The Bob Graham Elegy

It was supposed to end in champagne, not five minutes of dry retching by the side of a b-road. I wanted to tell you all how it felt to dash up to Moot Hall, surrounded by friends. Whether I’d managed a jog up the hallowed steps or had crawled on my knees. But instead, it’s time for a different tale.

For the day before an attempt on a lifetime ambition, you’d think Friday would’ve been stressful but a strange calm had descended. I was neither scared nor excessively psyched, just very matter of fact. I would run 66 miles over 42 peaks because I’ve trained myself to do just that. I bought supplies, had a short nap, and chatted to my support team as they rolled in.

By five to eleven I was stood at Moot Hall chatting to another round going the same time. A photo opportunity, an extra second or two to get GPS, and off we went into the night.

Persuaded by my support runners that they should carry stuff and feed me, I attacked Skiddaw proudly in just my NFR vest and a light belt for my phone and a gel or two.

Leg one was pure joy. I don’t know how else to describe it. Sarah and Dave were on support and time seemed to pass effortlessly. On target up Skiddaw, slightly ahead up Great Calva and an ascent of Blencathra that felt like my legs were pistons.

Behind, across the valley, we could see lights moving up Skiddaw of other challengers. We descended Doddick and I remember looking at the lights below and feeling limitless. We strode into Threlkeld exactly on schedule to find Ed having already made me a brew.

Support wise it was a hearty thanks to Dave and a welcome to Graeme. We were out of the car park on schedule and on our way up Clough Head.

I love Clough Head. It just suits me as a climb. Even trying to moderate my pace I was up it a good few mins ahead of schedule. I watched the Dodds loom ahead in the shadows of the night and knew that I should have a couple of hours easy running ahead.

Coming off Great Dodd I started to get stomach cramps. I tried to refuse food but Sarah and Graeme were sticking to plan and feeding me regardless. If you stop eating on a Bob, you fail, it’s that simple. Good support runners keep you fed, and mine were great at ignoring my whimpering. I can honestly say that left to my own devices I’d have stopped eating after Great Dodd. Each feed was necessary but difficult: tatty scones, baby-bels, gels, brunch bars. Every half an hour something else went in.

As we reached Helvellyn Lower Man, two things happened: The sun rose, and the windchill dropped below zero. I layered a waterproof and gloves over the mid-layer and pushed on.

The back end of leg two is a great stretch. Having struggled up Fairfield via Cofa Pike on my recces, I now relish the climb. It feels eternal and yet experience tells me it’s over quickly. I was down on schedule atop Seat Sandal, so injected some pace into the descent to get into Dunmail almost bang on. Porridge, tea and cherry cola never made such a good breakfast.

We switched pacers at Dunmail with Sarah and Graeme having seen me through a dark patch and delivered me strong and on time to Simon and Kevin who led me enthusiastically up Steel Fell and away. Pace across the first few was great, but I started to struggle by Rossett Pike.

I normally love the climb onto Bow Fell but as pain began seeping through my sinews I started to struggle. It felt indeterminably long and confusing, like the director’s cut of a Christopher Nolan film; I got to the end but I had to work for it.

A friend had advised that when I was in the pain cave, I just needed to think of Plato. And so I did exactly that, but I couldn’t remember the allegory of the cave or process any thoughts on the nature of reality so was left pulling myself along thinking about an old Greek lad. Still he had a good beard and the thought of him made me chuckle.

At the summit I found we’d been a slither quicker than schedule, in spite of what felt like a crippling problem in my legs. I asked to pause and perched on the summit, sending my pacers ahead while I took a moment. I allowed myself some emotion as the pain encroached, prayed Our Father, and braced myself for the hard part. Gird your loins indeed.

Eyes wiped I set off after Simon and Kevin towards Esk Pike and on towards the big one. Could it be that having dealt with my emotions I could now kick on and beat this thing?

We ticked off four summits in quick succession, now knee deep in boulder fields, and battled to see a way through the pain. The splits were still good and I wondered if all it would take was perseverance: surely there was no more leg pain possible? I just had to absorb it and keep going, but every step held the quivering prophetic image of a collapse.

