Under Cumbrian Skies

The best adventures are almost always spontaneous. Going from the thought of an average few days ahead to adrenaline, dopamine and challenge in the blinking of an eye. No time to dwell, anticipate or expect, just go and get it.

I’d planned to do a winter tea round last January, start as I meant to go on. Unfortunately it was illegal to travel alone to the hills, and I didn’t have enough cheese and wine to pass it off as a business meeting. The hills remained a dream until the end of March and the winter tea round was forgotten.

Forgotten, that is, until I indulged my Thursday tradition of checking the mountain weather. Warm on the tops, it said, with a cloud inversion thrown in for good measure. The kind of forecast you’d happily take any time of year, let alone three days before the equinox. If ever there was a day for a winter round, this was it.

I looked at my splits from my last round and dug out the gpx I’d made with some route adjustments. What constitutes a reasonable expectation? I’m more experienced, but I tanked in Spain. I think I’ve got a better route off High Stile, but it’s winter and there could be frost and ice about.

I considered the variables and decided to try for sub-eight. An hour and sixteen faster than my best. Sod reasonable expectations, moon shots are far more fun.

I knew I’d need to maximise use of daylight, so prepped all my kit the night before and readied myself for a 5:30am wake up. I was on the road by ten to six, staring at the dashboard thermometer and wondering why it was in minus figures.

It was hovering around zero when I touched the doors of Fisher’s and set off, the twilight giving enough light to leave my head torch in my pack. Down and through the town, past market sellers setting up their stalls and around the top of the water to Portinscale.

The early light bathed the woodland as I headed towards Cat Bells, where there were quite a few people already about. I arrived at the summit as the sun rose above the Helvellyn Range in the east. The views were magnificent but no time to soak them in, I made straight for Newlands Valley and the long slog up Robinson.

I hit the top of Robinson exactly on target. I’m fascinated by the relation between what happens with a map and knowledge of the land, tracing contours and estimating pace, and how that translates into actual running. It’s encouraging when you find yourself arriving places on your estimated target.

From Robinson I followed the fence down toward Buttermere before branching off to the left down a sheep trod, my first route change from last time out. It cut off a big corner and dropped me straight out at Gatesgarth. Magic.

I filled up on water at Comb Beck and once more faced my least favourite Wainwright, High Stile. It’s just grim. Don’t try to tell me it’s anything other than grim. I glanced at my watch, relieved there was just over a kilometre to the summit only to realise there was 500m of elevation still to go. Steep. Unrelenting. Rocky.

I pause to look over my shoulder and watch as the clouds advance from the west across the valley, rolling across the water and slowly enveloping the trees that make Buttermere so distinct. The day was giving all the beauty it promised, but I was on a mission so there was little time for pictures.

Again I was bang on target at the top of High Stile, and met another lad who had started a few minutes behind me and caught me up. We took different routes to the lake, as I’d planned to cut some distance off by coming straight off the nose of High Stile. It’s steep scree but then I don’t love the descent of Red Pike either so gave it a go. It’s not too bad and as you can see the tarn it’s easy enough to navigate on a clear day.

I’m not a strong descender but it wasn’t too bad going until I reached the path down to the lake, where the large stones laid to prevent erosion were a skating rink. I made my way as fast as I could but was soon caught and passed by the lad who’d went via Red Pike.

It was disheartening after having good line choices to be undone by the slow and slippy descent. I’m not sure there’s a lot I can do to improve at the moment except keep running down hills though!

Whiteless Pike was a slog but it was warm enough to shed my mid-layer and run in club colours. I love running for a club, and there’s always a performance enhancing element to pulling on the vest.

I stopped at the beck to refill my flasks, and knowing it was the last water filled up a spare too. From there it was up onto Hobcarton Crag where I was, dishearteningly, sixteen minutes behind pace.

I tried to tell myself that the sub-eight was a moon shot and I should be happy with any PB, but I’ve seen the wheels fall off too many times when I fall behind. It’s hard to claw time back. I decided to push hard and try to chip just a minute of the deficit on the way up Grisedale, mixing some Tailwind as I went.

I hit the summit having done exactly that, instead of falling further behind I’d shown intent. I arrived at the top to find another Northumberland runner, John, who gave encouragement and showed me the best line down to Coledale Hause. I refused to give up and pushed hard up the scramble onto Crag Hill, making the summit having made up another couple of minutes. If I was going to miss out on sub-eight, I was going to get as near as damn it to the target.

Coming off Crag Hill I was caught again by the lad from High Stile, who’d stopped at Buttermere for refreshments. We had some chat and I kept as much pace as I good up and over Sail before he dropped me on the descent.

It didn’t matter. I was still making up for lost time. By the summit of Sail I was only ten minutes down and by the top of Causey Pike the gap was down to five. I love the view from Causey but I didn’t even look up this time, just focused on getting straight down the scramble and launching full steam towards Rowling End.

Somewhere between Causey and Rowling I overtook my target pace again. I’d overhauled a sixteen minute deficit and was running ahead of pace, but the margins were still too fine to slacken off at all. I took the first trod I could see down into the valley and headed onto Barrow.

By now I was doing sums in my head, minutes until the eight hour mark divided by kilometres remaining. I couldn’t afford to drop beneath that pace. There was frost on the ground and a chill in the air as the sun left us for the day.

I ran into Portinscale knowing I was almost home and seeing the minutes tick away. It was there I missed my path and ran up a cul-de-sac. I fumed at myself, knowing those minutes could be crucial but spurred on to run harder.

I collapsed my poles on the way over the foot bridge but couldn’t get them back in the quiver. I pushed on down the path, clutching them in one hand, and rounded the corner onto the bottom of the high street.

It was done. I knew it. With four or five hundred metres left, I threaded through the market crowds and tried to maintain pace. When the doors came into view I gave it one last sprint before touching the green paint work and gasping to refill my lungs.

7:57. The moon shot had come off. I’d taken 1:19 off my best, but I’m more pleased that I dug in and clawed back from falling behind pace.

For the first time in long endurance challenges, I never had to face that feeling of empty legs. The Tailwind worked like magic with a steady flow of carbs and electrolytes. I’d been able to keep my effort high the whole way and enjoy the process. This wasn’t even type two fun, the closeness to target pace kept my adrenaline up and it was fun all the way.

After a painful and disheartening experience at Ultra Trail Sierra de Cazorla, this was a huge lift. The year ended on the high and, perhaps for the first time, the Bob has started to seem possible.