Every journey begins with a single step, or so goes the
cliché. Many times I have been asked
“when did you first decide that you were going to do it?” Even today over a celebratory lunch I
couldn’t quite nail the answer. Perhaps
it was around five years ago. The
romance of Richard Askwith’s love letter to the fells certainly had a part in
germinating the seed. All I know for
certain is that once the thought had infected my head I knew of only one
remedy. It had to be done. Not for the boasting rights of having
ascended to the summit of forty-two mountains in 22 hours and 33 minutes, but
for the intrinsic pleasure of an incomparable day of my life that I will
forever recall as perfect.
Some people stand out for especial gratitude because without their
minor but significant input before the Jubilee weekend then the whole
enterprise would have been cancelled.
It’s surely natural to have some reservations about the undertaking, you
would be foolhardy not to. I had allowed
mine to become exaggerated out of proportion and context. Mercifully a significant number of
individuals of sounder judgment convinced me that I was being ridiculous and
that my only problem was from the neck up, contrary to my fear that it was from
the waist down. Once able to lock the
wicked doubt monkey securely back in its cage I gathered a more accurate sense
of perspective. The Bob Graham Round
might have preyed on my conscious thoughts and dreams for half a decade, but it
was just a run.
It was with this casual attitude that I approached the Moot Hall a
minute after 7 p.m. on Friday 20th July 2012. So what if we’re down on schedule already I
thought, this is my day and it will begin as and when I say. A minute later, and after the ritual
genuflection at the alter of the green door, Camille Askins and Shane Beaumont set
off with me through the sleepy streets, over the bridge, across the park and up
the lane towards the setting sun.
Camille and I have history; I was the best man at her wedding and am an
inadequate godfather to her sons. Our
running careers started within a year of each other – it is with fondness that
still I recall the moment when on completing a militarily demanding Burnsall 10
she reported that she had loved it all, and I replied “Ha, you’re addicted!” When two weeks before my scheduled departure
I realised that my support on leg one had disintegrated it was to her that I
turned, and she delivered an archangel from Keighley AC. Shane’s running pedigree is brief, and he
shared with me how once he was a thirty-eight inch waist waggon driver with a
lifestyle to match. Yet the man I met
had the chiselled jawline of a drill sergeant with an insatiable appetite for
masochism.
Camille suffered on the first climb and would freely admit that
she saw hers as a cameo role. It was at
the final gate on the ascent of Skiddaw that she cracked and, after revealing
her preparedness in that she had the fair for a cab from Keswick to Threlkeld,
from twenty metres away blew me a kiss and turned on her heels. Like everybody that day, she contributed
something of value. In her case it was
to slow me down for the first five miles, which ensured my timely arrival at
Skiddaw. If she had held on until the
summit she might even have prevented me from picking up the pace on the plateau,
and a calf injury into the bargain.
The left calf problem emanated from a week before when, while
gently striding next to my daughter on a towpath cycle ride, I felt a sharp
twinge at no more than a leisurely 10-minute-mile pace. Here’s where ‘Miracle Mark’ fits in. As a former club mate at Otley AC I had
learned of his healing gifts. He lives a
peripatetic life and I was fortunate that he was in the country rather than
following Le Tour around France. His
background includes a spell in sports massage for Team GB Cycling. The man understands legs. His table was in transit from a previous
excursion following a couple round France as they took on every climb that Le
Tour has ever passed over, for a holiday.
So on Tuesday evening I was face down on my dining room table writhing
to the force of his fingers. Ice, rest
and a tubigrip support meant that I was able to begin my round. But could I complete it in comfort - would
the injury hold?
Shane and I descended to the cloud base that was conveniently
hovering at the line of the fence crossing, from where the route became
conspicuous. From this position I
surveyed the course to Calva and conservatively limped down the boggy trodden
path. The subsequent climb seemed to
ease the tension, and while wading the thigh deep Caldew I paused to enjoy the
chill of its unseasonably fast flowing waters.
The slog up to Mungrisedale Common also had a beneficial effect, and by
the top of Blencathra all attention was on the descent as the cloud cover
magically dispersed that instant revealing a breathtakingly peaceful view of
the valley floor and corridor. Shane
proved himself as a gentleman sherpa and a companion of great merit, most
particularly on the precipitous Hall’s Fell Ridge when for a moment I doubted
my line. “You know this Simon, just be
confident” he encouraged. The outcome
was that I skipped down on a course that couldn’t be bettered, and kept my
head. Perhaps one day somebody will ask
Shane when he first settled on the idea of completing a round and he will hark
back to that evening. His call for
assistance is one I await eagerly.
