For the third time, the Fellsman had me beat. I’d gone into it determined to finish. Well, to quote that famous Scots poet, Rabbie Burns:
‘The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men…’
For those of you unfamiliar with the Fellsman, might I refer you to a previous write-up that can be found here. In a nutshell, it’s a foot race of just over 61 miles (around 100km) with around 11,000 feet (3353m) of elevation. It takes in some of the finest hills Yorkshire has to offer. Ten, in total. It’s run by scouts, and it’s in its 62nd year.
Although it occurs on the same weekend every year, the weather varies. From blizzards to blistering sunshine, you never know what you’re going to get until nearer the time.
This year saw blistering sunshine! In my opinion, the worst kind of weather. I’m not great in the heat. I am your typical pasty-faced Yorkshireman, not built for warmer climes.
Pre-race, I was not in the best shape. My training had been sporadic at best, and despite making good gains in the preceding weeks, I had let it slide a little. My fitness dropped and my fat mass increased. I could have done without the added body weight to cart around the course, especially with a pack containing the rather extensive, mandatory kit.
A few days previously, I’d hit a snag as my lift from the finish had fallen through at the last minute, which took my focus away from preparation to panic. With all of that I realised I hadn’t sorted getting to the start line! Worst case scenario, I’d have to walk the two miles cross-country to get there. With 61 miles ahead of me, any way of avoiding that was preferable. Thankfully, a kind chap who happened to be manning one of the checkpoints offered to pick me up on his way through.
The night before, or should I say morning, saw me finally drop off to sleep at 04:30, an hour before my alarm! To say I got to the start overly tired would be an understatement. Kit check was painless, and I had time for a cup of tea before joining the queues for the toilets. I tend to get ‘toilet anxiety’ as nothing quite ruins a run like needing a poo! To avoid this, I switch to a liquid-only diet about 36 hours before an event. A a hearty soup the night before, and I never do breakfast but that’s normal for me. I’d packed some home-made cherry marzipan and bars of fudge (I still can’t seem to get the consistency to slightly chewy, though crumbly, melt-in-the-mouth works well as a running fuel), and I’d bagged up some energy drink powders in glassine bags. This is all part of my commitment to create less waste, and to avoid feeding the marketing magnate that running has morphed into, too often.
At 08:34, the claxon went and the field split off in all directions from the start. The Fellsman is a point-to-point race, which means there is no set route, the exception being certain sections where landowners/managers have specified conditions; so a certain degree of pre-planning and familiarity with a map and compass are required. I set off walking. My game plan was to walk the hills and run the flats and descents. The heat of the day was starting to increase and with it, my sense of foreboding. Still, I had suncream on (and insect repellent), and a full litre of fluids. The hike up Ingleborough proved arduous in that heat. It would have been tolerable had there been a breeze. Even on the plateau, which is extremely exposed, the air was stifling. I chose to walk across the plateau to allow my heart rate and body temperature to drop a little. Ingleborough claimed the first Fellsman casualty; a chap that had taken a tumble and broken his arm. He was being well-attended to, so I chose to continue past thus not contributing to the drama (too many cooks spoil the broth and all that). I picked up the pace on the descent and soon found myself at the second checkpoint, the Hill Inn. I refilled my bottles and necked some flat coke in preparation for the now-dreaded climb up to the summit of Whernside. This is always fun as you have to dodge the Three Peaks race fell runners as they descend past you. The Fellsman and the Three Peaks Race occur on the same day every year, so if you are choosing a day to enjoy a hassle-free amble up and down Whernside, opt for the Sunday!
The heat was getting the better of me at this point, and it was quite a slog up to Wherny, peppered with many a quick cool-down break. The air continued to be hot and stifling. Once off the summit, I picked up the pace but didn’t quite manage a run as I was just too toasted. It wasn’t long before I found myself away from the Whernside melee, with distance between myself and the runners in front and behind. I was finally able to stretch my legs and break into a run, though sporadic, as my body temperature and heart rate would shoot up again. Then the fun bit! The downhill stretch to the next checkpoint at Kingsdale. I love this bit. I can get quite a clip on when hurtling down along a nice, defined sheep trod, especially when I know there’s a checkpoint at the bottom where I can replenish lost fluids and have a bit of a rest before the dreaded climb up to Gragareth. I do dread this climb. It’s practically a hands-and-knees scramble and it’s bad enough without the ridiculous sun beating down on you. I had to have several breaks on the way up. I also received my first injury of the day when, not too far from the crest of the climb, someone dislodged a rock which bounced past the person in front before smacking me square on the knee. That really smarted! I may have let out a squeal. I have the bruise to prove it. I don’t tend to bruise easily which is why I’m always oddly delighted when an injury results in a bruise because then I can say ‘see.. I told you it hurt!’
