Rule No 1: Don't underestimate the West Highland Way

Sitting on the tailgate of the car, drinking tea in the warm sunshine at the Bridge of Orchy station, chatting with Jan and Julia and John Kynaston. Finally admitting that this probably wasn't the most sensible project I'd undertaken. Grin from JK "Since when has conventional wisdom governed any of this stuff for you?" Ten minutes later, walking up Murdo's hill with Jon Steele, Jon's having a funny sort of day too. We console ourselves that we still have 19 hours left to cover 35 miles.

It all started back in the autumn of last year. An event that had been crying out to be put on, a race along Alfred Wainwright's famous "Coast to Coast" route, the most popular long distance path in the country, had finally been taken up by James Thurlow's "Open Adventure" team and would be run in 2016 under the banner "The Northern Traverse". Open Adventure had invented the "Lakes in a Day" which I had run for the past two years so I knew their organisation was top notch. The combination was too good to miss and I got my entry in almost as soon as they opened. Then around came 1st November and the West Highland Way entry. I'd missed last year and needed my Scottish fix. I got my name in without thinking twice. I had a vague idea that the two events were close, but chose not to dwell on the details of that. I knew how to do the West Highland Way, I'd already completed eight for heaven's sake, it would be fine.

Fast forward to this summer. At around 7.30pm on Thursday 2nd June I jogged into Robin Hood's Bay at the end of the Northern Traverse feeling pretty pleased. 3 days and 9 hours of stunning countryside and mixed weather and I was home inside the first 20 with no injuries, no blisters and a general sense of having survived well. I took it easy until the following Wednesday, then went for a gentle undulating 6 miles in the forest, everything still worked. With my typical occasionally unthinking enthusiasm I went back around the same route two days later, this time at well under 8 minute mile pace; the result was a very sore hamstring and a feeling of foolishness. Just a week to the West Highland Way race, better be no more exercise until then.

At the Friday evening conference with the smaller than normal crew (John had taken his family to France for the week, sensible fellow, leaving Jan and Julia with the unenviable task of trying to limit my mistakes during the weekend to manageable proportions) I pulled out a handwritten back of envelope schedule to get me to Fort William in 25 hours. Could go up or down, I said (probably more likely up, I thought) but we'll stick with it to Auchtertyre then re-assess. I left them to their sleep and wandered off down to the start to face the music.

The first few miles rumbled by, punctuated by only two incidents of note. First, somewhere on one of the very early stoney tracks I tripped over a rock and made a reasonable impression of a commando roll, leaving me with sore palms and a sizeable gash on the knee which I didn't discover until I had a shower thirty hours later. It woke me up a bit but clearly not enough as I then took the Mike Mason turn a few miles further on; fortunately after a couple of hundred yards I sensed I was in the wrong place and back-tracked to the correct route without losing more than a minute or two. My feeling of incompetence was only mitigated slightly by learning from Graeme McClymont in the pub afterwards that he and Fiona Rennie, with almost 20 completions between them, had made the same mistake just a few moments after me.

At Gartness I caught up with Adrian Stott, engaged on his 15th trip up the course. I should have known better than to ask why. On the road he was pulling me along a bit on the flats but I think I'm a slightly faster uphill walker so I didn't see him after that. It had been a short, moonlit night and the torch went off in the field up to Drymen. I had to run one or two uphills that I would maybe liked to have walked before Conic Hill, but the path up the hill itself has been improved so much that it seems to have no steep bits at all now;  so overall the first 19 miles didn't seem too arduous and by the time I clocked in with Big Davie at Balmaha I was spot on the 4 hours my schedule required and went on to a surprisingly midge-free meeting with Julia further down the car park. My dodgy hamstring had been getting a bit sore during the running so I had previewed a bit of taping to be done, but then remembered I'd left the first aid kit in the hotel and hadn't brought it down to the car the evening before, in spite of assuring the girls that I had everything sorted and they should just get some sleep. I had also made up some drinks and put them in the coolbag, another item I'd now left in the hotel. After a cool display of efficiency in my last event I was approaching Frank Spencer like competence in this one. Never mind, we coped with what we had and I said cheerio see you at Beinglas.

Steady progress up the loch was the plan; 2 hours to Rowardennan, 2 hours to Inversnaid, 2 hours to Beinglas. The first bit went fine. Just before Rowardennan I caught up with Ian Rae with whom I've spent more than a mile or two on this course. He had a sore foot from an injury more than two months ago. He thought he would drop at Rowardennan; it would be a hard decision, with 11 finishes already he knows how to get to Fort William. We jogged into the checkpoint together, I hoped he would continue (in the end his injury finally stopped him and I last saw him driving out of Glencoe, where he wished me well for the finish). In the few miles to Rowardennan the midges had started to make their presence felt, but when I stopped to pick up my drop bag they really hit with a vengeance. It was impossible to do anything standing still, you had to keep moving to achieve anything. I walked out eating rice pudding and midges. For the next 10 miles to where the route leaves the lochside, all you could really think about was the midges, they were worse than I had ever known before. I saw runners wearing nets, again a sight new to this year. I took off a T-shirt and made a hood of it, with just the squashed neck-hole to peer through. It helped but not much. We were used to passing through clouds of midges, par for the course, but this was just wall to wall continuous insects. In the end I found the most (but not very) effective method was to hold the spare T-shirt in a hand and make continuous swishing moves in front of my face.

A slight distraction was the new lower route between Rowardennan and Inversnaid, much more attractive than the dull forest road we'd used in the past. Along here I caught up Jonny Rowan and we carried on together to Inversnaid, where I picked up another pot of something to be eaten al transito  - slow down and you just get more midge than custard. Jonny stopped for a bit of TLC to painful knees, but he caught me up later and we eventually outran the insects on the climb up to Dario's post. I sidled into the Beinglas checkpoint within a minute of target at 11am. The ladies were there with milkshakes and ginger biscuits (my requirements) and sunscreen (Jan's requirement for me) then I was off again up Glen Falloch.

The ten miles from Beinglas to Auchtertyre are hard, maybe the toughest on the whole course. A few short, steep descents and the rest is continuous uphill, the gradient changes but never relents. It's a rocky track and today it was hot. By the time the track crossed the main road I was aware that it was hard work. But the reward is that after Auchtertyre all the technical stuff is done, just one foot in front of the other to the end. At 12 hours and 40 minutes from the start I was 10 minutes down on schedule when I reached the checkpoint but was able to tell myself that I still felt good. The fact that I had already lost 3kg in weight maybe told a different story.

I have a regular plan for the next stage. Pick up lunch at Auchtertyre, jog the easy bits through to Tyndrum, eat lunch walking up the long hill after Brodie's shop then run all the easy stuff to Bridge of Orchy.  I met Shirley Steele just after crossing the river so Jon must be around somewhere near, then George Reid with a sizeable entourage was at the road crossing, excuse for a brief chat stop, then up the hill and out with the butties. I started running again just after the creep under the railway, but in a few hundred yards I heard voices behind, which turned out to be Jon Steele and Sarah Colquhoun. Jon said he wasn't having a great day but Sarah said he was going to finish OK. I suspect they wouldn't have let him back in the car if he'd stopped, I know how tough these all-female support teams can be.....

