My move to London to develop my work as a personal trainer is imminent. I have accordingly decided to run as many local fell races as possible before I go. While I am excited to be bringing my services south, and London has its fair share of hills and slopes, it doesn’t begin to compare with the hills I will be leaving behind in Yorkshire. With that said, I am an inexperienced fell racer. When in training I generally run for hours at a time on long steady gradients, but a fell race is all about going straight up a huge hill and then coming straight back down. Last night’s race on Ilkely Moor was exactly that: 350m/1150ft of ascent followed by the same descent. All in the space of 5 miles.

I met up with ultra running veteran Jon Steele beforehand. We chatted about our inexperience in these events, whilst looking up apprehensively at the sheer scarp directly in front of us. Fell runners are a different breed of athlete and the short, sharp and intense nature of these events is a bit different to the long and drawn out psychological challenges to which we are used in ultras. After recognizing a relative manning the cake stall, discovering that  my garmin battery had gone, and deciding to wear my brand new bright red f-lite trainers, it was time to start.

The race had no fixed route – you choose your own so long as you go via the waymarkers. The 200 or so entrants immediately split into several groups, each taking different approaches up the flank of Ilkely Moor. I found myself trapped in a group running a bit slower than me so decided to branch out and make a straight line up through the heathland rather than try and follow paths as most of the others were doing. This worked for a few minutes, before I concluded that the extra effort I was putting into propelling myself through the thick undergrowth was outstripping any navigational advantage. I have become quite pleased with my strength on hills recently, but this was soon put into perspective by seasoned fell runners at whose hot-air-balloon sized lungs I could only marvel when I looked up and saw the leaders 300m ahead of me after only five minutes. But I ran most of the precipitous ascent with only a few hands on thighs moments, reached the first waymarker, the Badger Stone, and bore due West.

This part of the race was a gradual descent to the next waymarker. Despite a nosedive into some bracken as I tried to negotiate a large ditch, the slope allowed me to pass three or four runners before reaching the ancient Swastika stone. We then set off back uphill on another climb – not as gruesome as before but still thoroughly unpleasant. Stream after spring after bog after marsh meant that any hope of trying to keep my new trainers clean was futile – and more evidence of my fell racing inexperience. Reassuringly, though, I started to pass people who had sailed past me earlier. As the gradient evened out towards Cowpers Cross and Ilkely Moor summit where there was half a kilometer or so of flag stoned track to run across. This allowed me to pick up a head of steam; I made  good time around this part of the route.

From the top of Ilkely Moor it was down down down. This was hugely enjoyable despite the first half mile being run calf deep in standing water which left my feet numb. As the gradient steepened so things become increasingly eventful. Tapping a rock with the toe of my shoe sent me careering head first into the ground at one point, whilst disappearing to below the knee in a concealed bog sent me flying sideways at another. I had no pre-planned route down and found – to my alarm, with no other options available – that I was following two runners who had a very casual approach both to their own safety and to the basics of gravity. With momentum increasing and very little opportunity to put on the brakes we sailed over a near-vertical thirty-foot drop. I went down feet at first, but was soon thrown onto my bum, then my left side, then my right, then every other part of my body apart from my feet. I imagined we looked like the people who chase cheese down a hill in whatever village they do that in the Cotswolds. Remarkably, when the slope evened out ever so slightly, I somehow landed on my feet and carried on running.

After about ten minutes of pure adrenaline I saw the finish. I managed to get past the two suicidal runners, but just as I’d inched ahead of them I tripped and they passed me again. I flew down the final bank, vainly trying to catch them and before I knew it I’d reached the finish exhausted but exhilarated. Jon finished about 30 seconds after me, which was great, because I never beat him!

I am an immediate fell race convert and have another lined up for next week. The lung-busting ascent, the tactical approach to route finding, the five or six falls and the lunatic descent combine to make you feel very alive. Bring on the next one.

