Singlespeed European Championships 2012

Floressas, France.

This was a roadtrip. Me and Will, the bikes and all the camping stuff off to the Pyrenees to meet, ride and party with like minded loons from all over Europe and beyond. So much happened that I am going to resort to a Gonzo journalism style stream of conciousness info blurt to give just a flavour of what went on. Plus it seems appropriate for a tale that takes in Stone age monuments and cross-dressing Belgians.
 Motorwaying for hours through the brow furrowing, headache inducing spray. On the fly decision to take in Stonehenge as it's only half an hour out of our way. Park. Out. Snap. Snap. In. Go.

Outskirts of Winchester for a kebab van tea. On to Portsmouth followed by a Porsche the colour of a '70's toilet suite. Why the sudden fashion for sticking hazards on when boarding a ferry? I can see, you know! Pint in the bar. Traditional French school trip kids on the dancefloor. Bed. Aaand time to get up. Blimey, Caen already. Next stage on the trip - pilgrimage to Le Mans. First place I ever went abroad, twin town with Bolton. Discussion on places with more than one twin town. How does that work then? Pics of the footy ground and the 24hr circuit.

On, on. Destination Cahors. We'd hoped to meet some Belgies that we met at last year's SSEC who were cycling there from Maredsous. Will had been 'talking' on FB to some Norn Irish lads who were driving down with a caravan and said they might stop there too. Got there. Dead quiet. No other SSers in sight. Into town over the river in search of grub. Impressive old buildings. Finally we find a restaurant that actually had people in. Steak and chips for 2, s'il vous plait. 8E50 each. Bloody superb it was too. Back to the tent for a kip. Early up for me. Lazy arse stayed in his pit while I ran over the river and followed it to the bridge the town is famous for. Pretty cool.

Up and away for the last small part of the trip to the village (hamlet?) of Floressas. it felt familiar as we'd seen the pics on the website. Found the Irish lads, introduced ourselves and pitched tents on the village green near their caravan.

There was a Belgian enclave nearby and a large posse of Catalunyans arrived soon after. Up to the chateau, register, get tickets for bread and croissants and bought a book of beer tickets. Familiar faces all around. some we actually knew - Sheldon Attwood, Ringo, Charlie the fishmonger, Le Dav and Bruno from the Belgians, large contingent of Godiva Trails from Coventry too, including the very gorgeous Lea. In the aftenoon a ride was proposed. That'll do we thought as the night ride wasn't due to go until 10.30pm and we figured we'd be tucked into booze by then. The locals led us off into the countryside, shrouded in mist at first but clearing. Varied trails - clayey fields, rooty woods, technical rocky bits. Not many steep climbs but we must have been high already as it was hard work and sweaty. I crashed. Clattered my knees and managed to knock the back brake. Damn thing started sticking on for the rest of the trip. Bugger. The riders mamaged to get split up. Was a bit worried as Will disappeared with the missing group. Rode back. They had taken the short route.

That night was the traditional pre race piss up. We had taken our own supplies - Will on the cider me on the bitter but soon I was tucking into beer from the beer tent. It seemed to go down very well. best thing about these do's is the people. We talked to loads of interesting characters. I was really pleased to see a really nice French girl that I met last time in Belgium and I spent a lot of time massacring the French language with her and her boyfriend. Usual stupidity. Us wearing Lancashire flat caps. Will riding somebodies mini bike.

Beer flowed as it does and I suddenly realised I was on my last beer token (of 10), therefore I must be bladdered. Bed. Will was happily talking to the Irish Trailbadger guys in their caravan and told me in the morning that I was snoring by the time he went to bed.

BONG!!!! It's surprising how a really, really loud and unexpected noise can come close to inducing cardiac arrest. Or maybe it isn't. BONG!!!! Following 9 bongs the church bells a few feet away then proceeded to go off on a riff of slightly quieter strikes. I was quite surprised. Mostly because it was seven o' clock rather than 9. Must be a French thing. I got up and breakfasted feeling pretty ruined after the night before. Mind you I think I was in better shape than in Belgium last year.

More to come...