We stayed together down to the bridge at the low point but Jon was clearly a bit faster than me so from here they went on ahead. But I expected to run pretty well all the ground from here to the station, normally a very easy section for me, and was a bit concerned to find that I just couldn't. Any semblance of a jog was just too hard, so I ended up walking almost all of it. By the time I met Jan and Julia at Bridge of Orchy station I was almost an hour down on my 25 hour schedule and the only thing certain was that it was going to get worse. My Northern Traverse chickens had come home to roost. With so many bigger, gnarlier events around these days it's easy to think of the West Highland Way, however beautiful and classic, as being in effort terms a fairly gentle 100-miler that you ought to be able to do any day of the week. It isn't. None of them are. 95 miles on foot is still a long way. Rule No 1  -  don't underestimate the West Highland Way.

I took a breather, drank some tea and had a bit of a think. If I couldn't run to here then I wouldn't be able to run Rannoch Moor, which my schedule depended on. It was time for a Plan B.

I told the girls that I would walk from here to Glencoe to get some composure back. I would still be there in plenty of time to leave before the requirement for a support runner over to Kinlochleven, and from then on I would just adjust my pace to whatever I had to do to stay in the game to the finish. I was sorry but they would be getting to bed rather later than we had planned. They were remarkably relaxed and positive, just do what you have to do was the response, plenty of time left to get to Fort William.

After a few yards with Jon near the start of Murdo's hill, I left him to digest his lunch and moved ahead, walking steadily. This sort of stuff I could do all day. Murdo was today accompanied by Peter Duggan and his whistle, and I was welcomed with the Star Wars theme. On a sunny day it was a wonderful if rather bizarre scene. Easily down the hill and round over Victoria Bridge to the gate at the start of the moor and the first long hill. Walking gently over the moor in wall to wall sunshine was brilliant. I relaxed and just took it all in.

But I wasn't done with a challenge or two yet. This is always one of my favourite sections of the course, and I'm normally running it at a reasonable speed so it seems to fly by. But today it seemed to be taking a long time. I felt like I should be getting near to Glencoe but then a reality check  -  I hadn't even got to Ba Bridge yet, and that was miles from the end. My Suunto watch had run out of battery at Bridge of Orchy so I just had a normal watch to go by, with no real judge of speed. Jon Steele had come past me again miles back, going at a much better pace than I could raise. I must be going really slowly, I needed to speed up. I walked faster but it seemed a real effort. Ba Bridge and the trees came and went, then the final long hill to the high point, but even the downhill mile or so to the checkpoint seemed hard work. I struggled into the Ski Centre car park at just before 8pm. For the first time that day I just slumped in the passenger seat of the car, not thinking about what lay ahead, just glad to have stopped moving.

I couldn't see myself leaving without a long rest. I had a cup of tea and some soup, and asked Julia to find out what the checkpoint closure time was; midnight was the answer. I could certainly recuperate if I stayed here until just before midnight, but it would end up being a long, long day for the crew, and it would cause another problem. If I left after 9pm, Julia would have to accompany me over to Kinlochleven which meant that she wouldn't be able to do the last stage, she knew two stages were too far for her. For a minute or two it all seemed too complex, too hard, and wouldn't it be easier just to drive around to Fort William and collapse into a warm bed. But of course this was immediately followed by the thought of the ridiculousness of pulling out of an event with only 25 miles to go and over 15 hours left on the clock. It was just a question of getting the logistics right. At 8.45pm I made the decision; "OK ladies, I can do this, I'm out of here. See you in Kinlochleven." Out of the car and down the road. I didn't feel great, but I knew I could do the next stage, and I was moving again.

The sunny day had turned into a clear but cool evening, now with a sharp little breeze. I was glad of a jacket for the first few miles to Altnafeadh but soon warmed up climbing the Devil's Staircase. I have had  one or two tough times up here over the years but this evening everything seemed fine. I wasn't going fast but nothing was hurting, I was making steady progress and enjoying the fading day. I finally had to switch a light on just before reaching the smooth works road a couple of miles before Kinlochleven, and finally reached the community centre checkpoint just after 12.30am.  I was pleased to find that my weight had stayed constant since Auchtertyre, but what I needed most of all now was a sleep. I agreed with Julia that we would set out at 3am, but after a good hour or so I was awake and much refreshed. We fortified ourselves with tea, coffee and marmite sandwiches and eventually got out of the door at around 2.30am.

Again, I've had some fairly bad experiences in this last 14 miles, pushing on near the edge of exhaustion to achieve some particular time target, unable to eat or drink much, just toughing it out to the finish. Today, with Plan B now firmly on track and no doubt about the outcome, it was just a pleasant walk. By the time we reached the top of the first climb it was light enough for torches to be put away, and we just made our way along the wild valley, chatting and admiring the views. Lundavra didn't come along any quicker than previous years but it somehow seemed not quite the effort we were expecting. The ground underfoot was dry, no paddling through puddles or streams today. (In fact the whole course was as dry as I have ever known it; I wore one pair of shoes from start to finish, and afterwards they were still clean enough to be worn to the prizegiving and the pub that evening). As we approached Lundavra we could see the smoke from the bonfire and heard Queen drifting towards us "......don't stop me now, I'm having a good time...." Seemed appropriate and we managed a dance move or two into the checkpoint.

Five minutes by the fire then onto the last lap. Still some hills to be done but not so big now, Julia getting tired too but then we see the last hill up to the fire road at the high point and from there it's downhill all the way to the finish. We jog the slopes and walk the flats and it goes quickly. At the road we call Jan and she's there at the finish, appearing in the car park just as we arrive.

30:48:20.  Nearly six hours over the plan, eight and a half over the PB, but somehow it doesn't matter too much. All finishes are worth having. Fewer mistakes next year, I think. Well, that's the plan.

Thanks to Ian Beattie and all his team for continuing to arrange this wonderful weekend's holiday every year, the lack of sleep after all the work involved beforehand must be hard, we owe you a lot.

And of course to my long-suffering yet always charming and elegant crew, Jan and Julia, you know it couldn't be done without you.

The Northern Traverse

I made my way carefully over the "Three Sisters" of the Cleveland Way escarpment, Cringle Moor, Cold Moor and the Wainstones. It was something after 2am, the mist had brought the visibility down to maybe 15 yards in the torch beam and the enthusiastic northerly wind was making the gentle rain feel a lot wetter than it should. I didn't know whether there was anyone else on the course for miles in either direction  -  two and a half days after the start the field had got pretty strung out. Not a great place to have an accident I mused. A bang on the head, broken leg or even sprained ankle would generate some interesting complications at this point. Then almost immediately the next thought, of course, this is why we do these things. I was completely happy in my world.

1. Preparations

When the Northern Traverse event was announced last year I got my name down almost straight away. A route I had always wanted to do but never quite got around to (Wainwright's "Coast to Coast" from St Bees to Robin Hood's Bay) and organisation by James Thurlow's "Open Adventure" outfit (I had done the inaugural "Lakes in a Day" run in 2014 and enjoyed it so much I already had already had my entry in for 2015) were a combination too good to miss.

I had ideas about recceing the course, but most of last autumn was taken up with preparations for my (ultimately unsuccessful) attempt on the Spine Race and once we were into the new year other priorities intruded, so somehow it never happened. I knew the Lake District section (Ennerdale to Haweswater) because we spend a lot of time there and some of the North York Moors (Ingleby Cross to Bloworth) from the Hardmoors events, so in the end I decided that would be enough and I would just enjoy the experience of coming to the rest "fresh".

