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Thread: Lothersdale Fell Race

  1. #11
    Super Moderator Derby Tup's Avatar
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    A perfect example of why a writer needs good research and a top editor Darren. Thanks for the updates

  2. #12
    Quote Originally Posted by Derby Tup View Post
    A perfect example of why a writer needs good research and a top editor Darren. Thanks for the updates
    No problem Andrew, I'm already looking forward to your next 'race report'.

  3. #13
    Are the results up anywhere? The race was definitely a bit of a shock to the system after a much slower Y3P.

  4. #14
    Super Moderator Derby Tup's Avatar
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    Results will be posted on here or at KCAC web-site http://www.kcac.co.uk/club-races/lothersdale/

  5. #15
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    First class report and well done DT.

    Keep it up Andy.👍

  6. #16
    Super Moderator Derby Tup's Avatar
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    Now then if I can do a race (plus ‘sticks stylevreport) when are we going to see a race report from you Trev? 😏
    Last edited by Derby Tup; 03-05-2019 at 09:23 PM.

  7. #17
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  8. #18
    Lothersdale has all the makings of a great mid-week fell race. It’s short and steep, costs £3, and you get a bottle of beer – a feat which not only seems to defy the laws of economics but also firmly hoists the flag of virtues that I associate with good races (cheap, no frills, fun and booze). Held on the Wednesday after the Yorkshire Three Peaks race, I was under no illusion of hoping for a decent performance, but the sun was out, the small village hall bustling with runners, and I’d just exchanged my £3 and entry form for a race number and a bottle of beer. The standard plod up and down the road to shake some life into my legs was met with quite some resistance from my being, but the promise of a short course pushed any concerns away. It’ll be over before it’s even begun, I foolishly convince myself. Chatting at the start line, I offer the advice I was given from a friend regarding races under 5 miles “Go as hard as you can, and try not to blow up.” Happily espousing the strategy that was about to sabotage me in just a few minutes to come.
    The race sets off up the steep and narrow path and my legs almost instantly shit themselves. I’m very aware that’s not really physiologically possible, but I can’t bring to mind a better way to describe it. My chipper enthusiasm is replaced with dread. Not real dread, like the feeling on a Sunday before the return to school, when booking a dentist appointment, or checking your bank balance after an exuberant night on the piss, but more like the kind of dread when someone unsheathes a bottle of vulgar and exotic spirit when you’re casually drinking cans. It’s dread with a wink and a chiptooth smile, one that provokes fear with a dash of intrigue. Everything feels wobbly, my legs have gone to jelly, my lungs are puffing harder than the Flying Scotsman, and I seem to me moving no quicker than a mobility scooter with a flat battery in a swamp. The quick pass through the fields and up a track then pulls down, to my dismay, onto a downhill concrete path. The hard ground and downward trajectory has me praying to the Gods of Quad to keep my useless pins from folding under me. I always thought it’d be some giant leap over boulders in the rain that would gift me my first downhill clatter, but this little concrete track in the Parish of Craven has other ideas. I ramble my way down, miraculously avoiding full body contact with the deck and regain the upward path. The aspect is frustratingly runnable. The moderate steepness offers no excuse for breaking into a walk and any hope of momentary respite. The disparity between perceived effort and tangible output is laughable – like revving a car to the redline but leaving it in first gear. I’m sure my exhaust gasses weren’t too dissimilar either. The summit and its turnaround are reached and wobbled through. My legs are joined by pretty much every other part of my body in the customer services queue to complain to the manager, as I thump my way down on the solid flagstones. The brief descent on the way out is back again to cause discomfort on the way back up it. Again, the course is too short to justify walking and this tiny stretch jeers at me to falter, and only with oxygen starved exasperation is the tiny mound crested. The final 200m steepens downhill as you’re funneled into the finishing straight, gripped with fear as small children pop out to encourage you, worried that a wrongly placed stride may land you with some difficult explaining to a parent as to why their little darling is now a lot flatter than they used to be. Thankfully the finish line is crossed without issue and I’m able to crumple into a heap without any steamrollered children on my conscience.
    Safe to say, I don’t think I’ll find a better way to spend £3.

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