The linchpin of my round was Hugh Pearson, who at a house
gathering over Christmas had volunteered his services and the use of his mobile
home as my attempt HQ. I’m still
staggered by his kindness and generosity, and as many commented throughout the
course of the day, what a fine facility to have had at our disposal. Come my timely arrival at the car park of the
cricket club at Threlkeld and he was ready to step into action with all the efficiency
of an F1 pit stop team. The impact on my
performance was as equally measurable, and after ten minutes of refreshment I
steeled myself for the nightshift and fled for Clough Head. In the commotion I later learnt that my dog
had absented himself, causing a minor panic amongst the team until he emerged
from the open cricket clubhouse wearing a sheepishly self-satisfied expression
that said “I’ve snaffled the buffet”. By
this time our head torch lights were half way up the fell.
As all in our community tacitly appreciate, the Bank of BGR has a
curious deposit and withdraw scheme.
Each pays in according to his or her means, and when the rare time comes
to make a withdrawal the condition of one’s balance or creditworthiness is
inconsequential, because it’s a mutual.
Suffice it to say that you will never be in credit, and will be eternally
grateful for being heavily indebted. It
is through this scheme that I acquired my leg three support crew.
Ian and I crossed paths on the Langdales in March and exchanged
numbers on the summit of Scafell later that delightful spring afternoon. That’s just the kind of way that you go about
opening an account at the Bank of BGR.
His successful round in May incorporated me on the second leg, together
with Heather as his navigator. I took a
great deal away from the experience and enjoyed a memorably privileged night on
the fells. When they answered my call I
had complete confidence in their backing.
‘Random Roy’ was an unknown quantity whose unsolicited contact came
through my club’s website. His
generosity was typical of the Bank of BGR, and after a winter of earning his
spurs on the fells I look forward to returning the compliment next spring.
“I hate Clough Head”, said Ian as we ran towards its looming
silhouette. Heather concurred and
instinctively I came to its defence.
Curiously, Roy expressed no opinion.
By its highpoint I had nothing flattering left to say about the damned
lump. We had been gifted ideal
conditions on the tops with dissipating cloud well above the peak level, no
discernible wind and a temperature that passed unmentioned. Heather approached her task with diligence
and pride, creating an illusion of routine in my passage to Dunmail Raise. She and Ian also had a matronly handle on my
nutrition and hydration, while ensuring that my thoughts didn’t drift off into
the darkness. Ian and I traded near
death experiences, his far more actual than mine, which were comically less
colourful. We shared our love for the
Lakes and our wives, and reached a consensus on our favourite tarn. Sprinkling. Although I would still prefer for my ashes to
be scattered at Codale.
Ploughing up Fairfield I spoke effusively of my family to Heather,
and at my behest she regaled me with her recent relationship history. Chief twit was the fella who thought that the
most splendid place to take a fell running rock climber on a Saturday afternoon
was Meadowhall Shopping Centre, for a first date. Coming off Dollywaggon Pike she and I had
became separated from Ian and Roy, whose descending to Grisedale Tarn was
laboured. I never got to the bottom of
his difficulty, but understood that his head torch had been problematic from
the outset.
While earlier cantering across the Dodds Ian had consulted my
opinion on the ideal configuration of supporters per leg. The answer I now know to be three, so that someone
can remain behind should any individual be caught out. In this instance it was Roy who struggled
with the pace, and alas I lost touch with him on the climb to Seat Sandal. Mercenary as it sounds, I couldn’t be responsible
for him and so shed the yolk of guilt off my back as I eagerly hunted down the
vehicle lights nestled in the valley below that indicated that the kettle was
boiling in anticipation of my arrival.
Oddly enough almost exactly half a day later, between Brandreth and Grey
Knots, I saw a figure of a man who as we approached called out “is one of you
called Mark?” “No Roy” I chirped, “it’s
me, Simon”. With that we shook hands
across the fence and he heartily congratulated me.
My supporters for the next two sections were selected by dint of
being the sturdiest fellsmen whose telephone numbers I possess, and they each
proved to be hewn from rock. It was heartening
to greet the benevolent fresh faces of Mike ‘boy scout’ Ayres and John
Armitstead at Dunmail Raise. Similarly
the knowledge that I was a mere seven minutes behind schedule after eight hours
of running led me to take an additional couple of minutes of rest before the
next test. Once again Hugh excelled
himself providing a breakfast of porridge and bananas drizzled with honey and guzzled
down with a steaming brew. If you can
recall the Ready Brek TV advertisements of a long gone era where a lad walked
to school on a bleak winter’s morning surrounded by a glowing aura then you
have an accurate image of how I felt as I stepped up to the stile by the
roadside and recommenced the struggle.