Anniversary Waltz fell race

I've not done a 'proper' Lakeland fell race since the Three Shires in 2007, mainly due to not being keen enough to put the training in to do myself justice. When the Anniversary Waltz was added to this years Dashers fell race championship my interest was piqued. I knew the race was raved about by the 'cognoscenti' and I thought this might be a good opportunity to test myself and, if nothing else, see a part of the Lakes that I'd not really visited before. A crafty look at the entry list revealed that very few Dashers were going to be taking part: both the Jonathan's (Stubbs and Bruton), Kevin Smith, Pete Murphy, Sarah and myself .
The weather on the drive up was pretty changeable. One minute dry, then spitting, heavy rain, clear again but claggy on the tops and finally back to clear and dry. I'd taken Jonathan B up with me and we found Stubbsy, Pete and Sarah esconced in their respective camper vans in the car park field. It turned out that Kevin had gone awol and so only 5 Dashers took part. Jonathan B had proudly shown me his nice new Harveys waterproof map of the course that had taken a bit of time and effort to get in time for the race on the way up but when we entered the field where the race started and went through the kit check he had managed to leave it in the car! Luckily I had brought a few copies of the rather poor map downloaded from the event website and handed him one. We lined up ready for the off and I took a minute to admire the setting. The stunningly attractive hills of the Newlands Valley surrounded us and they were fortunately clear of clag.
Off we set and I found myself a little behind the Jonathan's and had to work my way up through the field to catch them. The initial stages of the race are pretty gentle and encourage you to pick the pace up however it pays to excercise a little caution as the race is 11.5 miles and has 3600' of climb. A big chunk of the climb comes early on with the ascent of Robinson. I'd done my homework and seen the profile of the race so had an idea of what was to come. On we trotted and after a while Stubbsy dropped behind. Now, on the first decent length fell race of the championship, Heptonstall, 'young' Jonathan had gone off to quick and suffered the consequences later on. I figured that he'd learned that lesson now and so sitting back and hoping that he'd crash and burn wasn't really going to be a good game plan. We reached the foothills of Robinson and, seeing as I was feeling good I thought I might as well play to my strength (note singular!) and put it in a bit on the climb.
I got my head down and gradually worked my way through runners ahead of me as they began, one by one to adopt the fell runners walk, and I managed to just keep jogging. Eventually it go so steep that I had to walk too but found it still possible to overtake, taking a wide line away from the the queueing masses. Nearing a summit I thought we might be pretty near the top. How wrong I was... There was about another 4 false summits before we reached the point where the real climbing started. And I mean real climbing. Hands and feet struggling for grip on the smooth rocks of the crags. A wrong move here and it could easily have resulted in serious injury or worse. I looked behind hoping that I'd dropped JB and couldn't help a rueful laugh to myself when I spotted him about 30 yards behind. I wasn't going to shake him easily! Finally reaching the true summit I couldn't help but pause and take in the views around me.
The next part of the race is a roller coaster along the summits around the valley. Plummet and climb. Hindscarth and then up towards Dale Head. I'd lead on the climbs and Jonathan would sprint away on the descents. The rocky descent of Dale Head was where it went downhill, literally and metaphorically. My trail shoes had offered poor grip before I'd reached this point and on the technical, rocky crags I found myself becoming overly cautious. My upcoming trip to the Pyrenees played on my mind and self preservation kicked in. Jonathan had no such worries and I could see him getting further and further in front.
High Spy reared up but and climbing advantage I had was now lost and I could see I was not making any ground. I slogged on and started to feel the tell tale twinges that warn of cramp as I reached the busy summit of Cat Bells. Weaving my way through the walkers I began the final descent. Ultra steep but grassy I was still struggling. Cramp in my left hammy and pain in my feet as my toes crushed against the front of my shoes due to the incline. No sign of JB ahead but by now I was more worried about being caught. When I got chance I shot a few rearward glances in case Stubbsy's flourescent yellow thermal top was in sight. I didn't spot him but I couldn't risk anything and pressed on towards the very welcome finish line.
Jonathan had finished almost 10 minutes in front of me, and had had another great run. Despite my struggles on the descents I was quite happy with 2:15. When we got back to the car and I checked my phone I found a text from Stubbsy informing me that he'd had to pull out after 3 miles. We both felt gutted for him.
We nipped back to the hall where we registered to get our free veggie chilli and beer (!!). Our times were checked on the preliminary results but there was no sign of Pete and Sarah's times by the time we left.
On the drive home we reflected on what had been a great day out. Jonathan Bruton goes from strength to strength with every race and it's great to see him enjoying taking part. As for me, apart from sore feet, I took away memories of a truly superb race route with magnificent views. Thanks to the organisers and marshalls.

