First run of the new spring

Another set of Saturday plans ruined by the weather; and this time I couldn't save it from the early morning as I couldn't even get my car out of the drive.

So not another Fellsman reccie, but after coming back from a brilliant concert in Sheffield , I decided a nice run around the Rombald's Stride course would fill the afternoon. All the pictures and stories from friends running the day before hadn't really sunk in.

So I parked in Guiseley, and set off easily at first through Spring Wood,

and then up to the top of Baildon Moor,

Guy in shorts arriving at the same time, making me feel overdressed.

without hitting anything too snowy.

Leaving the summit I had my first head-first fall into an unexpected drift, although at this point I was still laughing. I then started off towards Weachers, hitting a long section of 2ft deep snow, then a series of drifts gradually getting higher and higher.

This is usually a racehorse gallop

This is usually a road. This was taller than me...insert your own joke here.

I had by now realised this wasn't going to be much of a training run, so wrapped up and headed across Ilkley Moor:

Leave nothing uncovered

Looks like a path, actually a 2ft deep channel of snow

Reaching the ridge near Lanshaw Lad, the wind suddenly hit, and despite now wearing just about everything from my rucksack, my hands were starting to really hurt with the cold.

At this point I realised I hadn't brought enough cash for a train back to my start point, and was contemplating the long cold trip back, when in the middle of nowhere I saw a folded £20 note resting on the snow. There was no-one in sight so I took this as a sign to give up and picked up a bit to run back down to Ilkley train station and the easy way out.

The way home

 
Not much good as a training session, but I did learn two useful things. Carry more money and carry more gloves.

Cold and Calder

Saturday 16th March.

Back in January, I'd started planning a big run in the Lakes for the middle of March, inviting every Ultra runner I knew and imaging a breezy Spring day summiting peak after peak.

Come dawn on the 16th, sickness and circumstance had struck everyone down, and having watched the story of George Mallory on BBC on the Friday night I was almost relieved. Winter conditions had returned to the Lakes, and I related strongly to the image of his frozen body discovered 100 years later close to the top of Everest. That could have been me on Helvellyn...

So a hasty gatecrash of someone else's Fellsman reccie found me speeding to Upper Wharfedale to meet C and J, two members of my old club, for a run around the middle section of the Fellsman.

We started off on the old Dales Way, slipping along muddy paths to a creepy abandoned bunk barn before starting off into the first snow of the day.

The snow here on the road was deep and we marvelled that someone had been up here already on a mountain bike as we followed the bike tracks, until we came to a mess of snow followed by a set of footprints alongside the tyre tracks. A little tragedy in snow sculpture.

Eventually we made it to the Fellsman course proper and started the long climb up to Great Knoutberry Fell, usually undertaken weighed down by pasta and cake from the Stonehouse checkpoint.

The clear ground from the valley soon gave way again to snow and by the time we'd made our way all the way to the top of Great Knoutberry (J and I letting C do the hard work by making footprints for us to step in), it was full winter conditions.

Great Knoutberry view today

Great Knoutberry view on the Fellsman last year

A quick stop and it was a turn around and back down through the snow. I let the brakes off and charged down the hill following our ascending footprints in reverse. Eventually it became too tempting and I diverted through a virgin white patch of snow, realising as I decelerated and pitched face-first into the cold water that it was just a thinly covered bog. Quickly jumping up I managed to be on my way before my running partners got the chance to see me.

From here we crossed down to the site of the Redshaw checkpoint site and across the boggy side of Snaizeholme Fell. The wet pools of icy water put us all in a silent hell of cold, numb feet, silent except for the loud swearing from C who lost her sense of humour for a noisy few minutes.

Warming up on the climb away from the checkpoint location, we agreed to include the last top for the day at Dodd Fell.

A slight mis-counting of walls resulted in us having to rely on our tracking skills as we followed a set of fell shoe prints to the trig point; invisible in the mist and snow until we were about 20 yards from it

A glimpse of sunlight, some graceful, comedy falls by J down the steep slopes and finally a slow haul through knee deep snow and we were back on the road to our parking place.

At last the sky cleared as we ran past the start of the worst section of the Fellsman (a possible target for next week) and back to the car. A brilliant five and a half hours out on the hills.


Sunday 17th March 

Waking early up on Sunday, I realised that the sacrifices of an early night and not drinking beer meant I had to make the effort to get over to Calder Valley to run the Heptonstall Fell Race.

A scary drive round the diversions to the hill top town, a chat with friends from my past and present clubs, a sermon from a vicar in vestments and a Ron Hill hat and we were off up the cobbles.

The first 10 miles were a blur of long ascents and short, muddy, scary descents, enlivened by a short knee deep river crossing.

At about 11 miles, my interest started waning and I was forced to eat the Mars Bar in my bum bag that had become like an old friend to me, keeping me company for over 60 miles in the previous 8 days.

He was delicious, and after the last steep climb, nicknamed the Stairway to Heaven, it was back to the finish, a catch up with some friends (including my 2012 Fellsman partner who I hadn't seen since 2am at the abandonment of the race), and a slow drive back to reality.

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.

Every Witch Way But Loose

The one certain thing about any 24 hour event (at least this side of the Arctic Circle) is that some of it will be run in the dark of night. I only have a small amount of experience of this, with the Fellsman last year, a couple of December snowy night walks from Kettlewell with work friends and a couple of off-road headtorch club runs in 2013, so the idea of a night navigation event on Pendle Hill in Lancashire sounded like ideal preparation as well as a lot of fun

After a 2 hour car journey over from Leeds, with a fantastic sunset, followed by an intimidating view of the hill as I dropped down into Barley, I arrived at registration excited and nervous.

