Result:
40 miles, September 20th at the High Peak 40 race from Buxton, Derbyshire.
Time: 7:06:55
Position: 17th
I had a plan, having printed off the check point split times from two of last year’s contenders, one who finished in 7:07 and one who finished in 8:30. I stuck to the times of the faster runner almost to the T, didn’t really fade much during the race and legs felt fine later that day and the next. I still can’t quite believe it, but I guess the much vaunted training actually works.
Running along the Goyt Valley on a misty morning
The start was a casual affair with around 160 runners gathered in Broad Walk, Buxton on a sunny but cool September morning. Here I met up for the first time with a few of the brilliant forumites who had inspired me to do this challenge. But the quick hellos were cut short by the start, and we crowded through Buxton off into the hills. There were no supporters to speak of, in fact no one in Buxton seemed to have heard of the race which was a bit of a shame.
As with the Swaledale Marathon in June (24 mile fell race), the first ascent was narrow and crowded, so there was a lot of walking, but that was fine as it saved your energy for the later bits. We wound up and up and then down proper off-road terrain to the first checkpoint. Loads of runners seemed to have headed off pretty fast, allowing those of us further back to tut-tut knowingly “ah, they’ll pay for that later on“, ah how I like to sound like I know what I’m doing! Then a couple of miles alongside the sunny reservoirs in the Goyt Valley, chatting to a few people including the guy from the Downlands Challenge that I again seemed to be pretty similar pace to. People were mostly concentrating and running solo however – it’s a long day and everyone had a lot on their mind. Although everyone is incredibly friendly at these ultras as far as I can tell, there’s definitely a sense of doing it alone for most of it. Pacing is important, and if you step into someone else’s pace, you might just blow up later on. Blow up = run out of energy!
I was due to meet F at the third check point at Eccles Pike, where she might join me for a bit of the route. I waited a few minutes, ahead of schedule anyway, and downed water and jaffa cakes, but no sign, so plodded on and phoned her to check. They just couldn’t get out of Buxton in time, so we planned another meeting point. Then it was a steady climb up tarmac then gravel path up to Rushup Edge where the route met the Pennine Way.
View from Rushup Edge westwards
This was glorious running, though sore underfoot with so many boulders and rocks. Miles and miles of hill top running with gorgeous views over Derbyshire. Finally arrived at another checkpoint where P and F were waiting. Had the usual joke with the marshalls, grabbed water and jaffas, re-arranged my rucksack and set off with F to run up to Mam Tor. Unfortunately the terrain was pretty rough and a bit unexpected for F, and I had to keep going, so we weren’t together as long as we’d hoped. But it was such a boost to have company and her smile. Mam Tor – an incredibly thin ridge with the sort of views that inspired me to take up this off-road running lark.
Mam Tor ridge
Encountered quite a few walkers here, so lots of excuse me, runner coming through, and again no one seemed to know what we were up to, so not exactly the Flora London Marathon experience. Also no steel bands, or jelly babies from villagers.
After all this up, it was time for a quad thrashing downhill to Castleton then the long anticipated cruel climb up Cavedale. As with most of the ups, there was limited running, everyone at my end of the race was walking the uphills, maybe shuffling into a jog if we spotted a photographer or a crowd of tourists. You have to show willing! Someone told me I was in 38th position as we descended from Mam Tor.
Cavedale was followed by more climbing slowly up to the more desolate Old Moor, where at least 15 people on the race got badly lost I discovered later in the day, including people who’d raced this before. It’s incredibly hard to resist the instinct to just follow the line of runners in front of you, even if you have your doubts about the direction they’re heading. I was lucky in that I never followed someone who went wrong, but also kept checking my little bits of map. Signage was actually really good, and it was only at one or two points that it could have been confusing. Not a patch on the confusion at Swaledale.
After Old Moor, there was a lot of road before hitting Tideswell, the long strung out village, deserted but for two gangs of Morris dancers. Everyone ignored us again, but by this stage I was beginning to pass people who’d slowed. We reached the marathon point (26.2 miles) at the Tideswell Dale car park, where my folks awaited with jaffas, congratulations and smiles. I knew now that I could make it – I was still feeling wierdly strong and really happy. The river section went on for miles and miles, but was largely flat and very good underfoot. All the time here I was expecting P to turn up – he was due to set off from the final checkpoint and run back towards me. After four more miles I was getting worried that he’d got lost, but still passing slowing runners, then finally, in the horror that was Deepdale, he came running towards me. Fantastic! Deepdale consisted of two miles of uphill in a narrow valley.
Perfectly harmless on a nice day’s walk, but after 28 miles, quite depressingly unending. The top was the penultimate checkpoint, with waiting parents once more and the marmite sandwiches. More chat – there was always time to stop and banter – and I set off on the tarmac section of the route towards Chelmorton and the last 8 miles or so to the end, and more importantly psychologically, the last hour of running. I’d already been out running longer than I ever had before, and almost crossed my 34 mile barrier. Buoyed by these thoughts I set off far too fast on the tarmac for 1/2 mile, before realising what I was doing too late and suffering accordingly. It was just the sight of the walking runners ahead of me and thinking I could pick them off, but I knew I was spot on target for my goal time and that I’d rather finish feeling good than suffer needlessly. Of course I could have pushed, but for what? To be another four minutes quicker and two positions higher? What’s the difference between 15th and 17th really? I was out of reach of a sub 7 hour time, which was the only goal worth speaking about. So, quite smug and content, but also painfully aware of my legs, we ran on to the final checkpoint – a fairly easy plod apart from the deathly gully of Deepdale 2.
Rounding the corner after Cowdale we could see Buxton ahead, the railway viaduct, and there again, the familiar green top of F, sitting waiting! Three of us ran together in on the road to Buxton, then they left me to cruise the final 1/2 mile to the finish and even a final spurt to the non-existant finish line and the rest of my waiting support group. Thanked the organisers, drank endless plain water, and kept my legs moving as much as possible, amazed at the lack of pain, blistering or despair that I’d felt throughout.
At the end of this long journey, thanks are due to the fantastic support from F, P and my parents, who met me and fed me at three separate points on the route, then J and A at the finish line, and the moral support I know I had from others. The training has taken me away from home more than I’d have liked, has occupied far more of my spare time and spare mind than I’d have liked, so thanks are due more to anyone than to F who encouraged me to push myself through this. I hope I’ve proved that running forty miles in one day can be an enjoyable experience for even a forty year old previously non-sporty person, not a body-shattering one. I’ll always struggle to convey the joy I feel on occasions, up on a hill, running down a hill, walking up a hill, with few possessions, with little need for food, with the knowledge that you can keep going if you wish, almost all day long, that time is meaningless, that distance is meaningless, and you can just be.
Stability in motion.
