Hardmoors 200, 2019

Hardmoors 200
May 2019

This was going to be a mountain to climb. A true challenge of determination and resilience. A daunting task not for the faint hearted.  The 13 Sisters stood before me, each new one towering above the last and from my viewpoint on the floor they somehow looked malevolent. Like they knew.  At seven inches tall each they may only have represented two hundredths of a percent of what I’d already climbed since the race started, but the final steps upstairs to bed could be the death of me.  How the hell did I get in this state? Let’s rewind.

Jon Steele (who doesn’t let the fact that he is neither the looks nor the brains of the Hardmoors Race Series Race Director team stop him) is a man who worries.  He worries that people aren’t getting their money’s worth out of races. He worries that they may lack motivation sometimes as they approach a checkpoint and need words of encouragement. He worries that people may latch on to some of the many synonyms for “mandatory” such as optional, occasional, weather dependant, or “if you can be arsed to carry it”. He resolves the former of these by regularly and at no additional expense, adding in bonus miles, hills, gates, lakes, dragons, and mud into his races so everyone goes home happy.  But even with the addition of geography, geology and mythology he felt something was missing. A proper hard race that even Shelli Gordon would think twice about taking on. The Hardmoors 200 was born, and it was a Thing of Evil, that had it's mother traumatised, the midwife screaming, and the father blaming the postman.


Starting in Hull (traumatic enough to begin with) it dances up the estuary to the Humber Bridge where it joins the Yorkshire Wolds Way all the way to meet the coast at Filey where it moves to the Cleveland Way anticlockwise round and over the Yorkshire Moors to Helmsley with just the cherry and sprinkles of an out and back up Roseberry Topping and down Sutton Bank to the White Horse to make the total a magnificent 200 miles.  A most excellent way to spend a week or two soaking up the scenery and enjoying the hospitality of pubs and B&Bs along the way. What, 60 hours, you’re kidding right??!

When Jon first released it into the wild in 2017 I really didn’t think I had it in me.  I’d completed the Hardmoors 160 in 2015 and although this was “only” 40 miles extra the average pace stayed the same, and whereas the Tabular Hills (part of the 160) is practically flat and easily runnable, the Yorkshire Wolds Way has twice the climb and is surprisingly intricate in places. The Hardmoors 200 website proudly offers Robert H. Schuller’s quote "I'd rather attempt to do something great and fail than to attempt to do nothing and succeed."  which is all well and good, but I was wrestling with where my personal line between impossible and improbable was. I had doubt.

Thankfully my blushes were spared as Harriet’s (Mrs S) amazing metamophosis into a hardcore endurance runner now had her setting her sights on the Hardmoors 110 and a Grand Slam, which ran at the same time as the inaugural Hardmoors 200.  Harriet has supported (generally in good humour) the many ups and downs of my ultra life and so supporting her latest challenge was not only right and proper, it was my pleasure. So I was crewing for her (ultimately successful) 110 attempt and so my diary was sadly filled when the 200 ran. “The 200? Me? Oh of course I would have but Harriet’s running the 110 so I can’t sadly”. Yeah right - who are you trying to kid Shields? I was only fooling myself and was doing a rubbish job of that. Later that year I managed a successful (if not pretty) finish of the Cockbain Events Lon Las Ultra, 250 miles, 88 hours.  A monster challenge in itself and with only a handful of finishers, but it was at a lower pace overall to allow for at least a little sleep, and more suited to my style and preference. I now had less doubt.

Other runners often say to me “Oooh, I don’t know if I could run that distance” to which I inevitably answer that they should just sign up and try because what's the worst that could happen.  DNF’s are emotionally tough, but they are rarely permanent or terminal.  I needed to follow my own advice, so I signed up, and the die was cast. I also signed up for the Hardwolds 80, the ultra run persona of the Yorkshire Wolds Way in November as a convenient all-in-one reccie of that part of the course.  I could run the Cleveland Way with my eyes closed but I’d never stepped foot on the YWW and the race timings were such that getting lost on it at any stage was not an option.  My confidence was again rocked by not only a spectacularly bad Hardwolds delivering my slowest time ever for 80 miles, but I then rocked up at the Spine in January only to retire seemingly 10 minutes later with sickness and fever. Pah. Hello again doubt.

My training regime is, by many people’s standards, eclectic, and is a constant source of bemusement to my physio who marvels at my complete lack of plan or structure. I impulsively and counterintuitively dropped long runs in favour of a mixed bag of treadmill incline pace work with and without pack, short hill reps with and without pack, and sprint intervals.  My theory was that with limited time to focus on training, my overall adaptation to the drudgery of the long run was pretty embedded, whereas I would get real benefit from being able to efficiently run slowly which needed a good cardio base and good strength and posture. I find weighted pack work helps in all of this and gives you that lighter than air feel when running without it!  As the day drew closer I was reasonably happy I was in a satisfactory place, and even on hot days I seem to be able to maintain a slow paced trot with good posture, low heart rate, slow deep breathing through the nose, and no sweating. Other than a twinge in my calf I helpfully picked up running down a local hill on my final run before stand-down I was in a good place.