I learned from the Tor des Geants back in 2012 that a good strategy for me in multi-day races is simple. In that race I reached a very low point towards the end of Day 2 and was on the point of dropping out, but then got a grip and concentrated on looking after myself rather than the progress I was making. By Day 5 I was going as strongly again as I had at the start. You can tolerate a fairly high degree of deterioration over say a 100 miler taking maybe 2 days; it's short enough to "hang on" to the finish, but get to double that mileage and it won't work. Even if you can tolerate toughing it out physically, spending several days in increasing discomfort doesn't seem like much fun.  So for me the only way to tackle a long event is to enjoy the journey, go at a pace at which you always feel good, look after your feet, and let forward progress take care of itself.

I wasn't sure how long the Northern Traverse would take. At almost 5 days the overall time allowance seemed fairly generous for a course of 190 miles and 28,000 ft of ascent. With the event due to start at 10.00am on Monday 30th May that meant a final cutoff at 8am on the Saturday morning. I guessed I could do nearer to 4 days; I had promised to meet friends and family at the Keswick Beer Festival on the Friday evening, so allowing a few hours for the train journey back that seemed to fit OK. I would take it steadily then push a bit near the end if necessary.

The Open Adventure concept for races is one that appeals to me. You have well stocked, well organised "Feed Stations" along the course at regular intervals, to which a drop bag containing spare shoes, clothes and so on may be sent, but in between these you are very much on your own  -  no course markings, no intermediate checkpoints, no marshals. no "safety team". You need to be responsible for yourself. In fact there are no conventional checkpoints at all because competitors carry a GPS tracker, which as well as showing the organisation where everyone is on the course, is used as the basis for all time recording. There is an SOS button on the tracker which will initiate a rescue, but once pressed it signals that you are out of the race; and as James said at the briefing "Getting lost is not an emergency!" The course for this event was defined as a line on maps issued to runners, and the rule was you must not deviate from the line by more than 200 metres; if you found yourself accidentally off course you had to go back to the course at the place where you left it. On the Northern Traverse there would be four feed stations at convenient (or sometimes, the only feasible) locations. The longest stage between feed stations was 46 miles and the shortest 28 miles.

2. The Lakes

Gathering for the start at St Bees, the only two of the starters I had met before were Greg Crowley and Matt Neale, but there wasn't a lot of hanging around after handing in drop bags and picking up trackers, and at precisely 10.00am we were on our way under a cloudless blue sky, tackling the first short climb up onto the cliff path. The route followed this northward for about four miles, a bit more of the "just keep the sea on your left" navigation that had seen me through so many miles last year in the Ring of Fire and Hardmoors 60 races. I chatted for a mile or so with Dan Milton who also thought he would take around 4 days, but he seemed to be going naturally a bit quicker than me so I encouraged him to push on and catch up with his girlfriend Claire Turton a few yards ahead. They were intending to run the whole race together.

The field soon spaced out and by the time we turned inland at Sandwith I could see no-one either ahead or behind. I suspected there were few if any runners behind because right from the start I had adopted a regime of only running when it seemed easier than walking. In general, this was all the downhills plus any flat sections that had easy ground underfoot.

The run along the coast was beautiful but after that the course followed sundry field paths, tracks, bit of minor road and old railway line through generally uninspiring countryside and old mining areas. Somewhere along here I was caught and passed by Anne Green but otherwise saw no-one else. It was great to leave all this behind on the gentle ascent of Dent Hill, our first real countryside, with views and skylarks and the Lake District drawing us in beyond. As the vista expanded I saw one or two other runners ahead  -  I wasn't completely alone then! Jogging down the steepish grass on the far side of the hill I met another runner coming back up  -  he'd dropped his glasses and was going back to look for them. I sympathised, I can see well enough in bright daylight but haven't a chance of reading the map at night without my specs.

The weather was superb, fine and warm. Later, some runners complained of the heat but I love these conditions. I stopped to refill my water bottles in Nannycatch Beck as I hadn't started out with much from St Bees.  In spite of the recent good weather I knew that water would be clear and plentiful through the Lakes but I would need to plan much better across the peaty Pennines and the relative dry North York Moors. In no time we seemed to be at Ennerdale Bridge, end of "Day 1" for Coast to Coast walkers. I knew there would be a cafe here but as it was a bank holiday I was wary of relying on it so for this first day I had brought more food. On this sort of event I would normally set out on each leg with just a bag of Haribos and a few sachets of Mountain Fuel. I ate my cheese sandwiches walking the lovely path along the southern shore of Ennerdale Water. I actually overtook a few runners here! The long forest road from the end of the lake up to Black Sail hut is not too interesting, but once there I felt I was on home ground. Another couple of runners were taking a breather at the hut, but the quality of the rest of my day now depended on reaching the cafe at Honister before it closed at 6pm.

From Black Sail the route goes up alongside Loft Beck, the first real climb of the day, and it was good to be properly in the hills at last. The track across the top, once featureless, now sports a cairn every few yards so I guess a few Coast-to-Coasters have got lost up here to prompt this. Then it was easily down to the old tramway and then the cafe with nearly forty minutes to spare. I took my time over a big latte and an all-day breakfast panini, the first hot food of the day.  There were several runners in and around the cafe and as I started out I ran into the guy who I had seen back on Dent Hill looking for his glasses, who turned out to be Jesse Palmer. We carried on down the track to Seatoller and then Rosthwaite together, chatting to discover that we had many mutual friends and had done a lot of the same events. But as we started the ascent of Greenup Edge it was clear that Jesse naturally favoured a slightly faster pace than me so I encouraged him to go on and wished him well. I loved taking the long ascent up past Lining Crag and over the usually boggy ground to the pass at my own pace, I couldn't think of anywhere I would rather have been on such a stunning sunny evening. The jog down the other side, bouldery and tricky at first, then a bit of grass to the top of Far Easedale, then a long varied track all the way down to Grasmere was also pure pleasure. There was a photographer near the bottom, so my tale contains a rare photo  -  I don't normally bother to take pictures, I just like to remember the experience.

Nearing the bottom of Far Easedale

Just before Grasmere, our route turned off for Thorney How, a hostel offering free hot drinks, so the chance of a cup of tea was not to be missed, accompanied by a large and delicious slice of flapjack. The people at the hostel had a live feed from the trackers so I asked how many people they still expected through. It was good to learn that everyone had by now crossed Greenup Edge, barely an hour back.

The next ascent up to Grisedale Tarn is mostly on an easy path up steepish grass, so out came the poles.  I had debated with myself whether to bring them or not on this trip; for the normally technical ups and downs in the Lakes I don't find them much help, but on long easy ascents such as you get for mile after mile in the Alps they give you a sort of "four-wheel -drive" and help you get into a rhythm which makes life a lot easier. I decided they were worth the weight in the bag and had already used them on Dent Hill and the long forest road. I ate my remaining food, a marmalade sandwich, and pressed on upwards. It was getting progressively darker and as I reached the col the light had to go on. But from here it's an easy four or five miles down to Patterdale and the first feed station at the Starkey hut. I arrived five minutes after midnight, fourteen hours from the start, a couple of hours quicker than I had anticipated but conditions had been exceptionally good.

The ritual of arrival. A cup of tea, decide a shower is an unnecessary luxury tonight, so the first job is to sort out feet. Socks off, clean, inspect for damage, no problems, a fresh application of Sudocrem all over and clean socks. Now we can concentrate on the rest. Chilli and baked potato, more tea, magic. Decide to have a snooze for an hour but don't really sleep so up for coffee, flapjack, thanks everyone and out into the night.