The first two sections had been but a mere thirty-mile warm up with
thirteen thousand feet of climb through the hours of darkness. Now I was going to have to prove myself, for
real.
Steel Fell passed without fuss, but the night concealed the form of
Calf Crag making it indistinct from its near neighbours and costing a couple of
minutes in locating its cairn. The irony
of the muscle group of the same name seizing here was not lost on me, but
unappreciated. Once these foothills had
been dispensed with we began the dawn march up to the moorscape of the
Langdales. The loquacious Mike and more
reserved John made an ideally balanced partnership of contrasting yet in many
respects similar individuals. Both justifiably
proud fathers, dependable husbands, accomplished businessmen and hardy
athletes, I was protected by their presence as if their kid brother in a
playground full of towering bullies.
Their patience as my calf strain worsened and climbing legs weakened was
near saintly and their reward heavenly.
Emerging onto the outcrop of Sergeant Man the ambient light had
increased sufficiently to remove our head torches and behold the wondrous
dawn. If I remember nothing else of the
day, that moment will be seared in my memory until my final breath. The many hews of pink and orange were ultra
vivid as they reflected off the cotton wool carpet of cloud that enveloped the
entirety of southern Lakeland. Every
mere and dale was shrouded in anticipation of the sun’s resurrection.
This aesthetic anaesthetic worked a minor miracle on my calf,
which was bothersome but tolerable. The
amphitheatre of the fells at daybreak provided abundant distraction. It inspired an exchange of tales of our
passion for this landscape and reinforced why leg three is commonly regarded as
the best segment, despite its difficulty.
On the summit of Pike O’Stickle I came to appreciate John’s choice of
Blea Tarn as his favourite. The mirror
like stillness of its waters reflecting the serenity of its surroundings was
poetic. From this, perhaps my most
treasured mountainside, I had to turn and make a choice as Mike asked whether I
was willing to take the most direct route to Rossett Pike and subject my legs
to a steep climb, or contour round the Stake Pass and add maybe half a mile
onto the distance. Instinctively I
selected self-preservation and cut out a needless loss of altitude.
Bow Fell is a magical island separating the true wilderness of
Eskdale from the honeypot of Great Langdale.
Its situation as a vantage point from which to absorb the full majesty
of the National Park is almost unparalleled.
On our arrival I suspected that my companions, much like myself, would
have preferred to sit for an hour with a flask of tea and some cake. Not too long after there came a moment on the
flank of Great End when, in desperate need of respite, I sat on a rock and was
joined by John as we pondered the brilliance of the last vestiges of dawn.
The differing emotions evoked by great beauty and stifling pain
began to toy with my sanity, but I refused to let doubt enter the arena. Mental fortitude was vital and had to be
absolute. Another attempt had set off an
hour before mine, and it was with a sense of sorrow that over the course of the
Sca Fell massif I chased down my sole competitor, passing him on the final
descent and realising that he was unlikely to make the twenty-four hour cut
off. It was here that I made a deal with
myself – regardless of the time, I was returning to Keswick by my own efforts
and via every summit. Later Mike and
John would confess that they were in doubt of my ability and wondered whether
the long haul down to the valley floor might be my terminus.
Come Wasdale Head and I was ready for a shower, which along with
kissing my wife’s kind smiling face was a lure that had pulled me for dozens of
miles. Hugh instantly broke the rotten news
that there was insufficient water in the camper’s tanks. Instead I had the pleasure of being nursed by
my solicitous wife who bathed my scuffed salty skin, applied sunscreen and changed
quite foul socks. All this while I refuelled,
scoffing a tin of rice pudding and dunking a croissant in fresh coffee. Naïvely she enquired, “Where does it
hurt?” As tranquilly as possible I
responded “Everywhere!”.
That I was a total of thirty-one minutes down on schedule and had
been running for near fifteen hours by now seemed irrelevant compared with the formidable
task of hoisting my backside out of the camping chair and heading for the apex
of Yewbarrow while carrying an injury.
Joining me were two highly accomplished athletes, Andrew Robertshaw and
Brian Goodison, the latter being a fitness instructor qualified in sports
massage. Completely unsolicited and as
an unexpected surprise Brian pulled up a seat and set about a laying on of
hands that worked a miracle in releasing the tension from my seized left calf,
although not without a brutal measure of pain that I shudder now to recall.
