Alan Vicarage headed out west to sample the delights of a 3 dayer round the best of the Lakes… thankfully, he’s survived to tell the tale for us.

The Scarpa GL3 arrived on the 3rd may with an overnight camp on Ennerdale showground with registration and a kit check for a Saturday morning start. Saturday arrived with the clouds and the rain, the spare tent was dispatched to the car and off we went, you have a 3 hour window to start when you fancy, I started the Herdwick course which was 19k and 1034m of climbing taking in Great Bourne,Red Pike,High Stile and High Crag, the decent from there was treacherous in the damp but I survived and down Scarth Gap we went to pop out of the clouds on the way to the overnight camp in Buttermere.

The bottom of Scarth was where plans changed with me taking the last opportunity to fall down a ditch with my leg left behind. Buttermere was achieved and a trip to the medic tent was required, first aid administered meant I could put my tent up, feed myself and make it to the beer tent.

Day 2 dawned and it was clear I couldn’t run, so a power walk was required for the café course, 17k, 876m of ascent, back in the clouds again for a course centred around Fleetwith Pike then back to Buttermere, for food and the beer tent again and a free one as well, bed time arrived with clear skies and hope eternal.

Day 3. 15k, 571m of ascent. We woke up to rain bouncing off the tent ( it’s character building stuff apparently). The tent was packed away to be transported to the start, the rain stopped and off we went, and mercifully the lecture we received at the start on how to evacuated the course if we got caught in the forecast thunder storms wasn’t required, we took in Crummock Water and Gavel Fell, from there we could see the finish about 5k away and that’s when the excitement got to me and I started running, very slowly to be fair, but running non the less and the job was done, then off to Keswick YHA for a night without a beer tent, a shower for the first time in three days, and hopefully a good night’s kip!

So what do you get for your efforts on this kind of event is great camaraderie, a bruised elbow, an almost definite big toe nail loss, and one leg twice the size of the other one, oh and an email from them within an hour of finishing, offering early bird entry for next year!

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.

They say a marathon is the weeks and months of training you put into the main event… race day is purely the celebration of it all. I’m starting to see why ‘they’ say this.

We caught up with Chris Hewitson to hear about his experiences from last weekend.

Last year I trained fairly well for my first proper marathon ‘race’ – having previously done the Town Moor Marathon in 2022 and the SEVEN loops it entails; Edinburgh 2023 seemed more legit. However, as Bex and I raised our daughter Emily to share – she took this one step further and shared her chest infection with me a couple of weeks before race day.

I started and finished on that day, but knew it wasn’t my best effort and probably went against a decent wedge of medical advice to even run it in the first place. I finished with a time of 3 hours 16… again, not something to be upset with, but when you know you’re capable of better, it eats away at you – back at those Town Moor laps, I’d run 3:14 – so I knew I was capable of more.

This may seem a bit ‘woe is me’ (and I guess it is, a bit!) but to me, this showed me how far I’d come with my own personal running journey. To give you a potted history of how I’d come to be disappointed with such a time, let’s rewind back to 2017…

Jamdani, Whickham – having a curry and beers with friends – “hey, do you fancy doing Gibside ParkRun tomorrow morning?” being full of Dutch courage… or maybe Indian courage, I agreed and despite being full of the previous night’s food and drink, up I rocked at 8:55am – fast forward to the finish along that wonderful but LONG finishing straight that we all remember so fondly, and I’d spent pretty much the entire second half of the course wanting to throw up. The breakfast in the cafe also threatened to make a reappearance within seconds/minutes. I vowed never to do it again and disappeared from the ParkRun scene for a fair few months.

But something on that day unearthed a bit of my brain I didn’t know existed. Having previously been a footballer from the age of 7, running was always used as a punishment when you’d lost a training exercise or hadn’t completed X number of passes, etc – hey, it was the 90s, I’m sure training methods have moved on since… I hope they have, anyway!

Fast forward to 14th April 2024, and I’m stood on the start line of my 3rd marathon, listening to Manchester Mayor, Andy Burnham telling us not to go off too fast and that it’s not a race – “aye, maybe to you, pal” I found myself saying out loud.

I’ve been absent from the last 3 months of DVRC sessions, while I took myself away to follow an app-based training programme designed to get me to the holy grail of a sub-3 marathon. Strict sessions were planned for easy runs on Monday, efforts on Wednesdays and Fridays, with a long run on Sunday. Having followed this probably 90/95% religiously, I felt better prepared than ever.