I left Patterdale with Jesse and another runner but as soon as we started climbing it was clear they wanted to go faster than me so I let them go on and carried on at my own pace. It was light by the time I reached Angle Tarn but it was cloudy, and from here up to Kidsty Pike, the high point of the trip, visibility got progressively worse. Our map showed a direct route from the top of the Knott to Kidsty, but I decided in the mist it would be as quick to follow the main path south to pick up the good path that I knew went up Kidsty from near the little col. Less than a quarter of a mile further and I thought quicker and safer on the day.  There was a cold breeze on top so it was good to lose some height down the long descent to Haweswater, which starts off easily but has one or two scrambly sections lower down, At the bottom we joined the path along Haweswater shore which I have followed many times in both directions on other events. It was warmer down here and the sun was starting to break through. Once at the dam at the end of the lake, a few miles of nondescript farmland led to Shap. As I approached Shap I caught up with Hisayo Kawahara and asked her how it was going. "I'm just so tired!" she said. We jogged the last few hundred yards to Shap where there was another potential hot drink stop at the New Ing Lodge. We found not only hot and cold drinks but free cheese and pickle sandwiches, what a bonus. Interestingly a number of runners converged on Shap within a few minutes of each other, we saw Jonathan Wood, Dave Rowell, Dave Howarth and Daniel Aldus also at the Lodge pitstop. Then five minutes later Jesse arrived, having spent a while searching for Kidsty summit in the mist. I had heard that water was problematic between Shap and Kirkby Stephen, 20 miles further on, so made sure I had a full litre. I also felt a need for some ginger biscuits, so I popped into the Co-op to get some.

I somehow expected the 20 miles from Shap to Kirkby to be dull, just a link between the Lakes and the Dales, but it turned out to be very enjoyable. Rolling limestone moors, solid underfoot and now under a blue sky. No severe gradients so they passed quite quickly in a mixture of walking and jogging, and before long I was turning up at feed station No 2 at the Rugby club in Kirkby Stephen at 3.30pm, about 12 hours after leaving Patterdale.

3. The Dales

It had been a sweaty afternoon so time for a shower at Kirkby, a plate of lasagne and some melon (what a discovery, full marks to whoever thought of this) and a brief chat with Anne Green who arrived at about the same time. Proceedings were enlivened by the building fire alarm going off  for no apparent reason. The gallant feed station crew eventually found a way to turn it off after about five minutes. I still felt I could do with some sleep though so I went out to a tent. Maybe it was the wind flapping the tent, maybe the metal signs on the railings by the rugby pitch creaking, but again I didn't do more than doze for an hour, so I gave up, had a 5,30pm breakfast and set off into the Dales.

The climb up to Nine Standards Rigg was fairly long but very gentle and on a road then a good track all the way  -  another place I was glad I'd brought the poles. On the way up I passed Ed Strong who had stopped to adjust something; I expected to see him later though as he seemed to be going more strongly than me. I could see the nine big cairns from quite a way off but as I gained height the clouds started to swirl in, and by the time I reached the standards they appeared quite atmospherically out of the mist when I was almost on top of them. I didn't know it at the time, but this was to be the end of the fine weather for the trip.

The route off the Rigg was easy to follow at first but then got quite vague, though a saving grace was that after all the fine weather we had had it was mostly dry  -  it was typical Pennine moorland that is normally squelchy all over. I was glad it was daylight because that meant I could keep picking up the traces of the path that were there, it would have been much harder at night. I think had it been clear you could see the odd marker pole which turned up from time to time, but visibility was maybe 50 yards or so by now. The route aimed for what was shown as a jeep track where it turned left, but you couldn't tell from the map whether that would be a solid gravel road or an easy to miss double trod in the grass; it turned out to be the former, so it would have been easy to take a slight "aiming off" bearing and blast straight down to it, but those are the sort of things you only find out by being there (or talking to someone who has). I was happy enough to take my time and be careful.

A mile or so down the track it crossed a bridge but a smaller path carried on without crossing. I pulled out the map to check and as I stopped I heard a voice from behind "How are we doing then Mr Cole?" It was Jesse and Ed; we carried on together down to Keld.

Jesse had reccied a lot of the route so it was easy to cruise along without thinking about the navigation for a while. We turned off along a small path to keep high above Keld when the main track went down, but then the other two were setting a pace too fast for me so I let them go on ahead. It was now dark. A few minutes later the lights had stopped. When I reached them Jesse explained that he had stopped for some "foot maintenance". They passed me again as I was nearing the curiously-named Crackpot Hall. Jesse said the route got a bit tricky through the old mine workings but it basically followed the left side of Swinner Gill. They soon got ahead, gaining height, and their lights disappeared into the darkness.

Conditions were now getting a bit tricky.  It was dark and misty, and a cold wind had sprung up. But the main problem was that it had started to rain a bit making all the rocks gleam in the reflected beam of a torch. I was going through an old mining area with piles of stones everywhere so it was difficult to make out a path amongst all the rubble. I found the gill and followed it upwards, sticking to the left bank. The path was narrow and quite tortuous with little scrambles in places and passing more evidence of old mining activities. I persisted and before too long saw lights above me. I gradually caught up and discovered that it was Jesse and Ed working out whether they were at the right place to cross the stream.  I pulled out my gps, it hadn't helped in climbing up the gill because I had just drawn a straight line from somewhere near the start, but it confirmed this point pretty well spot on, so we crossed and soon our path turned into a much bigger track across the moor. When I got home I looked in the guidebook I had to see what it said about this section. This is what I found......"The path now bends north behind the [Crackpot] Hall to climb above the narrow gorge of Swinner Gill. Make sure you head uphill to follow the correct trail or you'll eventually find yourself on a lower, parallel but precipitous sheep track barely two boots wide and clinging to the side of the gorge below the correct route. Whichever route you stumble on, before long you arrive at the eerie remains of Swinner Gill smelting mill with waterfalls alongside. Again from here it's possible to stray onto a tricky path alongside the north banks of East Grain Beck instead of the easier way a little higher up the valley side, but both deliver you with a sweaty brow onto the breezy expanse of Gunnerside Moor".

I guess it's all pretty easy in daylight, but I'm still  not sure which combination of the above options I took! One thing for sure though the "breezy moor" was dead right. We were now up on exposed ground at around the 2000ft contour and the wind was fairly whipping across. Jesse recognised the turning to the descent to the footbridge across Gunnerside Gill, remarking dryly as we scrambled down out of the wind that "The only problem is we've got to regain all this height on the other side". Nevertheless, he led us down and up, down the long track to Surrender Bridge and through the tricky field paths to Reeth with only occasional resorts to a gps to confirm direction from Ed or me. He was going more strongly than either Ed or me, his only problem was blistered feet which were clearly giving him some problems on the downhills. But without his knowledge this section would have taken me a lot longer. Reeth was very quiet, and as soon as we realised that the Dales Bike Centre, who had kindly left their toilet block open for runners, was not actually in Reeth but in Fremington half a mile down the road, we were out of it.

As we reached the bike centre it was not far off getting light. Jesse said he would push on without stopping, Ed said he would rest for a while and my intentions were to use the loo, fill up my water and then carry on. Ed and I went inside and he settled down on the floor; I was in and out quite quickly and off down the next section, which was a mile or so of road down to Marrick Priory.

On the "Priory Steps" up through the wood towards Marrick village I was suddenly hit by overwhelming tiredness. I needed to sleep, if only for a few moments. Just before the end of the wood I lay down on the stone slabs and crashed out for 10 minutes. It was enough, after that I made reasonable progress through the fields to Richmond, feedstation No 3, which I rolled into a shade after 8.30am. I was looking forward to Richmond, run by Jon and Shirley Steele, I've known them a while.  I first met Shirley in 2007 when we were both making our way fairly slowly across Rannoch Moor in the West Highland Way Race, and I ran across Jon three years later, or rather he ran across me as I was throwing up in a meadow in Switzerland during that year's UTMB. I try to do at least one of their "Hardmoors" events each year. Shirley was at the door as I arrived. "How was that then?". A bit of a tough shift, I had to admit.

