Mud, sweat and pies

“The earth,” wrote Antoine de Saint Exupéry in his classic fell running memoir, Wind, Sand and Stars, “teaches us more about ourselves than all the books in the world, because it is resistant to us. Self-discovery comes when man measures himself against an obstacle.” 

Okay, so maybe the book was about flying not fell running, but the sentiment fits. The Langdale Horseshoe is a classic fell race; runner against a collection of all that the Lakeland fells can throw against them. It’s got everything from scrambling to fast runnable sections, river crossings to waist deep bogs. And it’s ran in October, because fell runners are daft in the head. Why go into the mountains on a nice day when you could go up in whatever Autumn is throwing at you?

Last time I ran this race I was recovering from flu and my body just didn’t want to go. It’s one of my worst ever experiences in a race, I looked like I was dying and felt a little bit worse than I looked. So, finding myself recovering from coronavirus, I decided to learn from my mistakes and give it a miss. Except I didn’t, of course. I decided that it was time to even up the scores with viral infections.

Keeping with tradition I managed to arrive late and get to the start just in time to be at the very back of the pack. You can’t do that on a race like Langdale – the first kilometre is a bottle necked dash along the path from Old Dungeon Ghyll to the bottom of Stickle Ghyll. For a flattish section it took way too long battling through the traffic.

By the ascent of Stickle Ghyll I’d forced myself to calm down. There’s no point pushing your HR through the roof to overtake one person only to be still stuck. The danger on a section like this is that you can wear yourself out for marginal gains, I decided to only take the straight forward over takes. A cheeky scramble here, a dash through bracken there.

In my head it’s like running over custard, right? A non-Newtonian fluid. Be fast and light. Skim the surface. Dance over it. Like Sammy Davis Jr gracing the boards while Nina Simone sings Bojangles.

The weather on the day was fine but the preceding three days had seen the kind of rain that would make Noah break out in a cold sweat and start chopping trees. The tarn outlet was flowing fast and deep, I was up to my knees crossing it. That was nothing, however, compared to what was to come.

It seems unavoidable. You come off Thunacar Knott and after a constant uphill find yourself on a fast downhill. Having been waist deep in bogs here twice, I know it’s going to get real claggy in the middle of Martcrag Moor but at the same time the pace lures you in. In my head it’s like running over custard, right? A non-Newtonian fluid. Be fast and light. Skim the surface. Dance over it. Like Sammy Davis Jr gracing the boards while Nina Simone sings Bojangles.

In case it isn’t an obvious statement to make, I went in again. Deep. Slightly above the waist. And then face planted as my velocity tried to carry me forwards. Martcrag Moor. No one gets out of it dry.

I was up and out of the bog as fast as I’d disappeared into it. As the course pulls up to Esk Hause I caught up with Rob. He’s the reason I’m not even the best fell runner on our bank of desks at work. It was good to have some company and we stuck together through the climb up onto Bow Fell.

The section between Bow Fell and Crinkle Crags is rocky unpleasantness all the way. In any race that fluctuates between bogs, mud and wet rock, you’re going to have to make some choices on what shoes to wear. I’d plumped with S/Lab Cross – good in the mud, but less so on the wet rock. It was a slippy traverse.

By this point Rob and I had drifted apart a bit. Passing each other with occasional patter rather than sustained chat. He’s a cracking runner is Rob. And much as I was enjoying the chat, I’m now wondering if I’ve got the legs to drop him.

I’m a city boy who found the joy of the mountains. I’m confident up there, but I don’t have the ibex like feet of those who grew up running fells. So when I get a good runnable section I have to draw on the engine I have from road running and get motoring.

I’d learned my lessons last time out and hung left at Long Top to skirt around the Bad Step. It’s been three years though, and obviously a lot of other people have done the same, the path I’d used to bypass last time was much more eroded. I popped my hands on the rocks and dropped myself down and then gave it full gas.

I know my limitations. I’m a city boy who found the joy of the mountains. I’m confident up there, but I don’t have the ibex like feet of those who grew up running fells. So when I get a good runnable section I have to draw on the engine I have from road running and get motoring.

From Long Top down to the start of the Pike o’ Blicso climb I felt like I was moving quick and well. The climb up Blisco was steep but not too long and I was starting to look forward to flying off the top and down to the finish.

Unfortunately, the mud had other ideas. I was desperate to get the speed up but for the first half it wouldn’t come. Having sank up to my backside earlier, this time I slid on it. Only not far enough to add any speed to the descent. A little before the cattle grid the ground firms up and things improved, though not before I’d watched Rob steam past.

I’d set myself an arbitrary target before the start. I knew last time was poor, but I didn’t know how poor. I decided to aim for thirty-five minutes quicker and came in a little over forty. Job done. I can definitely make more improvements, but it’s a good start.

As we gathered around the tables at the Old Dungeon Ghyll though, the crowning moment of the race was yet to come. The pies from Great North Pie Co. I have spent more than the race entry fee on far worse pies. I chose the 14 hour braised beef and ale option, piping hot and probably the best pie I’ve ever tasted.

And here’s the thing about fell running. I often see trail races that cost hundreds. Sometimes I even do trail races that cost hundreds. But I paid £12 to do a brutal race, in some of the most beautiful landscape the country has to offer, with great people, and at the end we all ate a bloody good pie at no extra cost.

While mountain running is threatened by the same spectre of commercialism that has exploited so many sports, fell running lights a beacon for a sustainable, community driven, sport that keeps the spirit of running alive as a counter weight to the rampant capitalism elsewhere.

Mud, sweat and pies. Long may we cherish them.