"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
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