I spent Easter in London; at the last minute I had a look to see if there were any races on in the capital during the extended break. Happily I found a 10k race with spaces left in Regent’s Park on Bank Holiday Monday. But a heavy night out on Saturday meant that Sunday was spent recovering and Monday was upon me before I knew it. I awoke on race day still feeling slightly groggy, with the wind rattling the windows and rain sheeting down outside. While getting ready I considered the conditions and tried to come to terms with the fact I can’t party like I used to. Unsuprisingly, this led me to conclude that this wasn’t going to be a PB day.

I sat in the car doing the crossword with my better half until 10 minutes before the race, when I trotted out and began to warm up in the persistent rain. I rarely run 10ks unless they’re on a treadmill where I can comfortably put down 38.30. Outdoors, undulation and varying surfaces make it completely different and having run fewer 10ks than Ultras in my time, my PB sits somewhere around 40-41 minutes. Ideally I’d run under 40 minutes today.

We set off in a field of about 250 and I religiously followed my garmin and its beeping alerts. I didn’t go off too quickly, but made sure I stayed on sub 4-minute kms throughout the race. The route followed three laps of Regent’s Park. The first, assisted by the rain, went swimmingly. By the end of it I’d gone past all the people who set off too quickly at the gun and had settled into a good rhythm. The second lap kicked in and I maintained my pace, ending all my laps between 3.45 and 3.55 minutes. But by the third lap, when we’d started lapping people, my pace had begun to drop and I put down a 4.07 kilometre and then a 4.03.

I’d been running too well up until this point to let a treasured sub-40 10k out of my sight, so I really dug in and pressed on. Kilometre 8 and kilometre 9 clocked at 3.58 and 4.00, respectively, and with the time I’d banked on the earlier laps I was starting to get excited: only if I really started slowing would I not make this a sub 40 10k now. As I approached 10km I realised my timer read 39.30; thoughts of ‘I’ve done it’  mingled with counteracting concerns that the finish still seemed to be another 150m away. Either my GPS garmin was wrong or the course was. Either way I could not stop my watch until I’d crossed the line, which I duly did in 40.07.

I was happy with my run, although by the course it was a 40.07 10k and not a sub 40. I spoke to several other runners who had clocked between 10.10km  and 10.20km, so I’m reasonably sure I did run 10km in under 40 minutes. Unfortunately this is irrelevant – I raced the course and it beat me by 7 seconds. Another way of looking at it would be to say that if I hadn’t gone out partying on the Saturday night I would have clocked under 40 minutes anyway.

Ah well. It was an enjoyable race nonetheless, I finished 15/266, it broke up the weekend nicely, and every now and again it is good fun taking part in races that do not last for 12hrs at a time.

Along with several hardy members of OutFIT I took part in the Harrogate 5k parkrun on Saturday morning. I was supposed to be running the Trollers Trot 25 miler in upper-Wharfedale, but my hip problems combined with the prospect of the Hardmoors 55 miler next weekend saw me opt for this shorter option.

Parkruns are a fantastic idea, organised by runners for runners, they offer weekly free timed races all over the UK. Each race is coordinated by volunteers drawn from each parkrun’s membership group (in exchange for your registration, you say you will volunteer three times a year) and that’s all there is to it.  Once you are registered, you are free to enter any organised parkrun, so if you’re on holiday in a different town and they have a parkrun going on you can simply rock up and join in.

The Harrogate route is comprised of three and a bit laps of the Oatlands Stray, a flat course of half grass/half tarmac. Runners of all shapes and sizes and outfit choices were present at the start line. I positioned myself behind a group of quick looking youngsters at the front and guessed that I may be able to use them to pace myself. Once we had started and I’d tried to keep pace with them for half a mile it became apparent this wouldn’t be possible. They had gone off at some ridiculous sub 5 minute per mile pace, whilst my target of 18 minutes 30 meant I should have been running at around 6.10 minutes per mile. I soon realised my mistake and let the kids go (as if I had a choice!) and the first lap came and went quickly as a consequence. The second lap was too slow as I tried to catch my breath and lap three saw me settle down at about 6.40 mpm pace, too slow to hit my target. I finished in 19.36, a minute slower than I wanted but respectable nonetheless. I knew 18.30 was a tough ask and anyway, anything under 20 minutes is respectable in my book and I was 8th out of 150+ entrants too… it’s not often I get to say that.

