Aiming high

I had approached Bradford 10K like a carefully timetabled military operation. When to get up, when to go for a jog, when to eat, when to drink, when to warm up... But I was a girl who wanted a PB and following the advice I was given when in Snowdonia, I was damn well going to give myself the best chance of getting one. I even went as far as shoving a gel down my gullet (yuck).

Crossing the start line, I tried very, very hard to avoid going out all guns blazing, keeping my pace within a predetermined range. This seemed to work well and I felt pretty good for the first few Ks. Reaching the hill (well this is Yorkshire!), I managed to gain a few places, before I launched myself into a kamikaze descent. Back on the main road, there were a couple of further undulations until we turned at around 5.5 km.

The main road back into Bradford is a very gentle climb and it just felt like an absolute grind from 6K onwards and I had to give myself a good kicking between 8 and 9km, as my pace slowed and my body started to strongly object. However, comparing the scrawl on my hand to the numbers on my watch, I knew I was on target so I picked my feet up and tried that little bit harder.

Finally I found myself in the finishing straight and although I tried to end on a sprint, I'm not sure if I actually managed to move any faster, with the last few hundred metres feeling like miles. Eventually crossing the line, Martin from the club steered me to the water station and made sure I didn't pass out!

Finally at the line and totally spent.

The race atmosphere was lovely, it was a large event, but not too large, and the marshals were all members of local clubs or familiar faces from Park Run. I was even interviewed live on Bradford community radio before kick off! As I ran round, it really spurred me on to hear my name being called, to see a familiar face, or to just get a 'Come on Queensbury'. It was also great to run in club colours and to feel part of a super friendly and encouraging team. 

My time of 53:47 well exceeded my 55:00 target and meant I had bettered by Leeds 10K time, from July, by a massive 3:12! As a rather long legged, youngish woman, I know there is still huge room for improvement but I have come a long way since those cold C25K days back in January. As I tucked into a large slab of malteser tiffin after the race, for now at least, it was job done. 

Proudly modelling my finishers t-shirt!

Falling in love

Standing on the summit of Snowdon, most of North Wales lay spread out before me. The landscape was bathed in a hazy afternoon sunshine, the high clouds dotting the scene with occasional areas of shade and I was completely awestruck. Why had I not been to Snowdonia before?

The Pyg Track running up from Pen-y-pass

The next morning was very exciting: the lovely people at Run Snowdonia had fitted me in for a guided run at very short notice and so at 9 am we met at Pete's Eats to discuss the day ahead, my main issue being how to go hill and mountain running on my own, in a safe way (with minimal faff and without a truck load of gear!).

Pete's Eats!

Tiny bivi bag!

We started off looking at the MWIS forecast and thinking about the information that could be gleaned from it, in terms of route planning and the conditions to be expected when out on the hill. Sarah then talked about planning logical points on a route, at which to adjust clothing and to make sure you took on food, for example, before you found yourself freezing cold on a windy, steep ridge. She talked about equipment and suggested some things I might like to add to what I had, including a tiny bivi bag, and also about the accessibility of items, such as food and gloves and trying to become really slick with everything you do. We discussed fuel and hydration in some detail, which I found very interesting as I have sometimes struggled with my blood sugar, particularly on long distance paddling trips. I think what I really took from the discussion was to approach a mountain run as light and fast mountaineering first and foremost - the running aspect was almost secondary. 

Llyn Idwal from the Y Garn ridge

Next was a mountain run with Gareth. First up was Y Garn - it was steep and I felt a bit pathetic that I was puffing and panting up at a walk but at least the rapid ascent gave wonderful views once again. As we crested the ridge we found ourselves shrouded in mist but as we descended the grass and stone slope, and discussed technique, it seemed to lift and we were afforded a clear view by the time we had climbed up again to Glyder Fawr and its amazing rock formations.

The mysterious summit of Glyder Fawr, with Glyder Fach in the background

On the plateau, I ran as much as I could, I wasn't fast but the terrain was pretty technical. Interestingly, where the rocks were larger, I found it much easier to cross them at a run than I would do at a walk. Skirting around Castell y Gwynt, the Castle of the Wind, we made our way to Glyder Fach and stopped for the obligatory photo opportunity at the Cantilever Stone.

Quite a feeling to have run up here!