My primary need now was for sleep, but I had a cup of tea and some cake while I sorted feet. Taking my mug and plate back to the kitchen, I had a somewhat bizarre conversation with Shirley. ....

"Andy, exactly how old are you now?"

"Er, not quite sixty-eight, a couple of months to go."

"So your date of birth is 1948, right?"

"Er, yes."

I usually make some quip about being the same age as the NHS at this point, but my sleep-deprived brain couldn't put it together. And I'm still not sure what it was about. I thought they were supposed to ask you who the Prime Minister was when you were perceived to be a bit out of it.

A solid two and a half hours sleep made the world of difference. Chicken stew with potatoes, peaches and yoghourt, lashings of tea and I was good to go, ready to face the "flat bit". I really wasn't looking forward to the twenty miles or so of flat fields across the Vale of York. I was glad it had come in daylight because agricultural territory can be tricky at night because there is often no path on the ground, you're working from field edge to field edge. But I was pleasantly surprised, the whole way was good, easy to follow tracks, no sloppy ground and reasonably interesting countryside. And it had some villages, which always give the possibility of a nice pit stop. At Bolton-on-Swale there was no shop or pub, but a sign outside the church offered "Self-service tea and coffee", so I spent a somewhat serene 10 minutes inside on my own brewing up. A few miles further on Danby Wiske had a pub, another little sit down for a pint of coke and two packets of wonderfully salty crisps. By now, most places you visited had heard of the race and seen some runners. The chef at the pub knew more about where people were ahead of me than I did.

A mile after Danby Wiske I came upon a sad sight. Jesse's feet had finally given up and he was unable to continue. He was now only able to make progress by walking on his heels which meant his speed was "two  miles an hour and falling". He'd rung his wife to pick him up in Danby Wiske and was making his way slowly back there. But for his foot problems I'm sure he would have gone on to finish inside three days.

My own thoughts were now focussed on Ingleby Cross. There was a pub there and if I could make it there while they were still serving food, a good meal would see me onto the North York Moors in good shape. Another runner had caught me up a few miles back but had then stopped to adjust something. I expected him to come past at any minute but he must have been going only a little faster than me because I didn't see him again until we were just approaching the notorious A19 crossing. He turned out to be Chris Haswell, and we discussed how close we were to the pub. It looked like touch and go on getting there in time so I'd hatched a plan B which was to go into the shop at the petrol station on the A19 for pies, sausage rolls, and any other  worthy food they had. Chris declared this his plan A by getting a large coffee as well, while I chose to forego the drink and make for the pub, now only a half a mile or so distant. Meals were until 9pm, I arrived at four minutes past. I smiled as nicely as I could to the lady behind the bar. She was sympathetic but the chef would have to be consulted. She came back with "You can have cottage pie or chilli con carne".  I stayed an hour.

4. The Moors

It was dark when I set out from the pub, I had got quite cold in the wind and rain the previous night on the moors above Keld, and as tonight promised more of the same I suited up before starting. Paramo jacket (great for anywhere you're not going too fast, just a vest underneath is all that's required, keeps you dry and comfortable in all conditions) and OMM overtrousers (the only ones I've found that don't make a continual rustling noise), then off up the hill to the Cleveland Way. I've done this section half a dozen times over the years so no problem in tackling it in any conditions, tonight was just a bit slower than normal. I followed the track easily over Scarth Moor and Carlton Bank, although the visibility was down to almost nothing. The rocky track ends abruptly in a sloping field just before Lord Stones Cafe, easy to know which way to go...........if you can see the cafe. But I was happy it was straight on down and soon the cafe lights appeared out of the gloom. I tried the washroom doors to see if I could top up with water but they were all locked; no disaster, I had enough to get to the Lion Inn at the pace I was going.

I remember from my first trip over here on the inaugural Hardmoors 55 back in 2010 that it was very misty and difficult to find the way back onto the rocky track after the cafe. No problem with some familiarity though  -  find the fence, follow the fence, simples. I enjoyed picking my way over the three little peaks, remembering the last time I had been this way was in the "formal fun run" at Jon and Shirley's wedding a while ago.

Coming down to Clay Bank in  different conditions..........

I paused a while to have a drink at the road crossing at Clay Bank and was quite surprised when two other runners came past  -  I wasn't as alone as I had thought. I didn't recognise them but looking back at the times I think it must have been John Fraser and Chris Bird. They carried on and I didn't see them again.

Easy ground now, the broad track over the moors to Bloworth Crossing. It was daylight now but still misty and that just emphasised what a lonely spot this is. I remembered one windy September night when I had brought my tent out here to marshal one of the early Hardmoors 110 races; nowadays Jon makes it a self-clip so the guild of "Bloworth Crossing Keepers" who have taken numbers and handed out jelly babies here is no more. New ground for me beyond here though as Wainwright's route leaves the Cleveland Way and heads south down the old railway track to the Lion Inn.

It's around six miles from Bloworth to the Inn (Feed Station No 4) and I found it one of the most frustrating sections of the whole trip. It's dead level and easy ground under foot but somehow I just couldn't summon up a jog. I tried counting steps, running towards marks and so on, but all to no avail. Fifty or sixty paces and I was walking again. Just too tired I guess. In the end I gave up and just walked steadily. I think the surroundings would have been impressive if I could have seen them, it was clear that thousands upon thousands of tonnes of material had been shifted to create the cuttings and embankments for the now defunct mineral line, but for me they just disappeared into the mist. So I plodded on with my thoughts and waited for Blakey to appear. At least the wind seemed to be coming mostly from behind now.

The Lion Inn sits on Blakey Ridge, a high, exposed place. There is nothing else there. In fact nothing else around for miles. Yet the Inn is popular for this in a similar way to Tan Hill on the Pennines, so no spare space to get a base inside. The original intention was to have the feed station in a small marquee next to the Inn, but we had been told back along the course that it had proved impossible to get any tents up there because of the wind, but food was being served out of a van. It didn't sound too promising, and I had got it into my head that it was probably better to push on through, lose some height out of the wind, then get things together in one of the villages between the moors and the coast. When I arrived however at around 7am,  I found the amazing Joe Faulkner running a 24 hour bistro, complete with comfortable seating for 6 diners, in the back of a transit van. Two bowls of chilli and a pint of tea and I already felt a different person. I was undecided now whether to carry straight on. It was only 28 miles to the finish, but they had managed to get some of the small tents up outside the van now so a rest was possible. "Look", the ever-wise Joe advised, "Go and get an hour's sleep, have some breakfast and you'll still have 12 hours to finish in daylight." Decision made.

An hour's solid sleep, porridge and coffee, and I was out into the gale again on the last lap. The crew of the feed station at the Lion, which was open for longer than any of the others, were far more deserving of a finisher's medal than any of the runners.

The first mile northwards up the road was directly into the wind and it was hard enough just to make progress, regardless of the speed. Then a track turned off at right angles and we gradually veered round to moving south again then gradually started losing height. After the first mile I was able to run all the way down to the first village at Glaisdale, 5 or 6 miles distant. A 4mph average rather than the barely three I had been achieving down the railway. There's a lot to be said for a sleep and some food. Glaisdale was awake but I felt I was going well so decided to give it a miss, and followed a muddy riverside path then a bit of road to Egton Bridge which the route sort of skirted, then an easy level track to the larger community of Grosmont. Chris Haswell caught me up again along here and we stayed together a bit and chatted. He said he thought he was suffering from shin splints and it was getting painful. I had decided to stop in Grosmont but he was carrying on so we parted again.

