Flattening the Fells Park Part 2

Flattening the Fells Park Part 2 Jack Bloor (Ilkley Moor) Fell Race Tuesday 8th May 2012

If Charles Dickens had been a fell runner, he’d have switched the opening clauses of his most famous opening line. ‘They were the worst of times, they were the best of times’ would’ve begun A Tale of Two Cities. For the tale of the Jack Bloor Fell race was just that. Ghastly start, glorious finish. Fellow Harrier Pete Edwards disagreed, preferring the up-fell (“loved that!”) to the down (“Didn’t enjoy that!”) but Pete is a physics teacher and not like the rest of us.

So much though, for my campaign this summer to Flatten the Fells. This one flattened me inside the first hundred yards. I veered off the main path to attempt an overtaking manoeuvre, only to trip over a tangle of brambles. I didn’t however, have a long way to fall – for the first mile of this race is virtually vertical. It’s horrible. It’s horrible because you feel cheated to be clambering at walking pace a minute or two into a run; it’s horrible too, because you can’t see over the top of the climb to the top. The climb just goes on and on. And on. And on.

It’s painful and it’s demoralising and it’s horrible. The climb does stop, eventually, but by the time I reached the turn my legs had long since thrown the towel in – “You want us to run after that?!” I’d walked and climbed more than I’d run. They didn’t want to get going again, they were digging my heels into the soft bog. My heart wasn’t really in it either. My chest hurt and even breathing was tough. All that on a downhill stretch too, which you’d think my bodily bits would’ve been pleased about but oh no - for ahead, at the end of the downhill diagonal, was a sharp left and another climb back up to the top of the moor.

At least it wasn’t vertical, and once through the gap in the dry stone wall the route levelled. It didn’t flatten (to use that word and ‘Ilkley Moor’ in the same sentence is wrong – hence the brackets) but it did mean I could get into some sort of pain-free running rhythm. What with all the rain of late, conditions could best be described as “soft to heavy”, which meant there had to be a spring in your stride otherwise you’d sink into the moor.

The race was now fun. I was running faster than those in front of me too. I overtook a Lady in Black, and though she overtook me again, I was soon picking off a Wharefdale Harrier. They’re always good scalps, seeing how this is their natural terrain.

Half-way across the moor there was even a few strides’ worth of firm ground, where the course crossed a track, and at the end of that stretch came The Slabs. Now this was more like it! Despite the claims of this column to the contrary, I’m not a fell runner, I’m faster on flat-track roads. And this The Slabs were better than that. They form a magnificent, man-made path. Some old school fell runners might not approve, but I did. This section was my reward for having got this far. I started to pick off more runners in front, gingerly stepping off The Slabs to overtook a couple in front, catching the Lady in Black and overtaking, in total, 11 runners on my way down. I slipped back a place after I’d claimed the eighth, as I slipped full- length again at the end of a runway-length stretch of race-trodden waterlogged grass.

The scrapes, cuts and splatters I’d picked up were honourable spoils of war, and the coin had well and truly flipped – this was the ‘heads’ side of fell-running. I was going to enjoy the descent.

Having done it last year I knew what was coming, and this time I was going to enjoy every step, and in so doing, glory be, I seemed to forget the fear. I felt I flew down, veering off the path to save time on the steps and taking some ridiculously silly leaps onto the unknown. It helped that I could see runners in front to follow – one even stepped out of my way to let me fly past! – and when I couldn’t see where to go, helpful marshalls directed me. Come the stream at the bottom I was lolling (Laughing Out Loud).

Just to cap off this cracking race, a bottle of beer was pressed into my hand as I exited the finishing tunnel. There are more sensible ways to spend an evening, but few can be as much fun.