The descent to Bwlch Tryfan was horrid, steep scree is about my least favourite thing in the world, but again, it was probably easier moving slightly quicker in light shoes than it would have been in my huge boots. Finally, the gradient eased off and I was able to run, although I was concentrating so hard on where I was putting my feet (fast and light!) and following Gareth, that it came as a complete shock when I found myself at a very familiar looking gate and suddenly back at Idwal Cottage. We left the car at 10:29 am and my phone tells me it took us 2:53:37 to complete the circuit. After some stretches, we headed back to Llanberis where we met Sarah for a debrief over coffee and cake. We discussed lots of things, including technique, training, PhD woes(!) and confidence, with me sucking up information like a big sponge!

It really was a fantastic day - the run was absolutely amazing and being guided up there allowed me to see that I was perfectly capable of doing such things in future, but I also learned so much about everything else. More than anything, the whole experience gave me the confidence to get out there and try and that's exactly what I did the next day!

An inviting ridge clocked from Snowdon

As much as I didn't want to, I knew I had to leave Llanberis by lunchtime to get back to Leeds in time for my climbing date with the Simple Chick. I thought about going on a train or round the power station, but really I wanted to make the most of being in the mountains. From Snowdon, I had been continually captivated by a ridge a few kilometres to the west and a study of the map indicated it could be easily accessed from the Youth Hostel via a bridleway at the top of the road. I knew that the cloud base would be low and that it was likely to rain, so I was not too fussed about going anywhere too high as I wouldn't see much anyway and because I was short of time, I thought the long ridge descent to the north would be reasonably fast and didn't appear too technical.

Bridleway to the col between Foel Goch and Moel Cynghorion and cloud down to 500m

After my run and bike ride on Tuesday, power hike up Snowdon on Wednesday and mountain run on Thursday, it is safe to say that my quads were in a little bit of pain, but I ran as much as I could, walked purposefully otherwise and used the whole experience as an opportunity to think about how to manage myself and my equipment. I purchased a tiny bum bag in Joe Brown's and put my gloves and some chopped up banana in it and realised that my normal waterproof, although bulky, fits over the top of my rucksack, making it easy to take on and off if I tie it round my waist.

As soon as I started to climb to Foel Goch, the rain began to come down heavily and I was reliant on map and compass to find my way, but I enjoyed the wet (underfoot) descent to Foel Gron, where the mist lifted a little. Carrying on to the north west, I came to a rapid halt when I saw a stone boundary very reminiscent of those in my PhD study area. I took a photo, before crossing a nameless top and climbing higher into the mist as I made my way to Moel Eilio. Here, there was (a denuded) prehistoric cairn and a shelter for walkers.

The majestic Snowdon ridge 

Leaving the summit, I checked my map to ensure I was heading in the right direction and tried to look for the easiest route down the slope, thinking about moving 'fast and light' where I could. As I descended, I finally escaped from the cloud and was rewarded with a view northwards towards Bangour and eastwards towards the Llanberis Pass. The old cobbled bridleway was a little quicker underfoot and I was soon back at the road end. Making my way down to the Youth Hostel, I tried to think about my descending technique, lean forward and gracefully zoom down - it was a work in progress! Despite numerous map stops and the study of various bits of archaeology, I completed the circuit in 2:22:34 - certainly faster than walking!

Back in the village, I rewarded myself with a well deserved recovery chocolate milkshake and a baked tattie with beans and cheese at Pete's Eats. I may not have gone anywhere overly dramatic, but I had gained the confidence to apply the mountain skills I already have and had had a lovely morning out, without incident or drama. Best of all, I had had that whole hill to myself.

By the time I drove out of Llanberis, I had knew I had fallen in love. Snowdonia, I will be back.

Another moment

As I climbed the moor, the wind turbines were still against a purple and orange sky, plane vapour trails criss-crossing behind them. Although the evening was unusually still, the turbines remained static because they are being decommissioned; the 23 currently installed being replaced by 8 huge 2.5 mW machines. Still climbing and concentrating hard on my foot placements, the colour of the sky changed as the sun set further. 

As I summited the hill, the clear air and the remaining light afforded views for miles - towards the Dales in the far north west and Ilkley Moor to the north east. Nestled in the valleys and on the lower slopes of the hills, were the twinkling yellow lights of the towns and villages of this part of West Yorkshire; Denholme and Leeming just below me, Keighley a little further away and the urban sprawl of Leeds and Bradford away to the east.