Needless to say, by the time I reached Gragareth I was well and truly baked (not in the stoner way, I hasten to add!). It took me a fair old while before I felt able to break into a run, and again, it was sporadic. I was cursing the lack of breeze more than the sun. The views were breathtaking, and it’s nice to have that degree of visibility but it would have been great if there’d been just a tiny wisp of air to take away the sting of the heat. On to Great Coum then down to Flinter Hill. Not long after Great Coum, I was down to the last dregs of fluids. By the time I hit Flinter Gill, I was sipping backwash! It was another two-and-a-half kilometres before I’d get opportunity to rehydrate. I popped a salt tab in my mouth, and it took around half an hour to dissolve owing to the lack of saliva in my gob. I finally arrived in Dent, an hour later than my intended time.
Almost immediately I was prompted to go over to the kit-check tent (you have a kit-check at the start to make sure you have all the mandatory items, and another one on the course. If you’re really unlucky or look particularly light of load, you might get spot-checked again). My priority was getting a drink, so I waved them away, exclaiming ‘let me eat and drink first’. I hope I didn’t come across as rude. I was tired, overly hot, and my lips were sticking to my teeth. I was starting to get hangry, too. Bear in mind, I don’t do breakfast and I’ve covered just over 30km (almost 19 miles). So I made my way over to the feed station with only one thing on my mind – flat coke. I’d been fantasising about this since Flinter Gill. The bottom of my world dropped out when they told me they were out of coke. Now, this is something that I struggle with, and I’m sure it’s a fundamental part of my autism, but I become flummoxed when something I want isn’t available. It usually happens when I go shopping. I have a list. If an item on my list is sold out or unavailable, I feel a mild sense of panic kicking in. Conversely, if there’s too much choice, I become overwhelmed and incapable of deciding what to get. I have ditched a half-full basket in the isle and hot-footed it out of a supermarket on (I’m embarrassed to admit) more than one occasion! They were also out of Voom energy drink. All they had was squash and water. I’m not a fan of squash. Never have been. And some types of squash make my throat itch from the inside. Also, most squash has less sugar and more artificial sweetener, which is not what you want/need when your blood sugars are low and you’re dehydrated. I grumpily accepted a cup of disappointment.. I mean water. I grabbed a couple of vegan sausage rolls (thankfully, they had plenty of those, and I’m grateful that the majority of meat-eater types still think vegan food tastes yucky!) and headed over to one of the few patches of shade (in front of someone’s campervan) but not before being accosted by the kit-check team again! I made my excuses and sat down to feast. After a lot longer than intended, I hauled myself up, now stiff, and waddled over to the kit-check people. Once done, it was time for a quick toilet break though I needn’t have bothered as I only managed a shot-cupsworth of orange liquid – not a great sign – then off in the direction of Blea Moor. Nav had got the better of me before, so I was keen not to make the same mistake thrice (yes, thrice!). Not only did I have the compulsory map and compass, I also had the GPX file of the whole route loaded onto my watch AND a hand-held GPS device. The intermittent beeping of the hand-held, informing me I was still on the route, became a source of great comfort until the battery went (more on that later).
Now, I was quite nervous about Blea Moor, as some of the area had been designated ‘off limits’ by Natural England, so the usual follow a line straight across and up to the checkpoint was out of bounds. We’d been informed that the area we had to stick to was geofenced, so if we went where we shouldn’t, it would be known about and we’d be disqualified. All went well, and I made good ground right up until the air shafts. My route took me off the path and across the moor but the seed of doubt and fear of being disqualified took a hold, and I spent far too long deliberating on whether the off-road route was still part of the off-limits bit, and should I stick to the path and go through the air shafts, then drop down to the checkpoint. I spent so long pacing back and forth that the guy behind me, who’d been out of view since I left Dent, had caught up. We discussed it a bit, and decided we’d already gone through the dodgy bit, and it was fine to take a line directly to the checkpoint, as per my GPX route.
