For four months, I’ve thought of nothing but the Yorkshire three peaks fell race. After running my first 50 miler – Greener Miles Running’s sweltering The Chopper – in October last year, I was casting around for the next challenge. Upping the distance didn’t appeal. I’d found the 50 hard, and the persistent exhaustion I felt for days afterwards was like nothing I’d previously experienced. I needed three weeks to recover and be in a state where I wanted to run again. So I decided to drop the distance but increase the challenge. The most iconic fell race in the country, with the sphinx like Pen y Ghent, towering Whernside ridge, and imperious Ingleborough, seemed to be a good option.

There were other reasons I fixated on three peaks too. I’d never done it before. I’d never even been there before, apart from a nose round Sedbergh a few years ago. It would be out of my fell comfort zone – roughly speaking, the Cheviots and the North Pennines – and the longest challenge fell race I’d attempted. But I also wanted to improve. I’d spent most of 2023 preparing for ultras, and had found the mileage arduous at times, as well as difficult to fit in around a job that insisted on absorbing a lot of my time and energy. So many miles last year were completed half asleep, with the dog, at an easy pace, and just felt junk as well as unenjoyable. Focusing on improving my speed endurance and general fitness was appealing, so much so that I ‘bought myself’ a coach for Christmas, with the explicit brief of getting me round the three peaks in as quick a time as possible.

Four months of graft later, I am on the start line, scared. I feel fit, but frightened. In front of me, Ingleborough looks like a giant pagoda. Pen y Ghent – let’s call it PYG – looms over Horton like a JRPG superboss – Penance floating over the Calm Lands. Whernside isn’t visible, but it is the biggest of the three, and I have been warned the climb is nails. I am here though with the cheer squad – appropriately more canine than human. Georgina and Dexter are here, the latter of whom thinks he’s coming and is confused when I leave him behind to duck into the start funnel. DB, long time inspiration and Spine legend, has also come along with her two dogs to see both the three peaks and the Fellsman. She gives me some excellent advice at the start, as always, which I promptly ignore (sorry mate).

Weeks earlier, I’d read that three peaks is more accurately described as three fell races separated by two cross country races. So let’s proceed in that way.

Fell race 1: PYG

The start of three peaks is the closest I’ve ever felt to being in a peloton. We loop through Horton on the tarmac, before turning abruptly left towards PYG. It is uphill but not horrifically so, and I maintain a steady pace while making sure I stay controlled. The lane winds upwards before taking another abrupt turn towards PYG, and above me I can see the frontrunners already halfway up. I choose the spot where I’ll stop and walk and plod on. Before long, the frontrunners are flying past me the other way, bounding down the hill as if running away from an eruption of lava and fire behind them. The ascent is over quicker than expected, and rather straightforwardly too. Fresh legs and the buzz of being in the peloton no doubt help, and I reach the summit feeling good, and grateful for the warmup.

XC1: the trail race

Penance behind me, the descent begins. After a quick loop of the summit and a quick dalliance with some bog, we are back on the quick, bouncy track. This is the part of the route that is basically a trail race. Over the small(er) Whitber Hill, we wind through the landscape, and I focus on maintaining an effort not a pace. My watch buzzes to announce the passing of each mile, but I deliberately don’t look at it. I think about something ultrarunner John Kelly once wrote, that he asks himself early on in races: could I reach and maintain this effort later in the race if I needed to, even if my legs are tired? If there is any doubt that the answer is yes, ease off a bit. Following this mantra, I reel off a series of undulating yet comfortable eight and nine minute miles between PYG and the first cut off CP at Ribblehead. I’m about twenty minutes ahead of the cut off. Feeling good still, I refill my water bottles, neck an energy bar and a couple of salt tablets, and take in the glorious viaduct, watched over by its eternal master, Whernside.

Fell race 2: Whernside

The ascent of Whernside is the only properly boggy bit of the route. Instead of following the usual three peaks route, it takes the crow line direct to the summit from Winterscales Farm – think the ascent of Hedgehope in the Chevy. We leap over suspicious pools of shimmering brown and green fur, taking chances where we feel brave enough. I go thigh deep into one, quickly extracting myself, but not before hearing the care of the fell runner from behind me – “you okay mate?” “I’m good”, I shout over my shoulder. Soon the bogs give way, and I slowly understand why this ascent has the reputation it does.