Everything about that moment, that view, that place, was spectacular; it was the end of a very long, tiring day, but in that instant I felt so alive. Being there, completely alone and experiencing something so special, reinvigorated me and I was firing on all cylinders as I once more turned eastwards and began to head for home. 

With some distance left along the track, it became increasingly difficult to find my way, so the headtorch came into play and I carefully picked my way along the familiar route that seemed quite different in the dark. As I descended the last hill, over the rough and  tricky cobbles, I was still buzzing as I drank in the panorama of street lights laid out before me. 

Reaching the road, there was no more need for a torch and I hammered down the last mile and a bit towards home, feeling immensely privileged to be able to be able to run out my front door and be on the moors in under 20 minutes.

That one moment made the hours of training worth it and it reminded me why I started to run off road in the first place. More than anything, I feel extremely lucky to live in this part of the world.

'My' moor

Purple Heather

I had seen the Tour of Norland Moor in the race calendar a few weeks ago and it appealed immediately - 10km, 800 ft of climbing and not too far from home. But the virus I had a Saltburn seemed really hard to shake off and after studying the finish times from previous years, I completely lost confidence in myself.  Somewhat foolishly, however, I had happened to mention my interest in participating in the bar after training, so before I knew it, I found myself in a car full of club members being conducted around the back roads of Halifax towards the start at Copley Cricket Club.

I had two aims for the day: 1) to make it round and 2) not to finish last. Although in reality, more like a trail race, this was officially a BM fell race (average 25m climb/km, 70% off road, 10 - 20km) and it was hard!

Norland profile

Starting from a small bridge over the River Calder the first kilometre was an absolute killer, up the side of the clough. Reaching a more steady gradient at the top, my lungs were screaming and my legs uncooperative. I knew we climbed to some degree until 4.88km so I just kept plodding on, trying to keep something in reserve for the descent. The heather on the moor was a beautiful purple in the sunshine, however, there was no time for looking at the view as I made way along the dry peat paths, picking my route through the gritstone boulders and pebbles. Finally, we started descending and I tried hard to increase my pace past the dog walkers and mountain bikers. The marshals on the bend before the road shouted 'Come on Queensbury - racing line!' which at least raised a smile! Crossing the field, I could hear someone breathing down my neck and he stayed there, right though the woods, until he overtook me on the final descent (boo!). The section we had recce'd from the starting bridge to the finish seemed to go on for days but finally I passed under the railway and saw the cricket pitch over the wall. Passing through the stile, my club mate was waiting and she ran alongside me, up the finishing straight, shouting encouragement to run as fast as I possibly could, all the way to the line.

The race route

So I achieved my objective of making it round and not coming last, even if I was last open female (this, I think, earned me a spot prize of a bottle of wine so I am not complaining!) and given that my flat 10K PB from Leeds in July is 56:59, I am not too disappointed with 62:32 for an off road race with a hill in the middle. I think going from week 6 of couch to 5K in January, to a 10K, 800ft race in August is an achievement in itself.

The other Queensbury runners did fantastically, the club write up is here, with full results here.

The Main Event

And so the big race, the Saltburn Hardmoors Trail 10K, has been and gone. And I made it round, so far managing to raise £310 for Upper Wharfedale Fell Rescue Association. The route was lovely, through a wooded clough, along a stream, passed the beached fishing boats, up some evil steps and along the cliff tops on the Cleveland Way, across a railway, through some fields, down some pretty country tracks and back to the sea, before retracing our steps to the leisure centre. The sun shone and the views, when I finally bothered to look, were beautiful. As suspected, the route wasn't 10K at all, and after the entire field took a wrong turn, it ended up being 11.99 km (exactly), with something like 775 to 831 ft of climbing.

(Not) ready for the off

But I was really not well and had not been well all week. On the morning of the race I started to lose my voice, which is generally never a good sign and nearly 3 km in, the evil steps at the Ship Inn really took it out of me. Despite power walking up half of them, I felt like I never recovered for the following 3km of gradual incline along the cliff top, my quads aching like they have never ached before! I have to admit that after a good 10 minutes of trudging uphill, I took a sneaky quick walk, I just didn't seem to have anything in me. At around 6 kms, at which point I was telling myself that I was never racing again when I was ill and that surviving to the end was going to be a huge achievement, never mind any thought of target times, I could hear some people behind me having a chat. They overtook me, but frankly, because I thought dying was a genuine possibility, I didn't really care. I followed on their heels and then, when they crossed the railway and immediately started walking up the hill, I overtook. I should have been able to run that hill, but I decided perhaps a little recovery before the descent was not a bad idea and marched up it at pace, thinking of Feet in the Clouds as I did so.