As for the Manchester Marathon as a whole – what an experience! I’d been told and had read so much about how it’s the flattest and friendliest marathon in the country – even my new mate Andy said as much on the start line. Whilst I’m not sure it’s the flattest; Kieran Ridley had warned me about the inclines around 14/15 miles; it certainly was the friendliest. The support was literally non-stop! There was nowhere on those 26.2 miles where there weren’t people cheering and shouting encouragement at you. I made a game of trying to hear when people would shout something including either “Chris” or “Derwent Valley” and tried to acknowledge them as best as I could.

If you’re reading this and pondering giving a marathon a try, Manchester is one I would whole-heartedly recommend. It felt like the whole city turned out and had prepared everything, all the way down to transport links pre and post race, making it a very pleasant experience.

As for me and my performance, I didn’t reach my holy grail of sub-3, and let’s be honest, in only my 3rd marathon, I had no right to… But, I did bag myself a new PB in 3:10 and absolutely laid to rest the chest infection-based feelings I came away with the previous year. Also, that lad who rocked up at ParkRun in football shorts with a cocksure attitude that “it’s only 3 miles” is still in there somewhere, and feeling very proud of what has been achieved and accomplished in that timeframe.

I never intended this to become a thing. I was never meant to be a runner and certainly not a marathon runner. This has all been a terrible/wonderful accident. I grew up hating running, because I’d been taught to hate running… “it’s proper boring” I said, and people still say to me to this day, when I inevitably manage to steer as many conversations as I possibly can towards running as a topic.

If that 2017 Chris can work his way to running and smashing a marathon, anyone can…

Sunday morning took us to Langleeford, at the base of the two highest peaks in the Cheviots. Guest scribe Matthew Scott was our man in the pack to give us this first person account…

For those of us new to fell running, the word pendulum is most commonly associated with an Australian drum and bass band. But for those in DVRC with longer memories, it is the name of a rather stupid fell run in the Cheviots that takes in its two highest peaks in order: The Cheviot itself, and then Hedgehope. A bit like Chevy, but with the relatively non-stupid bits missed out.

It was last put on in 2017 (I think), but revived for 2024 by Cheviot Trail Events and Northern Fell Running. Starting in the Harthope Valley at Langleeford, it is as simple as it hard – go to the top of Cheviot, then straight back down, then go to the top of Hedgehope, then straight back down.

And so, at 7am on Sunday morning, Peter Storey collected me and Chris Aspinall from our beds and whisked us north to take part in the challenge. As the race started, both Peter and Chris were quickly out of sight as we grinded up the long, slow excuse for a path that leads up to Scald Hill. I managed to run some of it (well, a bit). The bogs between Scald Hill and the Cheviot were on good form, licking my left knee cap as I misjudged a step for the first – but not the last – time. Soon, I followed the lead of many others and leapt the fence, continuing to the summit in the glorious sunshine and cooling breeze.

Usually, reaching the Cheviot summit is followed by a bobsleigh style experience off the side, but today we turn and head back along the flagstones and down the way we came. It is a glorious descent, clear skys all round, and I skip joyously off the hill. As the gradient smooths out, I eat a Toffee Crisp and suddenly taste mud for the first – but not the last – time, misstepping round a bog and losing my balance (the Toffee Crisp was, thankfully, unharmed). Soon I’m back in the valley, on my up to Hedgehope via Housey Crags.

The climb up to the crags is steep, and painful. There is a brief reprieve in the relatively flat plain leading up to Hedgehope, and then I am dragging myself up its side. It is horrible. My legs ache, despite the Toffee Crisp and the Soreen bar I’ve just had. My knees refuse to lift. And this way up Hedgehope is the epitome of lonely endlessness, step after tortured step getting smaller and smaller and seemingly moving me no closer to the summit. Peter and Chris pass the other way, flying. After what feels like a geological period – the Horrorcene – the summit cairn swims into view. I fully plan to walk the last few steps to the trig, only to see two camera lens pointing towards me. Determined to look like a proper fell runner in any photos that emerge, I summon a jog, reach the trig, and turn back.

The Hedgehope descent terrifies me. It’s like leaping off the edge of a world. I make decent progress today though, feeling more nimble than I have done on previous attempts. I taste mud again on my way back to the crags, my pink gloves coated in peat and my right knee grazed and stinging. But soon I am up and over the crags and hurtling back into the valley. I am informed on returning that I am an AM finisher, coming in 2 hours and 27 minutes after the 9.30am start. Great, that means lunch. Peter and Chris have been back a while, finishing 19th and 24th respectively. I’m a bit further back in 33rd.