I found a place for tea and jam scones, like you do in these Yorkshire villages. I was glad that I did because the next bit was quite a shock, as the mile or so of road out of Grosmont proved to be one of the steepest climbs of the whole course. Having taken off all the waterproofs at last I was a bit chilly coming out of the cafe but really warm again by the time the road levelled out. A bit of nondescript but harmless moor led to the charming hamlet of Littlebeck. From here, the next mile or two alongside the beck, going up a wooded ravine, would have been wonderful had the path not been so obliterated by slippery mud. As it was it was still fairly spectacular. I stopped for a quick look at "The Hermitage", a cave hollowed out of rock with a rock "bench" inside (and where I found out chatting after the finish that Ben Taylor had stopped for a sleep), then diverted a few yards for a look at the "Falling Foss" waterfall. The mud ended as we came out of the trees, then there was just a little climb up a road onto the moors again. Chris appeared again here; I don't know how that happened, but this time he passed me and stayed ahead to the finish!

The two miles of moor from here to the outskirts of Hawkser were my least favourite part of the whole trip. Boggy trods, ankle deep and worse if you didn't get the best line. Slop like this belongs on the Pennine way where it would be made welcome, not contaminating the otherwise brilliant Wainwright coast-to-coast route! But then we were out onto dry land at Hawkser. I sat on a stile to wring my socks out, and as I was doing this Chris Bird came running by at a cracking pace, clearly intent on the finish. But I knew it would come soon enough now, so I carried on through the village and down to the cliffs of the North Sea.

5. The End

I knew it was four miles or so to the finish, but I wasn't really in a hurry. The stretch from the Lion had gone relatively quickly, it was about 6pm as I went through Hawkser so plenty of daylight left and the chip shop would still be open when I reached the finish. I was pleased that I was still able to jog some of the level bits along the coast, and the downhills went easily. Visibility was much better down here and as I approached Robin Hood's Bay I could see Ravenscar up on the cliffs in the distance. Then it was off the cliff path and down the long steep hill through the town to the seaside and the finish. Race Director James was there by the slipway, ready with a welcome and a medal, and then as I sat and reflected for a moment or two, fish and chips magically appeared.

I finished in three days, nine and a half hours, in 19th place. The word was that there were 60 starters but I could only see 50 on the live tracking. Whichever it was, I made it comfortably into the top half of the field and that's a bit of a bonus for me these days. With a bit more focus, a bit more discomfort and fewer stops for cakes I might have gone quicker, but that wasn't really the point. I came for the trip, and the trip had been good. I had survived pretty well, no injuries, no aches and pains, no blisters. 

Was I going to join in the competition sprint up the hill to the village hall? I think I said something like well I made it here from St Bees without having to run up a hill so I'm not going to start now..............

This was a great event over a wonderful course. Thanks to James and all his team for managing to get it so right first time.

Looking Forward not Back

As I've said more than once on these pages I'm an engineer. You learn the principles, how to do things, no need to remember the numbers, you can write those down.

At this time of the year we spend a week in Kinloch Rannoch because that's what we do. Overlooking the village is a hill, or rather the shoulder of a hill for it is no summit, more by the way of a viewpoint sort of thing. Each week that we're here I shamble up it once or twice; it's not far and it doesn't take long, it sits quite nicely between the main project of our day and drinks before dinner. Only I clearly didn't remember the numbers, just how far and how long exactly as I set out a couple of days ago. About a mile each way I said to Jan, back in half an hour or so.

It's just over a thousand feet of up (at least I remembered that right, wonder why...) and steep at the start. As I cleared the trees above the steepest bit I had the usual feeling that it was steeper and further than last year, but then there's a breather for a few minutes across a boggy but gentler-angled section before the final pull up to the top, which I discovered was nearly two miles from home rather than the one I had guessed. On the way down I tried to push on a bit and succeeded in sliding full length through the worst bit of bog. Not only late for tea now, filthy as well. I got back to the ranch and apologised, a bit disappointed with my efforts. The outing had taken 49 minutes.

I remembered that last year I had been up there two or three times, culminating in an end of week trip that I was quite pleased with. After dinner I bit the bullet and looked back over last year's logbook, and was fairly amazed to find that the run I had remembered as being a good one had taken 57 minutes.

It's seemingly unimportant little events like this that can change your whole attitude to things.

If you follow my blog even occasionally you'll know that I picked up an injury in the autumn of 2013 that took me well over a year to get (almost) sorted out.  The first half of 2014 was a write-off and the second half saw me completing events at a very slow pace as I recovered.  I tried harder in 2015, put in a lot of miles, but the overall fitness I had before the injury never came back.  By the end of the year I had come to the conclusion that I would probably never regain it, but that I was still OK to go on enjoying events at a more modest pace  -  "just to finish" as they say.

So this year I changed my training. If I wasn't going to race so hard I didn't need to train so hard. I've done a lot fewer miles and I've kept to fairly modest speeds, in fact I've done fewer miles up to now than I have in any of the previous 8 years except 2014. I decided that distance and speed were the things likely to lead to more injuries. I still tweak things if I get too enthusiastic, but I know now to stop, have a rest for a few days, and not get too concerned about losing the miles. But one thing I have done is to start running up hills more (well, jogging to be strictly accurate   -   as the Sundance Kid said in the film.... "You call that running ?!!").  Near our place in Keswick we have plenty of hills that I can get to just by opening the door and starting to run  - Latrigg, Walla Crag, Bleaberry, Skiddaw, Cat Bells, Grisedale Pike  -  just a big playground right outside the door. I now try to run as much of the uphill as I can. I'm reasoning that this should take the place of speed work and is less likely to cause injuries. But all this still against the background of having to take the events much more easily.

But recently, two or three events have got me thinking.

A few weeks ago I ran 10 miles on the roads round our house in Chester in just under 80 minutes. Pretty pedestrian for a real runner but not a time I'd seen since earlier in 2013. More importantly, I hadn't done any speed work to get there. I never run a single mile faster than 7.30 these days, and anything above 3 or 4 miles I go much nearer to 8 minute miles.  Then last week, I managed to run all the way up Walla Crag, again nothing to write home about but there was one little steep bit that had always defeated me before. And now Craig Varr, the most encouraging one of all.

I'm cautious, but I think I'm beginning to believe that I'm fitter than I was last year. And if that is actually true, and I build gradually, there's no reason why I shouldn't carry that on for a while yet.

This time last year I failed to make it through the Dragon's Back Race, simply because I wasn't fit enough for the event. The next one is in May 2017, and I put my name down for it earlier this month. I couldn't resist it. I hadn't worked out how I was going to bridge the gap but it's just such a great event I wanted the experience again. Now I knew the route I could maybe think my way around losing the hour or so a day I needed to get round. But I'm now starting to believe that  there is no reason why I can't be significantly fitter next year than last, and that's a much better plan.

Looking forward not back.

PS. Typical, since I started writing this last night, I went for a gentle 5 miles along the Loch shore road this morning. Steady 8 minute miles but in a pair of shoes I hadn't used on tarmac before. Came back with a little Achilles tweak. Not great with the Northern Traverse starting in 6 days, but it will probably be OK. Just shows how careful you have to be.

