The Bob, redux…

I definitely said to Sarah, as I trudged dejectedly into Wasdale, refusing to believe the profuse encouragement that said I could do it, “here’s Fiora, she’ll let me quit”.

With the benefit of hindsight, I’m not sure how I reached that conclusion. Maybe I was hallucinating and thought I saw someone who’d let me walk away. That’s not what I got.

As we walked to the gate of the car park, she looked me dead in the tear filled eyes and said, “okay, when you go through this gate you’re on leg four. We’ve made you some of that whiskey tea, then you’re going up the next hill.”

I was not impressed.

None of my support crew would listen when I explained I was quitting. I was being spoon fed porridge. My shoes were changed. I went to the loo and stared down a long drop realising my options were running out.

And so we walked over the bridge, eyes fixed on Yewbarrow. As we came to the stile Fiora headed back to the car, insisting that she and Zach had to drive straight off to get pacers back to Keswick. They were cutting off my retreat. The only way was up.

I turned to say goodbye to Sarah, who’d spent hours keeping me afloat, but she didn’t go. She climbed the stile and started up the hill too. Hours of my bad craic hadn’t worn her down.

We were on for leg four, the Bob starts at Wasdale, right?

Leg one had been a veritable waltz. I was floating, not running. Those summits in the early evening light with David and Sam were the most I’ve enjoyed running for a long time, probably since Ultra Trail Costa Blanca. It was an incredible feeling descending from Blencathra with a few good folks, decent craic and the lights of a support crew waiting below. If I could bottle the feeling of Doddick Fell that night, I’d swig from it daily.

Running the flat path to Threlkeld you cross a rocky stream and there, carried away by dopamine, I slipped on some easy stones. Both knees hit the rocks. Both knees bled. And I was so oblivious to what was to come that I grinned. Good bit of blood just makes for better photos.

There was a crowd at the cricket club. Adam and Ollie ready to run, Roo making the tea. David, Alison, Fiora and Zach giving encouragement. A pasting table laid out with treats. So this, I thought, is what it feels like when it goes right. Everything under control.

I took a minute or two longer changing my shoes and socks but was back on schedule by the summit of Clough Head. I still love that climb. We had Adam’s collie with us, which was great fun, and ticked off the tops in quick succession with easy chat between. I was consistently getting 120/g of carb an hour, with a drop to 80/g once to let me process, and all was going to plan as we reached Helvellyn.

Around about Dollywagon I started to get stomach cramps. I dropped a few mins here and there – not a lot, not enough to be a harbinger of failure, but it was noticeable. We followed the fenceposts to Grisedale Tarn before out and backing Fairfield, both Adam and Ollie working hard keeping my head up as things started to get tough.

Amidst the escalating pain we still made decent pace up Seat Sandal. I asked Adam to run on ahead and ask the support crew to have some tablets ready.

Dunmail still felt positive. A lot was going right, my nutrition was on point and I was fuelling well. Roo had prepped all my stuff and Rob S and Sarah stepped on to support duties. I needed the meds to sort my stomach but we were definitely still on.

Heading along the top towards Calf Crag the light show started. I will never not love running as the sun comes up. The sky over Thirlmere painted itself in ever more beautiful hues. By the time we hit High Raise it had that sublime peach glow that follows the sunrise and I found myself having another better spell. I was hitting my splits again, it was taking a bit of effort but the Langdales felt good.

It was Bow Fell when the wheels really came off for the first time. The stomach cramps had gained intensity and my legs and body joined the chorus. I was pulling myself up the terrace a complete mess, unsure I could keep moving at all. At the top Sarah and Rob sat me down for a bit. I emptied the stones from my shoes while they gave me my headphones and food and somehow made me feel human again.

The Venga Bus came on the way to Esk Pike, and while it didn’t quite make me party it did help me rally. Back to target pace again in spite of the aggressive cramping. The pain momently pushed back each time I managed to defy it to another summit.

While Rob navigated an excellent route to Ill Crag, Sarah kept me from sinking into the abyss with an array of questions on art history. I talked her ears off about Caravaggio and Van Gogh while we went over Scafell Pike — a notable win for me being the ability to stand upright without leaning on anything, marked progress on last year!