So at 8am on Friday 24th myself and 25 other similarly deluded individuals grouped up to listen to Jon’s briefing.  Looking around the faces there was the usual mix of relaxed through to obviously terrified and I lurked in the middle of this spectrum just anxious now go get over the start line and get on with it. I still could not get my head around a 200 mile race and so it was broken down into leg 1 “run to the cottage pie”, leg 2 “to the coast”, leg 3 “to the other end of the coast”, leg 4 “survive the second night” and leg 5 “finish”. Rocket science it was not and had John Kynaston not been otherwise engaged slaying dragons in Wales he would have been deeply troubled by my lack of mini-splits for each 100 yards of the race!  There was not a big overlap in the field from the 2017 edition of the race (a fact I probably should have worried about) but of the two female starters, Sarah and Lynsey, both were returning for another attempt, Jerry McCulla clearly back to defend and maybe better his 2017 winning time (or just for the laughs), and Stephen Davies who finished but had a bit of a shocker in 2017 back to exorcise a demon. Gavin Drummond and David Barker made up the rest of the returning group, both 2017 finishers, back for more.  Other than those brave souls all were new to this.

I had no aspirations for the race beyond a finish. My Kynastonian Goals were simple, Finish (smiley face), Finish (straight face), Finish (sad face).  In truth I’d settle for any so long as I got to Helmsley in 60 hours.  I carried with me, as I always do, my little laminated card of drop-dead (unfortunate naming) timings. This wasn’t my plan, but represented the absolute minimum required of each leg to still cross the line with a few seconds to spare. In most races a casual glance at this half way through shows me I’m comfortable and I get on and progress at the best pace I can. In the race that little piece of laminated paper was to become my bestest friend - providing me with hour by hour dynamic assessments and re-assessments of my progress, and the chance of bringing it in.

Just after 8am and with an emotional start, we were off along the estuary “path”.  The sky was blue, and there was a wonderful cool breeze so the running was easy.  My sense of relief at finally being underway was palpable.  The path zig zags randomly about between dockland buildings of varying ages from shiny and new (UK City of Culture 2017 don’t you know?!?) to old and dilapidated as it leaves docklands and heads west up the estuary. I had a very strict rule for myself about this first few miles - max speed 5.5mph. With this in mind (and at 6mph) I sat at the absolute back of the field chatting away in good company. Heart rate low, breathing relaxed, no sweating - check. After a particularly pleasant stretch running just the other side of the crash barrier to the A63, shouting over the noise of a hundred German camper vans rolling off the Hull ferries, I arrived at the first of many checkpoints at Hessle Foreshore. Sarah was straight through with military discipline with Andy (who wasn’t taking to the field until the following days 110 started) running with her for a few meters handing her food and drink - very efficient!  Early days as it was I stopped and enjoyed a couple of minutes with Harriet while I refueled and downed a cold drink. The camping fridge was installed in the van - and would prove to be worth its weight in gold over the 59 hours still to come.

After the checkpoint I ran for a few minutes with “the other Stephen Davies” (a race of 26 starters and two of them have the same name!) (and if you’re reading this I’m sorry to see it didn’t work out for you Stephen), before stopping to top up the Humber. The trail then turns away from the Humber and inland where it remains until Filey, many miles ahead, and as I entered the next village i could see no sign of Stephen. I soon caught up with another runner and asked him if he’d seen him, which he hadn’t, and I didn't see sight or sound of him until he passed me as I cat napped in the van at Wharram Percy.

As I progressed I confirmed a suspicion I’d had about why I bombed so spectacularly at the Hardwolds. The first half of the route seems to have a large number of never ending inclines, few ever really being a recognisable hill it is own right, but like an incline treadmill session they generate an increased workload almost imperceptibly. In the Hardwolds race I’d plodded on regardless and I suspect over exertion had silently sabotaged me. This time I was aware of her sneaky ways and was quite happy to stop and walk a short while to keep my dial welded in the green zone. This was too long a race for any over exertion at this stage. Heart rate low, breathing relaxed, no sweating - check.

It was heating up as the day progressed. The gently chilled wind was a life saver but as soon as you hit a sheltered stretch the heat and humidity was surprisingly strong.  I’d proudly remembered sun tan lotion, but then like a muppet forgot insect repellent so at some stages I was the Lord of the Flies with a permanent swarm chasing me along some of the sheltered lanes. I ran on and off with other runners, but the scenery was good, the views on occasion were far, my head was clear and I was enjoying the solitude, and the simplicity of putting one leg in front of the other.

