Tour of Pendle 15 November 2014

"The most contrived race in the FRA handbook or an inspired and testing route of Clayton's favourite hill", according to my tattered and mud splattered Harvey race map of the Tour of Pendle (and also the Stan Bradshaw round).

Official website here

16.8 miles

Climb 1473 m/4833 feet

Having never run, not for nothing, I started running on a treadmill on my 40th birthday by accident, then ventured outside the following year.  Hyde Park led to the Meanwood Valley trail which led to Ilkley Moor which led to the Yorkshire Dales.  The Wharfedale Off Road Marathon was my first long off road run, in 2011, followed by the Lyke Wake race, the Yorkshireman and the Tour of Pendle.

I reccied this cracking route twice before my first attempt in 2011 having been introduced to this gem by a friend who told me it was the closest he had come to death by running the race with a hangover the year before.  Another friend, who runs up hills faster than I run down them, swore he hated this race passionately.  He had extreme views.  I liked it already.  I have met a few Pendle casualties since who won't go back.  I think it requires respect.

Pendle Hill is visible from many places, standing out like a big erratic from hundreds of miles away. The journey to Barley, where the race starts, takes you through Roughlee (speaking) always a Ted Chippington highlight for me.  A silent brooding hulk of a whale.  I have been cycling around Pendle Hill before, also, it doesn't get smaller or further away. Just standing there like a big quilted pillow.

This year, my fourth attempt, I fail, unsurprisingly, to get under four hours.   I end up managing a PM, half way between my best time of 4h 03m 05s and worst time of 4h 36m 25s with 4h 16m.  I am medium pleased with my time but relieved to finish intact.  Bear in mind I normally double the winner's time, to get an idea of what I might do.  The course record is 2h 11m (2007, Lloyd Taggart).

[The website currently shows the men's fastest times; the women's fastest times used to be there, the page is undergoing re-construction.]

So, already plotting my comeback, before the Tour of Pendle next year I will lose that gut, and some weight and get fit.  And get under 4 hours. Still, it wasn't as bad as last year.

Just under 500 runners are gathering outside the Old Waterworks in Barley until Kieran sets us loose, setting off at a slow, steady pace we move through a mist, heading uphill but a gentle incline.  I am near the back and here, we all get cracking at an optimistic jog start, and as the first ascent continues, there is a gradual mutual understanding, the slow jog decelerates into the uphill power walk, hands on knees or my own preference a good arm swing to carry me up and along. I look forward to the clag clearing as it always does, the sun shine blessing this glorious run with its golden glow.  I told another runner at the start, "oh the clag will clear by the time you reach the top, it always does."

Oh dear.  After the tarmac start, the terrain improves to a mixture of gritty path and grass, the top of Pendle Hill is soon reached and it's time to run along now, over a stile, across the top of the hill, over a moor, splashing through bogs, through check point 1, the marshall blowing his whistle as I drop my tag in his bucket, a call to those who missed the fork to the left.

Following a path and some runners ahead, we're still in the clag, I come to a fork with runners ahead taking both left and right.  Which is the route?  I pick the wrong one and a few minutes later a well placed man points me to the right, I cross the tussocks to find the right path.  A very early finish avoided, and disqualification too, I am fortunately righted, and back on track, the path leads to check point 2, the bread tags are in the bucket and from there it's a clear run down to Churn Clough reservoir, straight through check point 3, from there it's straight up the side of Bank Hill.

I follow the fence straight up, then the wall, cross the hole in the wall, following in the steps of nearly 1000 feet ahead of me, each foot print with 60 claws, 60,000 holes in the mud every step I take, 60,000 steps, 360 million holes in the hill, and across a murky Spence Moor.  The wall heads right and I head left and into the brightness, the autumn mist I pound.  There is nothing to be seen then I come across some figures in the mist looking lost.  We hear voices, and move towards them, and as we do, the hill falls away below, the clag clears and the drop down to Ogden Clough and check point 4 is dizzying.