I reunite with them for a can of pop and a bit of quiche. I dip my feet in the stream and let out a (hopefully) inaudible yelp. God it’s cold (I am reliably informed Peter ‘Wim Hof’ Storey went for a full dip). Before long we are back in the van, and I’m back home, so tired I leave the van door hanging open as I say bye and hobble to my front door (sorry Wim). The dog kicks off big style as I try the door and realise I don’t have my key. My better half is at the garden centre. So I sit with my back to the wall, stretch out, and listen to the sound of his barks as the sun hits my face, grateful as always for another day spent in the punishing, breathtaking Cheviot Hills.

Before we take a mid-summer Grand Prix break, there was still time for one more GP event with a trip down the A1 to Durham to hit the hilly trails, thanks to Elvet Striders.

Heading into the business end of the Grand Prix season, points are getting more and more precious; with Walton, Hewitson and Kirby fighting it out at the top of the male standings; Knox, Shotton, Powell and Hewitson all battling for the female title.

Wednesday night saw a typically large group of DVRC’ers representing the club – with Charlotte Bowes, Glen Cooper, Neil Frediani, Sally Ann Greenwell, Bex & Chris Hewitson, John Kirby, Claire Knox, Jane Parnaby, Kirsty Robson, Rachael Smith, Claire Thompson and Sue Urwin.

The Willow Miner veterans amongst the group knew what to expect with the elevation… Newbies were heard commenting about how unnecessary that amount of hill climbing was!

At the end of the race, it was Chris Hewitson who lead us home, one second outside of the 40 minute mark, in 40:01, closely followed by John Kirby in 41:16 and Glen Cooper in 42:33. For the ladies, Bex made it a Hewitson double delight with 43:07, with Claire Knox next in at 46:58 and Claire Thompson (in new matchy-matchy socks and trail shoes!) in 50:36.

Finish of the night was reserved for Neil Frediani; who outstripped at least half a dozen finishers with his Hollywood sprint, much to the delight of the waiting crowd!

Full results can be found here – with lots of high points to cheer, including Sue finishing 3rd in her category: https://www.elvet-striders.uk/2023/07/27/willow-miner-trail-race-results-2023/

These results coupled with the rescheduled Stanhope 10k – we’ll be publishing the latest GP standings very soon. In what will be a tense finale to the year – it’s still all to play for!

This is my first attempt at a race report, so I hope you enjoy it. 

When doing an ultra-marathon, the pre-race day prep is important. Rachel and I hit the road to St John’s of Dalry, in search of a service station with a burger king en route for a bit of carb loading. We found one just past Carlisle, being someone who doesn’t eat fast food all that often, I was surprised to find the choice of a TRIPLE XL bacon cheeseburger! Who knew they did a triple burger? You could even add more burgers! What is the best burger to bun ratio? How many should I have ordered? These are questions I will be pondering for some time to come.

Next stop was collecting my race number, and then finally to our hotel in Castle Douglas for a cheeky pint before bed.

Raceday was an early one, up at 4am, cup of tea and a couple Pain au chocolat to start the day, because it was too early for the hotel to make me breakfast. Before you knew it, we were off at 6am on what was going to be a long adventure in some of the most beautiful countryside that the UK has to offer. YAY ME!

To Checkpoint 1 – Stronpatrick (8 miles)
With the race started it was difficult to gauge a good pace due to both 50mile runners and the 100mile runners having the same bib numbers, which was a bit annoying. It was however quite an uneventful 8 miles, if I am honest, to this checkpoint. Just settling into the race trying not to go too fast too early and wondering how much the sun was going to burn me and my very pale skin, later. It did bring a panicked message from Rachel and Paul Brunger thinking I missed a turn close to the checkpoint. This was very reminiscent of me going wrong on St Cuthbert’s Way, where I went 1.5miles in the wrong direction. No such issues this time, it’s just the GB ultra team for the giggles put the checkpoint 400m past the turn which would become a bit of a theme.

To Checkpoint 2 – Sanquahar Town Hall (26 miles)
The sun was out, and it was starting to take its toll and I needed to find a way to cool down. approaching the check point I crossed into another runner coming from a shop with a Calippo.  I was canny jealous if I am honest, but also equally too lazy to get one myself.  Super wife Rachel was just round the corner with an ice soaked DVRC buff for my neck. I did eat a few ice cubes but all I could think about was how nice that prick’s Calippo would have been.