The Ship Inn - the evil steps can be seen zig zagging up the slope behind (https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4097/4874499211_0f71e4a9cb_b.jpg)

On the descent my legs ached (all over) like never before and I found myself reciting a mantra involving the hardness of Geraint Thomas, 'Shut Up Legs' from Jens Voigt and Richard Askwith quotes regarding the success or failure of his fourth Bob Graham round. I felt like I was forcing my leaden legs to move, pretty much by will power alone and because my pace was poor, the yellow ladies caught me again. I kept reciting what little I know about descending technique, urging myself to let the hill take me and when the gradient really steepened again, tried to concentrate on not braking with my quads. I heard another lady behind me too and at that point I literally hurled myself down the path as fast as I dared go, refusing to lose another place. I overtook the slower of the yellow runners again, but inevitably they then left me for dust. 

Nearing the half way point on the Cleveland Way (www.sportsunday.co.uk)

Running back along the burn and up through the woods, passed the tea rooms, my tenacity kicked in and I found myself just unconsciously running, albeit pretty slowly. As we passed the coffee shop and people out enjoying a beautiful Sunday, a number of them stopped and cheered us on, it was really rather heart warming. The lady behind me kept running really fast and then stopping on each little hill but I just kept chugging along, until the last (steep) hill, where I am afraid there was another sneaky walk. Back on the road, I was convinced I would be overtaken, but I thought about Richard Askwith again and decided I shouldn't presume defeat before it had happened, so I plodded a bit faster, attacking the hump of the railway bridge like it wasn't there. 

Finally I saw the traffic lights and the road to the Leisure Centre and ran as hard as I could round the back of the building to the finish line in the hall, my support crew failing to take any pictures as I passed. Hearing someone behind me at the very last minute, I put on one of my famous long legged sprints, only to discover he was in a different race! 

It was all too much in the end!

And so it was done, I had made it. Back in the hall there were finishers' medals, t-shirts and plates of delicious cake and everything was really jovial and friendly. There were only 300 runners in all three races which gave everything a very relaxed atmosphere. 

A medal and a big plate of CAKE!

I don't know the official results but my watch gave a time of 1:17:36 and I was about 18th overall and 10th woman (from a very small field of around 40). Given that I had (still have) laryngitis and couldn't speak, this wasn't too bad, but I know from my training that I should, and could, have done better. This race, part of a series, is apparently now moving to February due to issues of car parking etc. The date is already in my diary...

After Upper Wharfedale Fell Rescue Association came to the aid of my seriously injured climbing partner, way back in April, I really felt that I wanted to give something back to the organisation. Running this race was my way of doing so and if you so desire, you can still sponsor me here. When I started training all those months ago, I never quite expected that it would turn into the journey it clearly has become, that I would find a real passion for off-road running or that I would end up joining my local running club and finding my competitive streak. More than anything, I  think I have learnt a lot about myself. 

The accidental runner

As I turned up my iPod, I knew I was making 'The Face', the one where the eyes narrow and become fixated on a goal they, as yet, can not see. It is a look of steely determination and betrays every bit of my natural tenacity. I was thirsty, the juice in my water pouch now tasting like syrup, and nothing seemed to make my legs move faster and above 6 mins/km, no matter how hard I tried; but there were only 3.5 kms left and I was going to complete this race, as quickly as I possibly could.

Eyes on the prize. (c) Woodentops.org.uk

But perhaps I should rewind. In 2012, having damaged my Achilles tendon and a ligament in my left ankle, I could barely walk, never mind run and, in spring 2014, seriously unhappy with the person I had become, it was with a great deal of trepidation that I set forth on a short lived attempt to get fit again. But, by Christmas Eve 2014, I had had enough, and for reasons that almost no longer matter, I started training regularly again. It was winter, it was cold, usually there was a gale blowing, but I stuck with it, determined, I think, to prove a point to no one else but myself. But I was afraid of injury, I remembered the pain of 2012 and I actively avoided hills. 

