Out in the winding, windy moors...

Into March and my second race of the year and first Ultra since the High Peak 40 last September.

This 32 mile race around the bleak countryside that inspired the Bronte sisters is so good they named it twice. It is called the Haworth Hobble and the Wuthering Hike almost interchangeably. The route takes in the moors above Haworth before a crossing of Calderdale and up to Stoodley Pike, and finally a return via Heptonstall and the route back to Haworth known as Top O'Stairs.

The race starts at 8am, so it was early as I drove towards Haworth through the half light filling my car with people and gloom. It was already cold and wet, and the forecast was for snow as we all described our pitiful amounts of training. Arriving at Haworth all was forgotten as we met up with familiar faces, and finally were set off up from the bottom of the cobbled main street for a first slow mile.

The first few miles climb slowly up onto the moors so there's a chance to settle into a good pace and have a chat, then it's on to Bronte Bridge before a queue at a stile and the moors proper. At this point the snow and wind started properly, and it was heads down for the run past Walshaw Dean and Widdop reservoirs, with maybe the odd look up at the dark brown featureless moorland; I imagine it looks better in the summer. It's best to get through these sections with conversations to make you forget the miles ahead, and I ran with Steve R, both of us putting the world to rights.

Finally off the moors, I grab some broken biscuits before joining the Long Causeway, a straight piece of tarmac bordered by huge wind turbines, screeching in the mist. The snow was being blown in our faces here, and this kept me going, running up the hills just to get into the shelter of the descent into the Calder valley. To our right was a low yellow prefab house, with some bright plastic children's toys outside, looking like something from a sinister horror film.

A quick check in at the checkpoint known for serving hot dogs, and I grab a hot cross bun instead, eating it a small piece at a time as we pick our way down the Calderdale Way to hit the main road east of Todmorden and slowly make the first of the big climbs up to Stoodley Pike.

At Mankinholes there is the usual dilemma about whether to have a shot of whisky at the checkpoint. I was told by an experienced ultra runner last year not to as it gives you a boost on the next climb but that I would then regret it after 15 minutes or so. I subsequently found out he had ignored his own advice, but this was someone who saves a bottle of wine to drink in the early hours of the morning at the end of the Fellsman. As I was starting to lose the inclination to eat, I ignored the spirits again, and forced down some scone instead as the route heads along to last part of the climb.

The wind had picked up again, and the huge obelisk on top of Stoodley Pike was appearing and disappearing in the wisps of low cloud. Just before the top of the climb I was overtaken by two runners speaking German. It was like an art house impression of death; a painful climb up a blasted, snowy, misty hill with a massive black monument on the top, with gibberish ringing in my head.  

The climb over, I passed the point on the descent last year when I had felt so sick I'd had to stop to refuel and recover. I was feeling much stronger this year, despite a lot less training mileage, and felt I was on track to beat last year's time as long as I didn't fall apart even worse than last year on the final 10 miles.

Dropping down to the main road again, I smugly pointed to a runner behind me the hidden steps up the side of the hill to Heptonstall, only to see him overtake me and run straight up through someone's garden to their front door. We retraced our steps and found the proper hidden steps 10 yards further on. The long climb up the road to the old weaver's town of Heptonstall had been difficult for me in the sun last year. No problems this year and it was cold and drizzling so not so much opportunity to dehydrate.

Another descent to Horse Bridge and then we're on the final section. This was where I fell apart last year. I think it may have been when I passed the 26.2 mile point and started telling myself I'd never been that far before that my brain told me I was beaten, but this year I managed to run the sections I'd walked last year and I arrived in the returning snow flurries at the Top O'Stairs feeling good. The German team had lost confidence in their navigating and followed me through this section which gave me added incentive to keep up a trot.

I arrived at Penistone Country Park feeling really pleased with myself, knowing I was going to beat last year's time and with an easy run back. And then I went the wrong way.... Swearing at myself I eventually found myself on a road that looked vaguely familiar and ran back to the finish, arriving from a different direction to everyone else and behind a team that had been a few hundred yards behind me a mile before.

But never mind! Back in the hall, a fantastic vegetable chili had to be eaten whilst dissecting the race and catching up with where everyone is running next.

I can't remember the last time I have felt pleased with how I have done for 2 races in a row. Either I'm getting too easily satisfied or more realistic, but I'm happy with my progress so far this year. There's a long way to go though, literally. Next run is a weather dependent reccie somewhere next week, followed by the Blubberhouses 25 next month.