You’ll remember a few weeks ago when we had our three person relay team – taking the middle leg over that weekend was Matthew Scott… Now the dust has settled, Matthew has written a first-hand account of his day to share with you.

After being bounced by DVRC pals into doing my first ultra – the weird and wonderful Jedburgh Three Peaks – I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d be bounced into my second. This time, it was the allure of the Pennine Journey. Having concluded a little earlier that the 52mi option was probably a little too soon for my little legs, the open call to be part of the DVRC relay team was too hard to resist. 40mi from Greenhead to Dufton, over challenging but not awful terrain, seemed a good next step in my quest to run 50mi before the end of 2023.

And so it came to pass that I found myself sitting in Greenhead Village Hall at 2.30am on the night/morning of the race, trying to resist eating all of the sweets that the checkpoint volunteers encouraged me to ‘help yourself to’. I was joined shortly afterwards by our Arch Enemies for the day, the actually-very-canny relay team from Swaledale Runners. We had a bit of a chat, and soon realised that our respective first leggers – going through the night from Blanchland to Greenhead – were running together. I also soon realised they had taken a somewhat relaxed approach to recce’ing the course, and it therefore seemed natural that my fellow second legger and I should set off together. I’d recced most of the route, and therefore had only a mildly bad, as opposed to wildly inaccurate, idea of where I was going. Soon enough, our club captain John Kirby and his Swaledale companion arrived, and we were putting on our headtorches and heading out the door. We departed together, although I clocked immediately the ease with which my fellow second legger seemed to be moving (more on that soon).

We plodged across Blenkinsopp Common, which had been absolutely atrocious on my recce, but which had dried up (a bit) and was also covered in a touch of frost. As a result, it was only my feet and ankles that were drenched after a couple of hundred yards. My knees followed shortly afterwards as we failed to navigate effectively round what turned out to be a pond, and from then on it was wet legs all the way home. But we made good progress, chatting as we went and helping each other find the least bad lines and the stiles that marked the way through the dark. Soon we were off the common and moving towards the sunrise through a couple of farms and some fields, catching up with the doomed-to-retire yet hugely admirable early leader of the 112mi race. It was at this point that – as I suspected – my compatriot made his move, easing away like a Dalek going up a staircase as I struggled up a little incline to the road into Lambley. Fortunately for me he then made a wrong turn, continuing up the Pennine Way instead of turning left, so we were back together as we came past Lambley viaduct and onto the mercifully firm gravel of the South Tyne Trail.

Here we (or more accurately I) contemplated exchanging a Chia Charge bar for some eggs that were advertised on an honesty box basis at the side of the track, wondering if someone could do me poached eggs on toast at the next checkpoint. I was eggless though as we came into Slaggyford checkpoint, ably managed by the Ramsden clan of DVRC. We joked that the medics parked outside would soon be rescuing us from somewhere further south and headed back out onto the trail, which soon gave way to a nice narrow path along the river and some more fields. Soon, my compatriot made his second move, and this one stuck. In fact, he got away so quickly that my attempts to shout good luck to him didn’t seem to be heard in the wind, and I settled in for what I knew would likely be a solitary few miles west up to over Alston, before the descent back down into the start of the 52mi race at 8am. Later I learned that he’s a proper, proper runner, which is fitting, considering he was also a proper, proper inspirational companion for the 15mi or so we were together. Thanks Steve, if you’re reading this, for the company and the shared miles, and I’m pleased you weren’t too quick for me to see you at Dufton once we were done.

Departing Alston onto the bit of the course I knew best was welcome, but it’s also where my legs started to complain a bit. On reflection, we’d been going a little bit too fast for my ‘ultra pace’ over some pretty rough ground, and as a result, the complaints started early. I really like this part of the world though, and it’s only 4mi or so between Alston and Garrigill, so I was able to zone out a bit and enjoy the steadily improving weather. On arriving in Garrigill, I got into the checkpoint just as the tail end of the 52mi runners were leaving, giving me people to chase up and over the long climb to the shoulder of Cross Fell. In the checkpoint, I ate sausage rolls, swiss roll, biscuits, and a couple of snide Milky Way bars before filling up my water bottles and getting ready to head out again. Joining me there was our club captain, fresh from his first leg after a nap in his car, and who would incredibly spend the next 15 hours following his teammates from checkpoint to checkpoint to make sure we were alright.