It would be deceitful of me to say that I was relishing my next
steps. Nevertheless, trudging along the
lane I began to realise something profound, I was about to break its back. This was my third ever ascent of Yewbarrow
and even now I marvel at the fact that it was my most rapid. Brian’s encouragement had a beneficial impact
on my mindset, and equally as important was the constant presence of Andrew
with a liquid bottle. Whenever I paused
he thrust some solution of other into my hand and injuncted me to drink.
Believe it or not there was one peak that I had never visited
before I set off on the round, and Andrew guessed it instantly. Steeple.
It had hardly seemed worth it, for it is in truth nothing more than a
shoulder of Scoat Fell that acquires its name from its shape. Visiting it for the first time was a treat
and the vista over Ennerdale quite divine.
It felt an insult to have neglected such a proud cliff and to be but a
fleeting tourist on this occasion. Next
time I vow to take a picnic of strawberries and champagne, exactly as Brian
once witnessed a party enjoy at this location.
It was noon as we rocked up at Pillar, the soles of my feet were
sore from the volcanic terrain and my limbs weary from exertion and lack of
sleep, but here I understood why so many people report an improvement in pace
on the fourth leg. Sheer eagerness to
finish and cease the torment. Brian’s
line to the Black Sail Pass couldn’t be bettered – it was grassy, eliminated
all needless climbs and a runnable gradient.
Kirk Fell was perfunctory, but the ominous obstacle of Great Gable now
needed to be conquered.
Glorious Gable is a mountain beyond compare in the district; it is
in every particular exactly what one expects of a proper fell, and difficult. On a clear mosey round the tops of Mosedale
it lurks omniscient, spying on the challenger like the sinister acrobatic
ravens that fantasise of feasting on the eyeballs of the unfortunate. Master this mountain and one is allowed to
indulge in the conceit that it is all down hill to Keswick. It was on this summit that finally, with over
four hours remaining, I permitted myself to believe that it was all but in the
bag. At the renowned col of Windy Gap
Andrew parted company and headed down Aaron Slack to join his beloved at
Styhead Tarn. His contribution to my
nutrition and hydration in midday conditions had been invaluable, and as we
regarded one another his cheering gaze said all that it needed to – you’ll do
it.
In similar conditions two weeks before Brian and I had run the
final peaks of this leg, although then I had boasted the fresher legs. That day the Saunders Mountain Marathon had
been in full swing, today it was the 10 Peaks Challenge. As my mind drifted into the afternoon haze I
felt a deep sense of awe for all my predecessors and peers who see such
exploits as a lifestyle. I was reminded
of the scale of it all while staggering towards Grey Knott. A kindly hiker jokingly hollered out “Come
on, you’re not proper fell runners are you”.
When Brian filled her in that I had been on the go for nineteen hours her
jaw almost audibly hit the floor. Winding
down the grassy trod that awaits those who venture onto the left of the fence
line I reflected on the perfection of this day.
It had been everything that I had hoped for and indeed much more. From then onwards Lou Reed’s most famous of
songs formed a near constant emotional sound bed to the remaining journey, from
time to time causing me to suppress the odd joyful tear.
Honister was bustling with vigour as Brian and I jogged past
tables set out for the 10 Peaks Challenge and outside the mine buildings were
greeted by the warm faces of Sharron Smith and Renee Saxton (an adventure racer
who is soon due to tackle a five-day challenge that makes my achievement seem
pitiful). I was then surprised and
flattered to see my club mate Ben Cousen, who was supposed to have been racing
Snowden. Later I learned that he had doubted
his fitness for the event and so had at short notice opted to join me for a
grand day out. This was a single example
of the many touching kindnesses of my supporters; the cumulative effect served
to provide a constant lift. Another
illustration was the presence of Peter Kettleborough, who I had never run with
before but who had answered my call when requesting volunteers through Otley
AC. It has to be said that I had
handpicked the women because of their well-deserved reputation as positively
charged cheerful chatterboxes guaranteed to lighten the mood at a funeral
wake.
After my devouring of a bowl of soup and bread roll Brian once
more dug his digits into my troubled calf.
To have made it so far and without losing any time at all on leg four
was something that I largely attribute to his skills at Wasdale. The relief gained from his therapeutic touch came
at an agonising cost. I was grateful
nonetheless. The time had now come to
embark on the glory leg.