Several members of OutFIT also did the run and then, gluttons for punishment that they are, came down to Tewit Well Stray to do an OutFIT circuit session straight afterwards. Impressive performances all round from Karen, Simon, Paul, Caroline, Al and Eirene!

Group exercise is always more fun. If you get the chance do a parkrun or an outfit class on a Saturday morning then do it, it’s well worth it!

I’d been meaning to enter this race for a couple of years and never got
around to it. Having recently moved to within 10 minutes of the start line,
not running it this year would have been inexcusable. And how glad I was that I did.

The BBC had been dilly dallying on the weather forecast all week; right up
to Friday evening they were unable to arrive at any firm conclusion about
what to expect. That is, it might or might not snow/snow moderately/snow
heavily at some point during the morning/afternoon/evening (delete as
appropriate depending on the current mood in the Met Office) – until the
breakfast news on Saturday when it became “It’s going to snow at one”. This
gave me a good four hours to get around 22 miles and 3000ft of ascent. That
sounded pretty doable, although in my usual pre-race overestimation of
abilities I was hoping for a 3.30 finish.

After a bit of pre-race chat with various familiar faces, I forgot to change
my shoes and went to the start line in my completely unsuitable Nike Darts,
not the Inov8 Mudclaws which were still in the boot of my car and oblivious
to the adventure they were missing out on.  As I set off, musing that it
wasn’t like me to make a footwear mistake (see most previous blogs), the
pace was pretty frantic. The assembled field made its way through Esholt
woods under the same blue skies and at the same pace as we usually run the
Esholt Bash 10k in June. By the first bucket drop I was already too hot (in
subzero temperatures ) and reined in the pace. The going was good though
and the shoe oversight turned out to be a blessing in disguise. With the
ground frozen hard the budget gym shoes actually came into their own.

As we ascended Baildon Moor, the frozen mud was turning ankles in every
conceivable direction and runners were tripping up like so many drunks
staggering home from the pub. We then climbed onto Rombald Moor where the
large volumes of standing surface water had frozen solid and as much ice
skating as running began to take place. Occasionally ominous cracking
sounds emanated from the glazed floor but happily I did not breach the ice
cap: frozen feet would certainly have detracted from the day’s enjoyment.
Views of snow covered tops into Upper Wharfedale were superb and I stopped
to take a few pictures. As I did so John Steele sailed past with a cheery
‘Hello Henry’ and I put my camera away and attempted to catch him up. There
was a wooden path to run on and I was just catching him when I arrived at
the Lanshaw Lad checkpoint. Picking up a drink, I was surprised to hear my
voice called and then doubly surprised to see my old friend Lydia, whom I
hadn’t seen for many years, manning the checkpoint. We did as much catching
up as you can whilst refuelling at a checkpoint during a race “How are you?
Where are you working? Where are you living? Let’s go for a drink!” before I
set off again, filled with the unexpected pleasure you get from such
unlikely encounters.

Buoyed by this, I really put my foot down as we reached the halfway mark and
started the descent toward Ilkley Bottom. I made some good time, but
dishearteningly a recurring problem I’ve been having with my hip flared up
and I started experiencing a degree of discomfort on my right hand side.
Still, I made sure that on the subsequent tricky ascent back up and over the
Cow and Calf rocks I ran every step and in doing so, I made my way past many
struggling competitors. Having said this, as my hip really started to grind
at the top of the hill most of these people came straight back past me. I
almost got waylaid by the meandering criss-crossing trails on top of the
moor, but managed to stick to the correct route, through Coldstone Ghyll and
down into Menston.

