Running

Hoofstones Fell Race – a dip into navigation.

The morning starts as it always does, with an alarm piercing through the blanket of sleep in which I am so comfortably wrapped. My feet slide out from under the covers and onto the cold wooden floorboards, the draft sucking air from the gaps in the wood and around my toes. Poorly coordinated hands clasp around my face, prodding and stretching at the recently dormant features. Roused, but not awake, habit takes over as my legs walk me into the shower – the warm water comes as a reasonable consolation from departing the duvet. Timings are key here. I’ve gone to bed too late, and thus set my alarm as late as possible, maximizing my hours in slumber but leaving little room for error in the morning. Ping the coffee machine into action, wearily stretch my legs into my longs, throw some dry gear in a bag, stumble into the kitchen to pile toast and coffee down my gullet, brush my pegs and then straight out the door. I’m properly late. The hour I usually permit myself to register and warm up has become 20 minutes according to the sat nav, and the tractor in front on the road isn’t helping. The adrenaline accrued from the drive will have to count as a warm up.
Diving into the pub, kit is checked, entry form is scribbled down at record speed, and I’m back out to the car with five minutes spare to try and get some blood flowing.
The high valley walls around the pub are dusted with snow, the black rock juts through ominously. The sky is grey and promises little visibility – optimum conditions for a navigational event. The runners huddle together in our starting pen, a record breaking 77 starters for the race. We’re reminded that this is a test of map reading and way finding, and our outer boundaries are defined. Most importantly that hitting the road on the return will result in disqualification.
And off we go. The first two miles are a winding uphill track that takes you up to the aforementioned boundary road, and onto the moor. I set off slowly, half sensible conservatism; half I’d rather be in bed-ism. Breaking out of the valley as height is gained, the winter wonderland is revealed. A thick and even two inches of snow covers all in sight, with only the emergent dark mud of the trail disrupting the clean white canvas. I’m already cursing my trail shoes as usual – their design lacks the pronounced lugs needed for grip. Snow has already packed itself into all the cervices of the sole anyway – it’s a perfectly flat marriage of rubber and ice now. I tell myself that I would be bounding ahead, if it weren’t for my substandard footwear, but it’d take more than some rubber studs to break me from my docile plodding. Once we’re over the road, we’re officially in navigation mode – which just means that you still follow the person in front, but just with a bit less certainty. Heading up to the first outward checkpoint, I notice that we’ve just opted for a path with too few footprints. The quick turn around causes the usual traffic jam of runners and the day’s first micro meeting begins. A momentary head scratch and map glance leads to a pointed hand, several nods, and the restarting of the precession as we form a snake of runners lumbering over the stile and onto the correct path. I spot Bill behind me, but before I’ve had a chance to say hello, he’s nipped on a cheeky contour and taken about 10 places – always keep your eye on the ball! This tactical manoeuvre helps to rouse some kind of competitive spirit, and I commit myself to catching him up. I pass over the checkpoint and stamp my race number with the device, only after cursing the artisanal precision those in front seem to be applying to the task.
I catch Bill on the next climb and say hello. He drops back and I’m about to offer to wait for him, but once again he’s taken a different line.
“Do you know something we don’t, Bill?” I shout over the fence. I can’t quite remember his reply, but I do remember thinking that I’d rather follow the footprints than break trail over the snow covered heather, regardless of racing line.
Not long after, the trig and it’s guarding marshal appear from the clag. I voice my relief and thanks to the race official – thinking you’re in the right place, and knowing you’re in the right place are quite different sensations after all.
From here, everything went a little awry. Or perhaps, the accumulated laziness of my navigation finally caught up. The decision to simply follow the person in front bore its fruit as our small pocket of runners realised we no longer had a path to follow. A glance at my compass shows that we’re heading directly south, rather than south-east as we should be, and if we continue straight, we’ll hit the road and gain nothing but a disqualification. Announced to our small formation, there is further head nodding and our course is rightly adjusted. Fortunately, we are not alone in our adjustments, as we converge with several other factions to once again form a big snake of runners. The way-making errors, put caution into everyone’s pace. The chill starts to set in as the intensity lowers below the point needed to maintain temperature. I hobble past a few runners in an effort to warm up but trying to overtake on the snow-laden heather provides too frustrating. I go knee deep into icy bog holes that seem to appear from nowhere. And just as the grey cloud descends upon my spirit, a little red flag appears from the mist to lift it. We’ve overshot the checkpoint, but only just, and a quick sprint up the hill takes us to the snow-covered marshal. As we head back down, I manage to redirect a group headed straight for the road and an inevitable disqualification – it seems unfair to knowingly let people run themselves out the race that close to the finish. Sufficiently cheered by the regaining of the route, it’s just a nip over the road and down the flagged course to the finish. Even a couple falls don’t dampen the spirits too much as my shoes lose all traction on the slush and mud. The surrounding path turns from white to green as we descend back into the valley, the snow turning to rain. Pulling round the last corner, I spot the finishing pen – it’s not at the pub like I thought! One final push to the pen, and it’s all smiles and handshakes. I trundle back down to the car, shedding my soaked and mud-covered gear, relishing in the dry clothes I packed.
Back in the pub it’s chips and soups all round. The small inn packed to the brim with chatting runners, all sharing their versions of the day’s mishaps and successes.
I really bloody enjoyed it, even if my map reading wasn’t as studious as it should have been. A big thanks to the organisers and marshals who braved the cold to facilitate our daft hobby.
And finally, my proper fell shoes have just arrived in the post!

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