The event lasts exactly an hour. You are given a map 30 seconds before you start which has 20 circles marked on it spread over several square miles. The idea is you navigate to the circle where you will find a post with a hole punch on it which you use to mark the box of the relevant checkpoint on your card. Each hole punch has a different pattern of spikes, to make it possible to check you have visited the right checkpoint. The furthest checkpoints give you more points, but for every 30 seconds over an hour you take you lose 5 points. Starts are staggered to stop everyone following each other around. Simple.

So just after 7pm I was handed my map and then told to 'go'! Not knowing the area very well, I decided I would just set off following the route of the Tour of Pendle fell races and then decide which checkpoints to pick up once I was away from the start. I immediately passed the team of 3 (plus Molly the dog) who had started in front of me but were arguing about which way up the map should go, and headed away from the lights of the village and into the dark of the slopes of the hill.

My only plan was that, as the night was so clear, I wanted to get up to the summit of the hill. I was also pretty sure that the checkpoints up there would be worth most points (I didn't realise until I had nearly finished that I had folded the map in a way that obscured the points and descriptions of the checkpoints- never mind).

After finding a few of the red and white marked posts, I started the big ascent up to the top of Pendle, seeing the pinpricks of other runners' headtorches as I climbed higher and higher. Once at the top, I picked up a checkpoint hidden behind a wall in a pile of snow, then allowed myself a few seconds to look up at the mass of stars seemingly a few feet above my head, and around at the lights of the Lancashire towns and the dark bulk of the Yorkshire Dales to the North.

However, I was also aware that I was at about 40 minutes by now, so I found the trig point, took a compass bearing to a checkpoint on the side of the hill, and dived off the edge, swinging my headtorch like a lighthouse to find the post. There it was behind a sheep shelter; I quickly punched my card then got away from it to stop anyone seeing where I'd been.

By now I was worried I was going to be late and ran down a lane in what I hoped was the right direction for the pub, making half hearted, unsuccessful attempts to find checkpoints on the way, and finally sprinted back along the road to the finish with 48 seconds left.

In the pub, everyone had something to say about tactics and missed checkpoints. The winner was a quick runner from the local club of Clayton-Le-Moor, and the person who finished last was also a quick runner from the local club of Clayton-Le-Moor. I was somewhere in the middle, but had had a brilliant evening, completely separated from real life for the hour I was out. It also gave me a bit of confidence for the night sections of the races I have coming up.

Every journey starts with a single stride.

Early morning on Saturday, February 2nd and I wake up for the first time in my new house, freezing cold. The only unpacked items in the kitchen provide me with toast and tea and after a quick stop to pick up Multiterrainer it's on to my first race of the year in Guiseley.

In the steamy village hall there are lots of familiar faces although unfortunately not Micksworld, who managed a grand slam of the Ultra championships last year but is too sick to make it for this 23 mile sprint round Baildon Moor, Ilkley Moor and Otley Chevin.

A low key bell ring and we're off through urban woods, then a fast section through the original Emmerdale village before the steepest climb of the race (lasting about 1 vertical minute) up to the first food checkpoint. I use my usual technique of knocking back a couple of drinks, making a bit of small talk with the marshals and setting off at a walk with whatever I grabbed from the selection of biscuits, chocolate and savories. As long as I refuel properly this amount increases with each checkpoint. I know if things are going wrong as I stop feeling hungry which is always the beginning of the end on a long run.

From here it's out into the Moors for the next couple of hours. A long haul up to the top of Baildon Moor, slowing to a walk as the slope steepens, but still keeping up withe the runner in front of me, who is doing all the actions of running without any of the speed. It's hard to make the decision when to stop 'running' and turn to a fast walk, but also easy to start to walk too soon.

(c) Nick Ham

From the trig point on Baildon Moor, the visibility is crystal clear. It's still below zero, but with a cloudless blue sky, and in the winter morning's purple clarity Whetstone Gate, where we are heading via the top of Ilkley Moor, looks close enough to touch. Eyes off the horizon and back to the ground for the drop off the Moor and the crossing through Harvey Smith's racehorse gallops, a quick food stop by Weacher reservoir then the long climb, skipping over icy bogs and up to Lanshaw Lad.

For the last few years, the route from here westwards would have been be a muddy, slippery 3 mile stumble. Now however, big flagstones have been laid right over the moor top, and it's possible to get to near road racing speeds across here, which is good for race times, but not so good for my knees. I used to enjoy picking my way through the unofficial stream crossing points made by walkers from pieces of wood and stones, but now everyone is just led right through it all on a big yellow brick road.

Ow, my knees. Ow, my knees.... 

A slight diversion for the far western checkpoint, and then a very familiar moor run back to Burley Woodhead; my usual Sunday morning outing.

I'm still feeling good; surprising considering my lack of training since the turn of the year, and being out in the crisp, clear morning looking down on Lower Wharfedale has transformed my mood. I know I am not going as quickly as the year before, but I'm enjoying it.

I lead a runner through the slightly complicated route through the streets of Menston, and on to the final, very steep climb up to the top of Otley Chevin. As I walk very slowly up the hill, I try not to think of the much bigger ascents ahead of me this year. Just as I reach the top, I'm overtaken by the current Ladies U23 British  fellracing champion, and her supporting boyfriend gives me some encouraging words as they disappear ahead into the distance.

A final checkpoint and the fast descent to the finish, and it's time for pie and peas as a conveyor belt of friends sit with me to talk through the run.

15 minutes slower than last year, but feeling good, my final conclusion as I head barefoot back to the retail park to pick up my car, is that this was a good start to a big 6 months of running.  

Next prep race is a step up to ultra distance at the Haworth Hobble at the beginning of March.