Then off to Stone House with a bit of company on the way. The thing I love about ultras is that you spend the majority of the time on your own in the middle of nowhere, safe in the knowledge that you’re only a button-press away from help. I love the solitude but I also appreciate the feeling of safety that comes with knowing you’re being watched on the tracking software. I also enjoy the interaction of other participants. You run for a bit together, have a natter, then part ways. It’s my kind of socialising.
The sun was pretty low by the time I reached Stone House, so it was time to layer up and dig out the head torch in preparation for the encroaching nighttime. Stone House is one of those checkpoints that brings the joy out of the weariest of participants. The volunteers like to dress up to a theme. This time, it was the Power Rangers, though apologies I didn’t get it straight away. Had they been wearing their head gear (a bit impractical when serving up food), it would have been obvious. I left the checkpoint later than those I’d arrived with, and once again, found myself alone for the long slog up the track before hitting the boggy ascent to Great Knoutberry. A red flashing beacon, that I affectionately dubbed the beacon of hope indicated the path of the climb, and it seemed to take ages. In typical Great Knoutberry style, the elevation brought with it thick clag. My GPS told me I was practically on top of the checkpoint when another red flashing beacon came into view. Then the flash of a head torch. It can be hard judging the distance of lights, and I very nearly walked into the marshal’s tent, which appeared suddenly, caught in the beam of my head torch, right in front of my feet! Then it was back down the way I came, passing a few folk on the way up that had left the previous checkpoint after me, before crossing the track and heading across the rough bog towards Redshaw.
The bog can be awkward in the dark. It’s your typical wet bog, and vegetation that looks firm can suddenly give way underfoot, revealing deep pools of peaty water. This where plant identification comes in useful. Pale sphagnum moss invariably covers water. Don’t step on it if you can avoid it. Best to try to leap from tussock to tussock, though this is easier said than done with some 30 miles on the legs! It’s also very easy to stray off-piste when you’re continually trying to circumnavigate soggy bits. It took me a while of picking my way through the bog, and not always getting it right, before reaching terra firma, and onwards towards the checkpoint. I had a couple of cold hotdogs with crispy onions, a brew, and took a couple of Marmite and crispy onion butties with me (Marmite and crispy onion sarnies are pure genius!) before heading off just as the next three people behind me arrived.
Now I’m chasing cut-off times, and I can’t afford to mess up. I was determined that this attempt would see me successfully cross the finish line. By this point, I was exhausted but massively motivated to see it through. I’d given up on trying to keep my feet dry. That Elvis has most definitely left the building. At some point, I was joined by another runner. He was enthusiastically telling me that if we kept up the pace, we should reach the finish by 08:30. I informed him that I doubt I would stick to this pace (I knew what was coming up and wanted to keep something in the tank!), and that if he wanted to go ahead, not to feel he had to stick to my pace. He duly informed me that he needed me for navigation. Okay. Fair enough. I asked if he had a GPS device to which he replied that he had but it had packed up. We made it to the Dodd Fell checkpoint where we found out that we were the last competitors on the course. Not again! All those behind me must have dropped out at the previous two checkpoints. Oh well. Better to be a DFL than a DNF (DNF stands for Did Not Finish. I’ll leave it to you, dear reader, to work out what DFL stands for!).