The route description: "this decent is locally known as Geronimo" so down we go, across the water, making it through check point 4 and not timed out.  Result!

There follows some respite, a little jog along a cheeky little path along Ogden Clough, which is crossed then it's a gambol up a cheeky little Black Hill, Ian is there once more with drink and chocolate, amazing how he gets to all these places.  From there, we head across to Apronfull Hill, where I lose myself wondering exactly what it was that some Pendle denizen had an apron full of to mark it so.  No Skinfull, Eyeballs, Backteeth, no it's the Devil's Apron full of stones, or the giant Owd Nick's stones spilled in anger.

From Apronfull Hill it's a good descent down Pendleton Moor to checkpoint 5, I am on my own again, the other runners left me as they disappeared into the clag,  The heavenly downhill is bouncy soft wet grassy joy, bounding down hill and an isolated rare moment of overtaking, not only entirely out of character but also a very rare experience, my legs forgot who owned them; this is an out of body experience for me.  I wonder how it will end - today it ended at check point 5, then it is a right turn, head for the Howcroft Brook at the bottom of Ashendean Clough, from where you head up and climb Mearley Moor.

Up, up, up....   approaching this climb, you know there is this one, looming right ahead and two more after it.  I allow myself a quick look back when I grind to a halt.  There are bogs at the top and we cross the wall and out of the mist a figure looms, this lone figure in the mist with a bucket announces he is check point 6, tags thrown in, onwards and then down, down down following the 36 million black holes in the peaty gritty bog, down to check point 7 having crossed Mearley brook, then it's up again, now on all fours this is the only way to climb by this point.  The race organiser's race description laughs: "this climb is referred to locally as the Big Dipper".

Yes, crawling to the top, here's check point eight, the bucket dutifully held by the men in the mist, hello, goodbye, along the track, back into the mist, over the stile, along the path, following the 36 million holes in the peat down and yes bounding down along, flying in places, descending from the mist into light and visibility the views are luminescent and the path ahead is seen, and people yes people are not that far ahead.

Check point 9, at the bottom.  A lone marshall and a bucket full of bread tags, a picnic blanket spread out covered with treats for any passing takers.  In case of uncertainty, Kieran's route description guides the way: "turn and climb back up to the stile in the wall, cross the stile and follow the trod to the trig point on the Big End, which is check point 10".  Grabbing a handful of jelly babies and a chocolate biscuit I choke as I head upwards for ten minutes as the dry digestive blasts my throat.  

This time last year has haunted me.  Big End.  Last year I had not run at all after the Bucharest marathon at the end of September, until the Tour of Pendle, I was unfit and I knew starting was not a good idea but I could not bear missing it.  By the time I made it to the last climb, I was low on energy - physical and I found out, here, mental too.

Never before had I plumbed such a depth as I inched my way, no that's not right, I was falling up Big End and falling down almost faster than I inched, I was clutching the strong grass and digging my fingers in the soft peat.  I kissed the grassy knolls as I stumbled around them.  Every mistake I had every made in my sad pathetic life, everything I had said or done which I would take back if I could, they all rattled around my head and laughed in my face.  My brain wept and begged for an end.  To my surprise I eventually made it to the top, staggered to checkpoint 10 and reassured - with bare-faced brassneck - the worried faces scrutinising me for signs of life that all was good. That was then.

This year, I gaily sprang up Big End in comparison like a mountain goat, still staggering and falling with just physical but no mental breakdown.  Result!  A flicker of horror when I looked up and realised the big dark cloud above the horizon was not a dark cloud but more Big End in the clag, then on with it and up, I knew it was nearly done and started smiling to myself when I heard Ian's cheery voice shouting to people to "bear to your right", I moved a little to my right and found the track, scampered up that and across the stile, over to check point 10, there's some tea in the tent if you want it, no thanks I am good.

Onwards across the top of Pendle Hill, checking with my new friends we are finding the right path then amazing bouncy grassy moorland bounding running, down the hill with my other new best friends my mudclaws to cheery checkpoint 11, through Bill's gate, along the track and nearly home.