Pic by I W Charters

Rota ride - Halifax

A 20 mile charity mtb 'challenge' in aid of the Roarty Club Halifax. I've done a couple of these rides before and quite enjoyed them so it was a good excuse to get out and ride somewhere new. Laughing Dave was very keen on and helped to persuade our Will that he'd enjoy it.
An early o' clock start with a last minute diversion due to an closed road led us over the border and finally to Greetland. Plenty of riders milling around. 'Everybody looks a bit serious.'said Will. And then we found Dave, who didn't. It became obvious that the three of us were all approaching the event from radically different directions. Dave kept calling it a race and was obviously champing at the bit. Will was doing his usual trick of worrying about things and thinking it was going to be massively hard. Me? Well I'd already decided that I was going to just ride round with Will so it wasn't going to be a killing pace. I was doing it on the Voodoo singlespeed and I'd been for a bit of a leg battering run the day before. A nice leg stretcher then.
We lined up in a field behind the community centre and then without much ado we set off. Dave disappeared in a trail of dust (I think he's got a supplier for EPO) and me and Will trundled along near the back. I took time to have a look at the bikes and riders around me. Fair play to the organisers for getting such a cross section taking part. Apart from blokes going to work on shonky owd sheds I don't think I have seen so many cantilever brakes, bar ends and  toe clips in one place for the last 20 years! There was a fair bit of elderly (and saggy) lycra on display too. Shudder. There was plenty of modern stuff too. A lot of full sussers. A bit overbiked for a genteel whiz round the countryside and back lanes of Halifax, I thought.
A few miles into the ride and once we had got some fields, rutted tracks and a bit of road under our belts we hit the first feed station. 'How are you finding it?' enquired the rotary club lady marshal. I almost laughed and said 'Well, it's not really started yet.' but the guy behind us started telling her how he was finding 'the moorland bits rather hard.' Hmm, this was about 3 miles into it...
On we went and I found I was quite enjoying myself. The sun was shining despite the cold, finger numbing breeze, and the route was engaging. Not technical at all but there were some nice bumpy descents and some stiff climbs that I amused myself on by riding past people hamster wheeling their trendy geared bikes on. Shallow I know. I had to wait at the tops for Will to catch up so they all rode past me again probably thinking that I'd killed myself getting past them and then blown up. Hey ho.
At one point we neared the M62, passing under it through a dark tunnel before riding alongside one of the many large reservoirs that the area was teeming with. The next feed stop soon arrived and the two friendly buffers who manned it earnestly asked if we thought the course was marked well enough. I assured them that it was, we had had no problems at all. It must have taken ages to place all the direction arrows around the convoluted course. It was well marshalled too, and there were loads of mountain rescue bods knocking about. 'Oh, very good. it's just that someone rode past us earlier and shouted that it needed more signs.' he said. 'You always get one' I said sagely, whilst munching on an Alpen bar. While we were here someone asked how far we'd come. It turned out we were just over half way. Will said he thought we'd only done about 5 miles. I couldn't quite decide if this meant that he was finding it so easy that the miles were flying by or that he is just crap at judging distance.
On we went, overtaking a group of three middle aged women. Fair play, I thought. Well, I did when they'd shut up rabbiting and stopped blocking the way.Plenty of climbing although a lot of it was on the road. Interesting back paths dropping us down little used routes giving us a sense of exploration as we continued. At one point we got to the end of a descent to be confronted by what looked like a very intricate steel tubing fence. 'Have we gone wrong?' asked Will. Going off the tyre prints in the mud we hadn't so I had another look and worked out it was a weird sort of turnstile thing. Very strange. Until now I had been quite smug in being able to clean every climb that the route had thrown at us. That went for a burton  as it was now steep, no run up, rocky, wet and slippery. It was pretty tricky to push up! Ah well, not such a riding god after all.
Yet another turning off a road led to a hidden downhill delight. This one was covered in that clayey mud that looks ok and encourages you to fly into it only to turn out to be actually bloody lethal. I had a bit of a moment, losing the front and nearly plunging down the drop to the side. Whoops! Waiting at the bottom it appeared that Will had done much the same. We shared a rueful chuckle. Through a farmyard now with what appeared to be all the Jersey cows in the world in it, and then up a steep concrete works road. Soon we were closing on the last feed station. I thought it seemed a bit odd to have one only 2 miles from the finish but it wasn't my gig so I had a swig of watery orange squash and another Alpen bar as I waited for Will. The middle aged women arrived at the same time and I tried to encourage Will to get his finger out by saying how close we were to the end as was he going to be beated by this lot?
Last steep climb of the day enlivened by the (worryingly close) sound of shotguns blasting, and we were on the road back to the community centre. 'Come on Will!' and he did, shooting past me before I could slipstream him, leaving me spinning like the clappers trying to catch him. Traffic chaos at the Centre due to riders leaving had us battling though them to get into the car park. Will's chain came off at this point and, bless him, he did the decent thing and ran in to finish. We were given our times (2 hours 40 odd) and some Rotary club baseball hats that looked a bit 'special needs' to me. We both vowed never to wear the bloody things.
We found Dave in the car park, all changed , fed and watered, ready to go home. He'd been there for quite a while having finished in a very respectable 2 hours dead. He was quite rightly pretty pleased with that and I think we all came away from the event having acheived what we wanted to do. There's a few more of these peculiarly Yorkshire Challenge rides coming up so we may have another trip o'er the border before the year is out.