At some point, his hand-held started working again, and he took over navigation. Now, my hand-held had started bleeping it’s you’re off-route tune, and I tried to tell him that we weren’t going the best way. He insisted we were, waving his device in front of my face, telling me we just need to follow that straight line. I only have myself to blame for the way things unfurled, as this is the point when we should have parted ways, but no, my exhausted, not very assertive self, decided to blindly follow. The clag was now a proper pea-souper, and despite lights, I would lose sight of him after a mere few feet. I think his rear light must have packed in, as I’d only catch sight of him when he turned his head. The last thing I heard him say was ‘I’ve found a path’. Then I dropped on to the road expecting to find him there. He wasn’t. I was probably 30 seconds tops behind him, but he’d completely disappeared. I waited. Nothing. I shouted his name. Nothing. By now I’m starting to worry that something had happened. Nobody just disappears like that. Had he fallen? I paced up and down a bit. Called his name a few more times. OK, it’s pointless searching in the fog. I contemplated ringing the HQ number. In the end I decided my best course of action would be to continue on to the next checkpoint and inform them of the situation. They would be able to see his whereabouts on the tracker. So I set off up the road. Something didn’t feel right. My hand-held had died on me, and I’d not had the opportunity to plug it in to the power bank earlier. Instead, I was relying on my watch which had basic topo maps on it, and not an OS map like my trusty hand-held. I figured I’d sort it at the next checkpoint. Realisation dawned on me that I’d only gone and headed the wrong way up the road. About 2km in the wrong direction! Ah, regret! I should have paused a while, plugged in my GPS device, and dug out my map and compass whilst it charged. Hindsight and all of that. So, about turn, and a bit of a run before eventually hitting familiar territory, (at which my watch started chirping happily) where I should have emerged on the road had I followed my route and not his. I kept running until I reached Fleet Moss.
‘What time is the cut-off for this checkpoint?’
’03:00’
My heart sank as I checked the time on my phone: 03:45. No! Not again.
‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the cut-off. I’m pulling you from the event’.
I since found out that matey boy had deliberately ditched me in the fog, stuck his head in Fleet Moss only to get his tally clipped, and pressed on. I guess he really didn’t want to risk being last!
I want to blame him for my DNF but really, it’s on me. I should have been steadfast in my resolve to finish and stuck to my race plan. I should have stopped when I wanted to, to charge my hand-held. I should have insisted on following my route. I should have been more self-confident, and assertive.
My whole body ached. During the event, it was my shoulders and back that were causing me aggro. Strength training is your friend. Don’t skimp on it, like I did. Running long distances is more than just head and legs. You’re carrying a pack, and although gear can be kept light, food and fluids are your main weights. Using poles also requires conditioning, as the simple act of repetitive clickety-clacks takes it’s toll. When tiredness creeps in, a strong core will keep you upright. It’s far too easy to slouch forwards which puts more strain on those supporting muscles, and increases the load you carry as a lulling head shifts your centre of gravity. Heads are heavy. Quite literally.
Ah, an ongoing issue. I am the reigning king of insomnia. I’ve still yet to find a method of early to bed, early to rise that ensures quality kip. Decision making is greatly hampered by tiredness so healthy sleep habits are imperative to running ability, moreso over long distances.
Run your own race, and don’t deviate from the plan. I am always conscious of coming across as rude. My social skills are not the best, and I’m never sure how I come across or how to behave in a manner that is acceptable. This fear of getting it wrong can result in me taking a back seat and going with the flow. In future, to heck with offending folk. This is my race and the outcome is important to me. If I have to say ‘no. I’m doing it my way’ or say ‘sorry, I’d rather be alone’ then so be it. That wouldn’t offend me. I get it.
My training for the 63rd Fellsman starts now. That includes meal choices. I had a nice, short recovery run on the Tuesday, and the same planned for Friday. I shall endeavour to make strength training a part of my normal routine. I often think, how would I fare if I actually trained for an event? At the very least, it might banish my imposter syndrome as a licensed run leader!
I met some lovely people on the way, and enjoyed the little snippets of their lives that they shared with me. I also got to chat about how I was raising funds for Heads for Trails CIC and St John’s Hospice; and my super-inspirational friend, Audrey, who passed away on the 9th April after living with cancer for six years. I know what she’d be saying to me right now! I can’t finish without mentioning that. I intend to keep the fundraiser going for a little longer, as I didn’t reach anywhere near the target, and it would be nice to present the hospice with a big, fat cheque. The Ingleborough Marathon is coming up next month, and if there are places left on that, I shall jump on it. In the meantime, can I urge you to visit the fundraiser page. If you can’t/don’t want to donate, then please share. Sharing will help it reach a wider audience, and it’ll also let others know who this amazing woman was because everyone deserves to know about Audrey.
Thank you for reading. Thank you to all those who have donated. Thanks for the company along the way, and a final big thank you to all those involved in Fellsman. You are all superstars, and your time and effort in putting on this awesome challenge every single year is hugely appreciated.
Until next year, happy trails!
Registered Company Number: 15980216
©2025 Heads for Trails CIC. All rights reserved.