The next Hardmoors cp was just outside Brantingham, some 17 miles in and I tootled in just after 11am equating to a 5.2mph average so far. All was comfortable. I was a happy bunny. The marshalls were their usual brilliant and helpful selves, even assisting as I attempted to “re-Huel” by mixing up a 400cal portion of the powdered food supplement Huel in a stiff breeze. Since being introduced to Huel on the Lon Las race by all round running guru Ronnie Staton, I’d been experimenting with its use in anger as a method of quickly getting balanced, liquid calories down me.  It took about a minute to half fill my flask, add the powder, mix vigorously using the electrified octopus method, top up with water, neck the contents, rinse, and done. This shenanigans completed, and water bottles topped up, I was on my way. I was still just a couple of runners off the back of the field and was pleased to realise that this mattered not one iota to me. Underwrite the finish crossed my mind, even at this early stage. Leaving the cp I passed Sarah who was just leaving her campervan and we ran together for a short while before drifting apart once more, a pattern to be repeated for many many miles to come.

“I don’t know your politics but she’s gone”  shouted a random dog walker as I passed conveying a complex evolving political update in just eight words.  Duly up to speed with the outcome of the European Elections I continued on my way over a cheeky section of steep ups and downs, which then settled down into an endless straight section of good quality hedge lined track between fields.  The hedges cut the breeze and the temperature rocketed again. On several sections I cut back to a walk even on easy flat runnable sections just to keep things cool and steady. Heart rate low(ish), breathing relaxed(ish), no sweating(ish) - check.  Shortly before the cp at Arras Wold (26 miles, 5hrs 16, average 4.9mph) I saw Andy again on his way to meet Sarah, just a couple of hundred yards behind me, and he invited me to drop into their camper for refreshments. Sarah’s super crew, Phlis and Jo were brilliant on this and on the many occasions I met them over YWW leg of the race.  I filled water bottles, dosed myself with Huel again, and was back on the trail in 7 minutes.

Just a couple of miles later I noticed my environment did not appear to match either my position on the map, nor my recollection of the trail from the Hardwolds.  I took a grid ref from my gpx which showed me off trail, but I was sure I’d been following YWW signs. I asked a dog walker if I was on the YWW route and he helpully replied that it depended on where I was going.  Helmsley, I automatically but equally unhelpfully replied.  Usefully, Sarah chose this moment to arrive and saved the conversation getting any more surreal, by explaining to me that this was the actual YWW route that goes into Market Weighton, whereas my map was left over from the Hardwolds when the route bypassed Market Weighton. Ahh. Maybe I should have read the race details in advance, but where's the fun in that. More importantly than all this Sarah was now talking ice cream. Day 2 of the race, Saturday was Sarah’s 50th birthday and in the year run up she had been trying to cover as many flavours and dairies as possible. Market Weight had a suitable as yet untried gelato purveyor and Andy (superstar that he is) was transporting one trail side for her to try. Birthday Cake flavour no less!  She rang ahead and I was added to the order and seriously enjoyed a mint flavour ice cream cone. Tough work this ultra running.




Two of the VERY few pictures I’ve seen - no time at all for getting a phone out!


After the solitude and quiet of the day the noise of Market Weighton was surprisingly jarring and I was pleased to be back out into the fields. Roads and tracks, and a couple of remote beautiful villages were passed and I made a mental note to come back and do this trail again under more relaxed circumstances.  I hadn’t found it particularly motivating in Winter on the Hardwolds race but now I was really enjoying the scenery. At about 37 miles I broke from the YWW route and headed down into the village of Millington, the now resting place of Jon O’Connell, formerly of this parish. The cp was in the village hall (38 miles, 8hrs, average 4.8mph) and I was delighted to see Jo Barrett there. (Thanks Jo, and your co-marshall who I cannot for the life of me remember who it was, so sorry). Tea was provided, Huel consumed, toilet used, and Jo reminded me to soak my buff under cold water to help lose some heat. On my way out I bumped briefly into Jon O’Connell himself - good to see you after all this time Jon and sorry I had to dash off!

I was approaching the completion of phase 1 of the master plan - and I was chasing down the cottage pie.  Pre race, mid race, and post race food can always be a mystery and what works and tastes good one outing may not work the next. However Harriet’s cottage pie (and where this isn’t available an inferior pub made version) is pretty close to a perfect fit for me in all circumstances.  She had made one the size of a tennis court and it had provided my pre race banquet on Thursday evening. I would have had it for breakfast on Friday morning had she let me.  The plan for Fridaythorpe was that she would cook the second portion of the pie at home (she’d needed to put in some time at our nursery during the day Friday) and then rush the miracle cure to me on trail at Fridaythorpe now just 7 miles away. In the end I was ahead of schedule and given Friday bank holiday traffic I arrived at Fridaythorpe the same time she did, so I did a short stop and deferred the cottage pie until Wharram Percy. Adaptive planning that I hoped Mr Kynaston would approve of.