At this point my hip was really starting to protest, but as my navigation
round these streets was hazy at best, I had to try to stick with the chaps
just in front of me, who I’d established both knew the way and – more
importantly – didn’t mind me lazily using them as routefinders. This kept my
map in my rucksack and meant that all I had to do was keep up. Which was
proving annoyingly tough as my deteriorating acetabulofemoral joint (I’ve
been doing a bit of googling) attested; I only just kept sight of these
saintly route finders through ginnel after snicket after side street.
Entertainingly, I did witness a man at one point go left into a clearly
marked cul de sac and speculated that by comparison my navigational skills
were almost competent. He appeared moments later, presumably having used the
turning circle at the end of drive.

We then moved onto familiar territory as we made our way pretty much to the
foot of the Chevin. At exactly this moment, tiny snow flakes began to fall
and I wasted no time in making exhausted strides back up the huge hill. I
was pleased to notice that with less impact on my joints, I again was able
to surge past several people on the way back up, demonstrating a marked
improvement in my overall fitness, the pay-off of my winter hill training no
doubt. But as the snow flakes got bigger and we crested the summit, I
couldn’t translate my strength on the uphill into speed on the downhill and
with my hip in rebellion, I watched helplessly as everyone I’d gone past,
plus a few more, zoomed right back past me down the long hill into Guiseley
and back to the finish.

As I arrived back and checked in, I finally caught up with John. He has set
himself the personal challenge of running 50 ultras in 2012 Having finished
the race he was going straight back out into the now-heavy snow to tag
another 5 miles onto the 22 he’d already completed to bump his mileage to an
ultra distance: an inspiration to anyone who finds it difficult to get
themselves out training on a cold, wet, miserable day! I completed in 3.54,
which I was pleased with. My garmin says I had 7 minutes of stationary time
(spent taking pictures, tying shoelaces and chatting to Lydia) and my hip
really slowed me down in the second half, but other than that I felt strong.
3.30 next year? We’ll see. What a great and well organised race, stunning
landscape and buzzing atmosphere. It will be one of the first in my diary in
2013.

There is no better way to start the year than this.
The Hardmoors 30 follows a roughly figure of 8 route over 30 miles on the North Yorkshire Coast. It starts in the hamlet of Ravenscar, follows the Cleveland Way to Hayburn Wyke then loops back on itself up to Whitby via an abandoned rail track before travelling back to Ravenscar, this time via the Cleveland Way.
I ran the race last year with my brother in 5 hours 36 minutes. I was confident of touching the 5 hour mark this year. In my favour was the serious training I’d done in the back quarter of 2011, a two month break from any seriously long distance races and prior knowledge of the route and conditions. However, I did have some concerns. One was that intensive partying in West Wales between Christmas and New Year might catch up with me; the other was that I had not shifted my recent cold. But since the cold had not prevented a PB in the Chevin Chase a week ago, it didn’t count.
We started at 10am, an hour earlier than 2010. A good decision as it meant we probably wouldn’t have to run in the dark. My headtorch could thus remain in my rucksack, where, in my opinion, it belongs. Everyone bounded off down the road from the start to the Cleveland Way and in the rain we ran an enjoyable stretch of coastline down towards Hayburn Wyke. It is especially nice to run this part of the Cleveland Way with energy in your legs. During the Hardmoors 60 I already had 30 miles in my feet by this point and I suspect that when I finish the Hardmoors 110 in June this year, I won’t be bombing along this stretch.
A self-clip was stationed at the end of this stretch which need clipping before we made our way back up to the railway line. On the cliff top I had about ten people in front of me; when I descended into Hayburn Wyke, they’d all vanished into the forest. For some reason this coincided with me losing all confidence in my knowledge of the route. I cannot think what the link might be – something to do with cheekily relying on the person in front perhaps? What it did mean was that I emerged from the wrong side of the self-clip and had to run back down past all the competitors coming the other way. I must have lost a good five minutes and ten places here, combined with the ignominy of running in the opposite direction to everyone else. Still, my incompetence amused and motivated me and I ran down to the self-clip, did the business and charged back up the hill, determined to catch everyone to whom I’d just surrendered my place.
By Ravenscar I’d picked back another three places, although again I threw away minutes when I emerged up from the railway track and went right (on autopilot) instead of left (on the ball) and added on another unnecessary quarter of a mile to the day’s journey. I was straight in and out of Ravenscar checkpoint and rejoined the cinder track into Robin Hoods Bay. The usually mix of hungover New Years Day revellers, dog walkers and fellas on mountain bikes who move for no man were out and about as I tried to maintain 7.30 miles or less on the way into the handsome coastal village. Here I met my folks and exchanged drinks bottles and a few words, before again rejoining the track up to Whitby.
This was a long uneventful stretch and I felt strong. I passed three runners, two others went past me and the chief highlight was passing four teenage boys under a rail bridge arguing about how to light a cigarette with matches in the rain. Tempted as I was to help them, I pressed on and made it to Whitby in under three hours, where I had a chat with Steve Walker, ate some jelly babies and drank a large amount of water. With 11 miles to go and two hours to run them, a sub five hour finish was a definite possibility.
I pressed on into Whitby. But again, on autopilot, I followed the wrong side of the river Esk, and again added at least another quarter of a mile before realising my mistake. Cursing my laid-back approach to navigation I retraced my route and made my correct way back into Whitby, over the swing bridge and through the cobbled streets. Determined to reclaim some of that wasted time I made myself run up every one of the 199 steps to Whitby Abbey.