To Checkpoint 3 – Wanlockhead (34 miles)
At this point the field was starting to spread out and with no one to talk to it was time for the choons! To create my playlist for the day I asked some friends for song suggestions. The song I loved the most during this period was Magenta Mountain by King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard (what a band name). This came on whilst running in a picturesque valley.

I did have an ironic moment of running the last mile into Wanlockhead, without any water, listening to Dry County by Bon Jovi. I did contemplate jumping into the streams near the village at this point, but thought better of it. My friend’s son also picked the song “Crab Rave” by Noisestorm, there was discussions after about this monstrosity making my playlist.
 
This was also the end of the section I hadn’t had a chance to recce prior to the race, and for me where the race really began. With the temperature still rising and zero shade ahead, I grabbed a third water bottle along with my running poles as I knew water would be an issue.

To Checkpoint 4 – Bigger on A702 (40 miles)
After leaving Wanlockhead, you have the highest point in the race – Lowther Hill and its giant Golf Ball. Though this is a long climb, it is far from the worst, with the steepest of climbs coming shortly after. It was in this section I picked up the 1st of my Kists*just after the steep climb hidden in a random wooden toy cart. I felt like a millionaire picking up my shiny coin.

To Checkpoint 5 – Moffat Rugby Club (54 miles)
This section started off well, when having tried to quick turnaround in the check point, I left my polls behind. Having thought about leaving them I made the decision to do a quick U-turn costing me a couple minutes to go get them. The marshals were worried for a moment, until I sheepishly admitted I’d forgotten my poles like an idiot.

At this point in the race the sun was everyone’s worst enemy. Having that third water bottle and iced buff was really helping. Having passed several runners at different points lying down in some shade to try and cool down, highlighted the struggle we were all facing.

Even with the extra bottle I was still running out of water, lucky for me another runner’s crew was waiting at Earshaig Forest just before the run down to Beattock and topped up one of my bottles to get me through the last 6 miles into the checkpoint and the halfway point of the race. 

I chose this checkpoint as a reset place, so it was a change of top and socks along with a mugshot and the cold tea I made at 4:30am for good measure. With it getting dark and a big climb ahead the 3rd water bottle was dropped, and road shoes added as there was a long road section to come. I also grabbed an extra torch battery just in case (hello foreshadowing). 

To Checkpoint 6 – Boston Memorial Hall (71 miles?)
I got lucky when I left Moffat, I just happened to leave with a lovely lass named Charlie and we decided since it was going to get dark and we were both going at the same pace, we would stick together for a while.

The climbs out of Moffat were long but manageable and we were making steady progress. The top of Croff head was something else, however, with the wind really picking up, to the point we were both almost blown off our feet. Once we dropped into a valley at around 22:45 the weather eased with perfect timing to add on jackets and headtorches for the cold night ahead. Within a mile of running, I knew something was up as my headtorch wasn’t that bright, it then did the dreaded light blink to say it was going to die…FFS. Good thing I grabbed that spare battery yeah?….oh hold on it turns out that battery also didn’t charge properly and lasted about 20mins. I then had to root out the spare torch from the bottom of my bag. People may complain about mandatory kit lists in races, but this is why you need them!

As we continue through the dark and over a tiny bridge, I was able to pick up a second kist and became a double millionaire. We were then off to Potburn and the creepy abandoned caravan which freaked me out during my recce and was even worse in the dark and could easily have been out of some horror movie. As you would we picked up the to road from hell, with both of us shouting “where is the f*cking checkpoint” every few minutes whilst also trying not to stand on the thousands of dead frogs on the road. Honestly, horror movie stuff. 

Boston Memorial Hall was supposed to be 71 miles it turned out to be 74! You also need to run an extra mile past the turning to St Mary’s loch to get to it. This wasn’t pleasant doing in the day, and more so in pitch black with 70 miles in your legs.

At the checkpoint I got pestered into eating some hot pasta and drinking hot tea at the hall. This immediately had me overheating and was then spewed. Delightful. Give me a warm mug shot and day-old cold tea any day.

To Checkpoint 7 Traquair (89 miles)
DVRC legend Paul Brunger joined me at this point to push me for the next 30 odd miles to finish. To summarise my time with Paul; he talked at me quite a lot, but I don’t think I had the mental capacity to hold a solid conversation. I remember him talking about beer, taking small steps uphill because its “more efficient,” trying to convince me to do a back yard ultra, along with sharing insults from my running wife Claire Knox, about how I was taking too long. There was also a lot of “shall we start pootling.” Normally followed by me cursing under my breath then starting to run. 