The day was stretching into evening, still warm, but pleasant now.  I ran through the little village of Thixendale and was struck by the silence. The birds had yet to kick off with their evening song and the village was far from any roads, and seemingly devoid of civilisation. With no runners ahead or behind in sight I was completely alone and enjoying the headspace. After a couple of cheeky hills and a long meander through Deep Dale I passed through the abandoned medieval village which in the winter race had been so wonderfully illuminated with fairy lights by Team Lauren.  The car park was still busy despite the fact I was pretty much at the back of the field still.  (54.5 miles in, 12h 13, 4.5mph average).  I was flagging and as I got into the van I felt my temperature rocket and my head spin.  I held things together but decided a reboot was required. So I turned myself off for 15 minutes and then back on and felt better for the cat nap.  I hacked into the cottage pie but it's sheer scale defeated me, but also stuffed myself with yogurts, grapes, strawberries and orange juice. I also soaked my feet in a bowl of hot water, dried them off and elevated them for half an hour while feeding myself, and the clean up, rest and sock change felt good.  All was well with the world again.  I had a whole hour scheduled here as my reward for leg 1 completion, but given my impromptu but necessary nap it was a full 75 minutes before I was back on the road.  Our plan was for Hari to get some proper sleep Friday night so she’d be fresh for Saturday and Saturday night duty when I’d be seriously flagging, so she headed off and our plan was to rendezvous again around Scarborough for a breakfast feast of bacon and egg sandwiches! With mixed emotions I turned my back on Hari attempting to force feed cottage pie to the remaining people in the car park, and Phase 2, run to the coast, was underway.

What the next 30 miles to Filey lacks in interest, it makes up for with 90 degree turns, the most significant of these being at Winteringham when you have to deal with the edge of your seat excitement as the trail turns from “mostly North”, to “mostly East”. As the darkness was now arriving I also had the excitement of not even being able to see beyond the field boundaries I was running.  Other than the “Race Supporters or Dogging” game as I passed various cars at road heads there was little to do. At once such road head, I know not where, I met up with Sarah again with her overnight running escort. Jon Steele had wisely allowed the two female runners to have, should they wish it, a support runner on the overnight stretch for safety purposes. Sad that it's necessary to do so, but prudent, especially in a small field of racers and when the tracking provides a live beacon showing the location of any solo female runners. I was glad of the company and we stuck together all the way to Filey. I was doubly blessed in that this also provided access to a cup of tea from Phlis and Jo at their support point at Flixton Wold - thanks again guys!  I would also like to especially thank the race marshalls at Wintringham and Flixton Wold who had long night shifts to cover but were cheery and helpful regardless of how far the field was spread out by this time.

The final few miles into Filey seem to take forever, especially as we needed to break off the YWW at one point actually travelling away from Filey on our approach route to the Sea Cadets. Sarah declared herself ready for sleep and disappeared into their support van, and I rounded the corner to the Sea Cadets hall. (87 miles, 21hrs 12, just over 4mph average). The cut off here was 8am, and it was 5:15am so I was comfortable and ahead of plan by just over an hour. After a cup of tea, filling water bottles and using the loo I was out the door 20 minutes later and enjoyed a nice run along the seafront, up and down the headland and out to Filey Brigg. Phase 2 was complete, Phase 3 “ run to the other end of the coast” was on and I had a hot date with a bacon sandwich (and my wife) (but mainly a bacon sandwich) to look forward to.

Hari text me to say she was parked up at Scalby Mills so I breezed quickly through the Scarborough checkpoint with a wave and a thank you to the marshalls but without stopping.  The weather looked set for another hot one so I was taking advantage of the early morning cool. It was around 8am so Scarborough was tolerable and it was lovely to run a short stretch on the beach before hitting the rock hard Promenade of Doom.  As I rounded the headland the wind was bitter and I even considered adding a layer, but then as soon as I got a little further around the wind was sheltered and it was stifling again. This was to be a theme for the day, cold wind, hot sun, and later on a spritzing light rain to properly add to the wind chill.  The 110 runners, now leaving Filey to chase me down, were going to have fun in this.

At about 99 miles, and at 24hrs 30 mins on the clock I climbed into the van at the Sea Life Centre car park, practically half way.  The bacon and egg sandwich was good and I added in a gf fruit bread with jam chaser, and a bowl of oatibix to the mix along with fruit. The oatibix were to be popular from there on as they were easy to eat slow burn carbs.  I had another 10 minute nap, but was still out the door in 50 minutes of my allotted treat hour in order to protect my hard fought cushion. Good job as that cushion was about to come under pressure.