As I gathered my breath on the headland the wind and rain were picking up. The ground was extremely boggy. For the first couple of miles I kept to 10 minute miles, but as the conditions underfoot deteriorated, so did my speed. Fun as it was, on several occasions my slipping around in the mud more closely resembled bambi on ice than a focused ultra-runner. I kept the fuel going in, tried to embrace the wintery conditions and got my head down on the long stretch to Robin Hoods Bay. Luckily the coastline is breath-taking and a welcome distraction from the constant ups, downs, bogs and puddles.
At Robin Hoods Bay I quickly checkpointed, and impatiently told my dad I knew where I was going before immediately setting off in the wrong direction. Luckily about four people shouted in unison ‘It’s that way’ and so saved me a further self-imposed time penalty. By my reckoning Ravenscar was just over three miles away, but with lots of descents and ascents to and from sea level it would be heavy going. I plugged away at it, but by the final long, long stretch up to Ravenscar, my legs and my lungs, not to mention time, were getting away from me. I reached the finish in 5 hours 40 and made straight for the New Year’s Day buffet. Race One of the Hardmoors grand slam done. One down, three to go.
I was four minutes slower than last year. While frustrating, it is attributable to the extra mile added by navigational error, and to the great time partying with friends in Wales that does not fit into many peoples’ training regimes. But that doesn’t matter, because running 30 miles on New Year’s Day in challenging conditions is reward in itself. For £15 you get a well-marshalled, 30-mile trail race in a spectacular location, with a great atmosphere and a buffet at the end of it.Hardmoors is where it’s at. Bring on the 55.

This is a favourite race of mine and I’m pleased to say that this time around I managed to achieve a new PB. Not by as much as I would have liked, but I’m not complaining.

The seven-mile route follows a long steady drag up and out of Guiseley onto the magnificent Chevin, the steep southern flank of middle Wharfedale. Thence it runs westwards towards Pool, before a sharp descent leading you to a parallel trail that heads East for three miles and a subsequent vicious ascent back toward the summit of the Chevin. You then circle back through fields down into Guiseley.