Questions and answers.

Liver Hill fell race, Rawtenstall. 27th March 2012
http://www.flickr.com/photos/minnellium/7023305613/
Glib advice to someone doing the race for the first time. 'Oh yeah, balls out right from the start.' How can I then forget what I've said, or at least be so casual as to forget exactly what that means and how it feels? I've been doing Dashers fell race series and it's been going surprisingly well. I've done 3 and been 2nd Dasher in all of 'em, but of course it's a false position. A fluke due to most of the fast lads not turning up, or the 'new fast lads' still finding their feet. The series proper hasn't really begun yet.
Liver Hill is always well attended by Dashers. It's the first of the mid week races as it takes place just after the clocks change, it's virtually on our doorstep and it's free. All of these and the almost bizarrely decent weather was enough to get 22 Dashers (including 2nd claimers) turning up for it. After rushing home from work and wolfing my tea down, I picked up George T and Mark W and shot over to Rawtenstall.
On the start line I was feeling full and tired. Never mind. Get head straight. Get in the 'zone'. And we're off. Across the field and then the start of a whole lot of up. Mark W flew off as expected with Des and Gifford not far behind. I worked hard to keep Gifford in sight and was succeeding, only a few places behind. Russ Corsini was right with me and said something about me dodging onto the tarmac for a better line at one point. Sorry Russ, no breath for talking. The steep up finally over it's then onto the open moor and gradual climb, interspersed with stiles and stride breaking bog. My breath is now ragged and burning. Sweat is coursing out of me and all my effort is going into keeping this pace up.
It's almost nightmarish. I am watching as if remotely as Des and Gifford extend their lead on me. I can do nothing. I cannot run any faster, in fact I am running too fast already. My brain is screaming its negative messages at me. Somehow I blank them out. I near the last of the 20 (!!) stiles just as the leaders head back towards me. I'm sure I've managed to clear it before they have passed me in previous years but no matter. No point thinking about that and adding fuel to my brain's treacherous fire.
Des passes me, then Giff. I stagger up to the summit and round it as the marshals, oblivious to my mental and physical distress, share a joke. Can't they see my pain?? Back down now but it's no easier. You can't rest. Russ and Jonathan B are right behind me now. I pass other Dashers coming up as I struggle on. Some shout encouragement but I can't answer. 'Hang on, keep going', I tell myself. Russ appears at my side briefly and then vanishes again as he takes a bad line through a boggy ditch. Pressure, pressure. Crossing one of the flattish fields I see Giff ahead. Surely not? My brain struggles with this one for a while and provides a momentary distraction from fell running hell. So, yes - it's Gifford. He's about 40 yards ahead. Can I catch him? Not sure. Got to try. Pick the pace up? Not an option, already bouncing off the redline. Hang on, hang on. Then Russ passes, followed closely by Jonathan. Keep it together, don't let the head go. Descending now, legs flailing. I need to pull it together a bit here, get some semblance of form. Force myself to run 'neater'. Steady the breathing a bit. It's not working, they are drawing away.
A few fast plunges and I'm on the finishing field. No chance of catching any Dashers ahead of me, the first Lady, a girl from Rossy Harriers, is just in front. I thrash on as I can't risk looking back to see who is behind and  I'm damned if I'm going to let anyone else pass. On, on. And finish. Mouth agape, sucking air in. Chest is burning and I'm staggering. I nod at Jonathan to congratulate him on a great run and walk off to have a pee in the trees.
When I come round a bit I start working out how I've gone on. I make it 6th Dasher (it later turns out to be 7th) - not surprising given who's there but still disappointing. For a while I'm thinking 'What is the point? I have just absolutely run my bollocks off and for what?' My chest is still burning and I'm coughing like a consumptive (hay fever?), my knee is now throbbing and I am really disheartened. I don't really want to hang about after so I collect George and Mark and head home.
It was only the day after that I start to rationalise things and put them into perspective. Ok, I was 7th Dasher but I was within 30 seconds of 4 of them. Out of that 7 I am the oldest but one. And 28th (equal) out of 174 isn't too shabby really. I still can't say that I was anything like happy with my performance but I also know that I gave it everything I had. I can't say that I enjoyed it either but I know that most races aren't like that. Will I be at the next race? Damn straight I will. This is what I do, after all.