It’s steep. Super steep. Ahead of me, runners slow before going down on all fours, edging their way up the face of the hill like General Greivous from Star Wars. I keep going with just my legs for a while, but then we reach the final couple of hundred feet before the summit. It is like climbing the side of an obelisk. My pink gloves hit the deck and I have a momentary vision of flies crawling up the inside of a glass bottle – that’s what we are. I glance up and see Scotts and Merrells pounding the turf inches from my face. Off to the sides, people pause to stretch out cramp. I feel like I’m barely moving. But it’s not a long final section, as brutal as it is. Soon I’m over the lip, onto the ridge, and turning left along the line. The views from here are stunning, PYG off to the left, Ingleborough’s graduation hat summit dead ahead. I catch my breath and pick up a jog.

Here, we dodge walkers and Fellsman competitors, before taking a sharp left off the side. I’m reminded of the north descent off Simonside – it is sheer, with boulders jutting out of the path like giant’s teeth. I move at a pace that feels neither dangerous nor totally safe, and for a brief time it’s even fun – my legs are still feeling nimble, and the adrenaline tears me down onto the flat road that leads to CP4 – the last one with a cut off.

I am well inside, and stop for a moment to refill bottles with my hideous electrolyte mixture the race organisers have helpfully transported here from the start. Behind me, another runner dibs in and announces he’s pulling out. “No you’re not,” comes the disapproving Yorkshire accent of a marshall, instantly. “You’ve got half an hour before the cut off. Have a drink and rest and see how you feel.” I set off just afterwards – whether he continued on, I do not know. I take a right off the road, behind the inn, and turn towards my final foe of the day – Ingleborough.

XC2: good and evil

As I begin the climb, the wheels give their first sign of loosening. My legs feel suddenly heavy. My hamstrings twang with the sharp, familiar stab of cramp. I look up at the third peak in the sky, wondering how on earth I’ll get up there if I’m struggling on the pathetic, barely registrable incline that is the back field of the inn. In front of me, another runner is clearly feeling the same. We walk together in silence for a few moments until the gradient flattens out. “Time for a little jog”, he says, as much to himself as to me. I nonetheless obey, and we run for twenty seconds until I feel the gradual incline return. I stop, sip, breathe hard, and walk again, my hamstrings tighter than Hendrix’s guitar strings.

We’re all familiar with these moments, where light and dark, good and evil, battle in your mind. In the red corner, evil bleats the rhythm of impeding failure into your ear. “If you’re cramping now, what will you be like on the steep bit?” “You blew it running too hard between the first two hills. Idiot. Time to pay.” “You’ve not eaten enough, and now your stomach wouldn’t be able to take another energy bar. Well done, genius.” In the blue corner, a meek voice attempts to be heard: “Just this last hill. You’re strong. You’re almost there. You trained for this. You can do it.”

The trick, a wise, wise friend once said to me, is remembering that between the corners is a referee. And that’s you. And while you can’t directly stop the voices, you can stack the deck a bit. So I grimace and reach into the side pocket of my pack. Out come the salt tablets. Of the four that remain, three go down. I sip the cloying, vapid electrolyte mixture on my chest until the horrid citrus salt flavour has gone. I move forward purposefully, but slowly, and soon we reach the laughable excuse for a flight of stairs that brings you out onto Ingleborough’s hump.

Fell race 3: Ingleborough

I drag my legs up each of the steps, exchanging jokes with the walkers who stand to one side to let me pass. “You’ll regret that in a minute,” I say, “when you’re trying to overtake me again.” But the legs endure this torture with a dull, nihilistic acceptance, dutifully obeying the signals they are being sent to clamber up the rocks. The voices of failure are still there, but more muted now, as if they know the evidence is starting to turn against their argument. I reach into my zipbag of marshmallows and sweets and force a handful down my neck as I finally reach the Ingleborough summit plateau. (The marshmallows, by the way, are a revelation for this kind of race – easy to get down, full of sugary carbs, and super light to carry).

Ingleborough is weird. It’s like a carpenter has designed it – pop a spirit level on the floor, I think, and the bubble would remain perfectly still. But the time for irreverent thoughts is over. The voices of failure have been replaced with a grim whisper of determination. “Let’s get off here and back home.” So I walk the last few steps to the summit, do the dibness, and turn 180. On another day, I could spend hours up here. But that’s a drop of rain, so let’s go, and go quickly.

Unfortunately, the grim whisper of determination is quickly silenced by an equally rational but less welcome realisation. I’m going to finish, but my legs are done racing. My knees aren’t lifting properly, and I’m starting to stumble a bit on the jagged ground and kick stones every few steps. The descent off Ingleborough isn’t particularly steep, especially once you’re off the top, but (for me) it is technical – a mixture of slippery flagstone and treacherous rubble. I make the conscious call – back off. Get home safe. I’ve turned my right ankle more than once in training, and as I stretch my legs out a bit over the flagstones my hamstrings threaten to ping again. The ten minutes extra I might gain at the bottom are not worth the risk of a serious misstep. So I slow right down, concentrate on my feet, and try to ignore the sheer skill and daring of the runners flying past me left and right.

