and I was keen to see if I’d actually improved since then. It’s a cracking race; long and steep enough to put you to work, but not so serious as to scare you off.
A work stint in Carlisle gave me the perfect base for a bit of fitness rebuilding. I managed to make some quick hits on Scafell, Skiddaw, the Buttermere Sailbeck, and Striding Edge, to count a few, and my squiggle ascended accordingly. I was primed for Kentmere.
The race brought some full value conditions, which resulted in countless route variations (or detours, depending on who you ask) but it was a fantastic day nonetheless. Placing further up the field than before, I was happy with my improvements and started to plan out the rest of the summer’s races.
I returned to my local training ground - the Otley Chevin - with great fervour, stomping up the track with great intention. Cresting the top of the climb with a newfound momentum, and pulling round the corner, my foot somehow doesn’t quite land underneath me and with an horrific crunch I stumble to the floor in a pile of curses and pain. The summer’s racing plan almost visibly evaporating before me.
A dog walker enquires if I need assistance but I decline – either out of denial or embarrassment, I’m still not sure which. I hobble back down the track to the car – surely it can’t be so bad if I can walk on it?
Once again the squiggle tumbles. This time for two months. Eight weeks of holidays, stag dos and weddings later, I’ve ridden that downward squiggle like a party rollercoaster. Kilograms gained, fitness lost. I might as well take up tiddlywinks. And then up pops a little message from Dom.
“Can you run in the Fell Relays?”

Which brings me to the bit I actually meant to write about – The British Fell Relay Championships. Organised by Ambleside AC and held in Grasmere, NLFR fielded four teams, which is no mean feat for a small club. Shrouded in darkness, we piled onto the bus on the dreary Saturday morning. I was to be running the first leg – a hearty five mile romp with 2400ft of climbing. I avoided looking at the route in advance, choosing to remain in blissful ignorance; I knew it was going to hurt and that was sufficient. Either good fortune or foresight had me on a fully flagged route – something I was definitely happy about upon our arrival at a very claggy Grasmere. The marquee was absolutely buzzing with teams from all around the country getting down to their pre race rituals. Reassuringly, everyone seemed to be juggling dibbers, numbers and maps, with expressions of less than total comprehension. This is the cottage sport of fell running, not the Olympics, after all.
Soon enough the time rolls round to switch into race gear. I do the classic awkward shuffle into my shorts and vest, trying to use my hoody to shield my slither of dignity. I head for a quick trot up the hill to get some blood back into my legs – they feel as rubbish as you’d expect after a few hours on a coach. The first climb is a bit of a shock, even walking it felt pretty hard going, and it’s only about 200m from the start. Not the greatest omen, but with the swirling fog and tense atmosphere – today wasn’t a day to let superstitious thoughts get the better of me. Back down to the start I trundle. 20 minutes to go, launch prep commencing, final ablutions, a quick scoosh of caffeine charged energy gel, a swill of water, a kiss to my partner, and a saunter to the pen. The sight of a familiar face – Bill from Chorley – helps break the tension. We laugh at the ridiculousness of our nerves; it’s only a run up a hill anyway. I make the slight error of not jostling my way to the front, but before I have time to adjust position, we’re off!
Races always set off fast, and so should you. I don’t. Well, not fast enough anyway. The first steep climb is as unpleasant as expected but it turns into a speedy bit of track soon enough and the pace shoots off. It feels great to be smashing along the winding path as it slowly gains inclination. It’s steady and fast for just over a mile, I feel a touch regretful for not pushing harder for position at the start, now locked into the locomotion of runners snaking their way up the path, pace dictated by your allotment in line. This is what cross-country must feel like I think to myself. The path steepens again, my heart pounding and lungs pumping, but a cursory glance at my watch tells me there’s less than a mile to go. A mile to the top of the climb that is, the only marker that matters for a gravity burdened plodder like myself. Checkpoint one at Grisedale Hause passes, dibber sweatily fumbled into the reader, and steeply up to Sandal Seat we go. It’s less than half a mile to the summit, but the angle and terrain are unquestionably fell rather than cross country now, my hands pumping down on my thighs (if I’ve got to lug these bloody arms up with me I might as well use them), sweat pouring from my face even in the cold, claggy air. The summit is crested with another clumsy thrust of my dibber into its companion, and the sweet relief of a downward trajectory begins.
The grass is incredibly slick in the wet, and the lack of pronounced tread on my shoes promptly makes this clear - traction being variable at best. Either way, I’m definitely a downer rather than an upper, so I throw myself into the descent with the regular reckless abandon. Arms windmilling, I kick my legs into long strides, as if I was trying to launch a football the full length of a pitch. Interspersing the long leaps with the occasional tap left or right, trying to keep the unwieldy vessel on its winding course. Questionable as the technique appears to be, I keep passing runners – so I continue, body shaking and praying that my legs don’t crumble. Even a minuscule miscalculation guaranteed to send me Klinsmanning down the fell. Something which is brought clearly into focus as I pass a downed runner, head bandaged, surrounded by co-competitors who have come to their aid. The final checkpoint is rambled through, and the surrounding runners and I all audibly groan, as we realise there’s still some uphill left. Climbs – no matter how insignificant – always seem an order of magnitude worse when they’re near the end (a pertinent issue with The Tour of Pendle soon approaching). But with some heart pounding stomps, we’re up and over and on our way back along the fast track. The final steep descent – that caused such concern at the start – continues to deliver, as I completely lose all grip, engaging in a full bum slide manoeuvre. Definitely not the Olympics. Still, back on my feet, to the final romp back through the starting field. Arms flailing as I dive into the pen, passing the invisible baton to my 2nd leg team mates. In my anoxic state, I clamber through the barrier, completely disorientated, and totally oblivious to the finishing pen and mandatory kit check to my left. It seems reasonable proof that I was trying hard at least, or that I’m an idiot, both plausible options. Redirected by the marshal, like a bouncer gently guiding an intoxicated patron, I empty the contents of my race vest and thus validate my stint, with all the correct accessories, and we’re done.
Wrapped back in warm and dry clothes, gleefully tucking into a polystyrene box full of chicken, rice and peas, I am a very cheery man.
Over the day, the runners from the remaining legs return, some jubilant, others glad to be passing the baton, sharing stories of the day’s trials and tribulations. Regardless, a fantastic achievement by all, on a course with no easy legs, and conditions to match.