Fell Running At 50 - Part 1

My friends and colleagues showed remarkably little surprise when, at the age of 50, I decided to go fell racing. To me, having a long history in mountainous areas, particularly in the Lake district, it seemed a natural progression to the tentative fell running I started a few years back. A short flirtation with longer distance trail running was terminated by numerous injuries and I returned to what I loved the best – running on the fells.


So, Jan 1starrived and I found myself standing slightly nervously in the market square at Kirkby Stephen, not knowing anyone and unsure of protocols, ready to run my first race; The Nine Standards. That seemingly relentless climb was probably the most physically intense experience my poor legs & lungs had ever had to endure. At about 2/3rds of the way up, the leaders, Morgz & Carl came flying past me like bats out of hell and were probably in the pub by the time I reached the top. Never mind, I’m better on the downhills, I thought to myself. Ha! So is everyone else, I discovered! The road section near the end of the route sapped completely what little energy I had left. Even so, when I saw the results, I was overjoyed to learn that I had just managed to finish in the top half of the field (just). So race 1 completed, but with mixed feelings. The intensity was something I was unprepared for and not something I was sure I enjoyed.


My next race was High Cup Nick. Feeling that perhaps I had not warmed up enough for Nine Standards, I did far more in preparation for this race, and I also decided to go out as fast as I could from the off, a tactic I hoped might serve me well. Now this backfired bigtime as after half a mile or so, my legs tired and my pace slackened off. Runner after runner passed me by, so many in fact, that I felt surely I must be very near the rear of the field. However, I tried to just keep going, just keep going… The long trail through the fields on the approach the Nick was very tiring, but when the climb started, I began to pull in the runners ahead and made a good few places up. After a laugh & a joke with the marshals at the top, it was off at full pelt across the frozen ground and on back down into Dufton village. One particularly steep slope was covered in hard frozen snow and perched above, a photographer waited, like a bird of prey, for any poor soul to lose their footing. The run back seemed to go on far longer than it should, but again, I managed to finish in the top half.

Race 3 was very local to me, Black Combe and conditions that Saturday morning back in March were about as perfect as could be. I got there early and whilst waiting in my car and trying to mentally prepare, a small group comprising the current fell running royalty stood next to my car having a laugh & joke, which struck me as being almost surreal. After going out too fast at the last race, I decided this time, to take it far more steadily. Looking up the first climb, it appeared impossibly steep, but I managed ok to get all the way up to the summit in a reasonable time. The gentle slope down and flat section that followed were very tiring and numerous runners overtook me. Not to worry, just keep going, just keep going… When I arrived at the stream crossing, exhausted, and probably looking like I was about to expire, all I could think of was ‘JUST GET TO THE FINISH…..YOU’LL NEVER HAVE TO DO THIS AGAIN!!!’ And in this frame of mind, I set off up the second and monstrously steep climb back up Black Combe. This actually went quite well and I made a few places up. Cresting the top, I made a direct line to the path, so avoiding much of the tusocky bracken, and sped off back down to the hill to finish. Try as I did, I just could not catch the guy ahead but eventually I crashed over the finish line to my best finishing place so far. I was quite pleased with this one and felt that I had run it just about as best as I could. The pie & peas in the village hall afterwards was just delicious!

My confidence was starting to increase now, so I entered myself into TWA. March & April were poor months for fell running with the tops covered in icy snow. Running was possible on occasions with microspikes which are excellent, but so many times I found myself thrutching through thigh deep snow, for example on the slopes of Stonesty whilst reccying Great Lakes, or with completely numb feet after running Fairfield in melting snow & slush. So, a few long distance trail runs were the way to go, I thought. I completed a number of these over a period of 3 weeks, with a distance of 28 to 30 miles but physically this took its toll on me. My weight dropped alarmingly and the tiredness seemed to linger on and on in my legs. My uphill running ability (what there was of it) seemed to disappear during this period and this affected me mentally. My confidence plummeted and the prospect of running up Grisedale Pike in my next planned race, Coledale was too much. I decided to quit. Not fell running, but fell racing. So no Coledale and no TWA.
And then a work colleague mentioned that he fancied having a go at Coniston Fell Race. Well! If he was going to do it, then I may as well do it also. After all, it IS my main training route and I am intimately acquainted Mouldrey Bank, that witherer of leg and lung. Again, perfect weather but with the tops clagged in. 40mins to Weatherlam summit. Strange, that’s no quicker than a training run… Down to Swirl Hause and I am flying along like a ballet dancer on speed. Up Prison Band but legs are tiring alarmingly now but just keep going, just keep going… Now, if it had been bright and sunny on the tops that day, I could have blamed sunspots or gamma rays or the wrong type of sun rays, but as it was completely clagged in, I have to hold up both of my hands and admit to a couple of silly schoolboy errors during the latter half of the race. Suffice to say, that instead of using my own knowledge and instinct, for some unfathomable reason I decided to follow others. This meant poor lines and lots of lost time. I recall glancing down to my right and seeing streams of runners pouring effortlessly along on the correct line. Bloody hell… where did they come from?? On the descent from Coniston Old Man I again chose to follow another. This guy was really good down hill. Too good. Soon he was out of site. Damn! ‘He went that way, mate!’ shouted a walker, pointing in an unlikely direction. ‘Oh cheers!’ I called, and soon found myself almost cragfast way up where I had no business to be. With some difficulty I managed to get down onto the tourist path and pelted off down to the finish line as best I could. Not a very good effort, but still well inside the top half of the field. Then something surprising and unexpected occurred. I was overcome with not only a sense of accomplishment which had always welcomed me at the finish line, but a feeling that, yes, this one I actually enjoyed!

Tbc....