A grumpy selfie from run number 2, December 27th 2014  - You'll just have to believe there were pretty snow covered hills behind me...

I thought then, that to even suggest the possibility of running a 10K race was silly, an impossible goal, far beyond the ability of someone like me. 5K, I thought, was my limit. But as I kept running and began to get fitter, 10K did not seem so unachievable, I had, after all, run further in my previous life. But there is nothing like a goal to focus your mind and with the Hardmoors Saltburn 10K (I still maintain it is more than 10K!) entered, and following the advice of one in the know, I embarked on a regimented schedule of training distance, speed and hills, with about 50% of my time spent off road.

And so there I was, just shy of 7 months since I started with week 6 of Couch to 5K, 11.5 km into a 15 km race. 

Dragging myself to the finish line (Photo: The Simple Chick)

The last couple of Ks were hell and as I crossed the green bridge, the sight of a sign pointing right to the finish rejuvenated me before the seemingly endless run across the meadow to the line. Try as I might, there was no sprint finish, there was just nothing left. Although 1:30:57 may have been 57 seconds slower than I would have liked, I ran the whole route (including the larger than expected hill) and as the Simple Chick has just reminded me, this was only my second ever race and my first at this distance. Sometimes, I think, I forget the bigger picture!

For the last couple of weeks, I have been along to the very friendly Queensbury Running Club on a Thursday night. Eight club members ran the race and I was made to feel very much part of the club on the day. I think this Thursday, I will have prize open my (Scottish) wallet and become a proper member! Should you be interested, you can find the full race results here and the club results here.

There are now just under 3 weeks until the Saltburn race, which I am running to raise funds for Upper Wharfedale Fell Rescue Association, so if you need me, I'll be running up and down some hills somewhere! 

https://www.justgiving.com/MaryKSaunders/

Team Queensbury and associate (c) http://www.queensburyrc.co.uk/

Into the unknown

The Simple Chick rolled her eyes in exasperation as I said, for about the 2865th time, 'Maybe I should go to the toilet again?'. She held up her right hand, thumb tucked in and her four fingers spread apart, 'Four times you've been, four! And you haven't even drunk anything since 7!'.

Feeling very apprehensive

It was 9 am on a Sunday morning and I was lining up for my first proper competitive race. And I was bricking it. 

With my number pinned on, standing in the Green holding pen, I had no idea what to expect. My training had been (and still is) focused on my trail race in mid August, not tailored for a fast, flat road race along the straight roads of Leeds. And it was warmer than expected. The mizzle and cool weather anticipated, replaced by the sunny spells and high humidity which characterise the British summer. 

Although, ever since signing up, I have had a target time lurking at the back of my mind, I was not sure it was achievable and the last thing I wanted to do was to burn out after 4 or 5 km. So for once in my life, I thought I would be kind to myself and set my pace alarm for 5:55 min/km, with my main aim to come in at under an hour - anything else I would regard as a bonus. This was, after all, my first attempt at a 10K and I really had no idea how I would perform. But me being me, I also wrote all the splits for 5:50 min/km on my hand, just in case...

Shy and reserved in everyday life, I am at heart, fiercely competitive and I had elbowed my way to the front of the green group (people running an hour or over) to ensure a good start. Flying out of the blocks, I was plagued by stiff and sore quads but there was nothing to do but keep running, my carefully created drum and bass playlist pounding in my ears and driving me on. At times people coming to a halt in my path was frustrating and there were the obvious bottlenecks at the water stations, but in the main, the event was extremely well organised, with the wide roads allowing me to run at a speed of my choice.

And so, that's what I did, I just let myself run. Occasionally the pace alarm vibrated but I told myself that getting round was more important than anything else. Kilometre 5 to 6 up Kirkstall Road was a real grind and the final couple of kilometres really unpleasant in the heat of the sun. A small uphill section, followed by a narrowing into the final straight, killed my speed a little, but again, I forced my way through the bodies and ran as hard as I could towards the line, hitting stop on my watch as I sprinted under the white and blue gantry.

Charging for the line

Crossing the finish line (if you can spot me!)