Different Times, Different Values

This is not really about running, but running provides a way in, if you like, to a wider subject maybe worth exploring.

I decided to take a turn up Snowdon yesterday to make the most of what looks like the last day of this spell of fine weather we've been having. It's not too far from where I live so I was off up the track from Llanberis just after 7.30am. After a mile or so I was passed by a number of people coming down, maybe a dozen in twos and threes, fairly spaced out. The usual good mornings were exchanged but their presence puzzled me at first, you don't often see people going in that direction at this hour, but the giveaway was the facial expressions, a combination of tiredness and satisfaction; they were clearly coming to the welcome ending of a "three peaks" trip.

Combining ascents of Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon in a continuous expedition seems to have become rather popular in recent years. I know there are some who don't like the idea, but if it gets a few more of our largely sedentary population out into the hills occasionally, then so long as they don't annoy the residents of Seathwaite and wherever else they might impact, then it's fine by me. With an average bit of fitness it's possible to complete the outing in 24 hours without breaking any speed limits, so that seems to be the normal "challenge" deal.

Now this is all fine and dandy, but then a somewhat piratical friend of mine announced that one of the West Highland Way race family had recently completed a solo trip in under 19 hours, and did anyone know of other such completions. I should have kept quiet of course but I didn't, and added to the discussion, I suspect to some incredulity, by saying that in my youth a reasonable target was felt to be 12 hours from the top of the Ben to the top of Snowdon. I should have kept quiet because you can't feasibly do this sort of thing nowadays, and what is maybe more significant is that we all know that it would be pretty irresponsible to try. But having opened this particular box, should I firmly close it again or try to explain what's inside?

It comes down to this. Do I and my generation take a more sensible attitude to driving now simply because we are older, or because the world and its values have changed? I'll leave you to work that one out, but here's a bit of background, history, and I hope not too much nostalgia.

I passed my driving test in 1965.  At that time there were no seat belts in cars, no speed cameras, no breathalyzer. The MOT test had come in a few years earlier but it covered only lights, brakes and steering and took about 5 minutes to carry out. Petrol was 25p for 4,5 litres (5 bob a gallon). Old cars were cheap. In 1967 three of us bought a Ford Popular for £15, squeaked it through the MOT and drove it to Athens and back.

But in my first 8 years of driving I was involved in three crashes in which the car I was travelling was a write-off (on 2 of these occasions I was driving, one was definitely my fault). It was sort of par for the course. In 2014 there were 36 million cars on UK roads, and collisions resulted in 1800 deaths. With barely 10 million vehicles in 1966, the death total was just short of 8000. Everyone knew these figures back in the 60's, but they had no effect on driving culture. Perhaps the best illustration of the general attitude towards speed was when the speed camera was first introduced onto UK roads, as late as 1992. The first camera was installed on a dual carriageway in Surrey which had carried a 40mph speed limit for some time. It was set to trip at 60mph because the argument at the time was "we only want to catch the worst offenders".  In 22 days of operation it recorded 23,000 drivers exceeding 65mph. I had an Italian colleague sometime in the 1990's who explained to me in all seriousness the prevailing attitude towards speed limits in Italy at the time "You have to understand" , he said, "that we view the limits not so much as laws but more as........ suggestions".  Before speed cameras were introduced, I don't think the UK could have claimed to be a whole lot better.

So by the mid seventies we had good jobs and could afford good cars, and of course for the climbing fraternity (in those days thought of much more as a lunatic fringe rather than the establishment activity it is nowadays), fast journeys from our base in the Chester area to North Wales and Scotland were possible. There was then no North Wales Coast Road (well there was but it was single carriageway and went through all the towns), no motorways north of Carlisle, no bridge at Ballachulish, but the only way you were going to get caught speeding was by being followed by a police car for the statutory three tenths of a mile  -  and if you were a competent driver that wasn't going to happen.

The following is an article I wrote for the Chester Mountaineering Club Journal in 1977. It has one or two CMC "in" jokes but I don't think that gets in the way of understanding for the general reader:

"The Transport Game

Fundamental laws tend to govern most things, and even the climbing weekend has not escaped the ravages of the scientific brain. Basically, the first law says that the sum of climbing time, sleeping time, drinking time and driving time is a constant. Since it follows that any reduction in the last of these factors increases the potential enjoyment of the others, motor transport has always been a subject dear to most climbers' hearts. Unfortunately, the second law says that during any climbing weekend driving is inevitable, while climbing is at best only probable. Consequently, the average climber has a far greater chance of finding himself out of control in the horizontal plane than in the vertical. With this in mind, we ask what are the guidelines for keeping body, mind and wallet reasonably intact?

First choose your weapon. To be fair, the ideal climber's car is not currently on the market, presenting a golden opportunity for the enterprising motor manufacturer. Basic requirements are to carry four climbers and their gear at a steady 90mph while returning 50mpg. Shape and colour are not important as most climbers modify these periodically with the aid of trees, stone walls, etc. The once ubiquitous Morris Minor van is now losing popularity because (a) they don't make them any longer, and (b) they don't stand up too well to the Friday night burn up to Scotland that the M6 has made possible.  A Morris Minor which I had once failed to get up the hill to Pen Ceunant, so I don't rate them anyway, especially as the brakes weren't too good on that particular car and I ended up reversing into the field quite quickly. Sports cars are OK for posing and quite good on pace but definitely unsuited to the style of lightweight camping to which Colin Green is accustomed. Better settle for something bigger, estates being favourite at the moment. But by far the most important point to remember when choosing a car for the weekend's climbing is to make sure that it isn't your own. You only share petrol, not depreciation, and in any case you get more sleep if you don't have to do the driving.

This means of course that you have to learn to be a relaxed passenger, otherwise you don't get any rest and the ploy becomes self-defeating. Just tell yourself that the man with glazed eyes and locked hands hurtling you across a pitch black Rannoch Moor at 80mph on two inches of damp slush knows what he's doing, even if both of you really know the truth. I was once driving another CMC member down to Wales in my trusty Spitfire when we came unstuck on an icy downhill stretch coming over the Clwyds. With awesome detachment he sat through all the excitement unflinchingly, just murmuring "fight it, fight it" to himself as we went into the third spin, and "nice one" when I finally got things sorted out. This same stalwart when being slid sideways towards the parapet of the bridge at the Ugly House on the A5 by another CMC driver was heard to remark phlegmatically "I notice you only do that when the wall's on my side". Passengers like this are worth their weight in gold.

Though driving styles in the club vary greatly (some might say dramatically), drivers with a cool party and finding good conditions have been able to complete some of the classic routes in considerably less than the guidebook times in recent years. CMC teams have done Glencoe in four and a half hours and the Llanberis Pass in under the hour, though even the driver admitted to being "quite worried at times" on the latter expedition. These times seem unremarkable however when compared with the feats of one legendary Dr Moore (see "Rockclimbers in action in Snowdonia" by Tony Smythe) who managed to average 76mph between Marble Arch and the Pen-y-Gwryd before the M1 was built. Perhaps the younger generation just doesn't have the class. Some CMC drivers, while showing little interest in the classics, have become technical experts in their local routes. One in particular is famed for his vituoso performances across Minera Moor (usually in a vehicle not his own!)

