Gone Fishwickin' - Part 2

Part two of my mini Fishwick

(STOP! have you read part one yet? if not go here instead: here)

I woke up in beautiful but murky surroundings. Bloody typical, there had been just enough rain in the early morning that I would have to dry my tent out when I got home! It had also left behind some low cloud. My plan had been to see how my legs felt and either race, or swap my shoes for boots and head up Scafell Pike, a peak I haven’t climbed, and being the highest in England this really irks me. But low cloud was forecast all morning so why hike all the way up to stand in a cloud? Racing it is (and let’s be honest, it was always going to happen!)

Nice little spot to wake up in, unfortunately this picture was taken the evening before!

Despite only being only 12 miles as the crow flies from the campsite (The Old Post Office Campsite, Santon Bridge; lovely little campsite, would definitely go back!), Wasdale’s notorious inaccessibility meant I had a 44 mile drive via Cockermouth between my sleeping bag and today’s race number. Thankfully the start wasn’t until 1pm so I enjoyed a tranquil cup of tea dangling my legs over the river Irt, followed by some bacon and beans straight out of the pan. This must be how Mo Farah would prepare for a race if Quorn did bacon.

Glaramara - the race that goes up a mountain

Distance: 4.9 miles
Climb: 2,200ft
Results here

I still arrived early for the race, being almost followed into the Glaramara Outdoor Activity Centre car park by the race organiser. After he declined my offer for help to unload his car I pulled up a piece of grass, and settled down to my lunch trying to match my map with what the national park had laid out in front of me. The first thing I noticed was that the race route must have been out of the gate and a left turn, going right meant climbing up an impossibly steep looking face. Even fell races don’t go up stuff like that...do they?

A few more cars started to pull into the outdoor centre and I paid my £3 entry fee and, with a pleasant coincidence, was handed race number 3. Chatting to another runner in the customary pre race toilet queue I started to learn a few things about the race. I was promised some great running not long after turning back from the summit, but the last part of the descent made for tricky footwork! Oh, and the start is very steep. Yes, it is up that way.

The climb up Thoneythwaite Fell from the Activity Centre

I found my fell shoes in the rear footwell of the car where I had left them to “air” after Fairfield. Air they had not! The smell didn't quite knock me out so on they went and I took my tender heel for a warm up jog around the neatly mown lawn. It felt OK, and my legs weren’t entirely unhappy about being made to run again...we will see what they think of more hills!

All the necessary detail on the race map mounted at registration

There was a mix of local club vests, including the yellow and green of Keswick, the blue of Cumberland Fell Runners, and an army of the red and white of the young Northern Fells club who had made the race part of their club championship. All told 50 runners toed the line, or should I say gathered vaguely near the stone gate posts, as the race organiser wobbled his way onto the top of the dry stone wall and addressed us. In typical fell race style, and with the usual information about flagged sections, it went something like this:

“Thanks for coming everyone, especially with the other races on this weekend. We did ask the Keswick Mountain Festival if they would include us in their events but as this race actually goes up a mountain it wasn’t allowed”
“There is tea coffee and flapjack at the end, the bar is open as well. It’s reasonably...no it’s not reasonably priced, but its open, so you can have a pint after”
“Everyone ready? I can’t see any cars coming. On your marks...OH WAIT! The finish is over there *points vaguely back across the grass*. On your marks, GO!”

Still chuckling we were off and running. After a short spell on the road, single file over a footbridge and through a farmyard we hit the hill. Before we even got onto the fell proper it felt like I had spent more time scrambling on all fours to get up the 500ft of climb in the first kilometer than I did all the way to the summit of Fairfield. A small gap had started to open up between the group I was in and those in front before we ducked under the barbed wire strung over the fell gate. Not wanting to lose sight of the race in front I dug in, clamped my hands on my knees and drove ahead to close the gap slightly. 

Once through the wall the ground seemed to flatten slightly but became more wild. Braken and leaf litter replaced by grass and ancient volcanic rock. The path, when it existed, was small, winding and rarely the racing line. The result was less a winding snake of runners heading upwards, but a scattering of vests picking their way through the terrain. The small field also meant that despite it being still the early stages of the race, I often found myself, if only for a few seconds, completely alone. Well, except for the iconic herdwick that seemed to barely notice the 50 panting, breathless humans slogging past.

One moment I would be running along a worn groove in the mountain, barely wider than my shoe, the next I was climbing over boulders or power walking up steep grass banks. The view constantly changing around us, getting more spectacular with every crest and turn. I knew I was closing in on the summit, even though it was out of sight, when the eventual winner came careering in the opposite direction, Dark Peak vest tucked into his shorts and streaming behind him like a waist-cape (I know these don’t exist, but you know exactly what I mean!). Second place still hadn’t appeared when he flashed out of sight. He would go on to win by over 90 seconds with six local Borrowdale runners making up the rest of the top seven. A very impressive run by the visitor from Derbyshire.