Scafell Pike was more than just a literal high point. Aleks and Liam had hiked up with water and rice pudding. What had felt like a luxury in planning was a life saver in practice. I decided on a break and soaked up the encouragement and the rice pudding, while covertly texting another friend — verbalising my fears and pain in exchange for their confidence.

The pain hadn’t lessened any but my movement was better up Lord’s Rake and the West Wall Traverse. Being able to use my arms on the scrambles was a welcome break. I topped out on Sca Fell and felt momentarily suspended between two great poles of success and failure.

I’d reached the top at the same time as a fellow challenger only to watch him disappear down the scree slope. I never can run scree well but on those legs? It was a sorry limp. I reassured myself that, when I got to the grass slope, I would speed up. I reasoned that I might take an extended break at Wasdale and come out swinging.

My knees didn’t agree. I found the grass slope and still couldn’t run. I could barely walk at times. Seconds turned to minutes turned to eons. I found myself trapped deep in a mental battle of trying to overcome debilitating pain, while fearing failure and letting my supporters down. I eventually limped into Wasdale, 24 minutes slower for the descent and almost an hour down overall.

A brew followed, and a pasty, and some more rice pudding and cola. Then pain killers to try and get me going again. It was good to have the fresh enthusiasm of a new face added to the pace team, but I never really got started. I pushed as hard as I could up Yewbarrow but the pain in my knees was restricting movement and even climbing up small steps seemed agonising.

I glanced at my watch, misread it, and thought I’d used all of my contingency and fallen behind. Just like that, the dream had died. I called it.

I paused my watch then did a double take, I’d been an hour out in my calculations. If I could just keep moving all was still in play. My pacers’ positivity was right. I turned to try and ascend again, determined to prove my ability to master suffering, only to find I physically couldn’t push up any further. I was broken.

We chatted it through and ultimately I couldn’t keep moving well enough to make completion possible. Continuing would have left me in unsafe situations and unable to get myself off the mountains, so I limped gingerly back down to Wasdale.

It was done. Years of dreaming. Of training my body and my mind. Of battering the crap out of myself in the hills then going back for more. Done, and it wasn’t enough, I wasn’t enough. In the pain of that moment I was positive that ultra running is beyond me.

I’m fond of the Theodore Roosevelt quote, The man in the arena, but it’s not so straightforward for me. I am both the man with face marred by dirt, sweat and blood and the critic who excoriates him with his pen. I have the courage to step into the ring, but I’ve also had my arse kicked by plenty of challenges.

I frequently judge myself against an unattainable standard, that means I push myself hard but also means I live in the dissatisfied liminal space between where I am and where I want to be.

The whole weekend was an immensely humbling experience, not because I was humbled by the mountains, though I was, but because of the support I received. I was surrounded by people giving help beyond what I could ever repay. It leaves the only option to be a simple thank you, and the humbling knowledge that people turned up to let me live a dream.

The next day, jogging up the stairs of the Dark Room Cafe in Keswick, I realised I wasn’t in any meaningful amount of pain. The dark tunnel it seemed I would never emerge from had been temporal. The shadows in the cave did not represent reality. I thought back to the seemingly overwhelming intensity of pain and the fact I’d managed to keep going through it until my body would allow me to go no further. And I realised that my support team had been right; I need to go again.

And so I sit, gather myself, hope my joints eventually become less swollen, and start to look at dates. To consider how I get more electrolytes, whether my schedule could have been better, if I can wear shoes with some degree of padding. Marginal gains.

When I quit I still had an hour’s contingency, so I wasn’t beaten by 30k. I was beaten by the fact I could no longer move effectively or safely; the difference between me and success is not 30%, therefore, but the smaller percentages that could have kept me moving up that hill.

And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Support team: David Ball, Sarah Ball, David Brigham, Aleks Bobrowska, Phil Green, Ed Guccione, Graeme Harris, Kevin Kendall, Simon Long, Fiora MacPherson, Colin Meney, Roo Newman, Jack Shawcross, Matt Turnbull, Liam West, Karolina Wołoszczyk

Photo credit: Photos in this blog kindly taken by David Ball

Gear: Suunto 9 Baro, Salomon S-Lab Cross shoes, Salomon S-Lab Sense Poles