Having left the hall, it was clear Charlie was in trouble as was she struggling to eat. Her husband had agreed to meet us in 6 miles at St Mary’s loch. I was able to pick up some pace going down the hill to the loch, but it was clear she wasn’t able to continue, and she was picked up at the loch. Though I never got the chance to tell her in person, I am so grateful to have run with her through the night and I am sure better days are ahead when she attempts the full 215-mile race across Scotland.

Having left St Mary’s Loch, we were approaching sunrise and the heavens opened, still in my road shoes – this was not good, but the rising sun was just the lift I needed. The rain however would eventually take its toll on the soles of my feet, and we needed to get super wife to meet us on the roadside near the checkpoint, as no crew were allowed.
 
It was only 3 weeks earlier I recce’d from the loch, so my memory was quite fresh about this section, not fresh enough though as my 3rd and final kist was in this section, only a couple of miles after where I thought it was. (Sorry for making you look in the middle of nowhere Paul, but you got a coin and can be in the millionaire club)

We finally hit the checkpoint in a field and with super wife a mile down the road at the village hall, it was an in and out job (oo-er!). Tailwind refilled and away we go, but only after Paul ate some salted potatoes.

 To Checkpoint 8 – Fairnliee Hut (98miles)**
 After reaching the village hall in Traquair, Rachel was waiting with my pitstop seat so my soaking shoes and socks could be changed. This was the first sight I had of them since Moffat and the soaking feet miles hadn’t helped giving me blisters on the soles of both feet. Looking back feet management is an area I need to work on.

My feet will heal and with approximately 36miles, this would become a future John problem. Present John had a race to finish.

We had plenty of climbs to which I think shocked Paul a little, on one of the climbs towards the three Brethren, Paul offered to hold my polls whilst I ate some Hola Hoops. The next thing I see is him trying them out powering up the hill with them. I needed my “Boyz” and he was nicking off with them! I was struggling at this point and Paul, like a true champ kept me entertained, with me attempting to climb on top of the Three Brethren Trig point, at Claire Knox’s request, and then sending a picture to her threatening to stop my watch at 99.99 miles. This gave me a good laugh and took my mind off the hurt. Paul didn’t know it, but I did get a little teary after this point with everything hurting, but on reflection this was down to me knowing 100miles was in the bag and nothing would stop me from finishing.

Having worked our way down through the hills, “pootling” where possible over the jagged stones, then crossing a bridge to the hut, and the waiting super wife. 

**This was 102miles in for me at this point not the advertised 98.

Bottles were filled, socks changed, and teeth brushed and off we went. Yes, I did say teeth were brushed; I don’t know why had this urge to brush them, but it felt so good!

Checkpoint 9 – Langlee community centre (106miles) and Finish.
Leaving the hut, we only had around 7 miles to go. We had a long climb past a farm and a few unkind Stiles to climb, but this was the final push and at a minimum I needed to walk with purpose, and pootle where possible. The sun was also making an appearance again and it was getting hot. My feet were done, but Paul had one final trick up his sleeve to motivate me to the finish. With only 2 miles left he informed me we were being hunted down by another runner! In my head I was thinking he was bullshitting me to run, but I wasn’t going to take any risks…

Having climbed the stairs toward the community centre (at the marshal’s request, Claire Knox, there was no cheating!), Paul ushered me to the finish, with me giving a thank you as I passed. Super wife was just over the finish line, and it was amazing to get to the finish and see her. The amount of support and work she had done before, during, and even after the race is immeasurable. I am so thankful for her support.

I finally crossed the line at 13:08 and finished time 31:08:02. This was enough to have me finish 6th overall and 4th male.

On a sidenote, I stopped my watch with 1% battery left which worked out quite lucky, and there was someone chasing me down towards the finish.

Big thank you Rachel and Paul, along with everyone who supported me.

For those who like stats, here are some of the notable lines from my Garmin:

• Total Distance – 108.6 miles
• Elevation – 17,470 feet
• Total Steps – 210,538
• Fastest mile – 7:54
• Average pace – 17:12
• Max temperature – 31c

*kists = A kist is an individually sculptured container a few paces from the path and inside the container can be found Waymerks Coins

Once again, we made the annual pilgrimage from Prudhoe train station, to the sleepy Northumberland village of Ovington, for the Tynedale Harriers Pie & Peas 10k. It’s a 10k road race, where you get pie and peas at the end… what’s not to love?!