Why I became a runner is a curious tale. On rehousing my Weimaraner his breeder
instructed me that he needed at least two hours of exercise per day. Barristers tend not always to have that
amount of time at their disposal and so I hatched a simple plan, I would aim to
run the lad for an hour a day. That was
six years ago. Since then I estimate
that we have covered in excess of eight thousand miles and over a hundred
Wainwrights together. You might say that
we are attached. When I set off on my
round without him Hugh later reported that the poor beast was obviously
distressed. Inevitably he had been
tapering with me over the proceeding weeks and was in need of a cathartic release. Unfortunately, and following a couple of
episodes of him failing on epic fell training runs, I was forced to leave him
behind on the earlier sections. It was
therefore with delight that I called him along to join us up Dale Head, although
within a short distance into the climb it became difficult to ignore the embarrassing
fact that he was loose, and stank. “What
the hell have you been feeding him?” someone asked. Maybe the caterers at the Threlkeld Cricket
Club would have been in a better position to answer.
The cairn of Dale Head is one of the finest in Lakeland and was a
welcoming friend that indicated an assuring fact, there were no more serious
climbs remaining. The conversation
picked up along the ridge route between our last two mountain destinations and
each of us was enthralled by the scenic splendour. Peter and I took the opportunity to become
better acquainted; Ben was clearly enjoying being in the moment and the ladies
kept us in good spirits. With the loss
of altitude that came from leaving Robinson I struggled to contain my emotional
state. Each of these forty-two fells had
acted as protagonists in the unfolding drama, and for all the punishment that
they had meted out for my impudence, were going to be missed.
The serious business of returning to Keswick got underway at the
Newlands Church where I was cheered not only by my wife, but also Hugh, Ian and
in the layby after the bridge a small crowd of runners returning from an
outing. In preparation the tailgate of
the car was open with a blanket spread across the boot and my road shoes neatly
paired together on the ground. With
startling enthusiasm Hugh and my wife set about changing footwear, as though
every second mattered. Impressive though
it appeared, nothing could have affected my predicted time of arrival. “See you between half past five and a quarter
to six” I said, leaving my dog behind for the road section in exchange for
Hugh.
Six of us proudly sporting three club vests headed off for Keswick
on a magnificent summers afternoon. In
the hours before I had set off I had resolved to do one thing this day – enjoy
myself and focus on living in the moment.
As we collectively nattered along the winding shaded lanes of the
Newlands valley I listened attentively to the choruses of birdsong, meditated
to the babblings of the beck, took pleasure in the rare warmth of the rays on
my back and observed the shadows cast in our paths. On our approach to Portinscale I was
overjoyed to see John and Carol Armitstead link up with us on their bikes. Months earlier I had dreamed of this part of
the run and envisaged being accompanied by a team of club mates suffused in halos
of early evening light. That dream had become
a reality.
John prepared me for the hubbub of Keswick and after the footbridge
over the river Greta Renee was required to load me up with a quick sugar fix as
my legs slowed to a laboured walk. By
the end of the path where it meets the tarmac of the town I had found a final
impetus, weaving between pedestrians and motorists with a singularity of
purpose that may have seemed rude. Then
on hearing distant applause I carved a route through the market square and
pranced up the steps to touch the green door of the Moot Hall and bow my head
in relief at 17:35 hours.
In a triumph of optimism over reality I suggested adjourning to a
nearby beer garden where Mike and his wife, Sarah, soon joined us along with
friends. Assembled there were nine of my
supporters. I desperately wanted to ask each
of them about their different perspectives on it all, and thank them for the
generosity of their respective contributions.
It dismays me to say that I could hardly hold a conversation, let alone
hold court. Half way through my pint of
unpalatable bitter the fatigue set in and all knew that the curtains of slumber
were about to be drawn. With apologies
to everyone I left the table and made my way to the awaiting carriage with my
wife and Brian. There on the reclined
front passenger seat was a pillow and a lambswool blanket. Driving out of town I was heard to mutter
“I’m so pleased that I don’t have to run up or down anything else”, and with
those words was enveloped by an impenetrable fog of sleep.
Whilst I write this account Bradley Wiggins is riding to glory in
Paris, I am two days away from my 40th birthday, my six-year-old daughter
is about to migrate back to God’s Own County from Welwyn Garden City and our
nation is proudly poised to host what will be the greatest celebration of sport
in our planet’s history. I have no faith
in celestial superstitions or godly tales; all I am qualified to say on such
subjects is that if our joy lies truly in the stars then mine have of late been
aligned with pin point precision.