The next four miles pass uneventfully. My friend from earlier, who coaxed me into a jog lower down Ingleborough, comes past. “I’ve been watching your gloves from further up there,” he says as he overtakes. “Can’t miss them!” I wave him through with my bright pink right hand and smile. Very soon, we are being directed through a gate across a grass field, and the race marquee leans over the horizon towards me. I canter across the road and into the home straight, precisely four hours and fifty minutes after leaving. One final dib, a printed bit of paper with a time on. I walk outside the tent and unfold onto the floor. Over the tannoy, an announcement is made that I am from “the best running club in the world.” I’d written that in one of the comment boxes when I’d entered the race, but had completely forgotten, and am amazed they actually read it out. (Surely that’s worth free membership for a year, club committee?!) I can’t savour the moment for long though, as my dog appears out of nowhere and attempts to lick nearly five hours of grime and pain off my face.

Post-race

Post-race is a bit of a blur. I have that familiar feeling of exhilaration and exhaustion. I make a pitiful attempt to eat some five bean chilli (DB finishes it off when I fail), and force down some pop and a non-alcoholic beer. We laugh as DB’s dogs eat cheese off the floor, aided by a mischievous runner who ‘accidentally’ spills an entire spoonful of cheddar goodness off the table. But the exhaustion is already winning. So we head off, back up the road to our caravan.

Before we go DB asks me: “how is it compared to Chevy?” I don’t answer immediately but it’s a good question: how do the two challenge fell races that I’ve done stack up? The truth is three peaks is both harder and easier than Chevy. It is faster for sure, and the cut offs make you move faster than you want to early on (if you’re as unfit as me, that is). Whernside is a tough climb, but the toughest bit isn’t long, and it’s hard to judge Ingleborough objectively, considering the battle of good and evil that was going on in my head when I was climbing it. But I can’t help concluding that if I’d have felt like that coming up Hedgehope from the north east side, I’d have ended up on my back. And that’s it. The three peaks feel brutal, but brutal in smaller doses. Cheviot and Hedgehope feel endless at the best of times, something that is psychologically as well as physically hard. Beyond that, there’s no escaping the fact that the first half of three peaks is basically a trail race, and you can comfortably get into a steady rhythm after PYG. I don’t think I’ll ever run an eight minute mile on the Chevy, that’s for sure.

Then there’s the nav. I’d fretted previously about not finding the time to recce part of the course, but I needn’t have worried. The long list of entries meant there was never a moment where I couldn’t see runners in front of me. And of course, while following those in front of you is never a guarantee of staying on course, marshalls stood tall at every possible place you could take a wrong turn, blocking the incorrect path and pointing towards the right one. The waymarks are inconsistent, but I spotted a few here and there. All this meant I never once had to reach for my map. Chevy, of course, is easy if you know where you’re going, but would be instantly more challenging nav wise for an unprepared first timer, especially if the clag drops. (First time I did it, I had to check the map between Brands Hill and the Carey Burn Bridge, after briefly going off course.) And Chevy is worse underfoot too. The peat monsters snatched at my foot only once on the way up Whernside, but they can snatch with more arms than an octopus even in July at the foot of the Cheviot. The three peaks seem so much more runnable, so much more forgiving, than Chevy can be, despite the extra hill and distance.

But all of that is missing the point. I’ve realised the reason I have fallen in love with fell running is the calculus of it. There are so many variables, very few of which are solely in your control, and most of which aren’t at all. The variables that aren’t in your control interfere mercilessly with your attempts to correctly handle your pacing, your fuelling, your mental strength, your balance, your body. But each fell race is a different equation – each one assigns the variables different values, forcing you to adapt almost endlessly. It’s this constant battle with yourself and with each unique course that makes fell running so challenging and so addictive. (Well, that and the views. They’re not bad either.)

Shout outs

If you’re still with me you’re probably getting bored by now, so let me end with five shouts. First, to Georgina, for continuing to put up with this nonsense and for pretending not to be annoyed when my 6am long run Saturday alarm goes off. Second, to DB, for knowing precisely the right words at precisely the right times (even if I’m bad at listening to them #CowardiceThenHeroism). Third, to Sophie at Ultra Potential, for shifting the fitness of this short, inflexible imp up a gear (but not for the 6x3min steep hills followed by 6x3min tempo session – that’s just cruel). Fourth, to DVRC, the best running club in the world – as officially proclaimed at one of the most iconic fell races in the land. Fifth and finally, to all the organisers and volunteers at the race, for making this first timers experience so positive and memorable.