Uh oh!  A trip and a fall, my calf cramped and some runners are good and stop but I usher them along, I will be fine, my calf behaves enough to let me run, I see some runners to run at, and claw my way up the list of finishers as best I can overtaking a handful in the last mile.

Ashamed I did not have my map in my hand, and only got my compass out twice, another lesson in not being so bleeding ignorant.  Lazy and relying on memory, nose and the shadow in front.  Yes, it's great running terrain, and you have the comfort of the bread tags recording which bucket you have passed and the marshalls ticking your number off at check points but navigating in the clag is a skill and would be an art if done - instead of hoping the shadow looming in the distance ahead you are trying to keep up with, is not a runner on a bimble but a runner in the race who knows his or her way.

1st male       Karl Gray   2h 21m 31s
1st female    Caitlin Rice 2h 49m 47s

Striders

4th     Jon Parker   2h 30m 24s    
262    Mark Woodhead  3h  42m  30s
287    Steve Dixon  3h  49m  59s
350    Sarah Smith  4h 16m 12s

372 finished

Photos courtesy of Andrew Mattison

The Fellsman, 26 and 27 April 2014

The Fellsman is a high level traverse covering more than 60 miles over very hard rugged moorland. The event climbs over 11,000 feet in its path from Ingleton to Threshfield in the Yorkshire Dales.

 Most of the route is over privately owned land, the use of which is secured by the organisers for the weekend only. This being the case, the route does not follow well defined footpaths, so the entrants’ navigational skills with a map and compass are tested as well as their physical fitness. Because of this, only fit and experienced walkers or runners should enter.

After the Auld Lang Syne race on New Years Eve, Meg posted our Fellsman 2014 entries before we left the Keighley area, so that they would arrive at the Fellsman in the first batch, as entries opened on New Year's Day.  

Due to a hectic few months at home and at work, I didn't have time to think about this until the week before.   I realised I had not received my handbook when I noticed people on Facebook talking about how good it was, so I contacted one of the RO's and it arrived a few days later.  I spent a few hours on Wednesday and Thursday night, putting the grid references for the check points on my OS maps, and reading the Points to Observe.

I texted Geoff to warn him I was expecting to get lost, he texted back that Sylvia had been the first lady twice, 14h 30m with a noon start and 12h 59m with the new 9 am start, so I asked about pitfalls to avoid.  I received an email from Sylvia:

Hello Sarah

It's a long time since I did the Fellsman, so I don't think I can be much help. I've dug out the results & I've still got the compass bearings for all round the course though not much use to you, not knowing exactly where they were taken from & anyway the course may have changed: I must have been very keen & determined. I surprise myself: I went on my own the weekend before & camped at Dent & did  a 40 mile recce (that includes return to camp mileage). I do remember being anxious to get well on before being teamed up when darkness fell (do they still do that?) & joining up with a group of chaps who were then allowed to continue, I think they were worried to have a woman complete their team but I showed 'em. I also remember being on Dodd Fell somewhere, checking my compass bearing while a group of chaps just ahead left & them arriving at the next checkpoint before them. A lovely feeling (I'm no great navigator).

I certainly didn't carry any liquid but will have started well hydrated & drank at every opportunity.

I remember Linda Lord (I spoke to at Pendle) watching & saying 'just think about the next section'

good luck

Sylvia

Helpful.  I liked the emphasis about carrying no liquid, in light of the views of Mr Webster on that subject it made me smile.  I made sure I was drinking water all day Friday to start well hydrated.  That much I could manage. 

My plan to cycle from Skipton to Threshfield was ditched when Meg insisted on giving me a lift, and as well as my bags she had also picked up my lovely, soft, massive blue blanket.  Registration and kitcheck were followed by dinner, a pasta dish and a slice of bread, I sat with Nick Ham and we were catching up when Stuart Mills came and joined us.  They were exchanging tales about fractured metatarsals and I was thinking I wanted to listen to them and join in the conversation but I was really tired from getting up around 5 am most days that week, and I also wanted to go to bed and get my much needed sleep. 