On leaving the checkpoint, I used the sum total of eight years of university education in a geography department to declare to myself “it’s f*****g hot.” Flaming hot indeed. The sun had risen and you’d have been forgiven for thinking it was the height of summer – in Greece. I abandoned a warm layer with our club captain, searched in vain for some suncream, and ended up putting my hat on to try and minimise the coming burn. Luckily, the climb up Cross Fell in the clear morning was so beautiful all thoughts of sunburn were erased from my mind. Jokes aside, this is why I love doing this, the moments where a landscape unfolds in front of you and you are just overcome with awe that such a landscape can even exist. It severs you from the worries and stress of day-to-day life, and makes you realise (or remember) just how moving being in the world actually is. Weeks later, I still find myself daydreaming about those long, slow miles up to Cross Fell, longing to re-experience the childlike wonder I felt going up.

Anyway, that’s enough of that. My legs were struggling now, and the rough undulation of the early climb prevented me from getting into any kind of rhythm. I was worried – briefly – that I might be tanking too early, but the combination of the incredible views and the sugar I’d thrown down my neck at Garrigill soon started to help. As I approached the top of the climb I felt, dare I say it, good, and started moving through the backmarkers of the 52mi race. At almost 800m up, right on top of the shoulder of Cross Fell, I thought to myself give me five of these over one of the Cheviot any day, and as we dipped over the crest the bumps of the Lake District loomed on the horizon, with the Eden Valley revealing itself below. Doing better than expected and still taken by the surroundings, I started down the other side of Cross Fell feeling like Finlay Wild, but Garmin reliably informs me that I didn’t come anywhere close to the sub nine-minute mile I’d achieved somewhere on the South Tyne Trail. And I paid for it. At the bottom, my knees – in complete shock at what I’d just forced them to absorb – joined a union and noisily picketed me for the rest of the day. 

The remaining 8mi or so was a bit of a slog, moving at what felt like an okay pace but unable to sustain it for long before my knees balloted my muscles for wider industrial inaction. Not even consuming what I refer to as the ‘big lad’ – a 40p 500kcal flapjack from B&M Bargains – helped much.  Happily, there were enough little inclines and so many places to get the nav wrong that I was stopping plenty, and I continued to rumble through some of the 52mi backmarkers, exclaiming ‘we are simultaneously 2^nd and last in the relay’ to forced laughs and bemused stares as I went. I pushed as much as I could though, and soon I was heading into Dufton and – just as soon – heading out of Dufton, following the GPX on my watch and having failed to realise where I was. My tour of Dufton complete, I arrived at the checkpoint and finish line for leg two, where Francesca Best took over the baton and headed off towards High Cup Nick. I sat, a little sore, dazed, and happy, as more 52mi runners came into the checkpoint. I’d finished in just under eight and a half hours, well inside my initial stretch target of nine hours. The endlessly caring Kirsty Robson ensured I had a cuppa and some biscuits, and a little later my dad appeared with a change of shoes, socks, and some foot cream, as well as my dog, upset that I’d left his eyeline for more than 15 seconds, as usual.

Fran brought us home with a brilliant third leg, and Claire Knox and Marc Runkee were soon finished in the 52mi race too, far too swift for me to have had any chance of catching up with them. As I started to cramp up as my dad drove me back to Greenhead to collect my car, I reflected back a bit. I joined DVRC in around April 2022, having never had the courage to join a running club before. I messaged the page and immediately got an invite to come along that night. I was already signed up for the Chevy Chase with a friend, but at the last minute she got Covid and couldn’t make it. I lined up for my first ever fell race feeling very scared and doubting myself, but all the DVRC team there persuaded me I could do it, even making sure I got in the mandatory group photo despite ruining it by not having a club vest yet. I even still remember the first time I met John, a couple of weeks before Chevy on a Tuesday evening, where I told him I’d signed up and he ran a couple of laps of a Chopwell loop with me to ‘see where you’re at’. ‘You’ll be fine’, I remember him saying, and he was also on hand with some sage words on the Chevy start line that, to my detriment, I only partially followed. He later persuaded me to sign up for Jedburgh, and this time I did listen to his words on pacing and fuelling and had a great, largely pain free day out.

Ultimately, then, this is the account of a nervous average runner joining a running club because it happened to be based in a place he liked, and finding endless support and encouragement to do things that scared him a bit. It strikes me now that this is the main (but certainly not only) reason I find DVRC great – no matter where you start, the leaders help you take the baby steps towards the next challenge or scary goal, whether that’s your first ultra, your first fell race, or your first full loop of Chopwell Woods. To the growing alarm of my fiancée, I am starting to identify and believe in myself as long-distance runner, and feel like I’m not far away from trying to ‘race’ longer races instead of just trying to survive. This is in no small part down to the support of the club over the past year. I never thought I’d have the guts or ability to run an ultra, but now I can’t wait to do more.

So cheers to you all at DVRC, you little belters, and I’ll see you on the start line of the next one with my block of Soreen and my Nutella. You know it’s the fuel of champions.

So there you have it – fancy it next year?!