Both my brother and mate Robbie were running and we stood at the start, deep into the crowd of runners, discussing our colds and wondering whether or not we should be stood further up the field. When the klaxon sounded, I was in no doubt that that is where we should have been, as I spent the first ten minutes having to pick my way around the many people in Santa hats who were not going as fast as I wished to travel. The flip side of this, however, was that I went past an unprecedented number of people during the race.

I had run the route ten days earlier so I knew where to accelerate and when to reign back. By the time we reached the Chevin I’d found my spot in the race and I ran next to the same pack of runners right to the finish. Several of these folk were very strong on the flat, but hesitated more than necessary on the descents. This led to me either shooting past them on the exhilarating downhills, followed by them reeling me in on the subsequent straights, or – more frustratingly –me getting stuck behind a pack of people picking their way down a steep muddy slope, when the only possible course of action in the circs is to throw caution to the wind and hope you still have all your teeth at the bottom. Nonetheless, I stuck to a decent 6.45-7.15 minute mile pace right through to the final assault on the Chevin.

At this point things get tough. Just as one sharp climb straightens out and you have recovered a much bigger and tougher one rises beyond. I thought I knew what to expect from my recce, but that did not prepare me for the glycogen-sapping agony associated with this full-on hill assault. Last year I walked several steps of this due to a very successful Christmas dinner the day before, but I’m pleased to report I ‘motored’ to the top of this one without resorting to two feet in contact with the ground at once.

From the summit there is a descent through fields. But there are stiles here and if you arrive at the wrong time you wait and queue whilst watching your fellow compeitiors sail off into the distance. Luckily I was only bunched with three other people at this stage, so there was no prolonged queuing and we were quickly through the boggy cow fields attempting to recapture our breath for the final descent into Guiseley. Before thisyou must travel along a deceptively long and difficult-to-run-on lane but once this is negotiated you hit the road into town and go hell for leather to the finish. Unfortunately, I went hell for leather slightly too early and went past five or six runners who went straight back past me just before the finish! C’est la vie.

I was 140 out of a 900-strong field in 52 minutes and 25 seconds. The race was won by the World Triathalon silver medalist Jonathan Brownlee in 37 minutes 58 seconds. Presumably he knew he had me to contend with and upped his game accordingly, only narrowly beating me by 14 minutes and 27 seconds. I’ll be back next year, to see if can at least catch a glimpse of him. Alas, standing further up the field at the start is probably my only chance!

Seasons Greetings to you all!

Their have been no race reports for a while. This is all about to change. The Chevin Chase, Hardmoors 30 and Hebden 22 are all on the horizon so stay tuned for more descriptions of sore feet and navigational issues!

I have set myself the challenge of running the Pembrokeshire Coast in April 2012. 300km in 4 days on behalf of Medecins Sans Frontieres on some very rugged coastline! You can sponsor me here.

2012 also sees my 3rd assault on the Hardmoors 110. 60 miles in 2010, 80 miles in 2011, 110 miles in 2012? I’ve never been fitter and I’m full of confidence that this is going to be the year. Fingers crossed!

OutFIT, the superb outdoor fitness bootcamp that I run in Harrogate is growing all the time and 2012 promises to be a great year. It’s fun, inventive and thorough – if you’re interested in getting involved, please come down to Tewit Well Stray and and try it out. Monday’s and Wednesday’s at 6.30pm and Saturday’s at 9.30am. Your first session will always be FREE!

I wish you all a great Christmas and a wonderful New Year.

Henry

I had high hopes for this race. Unfortunately, they were kept firmly in check by hard reality.

I finished Friday’s personal training early and drove over to North Wales to Rachub, where a friend who was away for the weekend had kindly lent me her house to stay in.  The journey was eventful: heavy traffic made it twice as long as it should have been, and an Irish chap on a petrol station forecourt with a huge scar across his face tried to convince me to buy one of the 42 Inch Plasma TV’s he had in the back of his van. Luckily, my brain engaged and I told him I prefered radios, before speeding off towards Wales.