http://www.fellrunner.org.uk/results/race12/LiverHill.pdf
Thanks to Rossendale Harriers putting it on.
Pic by Dave Haygarth.

Heptonstall fell race

http://www.sportsunday.co.uk/hfr-10047

For years (and years and...) I have been doing fell races of the smaller nature. 6 to 10 miles has been plenty for me. So why, we ask, did I enter the Heptonstall fell race? 15 miles and 3000' of climb. It wasn't going to be easy was it? Anyhoo, filled as I am with the desire to complete the Dasher fell race series I entered.
Luckily enough the weather could not have been better. Cool but sunny. NO RAIN. Signing on it emerged that there were only 5 Dashers there. Well 6 if you count Sarah taking pics at the start. Mark Walsh who is on the form of his life was never going to be anything but 1st Dasher. Also starring was 'Young' Jonathan Bruton, Kev Smith and Pete Murphy as well as yours truly. We started off on the cobbles of the picturesque village of Heptonstall (imagine a mini Haworth) and were soon dropping into the first steep valley. Mark W buggered off ( natch) with Jonathan not that far behind. As this was the longest race I've ever done (I know -the shame) I decided the best course of action was steady away.
15 miles is a looong way. No, it really is. Up and down. Across occasionally. Bogs, tussocks and a lot of mud. I had to work hard at keeping my pace in check at first. After a while I didn't. I just had to work hard. At one point I spotted a yellow vest in front of me so I put it in and gradually reeled him in. Eventually I caught him. To my disappointment it turned out to not be Jonathan but some bloke with glasses on. Bugger.
On we went, eventually dropping down to a large reservoir which we then skirted. Part way along the track we came across my mate Ady from Accy, the SportSunday photographer, lying in the track taking photos (what are the chances?). I couldn't help breaking into a big grin ( see link above).
At another of the intermninable valleys that the race was littered with I glanced back and spotted Kev Smith behind me. Kev is a really decent distance runner. I am not. I got my finger out. Ah, pride.
A long time later I became aware that there was a change in the atmosphere amongst the runners around me. A tangible buzz and a picking up of speed. Being a luddite and not using the new fangled devices like GPS and er, watches I rightly surmised that we were nearing the end. I had done a bit of research and knew that the race's final climb was up from the Blue Pig and that there was rumoured to be around 100 steps involved. This may have been a cause for despair amongst some, but not me. As a one trick pony - and that trick is climbing - I had a little mental jump for joy. I had an even bigger one when I saw a yellow vest above me on the climb. This time it actually was Jonathan. Ooh, game on!
Just as I was hoping to creep up on him he looked back. I waved energetically and grinned. He gave me a look that said many things. 'I am tired'. 'I have had enough now'. 'No, actually, I am not really that pleased to see you although I am prepared to give a little wave back'.
I started to nip past people. 5 behind. 4 behind. A bit of a body swerve and 3 behind. We reached the top of the climb. I was buzzing and said to the marshal 'That was brilliant!' He seemed confused. Over a stile and across a field. I found I could run where others were walking. Gradually, gradually I reeled Jonathan in. And then passed him. I didn't speak as
a. I didn't want him to think I was taking the piss
b. Couldn't think of anything appropriate
and c. Actually I couldn't speak.
A road crossing to negotiate and then a field ahead with a big red flag at the crest of the hill. I remembered that hours ago at the start there was a field next to the car park with a red flag in it where the finish was. Tunnel vision now, everything was about reaching that flag and stopping all the pain. I staggered on, passing a couple of people. I reached the flag. It wasn't the finish. 'Oh, fuuuu...!!' Another two big red flags and then the real finish. The lovely, lovely real finish. I staggered faster and again passed somebody. Nearly there now. One ahead of me. Can I catch him? I lurched faster into what I fondly imagined was a sprint finish. Just as I was about to duck past him and pip him some swine shouted 'Come on Striders, there's one right behind you.' and he sped up. Bloody unsporting if you ask me!
Orange juice and Nice biscuits at the finish. Jonathan came in not long after me looking a bit broken. Good experience though and a lesson learnt about pacing. He won't let that happen again and I will soon be bragging about finishing in front of him. Mark Walsh was waiting at the finish and had had another superb run finishing 6th overall. Wow! Kev soon arrived back and then Pete a short while later.
I have to say that I really enjoyed this race. At times it was a bit of a grovel and I did a good bit of suffering BUT I did it, was still fairly human at the finish and yet again finished second Dasher. Big up to the organisers of the race, they did a superb job. All in all a great day out. Next up - Liver Hill. That'll be a different kettle of fish.