After picking up my goodie bag, as we funnelled out of the finish area, I found the Simple Chick on the steps of the Art Gallery. A text message had already arrived to tell me my result - 56:59. Having donned the finishers t-shirt and put on my medal, we set off in search of coffee and cake to celebrate. Not only had I smashed my 59:10 target, I had actually achieved the unachievable and unspoken aim of 57'. I really couldn't believe it.

Feeling, to adopt Mark Cavendish parlance, 'super happy' as I tucked into some strawberry gateau, I couldn't help but feel that I had had a very good start to my 35th birthday celebrations.

Birthday cake number one

Birthday cake number two - made by the Simple Chick using the colours my climbing gear is taped in!

Freakishly Flat

I had been looking forward to this run for ages. Week in, week out, I had been slowly incrementing my long runs, starting at 10 km and building up by 6 to 10% each time. I had run over the moors, up and down hills and in ever decreasing circles until I had reached 19.13 km with somewhere between 296 to 326 m of ascent. Now I was ready to tackle half marathon distance and I was (perversely) excited. By strange coincidence, it is also almost exactly that distance between Shipley and Leeds, along the canal, and so, as a special treat to myself, I thought I would try running the longer distance on a flat route - because canals don't have hills, right?

'Oh look - a hill'. Somewhere near Armley Gyratory.

At the last minute I decided it made more sense to catch a train to Leeds and run back to Shipley, so, at 10.38 am I set off from outside Leeds Station. Soon I settled into my stride but a comfortable slow pace seemed rather quicker than intended and I tried hard to slow myself down, knowing how much further I had to go. But there was something odd about this run, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. Then I realised - I had run several kilometres and I hadn't run up a hill. Weird.

It transpires that canals do have to tackle hills and I was somewhat amused, when arriving at the first lock, to realise I had chosen, unintentionally, to run the route the way round that went up them all...

Eventually, I reached 12 km and realised my hip was hurting from the regularity of running on an even surface, but I refused to give up. Painfully slowly the kilometres ticked by, as I passed through places I had never been and, in several cases, did not know even existed. By 16 or 17 km my hip really hurt and my pace felt like it had dropped considerably - it was hard to know though, as my GPS watch does not deal well with cities or woods!

Uncharted territory near Rodley

Finally I recognised the edge of Shipley and hobbled on for an excruciatingly slow final kilometre, desperate to reach my target distance, but also desperate to stop running. Finally Ellis Briggs' cyle shop honed into view and I pushed on up the path and onto the bridge, where my legs finally said 'no more' and I ground to a halt.

But as sore and stiff as I was immediately afterwards, I had done it - 21.11 km, 13.12 miles, 2:19:07. I'm pretty chuffed with that!

Ever decreasing pace!

Digging deep

As the beat kicked in, I dug deep into some reserve I wasn't aware I had. I felt as if I was dragging myself, by my own hair, along those last two kilometres. I imagined the film of my life and an aerial shot of me running across the moor to the strains of the pumping drum and bass. In that film, I would have looked bloody knackered. Finally the finish line (a gate) came into view and by sheer willpower alone, I forced myself onwards, finally grasping the galvanised steel with grateful hands, as I leant forward, breathing heavily.

Mist on the moor

The run had not had a particularly auspicious start, the moor was shrouded in a thick mist which soon turned to mizzle and there was, of course, the inevitable headwind. But at least the peat was relatively dry, making my passage easier than it sometimes is. Turning onto the track that runs across the escarpment, I met the full force of the wind and was glad to have chosen a long sleeved top, although this was soon soaked by the moisture in the air. My running pack just did not feel right; it seemed to be one of those days where everything was a bit wrong, if I could drop it I did, if I might trip I would. However, I made it successfully to the road and turned downhill, engaging, as I ran, in a tussle with the straps of my bag. The few kilometres along the conduit were pleasant at least, I was considerably lower, out of the mist and what wind there was was behind me. I met some dog walkers for a second time, they must have wondered where I had been. 

It wouldn't have been right had the Horrible Hill of Hell not been involved. I swear it does not get any easier, no matter how many times I 'run' up it. My energy was sapped at the top (I may have melodramatically considered the likelihood of a heart attack) but I turned right to take on the escarpment path for a second time. The wind had noticeably increased, as it was forecast to do and the moor summit was completely hidden from view by the low cloud. As the path runs along the escarpment, it crosses a number of small cloughs, the little kickers this produces seemed energy sappingly difficult, but finally I began  to descend towards the road for a second time. Reaching almost exactly 8km, I landed my foot badly and turned my ankle, triggering a lingering injury. Yelping more in frustration than in pain, I carried on. I only had another 9km to go!