When I arrived I rested, mulled over my race plan, listened to the Australia v New Zealand 4 Nations game on the radio (who needs TVs?) and got myself an early night. Up early, I drove the short distance to the race start in Llanberris where I met my brother Ed and registered. We sat in his car like girls before a night out, deciding what clothes we were going to wear. Our wardrobe ideas changed from minute to minute, from shorts and vest to tights and waterproof as we watched the wild weather lash rain across the carpark one minute and then appear relatively still and just drizzly the next.

We ambled up to the start at 10am and chatted with a couple of other runners. We were aiming for 8.15 minute miles and speculating on finish times of 3.35-45 minutes, was this possible? I stood shivering and mulling this over, weighing up my recent bout of chicken pox versus how fit I had felt beforehand, but I was completely convinced it was possible. Meanwhile, the wind was in danger of blowing the inflatable starting point over, the cloud and rain obscured all evidence of a mountain called Snowdon and overhydrated men were relieving themselves everywhere you looked. Now this is a funny hobby, I thought to myself.

The hooter sounded. We were off. Ed and I put on two 7.30 miles followed by an 8.15 and then he was gone and I was struggling. Three miles in and I was off the pace, how frustrating. The race consists of three long ascents, a couple of big descents and lots of long and relatively even stretches. I coped with the first ascent, but lost some time, so I determined to make up as much of the lost time as possible on the subsequent long descent.  As we hit a trail I really got some rhythm and picked up a lot of places. I reckon this is attributable to being primarily a trail runner, I rarely run on roads, and the confidence that comes with that; whilst the road runners carefully pick their route down an uneven trail, the trail runners are happy to put themself at the mercy of loose shale. Unfortunately for me, most of the rest of this race was on the road.

I held the race together until just over half way up the second big ascent after the town of Bedgellert, the town where the Welsh Prince killed his own dog in a case of mistaken identity, a story that choked me when I first heard it as a child. Which was ironic today as travelling through the ancient village, I felt as if I was choking for real. I simply could not transfer the Welsh mountain air to my lungs efficiently at all, I was gasping for the stuff and none of it felt like it was going in. I began to slow and slow and then all of a sudden in the space of what felt like five minutes about 300 people ran past me. As I examined my garmin, a 3.40 finish went out the window, then 3.50, then 4 hours and on it went. My lungs were not responding to the oxygen I was trying to send their way - something I have never experienced before. By the final ascent I could only walk. This was hugely disappointing and not how I’d wanted to spend the day at all. I struggled up the last ascent, facing ever-increasing wind speeds as the cover diminshed. Cresting the final summit and with a couple of miles to go, I threw myself down the final descent, which thankfully was trail again. I picked up several places as I enjoyed the exhilaration of gravity pulling me down a steep, slippery slope. The descent increased as it turned to tarmac and I had to reel myself in before breaking ceased to become an option and then the road flattened out and we were back in Llanberis being cheered in by the hardiest spectators I’ve known; they were evenly spread across the course, gloriously unconcerned about driving rain and freezing wind chill.

My brother was at the finish clapping me in as I struggled to the line in 4 hours and 20 minutes. He was changed and dry, having been there himself for 40 minutes. He’d got around in a fantastic 3 hours and 40 minutes, of  which I have no shame in saying I was extremely jealous. Still, I had enjoyed myself, it’s a tough route against which to pit yourself, and a finish is a finish is a finish. Whether the chicken pox was still affecting me who can say, but next year I can at least be confident of beating my personal best;maybe I’ll even see some of Snowdon. A big diolch yn fawr to all concerned in the organsing, stewarding and supporting this cracking event.

As an afternote, on my way back to Harrogate, in driving rain on narrow roads I’d never driven before, I lost control of my car in surface water, span across the road, over a 15ft drop and into a river. Miraculously I didn’t have a scratch, when by all accounts I’m lucky to be alive. This brought a lot of things onto focus, including the determination to live as much as I possibly can - who knows what might happen tomorrow? - and to drive safely!