Mates

It wasn't a special day, just an ordinary Sunday. Nor was it a special route - we'd done it or a variation of it many times. It was pretty much the usual crew. Livsey was away skiing but the rest of us - Dave the Builder, Laughing Dave, our Will and me - were there. Maybe it was that Spring was starting to make an appearance, it was definitely warmer and drier than we've had of late. Whatever it was there was a really chilled, lighthearted vibe to the ride straight from the off. As usual Will was moaning about something and I was giving him grief. As usual the Dave's were taking the piss.
The big hairy chested climb up 'Pickabonk' was despatched and even at the re-group where we shovelled our lungs back in, jokes were flying back and forth. Over the muddy cheeky bit and onto the Grane Rd. Suddenly a race was on. The Dave's were duking it out in front while I made like a hamster in a wheel on the singlespeed trying to keep up. Then Will who had been whingeing and off the back until then, shot past everybody.
Another big climb up Robin Hood's Well and across to Peel Tower we went. A pause here for choccy biccies and a chance to critique the performance of the charity abseilers struggling down the side of the tower. The tricky, techy cheeky descent seemed a bit more cut up than normal. Ace! Three of us really enjoyed that bit!
On we went and even the walkers on the track above the shooting range were in a good mood, sharing the craic as they held gates open for us. Eventually we fetched up at Little Wayoh and its stream crossings. A small child and a big dog were playing in the water as I rode through. As Laughing Dave followed me I heard a bit of commotion and, inevitably, laughter. Half way across the dog had wandered straight in front of Dave nearly having him off. A bit of discussion on the new work on the path and we were on past the Strawbury Duck. I was really enjoying my first singlespeed ride for ages and I managed to get to the top of Edge Lane with only one dab. When I looked back at the top Dave and Dave were racing each other culminating in the Builder shoving the Laugher out of the way to take the win! More banter. Will then arrived and, far from being knackered, he just kept going. Steadily on towards the A666 we rode together and again exchanged easy conversation. A final mini race back to my front gate and the ride was over.
I said at the start - it was nothing special but somehow it was. It's great to do something you love, with your mates.

