Some people never learn
“The earth 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.”
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
One of the things I love most about fell and trail running is the fact that we’re running against challenges bigger than ourselves.
On the road there’s a constant drive to make every second count, to push the pace and compare against past efforts and goals. In the hills, you never run the same run twice. Terrain changes with the seasons, weather can be a benevolent ally or a hostile adversary, and an easy ascent on fresh legs can be an Everest on tired ones.
A couple of weeks ago I had a wonderful first day back in the hills since lockdown. Twenty miles, pinging along the border ridge from Cheviot to Windy Gyle, back over Auchope Cairn and down the valley. After months without hills it felt like blissful freedom.
Setting off up Cheviot again on Friday felt quite routine. These are familiar hills. A blanket of cloud had draped itself over the tops and, just a couple of miles in, I realised that my legs weren’t in the mood to play. My calf was struggling and my head dropped on the steep climb off Scald Hill onto the top of Cheviot. Something wasn’t right.
What I’d forgotten is that Comb Fell is the place dreams go to die.
The plan was to join up Cheviot and Hedgehope via Comb Fell, rather than cutting across the valley floor. It’s part of The Cheviot Goat route – a challenge I often flirt with the idea of but have yet to sign up for. What I’d forgotten, however, is that Comb Fell is the place dreams go to die.
Comb Fell isn’t a hill, it’s not a mountain, it’s basically just a massive lump of sodden peat thrown at the end of the Harthope Valley. It’s endless amounts of clag as far as the eye can see. Wading through it you wonder whether your next step will be up to your ankles or your knees.
I hated it, cursed my own stupidity, and swore that I would never do the Goat. If Comb Fell is that miserable in summer, it must be even bleaker on a midwinter’s night, twelve or so hours into a race.
I passed over the summit of Hedgehope and settled on an early finish with a jog down into the valley to the car. An aggressive herd of cows, however, didn’t get the memo.
Crossing behind them I noticed that they were gathering, staring intently, before starting to make straight for me. I trudged on, watching the gap between us shorten, until I was close enough to the crags to make a sprint for more technical ground.
Between me and the route down the valley stood the second half of the herd. Not today, bovines, not today. This run was going to go longer than planned. I tried to pick up the Chevy route but, faced with more cows, decided to bypass it by climbing a barbed wire fence.
Nature had decided to show me who was boss. It needn’t have bothered, I already knew.
It was slow business picking my way across tussocks, trying to avoid the bogs and streams, and that was before I ran into a snake. I’m pretty sure they don’t often bother people, but I’d rather not find out. By this time the sound of gun shots is echoing in my ears and ground nesting birds are fleeing skyward with almost every step.
Nature had decided to show me who was boss. It needn’t have bothered, I already knew. I picked up the Chevy route again for a while and dropped down to Carey Burn, where I started the slow run back up the valley to the car. Weary and bruised but still moving.
It was about fifteen miles all told, but felt a lot harder. Still, at least I’d got some vert. And importantly, I’d remembered that Comb Fell is awful and no human should voluntarily cross it. Ever. Needless to say – I’ve managed to blank that misery out of my memory and am now back to poring over route maps and race reports of The Goat.
Some people never learn.