I had a moment coming down from Mickeldore to Lord’s Rake, the cramps were now coming quick and fast and the mental side of things was tough, but we made it up to Sca Fell and all was still in play. We’d dropped time but there was still some time to spare.

For all that Yewbarrow is the giant killer of the round, it’s the descent from Sca Fell that I find hardest. Even on a good day without hours of running under my belt I find the top section frustrating, but fifteen hours in? I just can’t seem to master it.

Up until then I’d stayed ahead of the other groups attempting, but they all passed me on that top section. I berated myself for it. I’m still cross at myself. It’s not good enough. I took double my target time to trudge back to Wasdale and that was when I staggered, once again, into my indefatigable support team.

I can’t compute how they got me back on the hill and willing to give another push. Rob B marshalled the efforts with military precision and he and Andy joined for pacing. Somehow, in the face of hours of struggle, we were going again.

I’ll never forget summiting Yewbarrow, not because I was suddenly full of belief but rather because I’d managed to do it on schedule in the face of it all. I’d even gained on the groups ahead of me. I was self aware enough to know more suffering was to come, but I climbed that hill in worse physical condition than I’ve ever been and that was a win for me.

The path down to the col between there and Red Pike was the hardest part of the day. On top of the physical problems I had the increasing fear that I was getting further from a road with no easy ways to get off the hill.

I lay down in the grass and tried to rest and refocus while my support crew strategised. My leg twitched, my stomach cramped, and everything within me screamed to quit. Rob appeared beside me and told me that this was the crux of the round, if I could get over Red Pike I’d feel different. I could quit if I wanted but it was still possible.

So up Red Pike I went, being fed skittles while Andy walked behind me encouraging me forwards. I’m sure I heard that Helene Whitaker (formerly Diamantides) say you’re not human if you don’t cry on the way up Red Pike. If that is the measure, I proved my humanity.

I sat down several times, unable to reach the heady heights of hope but refusing to give into the finality of despair, and time and again they managed to get me moving. I remember half way up looking at my barometer, asking the height of Red Pike, and declaring that it was impossible for me to climb another bit, then pushing on fuelled only by skittles and self pity.

I finally summited Red Pike, looked around at the vista that stretched in every direction, and my body gave up. I was unsteady on my feet even walking and I now needed to move considerably faster than schedule.

I’d absorbed about twelve hours of ever more severe stomach problems and, when the leg pain and fatigue started too, the cumulative effect became debilitating. I knew Aleks and Andy waited on Kirk Fell with water and rice pudding in vain, that Jack would once again not get his promised run out on leg five.

We walked, at a painfully slow pace, back down to Wasdale to await Ed with the van. The dream of Bob was deferred again.

In the aftermath, I swore I was through with running. Stupid sport. I talked about getting a sick note to get out of TDS. It’s hard to describe how bad the experience was, mentally. Rinsing yourself again and again and clinging onto hope even though it’s fading fast. I’d disappeared so deep into the pain cave between the top of Sca Fell and giving up at Red Pike that I doubted I could ever face it again.

But, what if?

As I write, I’m just back from a few days in Chamonix. Getting back on the trails, putting on some proper vert even though my legs didn’t feel quite back to normal. Feeling the thrill again of mountains and valleys unscrolling at your feet. That rush of adventure that comes when you’re out there.

TDS is longer, yes. But there are some factors that may help offset that. There’s lots of trails that are easier on the legs than the terrain on the BGR, there’s aid stations and the overall average gradient is lower – though there are still some massive climbs. I’ll have more margin to rest if my stomach gets bad. It’s going to be hard, but it’s not impossible. And as I titled my strava activity after the Bob, you miss all the shots you don’t take.

At the end of the day I could’ve filled this season with things I knew were within my reach. Instead I chose to gamble on these two big ones. That’s daunting and scary, but it’s also when I feel most alive – chasing down dreams that seem beyond me. Trying to push back the edge of my possible.

As Robert Browning once said, “a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?”

So I’ll aim for heaven. Aim to run, walk or crawl into Chamonix to the strains of Conquest of Paradise. I’ll work on my fitness and my strength. I’ll seek mental strength. And on the 28th August, I’ll roll the dice again, sur les Traces des Ducs de Savoie.

One thing remains true, going to the mountains is going home.