By the time I reached the road, it was difficult to see much beyond 100 m, several times a car loomed towards me without me being totally certain I had been seen. The sight of about 10 teenagers on what looked like a DofE or Scout hike suddenly appearing out of the mist was even more bizarre. Continuously wondering where the cattle grid was and completely unable to see the wind farm, I plodded on, eventually reaching the end of the bridleway and a conglomerate of MAMiLs (some of them might have actually been quite young) on bikes. After 11 odd kilometres I was already tired, but my speed mysteriously increased as I passed them... Climbing up out of the clough was difficult and I suddenly felt breathless and sapped of energy, but at 14 km I told myself I only had 3 more to go and even I can run 3 km!

Over the moor, down the Horrible Hill of Hell, through the gate, along the track, though the other gate, round the corner, down the hill, through a gate, through the gap and along the track. The gentle gradient of the track seemed to have become a mountain as I hauled myself along, trying not to look at my watch every 12 seconds. I told myself that at the bottom of the last climb I would look again. 16.1, 16.4, 16.6, 16.96, 17.01, the kilometres seemed to grind by and I felt like I was covering no distance at all. Finally as I hit the bottom of the last hill, the beat of a Danny Byrd track dropped and my long legs moved imperceptibly faster. As my watch reached my target distance, something inside me wouldn't stop, no matter how tired I felt and glimpsing a line of metal appear over the horizon, I pushed on for those last few hundred metres down the hill. 

Hills and laps around the moor

I know that there are people, like my friend Pam, who run much further and faster than me, but today felt like a real achievement. Those 17.51 km (10.88 miles in old money) took a lot of effort, and as I struggled to even walk back to the car, I knew I had given about as much as I could. Tonight, my quads feel like they have had a real workout so I think I've earned a sit down, a jacuzzi bath and maybe even a mug of hot chocolate!

Return to the sharp end

There is something oddly satisfying about a well seated nut. When both surfaces sit snugly against the crack sides and you know it's at least an 8 out of 10. There is something even more satisfying to find you can still place gear well, two years since the last time you tried.

Neither the Simple Chick (a play on surname, not a reflection on intellectual capacity) or I had led outside for some years, and in April, I had had to deal with the aftermath of my other climbing partner landing in an unconscious heap. I'm sure you can appreciate that, given those circumstances, although we wanted to get back on the sharp end, we most certainly didn't want any kind of epic. 

Windgather left

After weeks of deliberation, discussion and seeking the advice of others, we decided that Windgather was the way forward - this also gave the Simple Chick an excuse to acquire Rockfax 'Western Grit', which of course she didn't just want, she definitely needed. For me it was uncharted territory - I had never climbed in the Peak before.

Ready for the off...

Making use of one of my leaving presents from Orkney, we selected a really easy but recommended route. I volunteered to be first up to the plate, organised my gear on my harness, tied in, checked my belayer and set off. It was still before 9 am and my hands and my muscles were cold. I felt like my gear placements took hours, but I wanted them to be right, however long that took. Happily topping out, the biggest problem was building a decent belay. It was not ideal in terms of angles, but I was happy with the two large nuts and big hex that I had in place. 

The Simple Chick commandeers  ALL the nuts

The Simple Chick and I carried on, swapping leads on the different routes that we fancied. It was lovely to be somewhere where there were enough climbs at the right grade for us to pick and chose. I was very impressed by her gear placements, she was precise and exact and by her third climb was looking really slick. 

BUNS!

Following a large picnic, the highlight of which was the Simple Chick's buns, we agreed that we didn't have much left in us. The Simple Chick picked her final route and after lunch, off she set, placing my new yellow hex, for the first time on a route, as she went.

Spot the hex...

Topping out (incidentally non of my top-outs today resembled seals), we discussed her belay placements (good) and took some obligatory selfies, before again agreeing that it was time to head home. The six routes we had climbed may have been low grade but we had had the confidence to go out on our own and try, having thought hard about our venue and our approach. Standing at the top of the final route, I knew we had achieved everything we had set out to. I was proud of us.  

A happy Simple Chick and Northern Clamberer