Hari agreed to put in a short hop to Cloughton Wyke which was great as after the night leg, and a protracted rest stop I was struggling to motivate myself into action again and it was nice to know she wasn’t going to be far ahead before my next treat point.  I find the NY coast section a paradox, beautiful yes, but boy does it go on a bit, and some legs just seem set to try your legs and patience with steep stepped descents and ascents coming one after the other interrupting any rhythm. It’s ok, but it is not, as we often say in our house, my favourite. After a quick orange juice and yogurt stop at Cloughton Wyke (where Harriet kindly made me walk back up to the carpark to get to the car as she was gossiping) the next target was the Ravenscar cp and the cut off there which is 2pm.





Picture courtesy of the brilliant David Bradshaw of www.sportsunday.co.uk who was set up to capture the 110 runners as they set off on their journey.

I was now being overtaken by 110 runners who without fail gave me words of support and encouragement.  It was great to see the leaders fly through (how does Ross get away in public with those shorts?!) and the ladies race in particular looked like it was going to be hard fought. Just before Ravenscar Dave Hodgson passed me and slowed for a quick chat - he’d picked up another injury but was still high in the field - ultimately had to retire with the injury but still a legend!  Jon and Shirley were at Ravenscar as I arrived (108 miles, 28 hours, 3.9mph average now) and reassured me that I was still well clear of the cutoff and still up on my plan but now by 45 minutes having lost some on the many stairs I’d trudged up.  I was still fit and well but the calves were starting to complain a bit on any controlled steep downhill sections.  Yet another cup of tea from yet another helpful and friendly marshall, quick loo visit, and out the door again with a respectably 10 minute turnaround.

In race terms the next leg is a long 14 miles to Sandsend, but I had both Robin Hoods Bay and Harriet at Saltwick Caravan Park to break this up with treats.  I had my thoughts on an ice lolly at RHB and could think of little else. My reverie was interrupted by superstar Claire Baker, currently 4th Lady and looking happy and relaxed as though she was out for a short run after lunch. With the top three ladies not too far ahead but fighting it out she was wisely sitting back, enjoying herself and seeing what happened - a strategy that earned her third lady place at the finish - really pleased for you Claire! I picked up a cold drink and ice lolly in RHB then pushed on along the endless coastline.  It was starting to drag. I’m not a fan but knew that like the coming second night, getting to the end of the coast stretch and turning inland was a significant milestone. I comforted myself by reminding any 110 runner passing that I was past halfway and they were not.  

At Saltwick I made another quick(ish) stop, same food, same routine, then out to brave the bank holiday crowds around the Whitby Abbey and town.  For once I was pleased to hit the stretch of pavement between golf course and main road to Sandsend as although it was noisy as ever, at least I could move in a straight line with “excuse me” and “passing left” as it had been through town. I wasn’t the strangest looking thing in town though, nor the worst smelling!

Legend Ronnie Staton was the surprise addition to the Sandsend Car Park cp (122 miles, 32 hours, 3.8mph average) as he was crewing for Lorrel his sister in the 110. He was, as always, a beacon of positivity and gave me some encouraging words of support that I was increasingly in need of. Sandsend Ness was still and humid and it was here that I first felt the spitting of the rain to come. After the tough climb up to the headland (more steps!) as soon as I reached the exposed cliff path it was wet and windy with the rain coming in bursts with sun in between.  It was a curious combination of hot and humid, then cold and windy with a massive temperature swing between.  At my increasingly reduced pace this was just a minor inconvenience but the for the 110 runners, pushing the pace, it would make for tricky layering choices to avoid overheating, or getting too cold. 

Looking down the cliff to the see I could see the tide was high and inbound - I’d not thought at all about the timing of the Runswick Bay stretch which is tide specific and faced with a road detour I kicked up a gear and zoomed to the start of the steps down where a marshall was already taking station, presumably to redirect later runners around. With moaning calves the steps were painful but I made steady speed and soon a group of us bunched together. I amused myself by realising that “steps are a great leveller” a phrase that isn’t funny at all now but had me giggling to myself all along the beach. Funny what tiredness does to you!

There’s no cut off at Runswick but my plan said 19:00 and I finally got there at 17:35 an hour and a half up as a result of pushing hard in case the tide was imminent. (127 miles, 33hrs 35, holding 3.8mph) Despite being ahead of plan Harriet had clearly had sufficient time to raise the suspension on our van because getting into it and out of it was much harder than it had been and that was the only possible explanation.  I’d only scheduled a 10 minute stop here but needed to regroup a bit and it was 25 minutes later that I got myself stiffly moving again. I had just 12 miles now to complete phase 3 at Saltburn, enough, but also a small enough number to start to allow yourself to consider it “nearly there”.  The next leg is hard and slow though and Hari offered to brave Skinningrove to give me a mid point break. There was also the cut off at Saltburn to consider, 23:00, not a problem surely. In and out of Staithes with it's tough climb out, then the Boulby mine, with it's tough climb out, it was a slow 8 miles to Skinningrove and the short leg took me 2 and a half hours, still plenty comfortable on the Saltburn cut off, but Harriet was keen I protected my bit of cushion on plan and ejected me out of the van quickly. After the slow plod through the sandy stretch and the stiff climb back to the headland the last 4 miles to Saltburn were easy going and had a long runnable hill which I gobbled up. I’d asked Hari if she could find some fish and chips at Saltburn and was already looking forward to them.

