By Matthew Scott
On arriving to the Harthope Valley for the 2025 edition of The Pendulum, three thoughts cross my mind. One: I don’t have enough petrol in the car to get home. Two: my wallet is sitting on the kitchen table, next to the dog’s treat box. Three: the clag is low. More on one and two later.
The Pendulum is one of those daft, brilliant fell races that we hate to love. Starting at the car park at Langleeford, you run (if you can) to the Cheviot summit, and back down again. You then run (if you can) to the Hedgehope summit, and back down again. Last year, three of us took it on. This year, it’s me, Glen Cooper, Sam Spratt, and Alan Curry who have signed up for swollen quads and battered DVRC knees.
On the start line, neither summit is visible. Nor is much else really, as the thick, white clag soup licks the edges of the despondent, green-brown valley. The race starts and we set off up towards Scald Hill, with Sam quickly up the road and out of sight. Glen and I stay together, and he tells me about how he spent his Friday marooned on an island somewhere in Northumberland like the muppets from Muppet Treasure Island. (Yes, really). We drift apart after that, and I focus on the brutality ahead.
Up to Scald Hill, we dip down again briefly and are confronted by the first bad bogs of the route. Remembering a mistake I made last year, I veer right at the gate and run with the fence line on my left, avoiding the worst of the peat hags and following the light, easier trail.
Moments later I am back over the fence and climbing. The Cheviot climb is the least bad of the two, and in the clag, at least you can’t see how far you’ve got to go. I track left, following a rough quad track and avoiding the rubble field closest to the fence. Another runner looks unsure, gazing as if trying to project fog lights from her retinas. “The flagstones are just up here”, I say, praying that I’m right. I am. Then we are over the stile and onto the Cheviot’s flat, bald head.
A quick dash to and from the summit trig, and I am heading back down. I’m rubbish at descending, and lose some time here. I stop briefly to check on a runner who is bent double. “Rolled my ankle,” he grunts. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Can you make it down?” “Yeah I’m okay,” he replies, trying to laugh it off, and I press on. A few seconds later, I hear a noise as he slips and falls somewhere behind me. I shout back with concern, but he is quickly up, imploring me to continue. I wonder if he’s okay, and moments later my question is answered as he overtakes me effortlessly before we’re off the side. (That’s how bad at descending I am, people who are injured overtake me).
I keep a steady, controlled, safe pace back down to the car park, and then the real fun begins. The climb up to the crags is a horrible premonition of what is to come, and the theoretically runnable section between the crags and the foot of Hedgehope is wet, sloppy, and miserable. I fall once, but keep a poor excuse for a jog up until we hit the climb.
There are several words you can use to describe the Hedgehope climb, but not many of them are printable. Another runner describes it as “fifteen minutes of single leg squats” and I think that’s about right. I haul my mutinous, screaming legs up the side, my lungs rattling around in my chest like loose change in a collection tin. Sam passes the other way, flying and looking strong. After what feels like a duration best measured in ice ages, the steepness eases and I reach the summit. Turn, breath, leap.
The descent is terrifying, even worse than Feathers McGraw. The wind is now in our faces, and my eyes start to swim immediately. I am fearful of my weak ankles on the infirm ground at the best of times, never mind when I’m struggling to see, so I try to move carefully and efficiently. I fail. My quads absorb impact after brutal impact, each thud storing up pain to be released in the coming days. I get a boost seeing Glen, Alan, and a border collie coming the other way. The descent doesn’t last as long as it feels like it should, and soon I’m back in the slop from earlier. I pick up a jog, my sides hurting and my head pounding.
Back over the crags, and then I take whatever brakes I have left off and attack – in the same way that a Magikarp attacks by using Splash – the descent back to the car park, making up a couple of places. I arrive back in 2.34, a few minutes slower than last year, but not as slow as I thought I might be, given the conditions, my sub-par fitness, and the extra stone I’ve acquired over the last few months (no doubt my better route choices on Cheviot, avoiding the bogs and rubble, helped). I finish 26th. Sam, after a brilliant race, is 13th in 2.17. Glen is not far behind me in 2.44 for 37th, with Alan ensuring that all of us finish sub 3 hours with an excellent 2.55 for 59th.
Afterwards, the clag starts to lift, enough for us to cheer other runners down from the crags. We clap as they cross the line, battered soul after battered soul, and exchange choice words of profanity about the Hedgehope climb. Sam’s dalmatian wags its tail happily. Despite the harshness of the race, if we had tails we’d be wagging them too, our bodies flooding with accomplishment and relief at being done. Finally, we walk back to our vehicles and get ready to head home.
In a final moment of embarrassment, I ask Glen for a Wonga. After he’s stopped laughing, he follows me to the services at Powburn and withdraws a tenner from the cash machine for me. I am tempted to use some of it to buy a Snickers, but instead spend every penny on filling the car up.
And so the day ends, my feet resembling cured bacon, my quads in bits, and my toenails laced with bog. I grimace as I get into bed, knowing I have six hours on a train the next day in my work shoes, which aren’t exactly cushioned. As I drift off, I jump myself awake a couple of times, my feet twitching as I half-dream about slipping in the mud. But eventually I sleep soundly, my body already recovering from another great day – another punishing, breathtaking day – in the glorious Cheviot Hills.
All that’s left to say is thank you – from all of us at DVRC – to Graeme, Lee, and Glen for another fabulous race, and to all the marshalls and mountain rescue teams for giving your time so we could mess about in the mud. You’re all mint and we appreciate you.
Derwent Valley Running Club 