Sad it's all over

After months of planning, organising, preparation, emailing, and worrying, the night of Mr Sparkle's Dark Un finally arrived. A fell race, at night, in winter - what could possibly go wrong? As it turned out - not a lot! My romantic idea of setting the race off with a fire cracker had to be abandoned when 3 attempts failed to light it, other than that everything just seemed to fall into place.
Call me a sentimental old sod but there was a lot of love floating about that night. I had put a lot into the event, drawing on things I'd learned from other fell races, mountain bike races and singlespeed events, and I like to think that people picked up on that vibe. I was aiming for 'endearingly shonky' rather than 'seriously racey'. Fun more than competition.
Sixty runners charged off into the darkness of Roddlesworth Woods taking with them a weight off my shoulders. Although quite a few runners had recce'd the route very few knew what they would be encountering! I had put something on twitter about the race being one where you could experience woodland, moorland and Jungle. I suspect this caused a bit of confusion until the Drum 'n Bass disco on the top of the moor was reached! Not your usual fell race fare...
Almost before I was ready word came through that the first runner was on his way. We got the fire lit and then it was action stations. Mark Russell of Salford Harriers came through to take the win in 34:55, which is bloody quick for daylight let alone darkness. Other runners were soon approaching. Lights bobbling about in the darkness as they flew down the rocky track to the line.
I made sure to shake hands and thank every runner for taking part. Although sweat soaked and mud spattered they all seemed to have a big grin on their faces when they could get their breath back. In they came - from Blackburn, Burden, Dashers, Rossendale. More and more arrived home, buzzing. As I got their reaction to the course and the whole experience I must confess that I was buzzing too. Relief, excitement and pride all combined in a huge emotional cocktail inside me. Finally they were all back safe and well, the spirit of the race perhaps personified by the last 2 runners coming in together laughing.
Everyone mucked in to get the finish line stuff cleared away and then we made our way back to the packed pub. Alison, the Landlady and one of her staff were battling their way through the crush with plates of chip butties. Ale was drunk and numbers were crunched until I could lead everyone outside to do the presentation in the beer garden. The winners were Mark Russell and Sarah Sherratt who were presented with the Star shaped trophies. As well as the usual age group prizes I gave ones for last place, best reaction to the disco and best marshal as voted for by the runners. You could have hardly called it a professional proceedings but everyone seemed to enjoy the light heartedness of it all and forgive my cock ups.
Then it was back to the pub for the social. I got social as a newt and had a great night, yapping away to people. I'm not good with receiving praise but I think it's fair to say that the race was a success and I got many positive comments.
I have a whole host of 'thank you's' and 'without whom's' and I really mean every last one of 'em. Deep breath...
The people who encouraged me to go ahead with the daft idea in the first place - Paul Livsey, Jonathan Stubbs and Joanne Nelson, all the fantastic marshalls, timekeepers and finish line 'staff', Mark and Alison from the Royal who kindly donated the bottles of wine for age group prizes, gave us the chip butties at a great price and ensured that I had a thick head on saturday morning, Sweatshop Chorley for the £5 vouchers and race numbers,FDS and RPL for their sponsorship donations, Kath GP for her assistance,Hopey from Lostock who did some serious prize blagging, George Thompson who couldn't be there but still donated a prize, Linda Clarkson who bought a load of sweets to give out at the presentation, Dave Moir who knew he couldn't be there but insisted on putting a fiver in as he would have liked to have done it, Spud for loan of the megaphone, Dave the Builder Billington for use of the lights, David Barnes for use of the flashing skip lights, Bolton Mountain Rescue for attending in numbers and providing me with a lovely sense of security if owt had gone wrong, SportSunday for sending a 'tog,'Wheezing Donkey' for turning up and just mucking in, Jane Woodburn from Skelmersdale Boundary Harriers for turning up and offering advice and assistance at start and finish, the people from various clubs who helped promote the race to their club members, Jason Terrahawk Miles for the red and white tape, Richpips for getting a posse to come all the way up from Derbyshire, Cath, Will, Emma and Hannah for their various roles, people who had to pull out and insisted on putting the money in anyway. There are probably more- if I've missed you then apologies.
Suffice it to say that I will do my level best to put the race on again next year and if it's only half as good as the first one it will still be bloody great!