I checked in with the Saltburn marshalls at 21:45, an hour and a quarter to the good on the cut off but now only 45 minutes up on my plan. Don’t panic - the coast section was now done (thank goodness) and there was good easy familiar trail ahead.  Being a coastal tourist town fish and chips had proved a challenge. Hari had located a shop but the woman behind the counter declared herself closed while she was queuing, presumably because there had been unexpected crowds on this bank holiday weekend. An alternative pizza was located however and a slice of that was welcome.  I needed to sleep. But I needed to move. 40 minutes after my arrival Harriet unceremoniously dumped me out of the van and locked the doors to stop me getting back in.  I wailed for a bit outside the van window like a lost cat but she drove off to the Fox and Hounds.  I’d arrived at dusk but now it was undeniably headtorch o’clock. Phase 4 - “survive the second night” was kicking off. 

I made my way through the wooded gardens, my head torch not penetrating far into the gloom ahead. Despite the road nearby it was remarkably silent.  I caught an occasional glance of a head torch behind me, but lurking as I was at the back of the field I wasn’t expecting (or wanting) much company.  My reward for making it to Saltburn was my music and I cranked up the volume and sang badly into the night.  At the houses at Skelton I was greeted by a man, smoking, and holding a large balloon. On closer inspection it was a tree but it was my first reminder that night 2 carries with it the fun and games of hallucinations.  I tend to mix auditory and visual hallucinations for that fuller bad trip experience. 

The farm track up and past Airy Hill farm felt as long as it usually does, but the stretch from Saltburn to Fox & Hounds is only 5 miles so uphill or not it wasn't going to be too painful.  I rendezvoused with Harriet again for our last stop before the long leg to and from Roseberry, and thankfully she let me back in the van once I’d woken her up. It was just after midnight now and what I imagine was a busy stopping point a few hours earlier was now down to the last couple of support vehicles.  I had that very much at the back of the field feeling again.  I’d done the last short stretch in an hour and a half which equate to a worrying 3.3mph. While I’d not run any of it with the steady uphill climb, I thought and felt like I’d been going 15-20% faster than that. I started some more mental arithmetic for the next leg and checked my drop dead timings once again. It was 12:45 now, between my tired state and Harriets, just woken up state we had two monkeys and no organ grinder and I’d faffed for too long in the van. Kildale cut off was 5am, and it was about 10 miles away. Just over 4 hours to do 10 miles with Roseberry out and back on route. Hmmm.  I’m generally speaking a middle of the field sort of guy, and this cut-off chasing routine was new mental terrain for me.

Music blasting I pushed on through Guisborough woods to first meet Santa (not a hallucination this time) in the form of Peter Kidd. We exchanged some words of encouragement but I was worried about timings and needed to focus. Music on, head down, poles deployed.  Shortly after another 200 competitor came into head torch view weaving around from side to side of the trail on an exposed windy section of woods.  He explained to me that he was looking for somewhere to sleep, which I explained to him as the windchill was bitter and he was on an exposed slope was not the greatest of plans. I told him to lock onto my heels and keep with me, which he did almost to High Cliff Nab before him and Peter mysteriously disappeared completely from view. I debated going back, but it was getting into race threatening territory if I did and so took the call to continue. Peter at least I know to be ok. The other guy may still be up there.

At Roseberry I got the double lift of not only a friendly face in the form of Chai Charge’s Tim Taylor, bravely facing up to the elements at the summit to see the last few runners through, but also Dave Baxter who was to be my support runner, pacer, and care in the community volunteer until Lord Stones.  I hated Dave and loved him in equal measure.  “Let's run to that rock”, “Let's run to that gate”, “Let's run until you collapse in a heap”. He pushed my pace and saved my race. No question. Thanks Dave.

At 4:15am (154 miles, just over 44 hours in) I poked my head around the door of the Kildale cp to be warmly greeted. There were still runners in and a few sleeping some of whom may have DNF’d some just catching a few vital minutes before Bloworth.  On the last half mile into the cp my head had gone and I’d lost the ability for sensible thought, so once in the van parked up beyond the magic line of the Kildale village limits, Hari told me that I needed to get 15 minutes sleep. While I slept I dreamt wonderful dreams of a magical Andy Norman popping in to say hi before dancing off up the road on remarkably fresh looking legs. A dream surely.

Rebooted(ish), refueled(ish) and back in the care of Dave, at 4:45am I headed out the door once more, no longer in need of my head torch, but definitely in need of my waterproof. Six miles away Bloworth Crossing was preparing to be all Bloworthy as only Bloworth Crossing can be. “Let's run to that gate”. Urgh.