Another tremendous turn out from the best running club in the world™️ – especially for those who were only a few days into Chevy Chase or Triathlon recoveries. Cough, Chris/Megan/Ian, cough…

On day we were lead home by Grant Ramsden, sneaking inside the magical 40 minute mark, in 39:50, for the ladies, Bex Hewitson was first home in 41:04.

Even more enjoyable was the category results; with Bex finishing first in her category, joined by Sue Urwin and Kirsty Robson who were also first in their categories. Jill Lee and Theresa Owens who were both second in their categories, with Sarah Reay third in her category! Amazing return from all ladies!

Also claiming PBs on the day were Megan Williams (still apparently recovering from Chevy legs – imagine what that time could’ve been when in peak condition!) and Lindsey Dover – nothing better than beating yourself and your own previous best!

And Sally Ann Greenwell ran on her birthday… and brought cakes! A delightful pudding after the pie and peas main course!

Full results from the night can be found here: Tynedale 10k results

Probably the most enjoyable aspect of Wednesday was the way that almost all of the club members stayed to cheer on each other finishing – as Megan said, “we might not be the biggest club, but we’re certainly the loudest” – not wrong.

This time last week, Claire Walton was running the marathon in Edinburgh in memory of her partner, and our dearly departed captain, Andrew Callcott. Joined on her training over the last few months by a few of our other members, Claire was running to raise money for MacMillan – she has already smashed her target of £300 and her current total stands at £915.

If you’d like to donate to Claire’s ongoing total and push her towards one thousand pounds, you can do on her JustGiving page.

Another favourite on the race calendar – despite that massive hill, we put out an incredibly strong roster of 8 mixed teams. Particularly impressive when you consider there were 50 teams in total.

We prepared ourselves at the start/finish area with a mix of nerves and excitement – the Steelworks veterans sharing insights on how bad the hill was, tactics for attacking it and strategies for not blowing up on first bit “there’s two more hills after that first one” – how right they were.

Setting off on the first leg for each our teams were:

• Chris Hewitson
• Ian Maddison
• Matthew Scott
• Claire Thompson
• Charlotte Bowes
• Eleanor Shotton
• Duncan Marshall
• Andrew Walton

With all eight getting teams off to a flying start, in what was probably perfect running conditions, not too hot, not too cold, and barely a breath of wind to complain about!

Leg two saw our initial 8 head over the finish line, to release the next from their teams as they crossed over – really well managed by the Blackhill Bounders team. Second leg runners were:

• Bex Hewitson
• Simon Hutchinson
• Al Rook
• Claire Knox
• Vanessa Armstrong
• Alex Fiddes
• Jill Lee
• Megan Williams

The final leg change overs saw the last push for the finish, with anchor runners:

• Paul Brunger
• Vicky Parker
• Laura Peacock
• Rob Peacock
• John Kirby
• Terry Owens
• Lauren Smith
• Sally Ann Greenwell

Tremendous efforts from all 24 of our runners and brilliant to see so many other club members and committee out supporting on the course to cheer everyone on.

With the final results processed, our 1st team home were team 1; finishing in a brilliant 4th place overall – coming in at 40:26, only 1min 14 behind third placed Crook. Paul was the joint 4th fastest individual, with Bex coming home as 7th quickest female.

Brilliant efforts and finishes from all of our other teams saw:

Team 3 – Matthew, Al and Laura in 20th in 45:24

Team 4 – Claire, Claire and Rob in 29th in 49:34

Team 5 were hot in their heels in 30th – Charlotte, Vanessa and John, in 49:39

Team 7 – Duncan, Jill and Lauren in 32nd, in 50:12

Team 6 – Eleanor, Alex and Terry in 37th, in 51:49

Team 8 hot on their heels in 38th – Andrew, Megan and Sally Ann, in 51:51

Team 2 rounding out the DVRC squad in 50th with Ian, Simon and Vicky in 1:00:17

In having 8 full teams, we were amongst the biggest clubs represented on the night, and it really shows the strength we have to provide the maximum number allowed – and still have reserves who could’ve formed another 2 full teams between them!

We’re super proud of the efforts of everyone representing the club on the night – we’ll be back next year with the experience of this! Megan and her team even managed to walk away with a prize from the quiz during the presentations.

Full results can be downloaded from the links below

Next stop, Pier to Pier on Sunday…

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?!