Blencathra. The first mountain I ever walked up. On Wednesday this week, nearly 57 years later, was my third visit to the summit, this time in the Blencathra Fell Race. Some things stay the same: the view from the summit was just as I remember it from 1968: a 360-degree panorama of clag. But whereas the weather was otherwise benign on that first visit, this time it was the most difficult weather conditions I can remember in any race since I returned to fell racing ten years ago: a battle through cold wind and rain.

It mattered little that I wasn’t physically warmed up at the start; maybe more of a problem was that I wasn’t mentally warmed up. As runners split into two groups shortly after the start, one lot taking the track up Bannerdale while the others turned right across the bog on the traditional route to the steep climb to the NE ridge of Bowscale Fell. I followed the latter group without thinking, simply because runners around me were going that way.

The steep climb went well, but once onto the ridge, exposed to the worst of the weather, runners started streaming past me. And that theme continued for the rest of the race; in fact, I kept thinking, “surely I’m right at the back of the field by now”, and yet more kept on coming past me.

I had been dreading the final steep drop off Souther Fell, but that went surprisingly well: the grass, moss and bilberry provided a surface on which every footfall felt secure. But it was after the descent had ended that I had the only really unpleasant experience in the race (even going into a bog up to my crotch hadn’t been too bad, as I pulled myself out without too much difficulty). There is a crossing of the River Glenderamackin before the last few 100 metres to the finish. The river isn’t very wide, and the depth and flow speed by themselves weren’t problematic; but I took two steps in and stopped. The bed consisted of large, smooth rocks, and I just couldn’t find a secure footing. It must have taken me around a minute to find somewhere that I felt safe to cross, around 50 metres from my first attempt. If it hadn’t’t been for the photographer on the opposite bank trying to help by suggesting places where it might be easier to cross, I might have ended up sitting down and crying.

I haven’t seen final results, but I think I was 4th from last, and last male finisher, taking more than twice the winner’s time. This is consistent with my performances in the only two other category AM races that I have done since returning to racing (Half Peris in 2017, and Arenig Fawr in 2021). But it was still a great experience (apart from that river crossing). I would still like to do a few more AM races, and not just at 4-year intervals.