Despite us almost blowing away and getting drenched Dave steered us at a good pace to Clay Bank and back to the van.  We’d covered the 9 miles from Kildale to Clay bank in 2.5 hours - no Strava records were harmed - but it was a solid 3.6mph, a better than plan level. More importantly it kept me in the game and put a few more minutes in the piggy bank. There was no cut off at Clay Bank, but I was 15 minutes better than my personal drop dead plan. Here too I found our friends Jayne (110 runner) and Kate (Jayne’s carer). It was wonderful to see them but under poor circumstances as Jayne had succumbed to sickness and had fought her way to Clay Bank but had no more in her. Another time Jayne I’m sure.

Dave was staying with me over the Sisters for safety, and I was glad of his company, not just pushing the pace but also as the rain was making the slabs and rocks slippery and my feet were no longer following the instructions I was sending them.  My vision was also starting to deteriorate and my tired brain was now unable to reconcile the images from both my eyes together, resulting in permanent disorientating double vision. Just what you need on the Sisters. We pushed on up and down for at least a dozen different new Sisters that were never there on previous visits. Some mean individual (I suspect Jon Steele) had also added height to the existing ones. After 50 miles of climbing and three lifetimes we approached Lord Stones. “Run to that gate?” said Dave a final time.

As requested I’d timed our Sisters traverse precisely to allow Dave to get breakfast at the opening time of the Lord Stones Cafe so we said our goodbyes and I continued, unsupervised, on towards Osmotherley, the Square Corner, and the 1pm cut-off. It was 9:15am, I had 9 miles to the checkpoint, and just under 4 hours to do it.  At 2.4mph average needed that felt a little healthier, mainly as a result of Dave’s pacing, and I felt things were still looking ok, unless the mental or physical wheels fell off.

I got some solid running in (and by that I mean a sort of crippled shuffle barely hitting 5mph, but better than nothing and with nearly 170 miles in my legs, I was glad to be vertical) on the long descent down from the trig. On the steep slippery bit just before Scugdale I felt my left little toe unhelpfully explode. I squealed (in a manly manner) and hopped along a bit unable to put my foot down in pain. I’d a blister on each little toe and first thought was one of these had ruptured. But this was different and the pain took a few minutes to subside before I could move properly again. (I now know this to be the moment my little toe nail decided it wanted no more of this nonsense and detached itself from the mothership). At Scugdale Hari was there again to check on me, advised me I had no time for pain, and that I should man up.  I sobbed a little inside but she was right and doing the support crew thing perfectly. I manned up.

As I hit Arncliffe Wood the inevitable wheels coming off occurred. My double vision had now forced me to assume the persona of Pirate Karl, with my buff over one of my eyes. This combined with the heat in the still woods, and the hallucinations started. I could hear singing around me (yes I had taken my headphones off!) and even though I was still present of mind enough to know it was an hallucination it's disorientating.  I briefly caught up to a small group of runners hoping to lock on their heels for pace, but then the ground started to wobble and try to eat me and I fell quickly back. I was off my head now and struggling badly. The ground beneath my feet was oscillating up and down like it was a tarpaulin floating on the surface of a stormy sea. Every now and then it formed into a mouth gaping open and reaching forwards for me. It was wholly unpleasant, and I was forced to stop and regroup. After a few minutes talking myself out of the rabbit hole I managed to resume slow progress out of the woods and down the road to the village. The shop was inviting but I was now really worried about making the cut off. So was Hari who had been tracking my deteriorating pace and had come out from the cp to meet me. I followed her heels to the checkpoint, and the safety of the van, arriving at 12:35, just 25 minutes safe of the cut.

Harriet did an amazing job of rebuilding me in a short period of time. The next leg is unavoidably long and she needed to be sure I was safe to be let out. There were still a few runners either leaving or just arriving at the cut off time but I would be mostly alone on the stretch. At 1pm I fell out of the van with just the White Horse cut off in mind - 13 miles, 4 hours to do it in. It was a good fast leg, but 3.25 mph was still a stiff average on the back of 170 miles done.

Everything hurt. The climb up Black Hambleton, the rocky track off Black Hambleton, even the grassy tracks beyond seem to have hidden ankle twisting boulders in them.  I settled in to my music again (technology generated this time not sleep deprivation generated) and tried to keep a brisk rhythm going. Jonathan caught me up, another 200 runner, and we exchanged a completely meaningless few sentences that no doubt made sense to us, but to any sentient onlooker would have sounded like whale song. He was struggling with sleep dep as well and fell in on my heels in solidarity.  At High Paradise his support runner arrived to assist and they pushed on ahead.  The mix of wind, sun, and rain continued but slowly the miles towards the flip flop zone (or ugg boot zone in Winter) around the visitors centre were ground down.  I’d kept my eye on pace and while it was tight it was still looking ok. Harriet had parked up at the White Horse car park and then walked out to meet me armed with an industrial sized bottle of full sugar Lilt, a totally tropical taste apparently.  The sugar helped and I kept the pace until the drop off Sutton Bank down into the woods where I struggled with calves and feet misbehaving.  Hari went ahead to prepare food, and I was alone in the woods again, and again struggled. I think it's trees in particular where there is so much potential for a tired brain to make stuff up. The wind whispers through the trees and this becomes singing or laughter or talking. The daylight casts shadows which combine with the trees to become creatures or buildings or even people. It's disorientating; it hits you quick, and makes you slow.  I finally rolled into the FINAL checkpoint at 16:46, against a 17:00 cut off - I’ve never been so close to being cut from a race ever, and certainly not with so much work already done.