Nick then said, and I kid you not, words to the effect of "one of the most important things in training in the days leading up to an ultra is getting lots of sleep, really topping up on your sleep in the week before."

So I just got up and blurted out, "night night", I felt a bit rude but I really needed and wanted my sleep. I slept well on the floor in the sports hall and hoped that my snoring wouldn't ruin anyone else's much needed sleep.  I brought spare ear plugs to offer to any complainers but no one woke me.

Breakfast was a bacon roll and porride and there might have been a sausage in it but I wasn't sure.  The now familiar bus journey to the start of a run was an opportunity to rest my legs.  "Every day hurts" by Sad Cafe came on the radio and transported me back to 1979 until our arrival at Ingleton where I registered and became the proud owner of a circular tally which I hung around my neck.  The famous, prized, Fellsman tally.  Will this be the wheel of fortune or the disk of death? 

The start 8.30 am

It still hadn't really dawned on me.  I joined in the swell of runners heading out of Ingleton, uphill, then up Ingleborough, and slowly making my way up Ingleborough in the rain and the wind, I realised my fate was in the hands of Fortuna and so resolved to enjoy every step of the way.   All I knew was that ahead of me lay 60 miles of beautiful Dales landscapes, and once the wind had blown the rain and clouds away, the views and skies would be the prized backdrop to hours of moorland running.  What joy. 

Running down Ingleborough I chose the grassy slopes over the slabs, and made good progress, despite falling and sliding twice.  I make faster progress sliding down a bank than mincing down the steps.

After being buoyed by the sight of Andy Smith cheering me on at the gate at the bottom of Whernside the ascent of Whernside was unremarkable, the run down the west side to Kingsdale was pretty sublime, and the climb up Gragareth was done quietly, the wind and rain had gone.

The tented marshalls were cheery and from there it was a good trot along the spine of Gragareth to Great Coum, and through the Flinter Gill checkpoint down to Dent, the first checkpoint with a main course on offer, the earlier ones having snacks and sundries. There was a Trev and Simon atmosphere going on in the catering tent or maybe it was more Chuckle Brothers but either way it was a laugh a minute and I could have sat there on the grass longer but I was in a race, and so pushed on.   

Leaving Dent, me and another runner missed a turn despite some map fondling but our mistake was pointed out as the other runner realised it, also some others called us back.  A climb followed and we contoured round the end of Whernside enjoying good views of distant places we had yet to reach, followed by a giddy run down and then a climb up to Blea Moor.

Half a bowl of pasta at the Stone House checkpoint, and a small handful of choccie biccies, I set off for Great Knoutberry, shortly to hear a fellow runner lamenting and cussing at yet another climb.  With tired legs, I climbed in silence, looking forward to the return downhill which was a bounding delight on the springy soft ground. More soft landings and sublime downhill running led to Redshaw where it was good to be cheered on by Andy Smith again.  I was surprised to see Meg at the checkpoint in charge of the tea pot as I had lost track of where I was on this mad escapade. I inhaled a hot dog, emptied some stones out of my shoes and set off, feeling grand. 

I followed the fence to Snaizeholme then when it was time to leave the fence I aimed in the direction of runners I could see in the distance; they looked like white horses and I couldn't catch them up.  I had no idea what time it was or how far I had run and had to go.  I tried to guage how much daylight I had left to enjoy from the position of the sun because my plan was simple: to get as far as I could in daylight.  Every time I walked, I thought this means longer in the dark on Great Whernside.

A runner who I had been running with hours earlier caught me up; we ran together almost to the end.  This chance encounter, of course, explains not only how and why I finished the Fellsman but led to some interesting conversation.

Sometimes I went on ahead, sometimes he did, "come on, Terminator" he would jest if I lagged behind, "see you!" said I as I ran past him gaily.  He was very sociable and realised I didn't have the capacity for speech whilst running, once I had said my quota that was it.  He chatted to all the runners we passed and I just followed the land.