Once at the climbing ground the next challenge for the climber is to drive as near as he can to the chosen crag, eliminating as far as possible any involvement in walking. The rules of this part of the game have changed over the years, and it's unlikely whether the modern climber would get away with leaving his car by the side of Llyn Llyddau as did Menlove Edwards (see the photo in Mountain 25). Outcrops and quarries are of course relatively easy, it's possible to belay from your bumper at places like Millstone and Denham. I once drove up to Stanage High Neb in a Landrover, but one always has the suspicion that these tactics would be frowned on by the NP Warden. The same goes for places like Carreg Alltrem, which is either a roadside crag or a nasty walk depending on your moral stance and your relationships with the Forestry Commission. Some fairly high crags are still fair game for the technical driver however, Dow being a notable example. Full marks to the unknown driver who parked his Citroen Dyane above a bit of the track which we had found hard enough going on foot.

This aspect of the transport game takes on another dimension abroad, probably because the rewards (in terms of height gained) for persistent driving are so much greater. It's easy to put the smell of burning clutch to the back of your mind when you know the alternative is a 3 hour hut slog. Not that this sort of thing is without its drawbacks, for instance over half the 4500ft from the valley to the Sciora Hut in the Bregaglia can be driven, but the track then comes to a dead end with hardly any turning space. Drive up there on a Friday night and you're stuck until Sunday, like it or not, parked in by a few dozen mad German weekenders. The Dolomites in particular have more than their fair share of attractive excursions, very often extolled by the guidebook. For example, in the approach directions for the Cinque Torri Hut one reads that "it is possible to drive a long way up to the hut, but the last section will defeat many drivers, especially after rain." One CMC driver decided we couldn't possibly duck a challenge like this, so we arrived triumphantly at the hut amidst clouds of dust, flying gravel and and burning rubber, only to find a battered Fiat 500 which clearly did the trip every day parked by the door. Rather deflating, but I suppose that Italian driving in general is something rather special, so Italian climbers must have the edge over most of us, more than making up in flair what they lack in technique. They are in fact prepared to crash, with the sort of commitment which once provoked a CMC gentleman climber witnessing a more determined friend fighting a Frodsham overhang to remark "Good Lord, you're actually prepared to fall off!" I once commented to a Yugoslavian friend (another nationality not exactly noted for their consistency on the tarmac) on the recklessness of Italian drivers. "No, no" he replied gravely, "they are excellent drivers  -  they drive with courage" !

As long as our society creates jobs and mountains as far apart as at present, the driving climber will continue to impress himself and disturb other road users. So to get the most out of your weekends, remember the rules of the game. Don't ask your prospective partner whether he can lead HVS, ask him how fast his car is!"

Such a piece would be met with justified opprobrium nowadays of course, but forty years ago it fitted the mood and culture of the times. And I didn't even mention the Alpine trips where we would leave work in Chester on Friday evening and expect to be climbing in Switzerland the following morning, or the time we drove back from the Verdon Gorge in Provence to Chester at an average speed of over 60mph (including the stops for fuel and the channel ferry trip). Crazy.

I'm not a petrol-head but it's a rare bloke who doesn't retain at least some interest in cars. These days I still have a Caterham 7, but although it goes round bends with amazing agility and is able to overtake in places that sometimes surprises people, I keep pretty well to the laws of the land. Maybe it's the culture, maybe it's the policing, but I like to think that I have grown out of the irresponsibilities of those earlier times. Mea culpa. Or as the finest poet of the twentieth century once put it...

"Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now".

Postscript: In the same 1977 journal from which I took the article above, I found another one written by one of a pair of CMC members on their experience in the 1976 Fellsman. I knew the guys in question, they were good climbers but they wouldn't have done any particular training for the Fellsman trip, they wouldn't even have thought of it. They had (what seems to be normal for the event) pretty appalling weather and got round in 22 hours. Not too shabby. Different times, different values.

Pembrokeshire Coast Ultra

This was the weekend for the Highland Fling but as I think I've said before, I enjoyed the eight that I did but the whole affair has got a bit too big for my own tastes now, though the race itself goes from strength to strength with new records and lots of great performances this year. Then of course it was the Hardmoors weekend too, with both the 110 and the 160 being run, this year in the opposite direction to fit in with the Tour de Yorkshire bike race. John Kynaston was entered for the 160, but with the Northern Traverse just 4 weeks away even the 110 was much too big an undertaking for me.

So I contented myself with a more modest objective at the Endurancelife Pembroke Coastal Ultra, which I felt should be a nice outing at 35 miles and 3600ft of ascent. I'd had a few calf problems since the Manchester Marathon but after a week's rest and a couple of visits to the physio, coupled with a plan to take things easily and walk if it got sore, I was happy that things would probably be OK. I wouldn't break any records and would be happy with around 7 hours for the 35 miles.

A visit from daughter Julia turning into a fairly lengthy (but very enjoyable) Italian lunch was probably not the best way to start the trip down to Pembroke, which is around 175 non-motorway miles distant from Chester. I got away before 5pm but a one hour delay due to an accident on the brief bit of A5 encountered didn't help. After that though it was plain sailing down roads ideal for some Caterham fun and I arrived in Haverfordwest in time for something to eat and a beer watching the snooker before turning in.

The event was based at the small seaside village of Little Haven about 5 miles from Haverfordwest. Registration could be left until nearly 7.30am so no crack of dawn starts were required. It was a cloudless but still quite cool morning as we assembled first for the 8am briefing and then the 8.30am start. I thought of the Hardmoors 160 runners who had by now put in a solid and probably fairy chilly night shift.

I've walked most of the Pembrokeshire coast path over the years and it's all attractive, a bit like Cornwall but maybe not quite as severe, so I was looking forward to the day. There was a gentle onshore breeze as the day warmed up so conditions were pretty well perfect throughout. The first five miles took us down the coast path to the first checkpoint at the inlet below St Brides. Checkpoints on Endurancelife events turn up regularly at between 4 and 7 mile intervals; they all have water and a selection of biscuits and jelly babies so you don't have to carry much in the way of food and drink.

The next 4 miles followed a more inland route across clifftops and an old airfield to a neck of land above Dale and checkpoint 2, level and very easy running. The next stage was much more varied around a complete peninsula taking in Dale Point and St Annes Head, a bit of road down through Dale then coast path all the way, clifftops, descents and reascents, occasional wooded areas, 7 miles in all back to checkpoint 2. Those on the marathon course (28 miles this one, distance interpretation rather like on the Hardmoors events...) could now head back up the coast towards home, but for the ultra distance we had to repeat the 7 mile loop around the peninsula. On this second loop my calf started to feel a bit sore so I cut the pace a bit by taking shorter strides, a tip from the physio. It continued to hurt for the next 15 miles or so and was getting a bit concerning, but it finally went away a few miles from the finish and I have no residual effects a day later so all seems to be well. But overall it meant that my pace, which was looking steady at a few seconds over 11 minute pace, was now drifting into the 12 minute area.

After our third visit to the checkpoint above Dale the course headed northwards again, but this time along the coast to Marloes Sands then cutting off some of the Wooltack Point headland to arrive back at the original checkpoint 1 by St Brides. I saw almost no-one along this stretch, the field of both the marathon and ultra being pretty spread out by now, but I overtook two or three runners in the last mile or two before St Brides, and another few as I left the checkpoint.

All required now was to complete the original five miles in the opposite direction back to Little Haven and the finish. I got home in 6:51:52, nicely inside the 7 hours I had previewed for the trip even though I had slowed up somewhat to avoid pressuring my calf. I finished in 28th place, which coincidentally was exactly the same position that I got in the previous race in this coastal series, up in Northumberland a few weeks ago. Generally a satisfying day out, and I was back home in Chester for dinner.

But we've had the warm-ups now, things get serious soon with the Northern Traverse starting in just 4 weeks time!