One final leg, one final cut off, and the only one that really mattered.

We were both worried about the last leg timing and for once I needed none of Harriet’s encouragement out of the door. I’d thought the last leg would be straightforward but it wasn't so assuming this to be so, with it's required pace being the same, 3.3mph, would be unwise. I started up the steps back to the clifftop to start the last 10 miles to Helmsley.

I was moving well, but on inspection I wasn’t moving fast. I had both gps watches on the go, once clocking my current speed, the other on distance and average.  One of them had the route on and used that and my average and current speeds to calculate an arrival time.  20:10 it unhelpfully advised me, but I put that down to the slow climb up the steps and I knew there to be mostly fast trail and some tarmac ahead. Through Cold Kirby, where I saw Harriet one last time, a quick kiss for luck, and some food handed on the fly and I was away. I kept pushing as hard as my legs would have it. Reduced to 10 seconds of running for 30 seconds of walking I took whatever mini injections of pace I could wring out of me. I was seriously flagging and was feeling every micro pebble on the baked hard farm tracks. I was relieved to get off fields and onto the Rievaulx estate where there was grass to run on. Past the fish ponds and on to tarmac, for once a welcome relief as they were stone free underfoot. I looked at my eta again, 20:08, oooohh ffs, I forced myself to a run and managed to keep some momentum on the shallow downhill. I could see other runners ahead and wanted to try to catch them if I could if nothing else but to take my mind off the pain.  I tried to force my banana shaped posture back into something like straight - hips forward, light frequent foot strike. It seemed to help and it felt easier.  

I caught up with the runners ahead, Jonathan and his buddy runner as it turned out, exchanged a few words of encouragement and pushed on towards another pair I could see in the distance.  A short and completely unwelcome interlude as part of a puppy rescue off the road and I got back into a good fast walking rhythm. The telemetry was now more kind giving me an eta inside the 8pm cut! I knew the trail into Helsley inside out and ticked off the last few hurdles, come off tarmac, steep hill up through the woods (passing the two 110 runners as I went), open fields stretch, past the little house, down and up a little gully with steep steps, then Helmsley at last in sight. I broke into another run, desperate to end this, still fearing that even now it could be snatched away from me. I couldn’t even imagine being timed out at the finish. I kept the run going until the edge of the town when the track went rocky and my feet were having none of it.  

Back on tarmac I pushed again, greeted by Mark Dalton who directed me towards the rugby club. The last stretch of road, uphill again, and there was Harriet and other supporters. I welled up with tears. Nearly 60 hours of exertion and stress and discipline and more latterly pain caught up with me. It was done. I entered the hall and felt my legs buckle. Strong arms guided me to a chair. People clapped. People were kind. I could stop running.




So sitting here, beer in hand Friday evening after, and thinking back to where I was this time last week (Fridaythorpe I think) I still don’t know what to make of it. It was always going to be hard and it delivered, putting me through the wringer especially as it got tighter and tighter towards the end. But that made the finish so much sweeter. The “what could have been” is awful and I feel for the DNF’ers I really do - I’ve been there. Compared to the Hardmoors 160 I executed it so much better, but it was still much harder. I was aided in that execution firstly by a hugely supportive race environment, from Jon and Shirley to each and every  marshall and supporter out there.  I’ve had various bad experiences with people on other races but this was a supportive bubble of joy from the first step to the last. Thank you everyone, friends, acquaintances, marshalls, other crews, passers by and all for your support.

Thank you also Dave Baxter, who made a night of it running out from Lord Stones all the way to Roseberry only to turnaround and escort my sorry ass back again. Without your company, your cajoling, and your heels to follow I’d have fallen too far back to bring it home at the end. You played a big part in saving my race.

And finally Harriet, my support in every sense of the word. You were there when I needed you, you made the difficult decisions for me when my brain stopped, and gave me that tough love that a support crew must. I’ve been there. I know how hard it is to turn a loved one out into the night when all they clearly want and need is to stop and sleep.  I couldn't have done this race, or any of “this” in general, without you. X

K














Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Montane Lapland Arctic Ultra 2023 - PART 1/2

Montane Lapland Arctic Ultra 2023 - PART 2/2

Lon Las Ultra Revisited 2019..... Lon Last?