Fleet Moss
Middle Tongue
Hells Gap
Cray

These words alone inspire a sense of trepidation and respect.  These places are wild, desolate and beautiful. 

In the doleful words of one runner, this was a "boring, featureless section" but as you know, I don't expect entertainment on a long distance run.  I don't understand what is so special about having a feature anyway?  This terrain is not only remote, but spectacular.  You are lucky to see a sunset here, and feel some droplets of rain which are hurled your way momentarily then stop.  

Night time is coming.   We make our way across moors and I find myself in a band of runners, one tall man constantly checks his map and bearings, his companion is bright and spritely and we are sticking with them through the tussocks.  I am incapable of speech but the other runner is making friends as usual, and chatting to this impressive duo.

Before we find ourselves here, this running companion who has adopted me has been asking everyone if they have run this race before, if so, did they finish and generally researching for the grouping exercise at Cray.  I appreciate the wisdom of his approach, but can't contribute as I am concentrating on moving.

Meanwhile unbeknownst to us, we undergo a two part interview and pass.  The spritely runner says to me, "we were wondering if you would you like to group with us at Cray?".  I nearly died.  "Thank you, I would love to!"  I said, aware that this invitation was the stuff of dreams.   She asks a question about my friend, "I don't know, I have never met him before, I don't even know his name".  That's my social skill laid bare.  We all introduce ourselves and crack on.  Fortune's wheel is well and truly in her upward turn. 

I dispel my fears I might be the one to slow the group and vow to push on.  Arriving at Cray, I see Andrew Smith again, what good and unexpected support.  Here I put long, warm, winter leggings on and gloves and head torch.  We set off for Buckden Pike and Loz and Debbie's navigational skill is quickly put to use, we are crossing fields and stiles in the dark, I am totally unaware of my whereabouts, I haven't been here for over 20 years.  I know that my task is simple.  Follow these people.  They know what they are doing. 

The next few hours are surreal.  My limitless love and joy of long distance running does waver a little as the hours pass by.  I should have had more sugary sweets to boost me but mistake number 2, I had only my emergency rations and didn't want to break into those for fear of disqualification.  If I could have eaten one of my Boost bars I would have broken into a rousing gospel chant.  Loz's jelly babies and pastilles were gratefully received and I grabbed as much food and biscuits as I could at checkpoints to sustain me.

All I had to do was follow, and the intensive preparation and care these navigators had taken to make sure they got the route right in the dark was a salutary lesson in night time navigation.  I would only be capable of monosyllables, if pushed, from Buckden Pike.

Through the clag which bounced off the head torches, the bogs and checkpoints of Top Mere, Park Rash and Great Whernside I silently trudged, although I made the mistake of allowing speech to occur at this last checkpoint by telling the marshalls camped out with no tent but just sleeping bags on top, in the cold, in the clag, with rocks for a base, that they looked like hobbits.

"How many hobbits have you met?" I am challenged with.  Stubborn as ever I didn't like to say "none".  I almost said my son had feet like a hobbit as if that would be a good enough answer, but I realised that was unkind and it was nasty of me to ever think that, let alone say it.   I was looking forward to getting in my sleeping bag on the floor and wrapping myself in my lovely, soft, blue blanket, they had the rest of the night on the mountain ahead of them. 

I can't say much more about this night time section, although I feel compelled to go back in daylight and see where we went. 

When we reached Yarnbury we were degrouped and I ran alone along the road for a while, then followed Deb and Loz to the finish where there's Alex drinking beer and Meg in charge of the laptop, this all seemed perfectly normal, as did eating a massive baked potato hiding under a big coating of chilli.  Then a long sleep and a lift home from Meg.  I feel totally spoiled, I have had such a fabulous time. 


1st men:     Kim Collison and Adam Perry 10 hours 51 mins
1st female: Carol Morgan                        14 hours 29 mins

Joint 136th Sarah Smith                          18 hours 45 mins
 
383 started
285 finished

The Fellsman