After 35 minutes the last hurrah of the climb hoved into view. I don’t stop in races to get my phone out for pictures, for this I made an exception (I was already walking anyway, so swinging my bag off to grab my phone didn’t slow me down and gave me an excuse for a small breather). Between me and the summit was some boggy running, and then a cliff. A cliff with a few discernable coloured dots wriggling up it. Route 1 was up a small crevice in the formidable rock, probably carved by a tiny glacial waterfall millennia ago, it was now a fell runner’s ladder.

If you look carefully you can just see the specs making their way up the rock

I thought Fairfield had scrambling, this was a new level. This was bouldering, in a race, with no crash mat, and runners above and below. I managed to reach the summit without getting hit by a falling rock, or sending too many at the competitors behind me! I’m sure, now the mornings cloud had long lifted, that the view was spectacular. I even have a picture to prove it. I didn’t see any of it. I saw the red tape guiding me to the “easier” way down on the western side, I saw the marshall encouraging us and I saw some tired looking hikers. Then I was plunging between the rocks again, the valley far below, and still I saw nothing. Why must the wind always make my eyes water when I start running downhill? At top speed downhill on this terrain there are enough surprises as it is what with the chance of a sudden drop, bog or hole, without being blinded by the wind! Ah well, all adds to the adrenaline I suppose!

Is that finally the summit!?

(source https://www.granddayoutphotography.co.uk/)

Because it was an out and back race I had been stealing the occasional glance over my shoulder on my way up to help me navigate on the return. This turned out to be one of my better ideas. I didn't recognise much, but more than once I spotted a familiar looking crag and made for that instead of the Northern Fells red or Keswick yellow, that I could see in front of me. It wasn’t a winning decision every time but I think I came out best more often than not. Against these hardened lake district runners though I wasn't gaining on them. Between my relative inexperience running on this terrain and the occasional pain in my left heel coming out best meant minimising lost time. 

How many times can you honestly say you have been grinning in the final mile and a half of a race? That’s exactly what I caught myself doing as, with nothing but a pair of herdwicks for company, the cloud broke. Leaping through the air, sun on my face, wind in my hair (thankfully my eyes had adjusted by now), and a horizon to chase. This is my happy place. To think, I had almost trudged up Scafell Pike to look at the inside of a cloud!

I ducked back through the gate and wove my way through the low thick woodland playing dot to dot with the flags. A bit more scrambling and dropping down big steps and it was back into the farmers field. Some spectators, I think from Northern Fells were perched on a lone rock next to the path, cheering each runner home. I almost took a wrong turn through the farmyard, (OK well I did take a wrong turn, but realised quickly) and then it was over the narrow footbridge and onto the short road sprint.

No traffic in sight, only a couple pushing bikes along the opposite verge, so I pressed on to the gateway back into the Outdoor Centre. As I neared the cyclists a familiar voice called out “Well done!”...cheered on by Carl Bell again, this man was everywhere! I crossed the road and spotted what I will generously call the finish. Across the grass, on a folding camp chair, sat the race director, next to a board with the word “Finish” drawn on it. That will do for me. With nobody to chase down the final 100 yards or so on the grass was only about the clock, and I did my best to give it a good hiding! Not sure where I had to actually get to I just ran towards the chair. That seemed to be enough, with another “well done” my race number was taken down. I thought about laying out on the sun warmed grass to recover but didn't want to show myself up in front of all these proper fell runners. Instead I wearly, but happily, hobbled to the cups and water supply set up outside the outdoor centre, wondering how they would have settled a close finish...first one to high five the RO perhaps?

I indulged in a flapjack and a cup of tea or two and chatted with runners and spectators. I even spotted fell running royalty Billy Bland among the crowd, almost unrecognisable in cycling kit. If only he had been there earlier, I could have done with some of his legendary mental toughness. What caught my attention almost as much as the ex Bob Graham record holder, was the prize table.

Being laid out, among other objets d’art, were a shovel, a dust pan and brush, a box of washing powder, a hanging basket, some pedigree chum, car window washer, charcoal briquettes, a strip socket, WD40 and toilet roll! After the customary thank you messages, the organiser announced that there were cash prizes for the first three, then for the rest he had “been to Wilkos and bought a load of shite”

The coveted prize table!

Carl, by virtue of his fell running prowess, was roped in to hand out the prizes for the top three, but with a good natured smirk and a gesture at the table refused to get involved with “that lot”. What a great idea it was though, who remembers a bottle of beer or wine? Who wouldn't want to be reminded of a great race when admiring the flowers adorning the hanging basket in years to come, feeding the dog or enjoying a squeaky clean behind?

I could have stayed in the lake district forever that day. With the sun, the dramatic scenery, and the warm glow that comes from doing something you really love, surrounded by great people. Unfortunately, I had to make tracks before all the sheep downwind of me needed the attention of a good vet. 

Driving home I reflected on the two races, the similarities of the changeable, tough rocky terrain and brutal climbs, but also the contrasts, chip timing and online entry against a stopwatch and a system of sticky labels. Both approaches have their merits and I wouldn't have changed a thing about either race.

Time for a nice long, preferably flat, rest...
What's that you say?...Roseberry Topping Fell race is on Tuesday?....would that make it a full Fishwick?...Rude not to!

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