At this point the other attendee of the stand pipped up. She was a young lady, without a gram of fat on her, and bore a remarkable resemblance to a blackberry bush. “Look here, do you need to see the medic? Your legs look quite bad. And you look pretty pale. And that gash on your shoulder likes like it could do with some ointment or something.”
—-
I’ve got a golden ticket
Ok, I’ll admit it. This race is pretty niche. The Darwall Ultra Sky Running Man. In fact you have to plunge pretty deep into the ultra-running subculture before you even hear of it. But as soon as I did hear of it, I knew I had to do it. It is a 100km foot race across some of the hardest trails in the Lake District, including a mind bending 8,579m of vertical ascent. It was a small race, but for those in the know is was THE race. All the best ultra runners in the country would be there, and it had that kind of cool hipster factor about it – if it was a bike race, it would definitely be on gravel.
One of the hardest things about the race (other than the race itself, obviously) was acquiring a starting place. It has no website where you can neatly sign up, nor a Facebook page to leave needy sounding messages. I had to speak to a few people I knew, follow up on a few leads, and discovered that the only way to get a place was to go to this guy’s house in Keswick, and hope that he was in (as he apparently eschews almost all technology so doesn’t have a phone).
So, about 6 months before the race, i made a long weekend of bombing up to the Lakes to see a man about a ticket. I found his house using some unnecessarily cryptic instructions i had been given – as he lived right on the high street.
A large wooden door invited me to knock on it, but I was greeted with only echoes and silence. Hmmm. I noticed a weathered laminated bit of paper on the wall next to the door. It read “If you’re hear about the Darwent race, wait the bench.” (Sic)
There was only one bench within view, a few metres away with a pleasing view of Skiddaw. So I sat and did as I was told. I waited.
Roughly 45 minutes later the wiriest old hand that i had ever been poked by, sharply poked me twice on the shoulder. I couldn’t help but wonder at the strength of his ligaments.
“Want a starting place then?” Crikey, he doesn’t beat about the bush. I thought about how little this bench must be used for him to make the assumption that I was here for aticket for a race in six months time. And clearly thought too long about this, as he raised his voice slightly and said “hey!? Darwall? You want a place or not. I’m a busy man.”
I regarded this man a little closer, and realised he must be close to 90, but looked as fit as a fiddle, and a bit like he was about to try and fight me if I dallied any further. But he really didn’t look busy. He had a plastic shopping bag packed full of onions, and a newspaper under his arm. But I didn’t want to aggravate him so I blurted out “Ah, yes. Yes please.”, and then trying to seem friendly asked “Hey, so you must be Henry Gully then?” This was the name of the man I had been told to find, with an added warning that he might seem a little odd, but was actually a very fine man.
“Name?” He replied.
“Uhh, yes, your name. Is it Henry Gully?”
“No, you muppet, your name. So I can register you. I’ll need £5 too for the race fee.”
Baffled and confused, I handed over the £5 cash I had at the ready (I had already assumed this wouldn’t be a Monzo transaction). He took the note, and starting walking towards his house, I shouted after him something about how surely he needed more information than that, and “what about my emergency contact details?!” But just like my other questions, he flatly ignored them, and marched into his house, and closed the door, not once looking back in my direction. Gone.
I race best when briefed well
So 6 months later, I made another trip up to the lakes. I had heard nothing between now and then, and was just blinding hoping I wasn’t completely wasting my time.
It was, then, with a fair bit of relief when I arrived at the start point to find a few other bods nodding around, with the distinct atmosphere of something about to happen. It looks like we had a race on.
As you could imagine, the start point was a car park that was unmarked on any map, and registration was carried out by girl no older than 10, who huddled under a tree, surrounded by 4 or 5 dogs, each larger than she was. I gave my name and was greeted with a severe nod, which was all I got from the youth, but fortunately it was all I needed.
I checked my watch, not much time before departure, but time enough for you know what. Behind a bush, that’ll do.
10 mins remaining. 8 minutes. 6.
I had seen a few familiar faces, exchanged a few predictable conversations, and tried to work out who the hot favourites were. Numbers had swelled slightly since I first arrived, but there could be no more than 50 races. And no amateurs here. This looked a domineering field. I told myself I belonged, I hoped it was true.
The man who I had assumed to be Henry Gully appeared and delivered the shortest race briefing of my life. “100km. Feed station at roughly 50k. Look out for the yellow flags. You all know the route, if you don’t you’re in trouble. See you in the Guilder’s Arms later.” Thanks Henry.
The man standing at my shoulder, number 35, laughed. I looked at him. “You alright, chap.” His features immediately went from some kind of false mirth to barely concealed fury. “Oh” he said. “Oh, you’ll find out.”
What a wanker.
5…4…3…2…1 and we were off. A blob, seemingly one single organism, but gently being pulled apart from the tail, one cell by one cell being discarded as no longer of use.
The pace was to my taste, and I trotted along at the back of the front pack, watching runners slowly drop away realising they had gone out too hard.
After a couple of hours of glorious trails, but no serious elevation taken on yet, I realised how fresh I was feeling. How good I was feeling. My legs brushed over the top of the terrain, by feet felt like clouds, my breathing was barely audible. I felt like I could sense every movement from any of the runners in our group. I had reached a higher plain of running.
This spell was broken when I caught the number of the runner who had just moved in front of me. 35. Eurgh. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to cross paths with this bozo again, but instead I may have to spend the next hour studying his calves, his back, learn the way his arms swung, the way his feet danced.
I made the decision I would try and pass him at the next available opportunity.
Feed station
I arrived at the feed station bleeding badly from both legs.
There were two friendly locals running the stand. The first one, who could quite easily have been called Colin, handed me a few jelly beans.
“Any chance of some electrolytes”. I figured that with the amount of blood I’d lost, I at least needed a litre of water and one of those little salt tablets or something.
“Sorry” Colin said “the last guy that came through here really cleaned the place out. He was in a pretty bad way too, to be fair.” Colin took another look at my legs, then back at my face. “You can have lots of water still. And do you need any more jelly beans? I can give you some more jelly beans if you like.”
I knew jelly beans weren’t the solution, but it really seemed like it would cheer Colin up if I accepted. And after all, he had scarified his day to come up and man this feed station, so it was the least I could do to try and make him happy.
At this point the other attendee of the stand pipped up. She was a young lady, without a gram of fat on her, and bore a remarkable resemblance to a blackberry bush. “Look here, do you need to see the medic? Your legs look quite bad. And you look pretty pale. And that gash on your shoulder likes like it could do with some ointment or something.”
As part of running these extreme events I could turn off my mind off to many things, but I couldn’t block out the ice cold truth in these words.
“Oh yes. Dear, dear friend. I think that is exactly what I need.”
“Ah well,” she replied cheerily “in that case, all you need to do is make your way back to the start finish area, and you can get seen up there.”
This was not the answer I was looking for. It was 45km of brutal terrain back the way I’d come, and 55km of equally brutal terrain carrying on carrying on. I’d taken a forensic look at the map in the days leading up to the race, and knew there were no shortcuts to be taken. “Can’t you call someone to come out here? I’m not sure I’ve got sufficient blood left in my body to make it back.”
“Sorry buddy, the entry fee didn’t cover helicopter rides.” Colin chuckled. Yes, it had clearly all gone on jelly beans.
I was about to muster the energy to punch Colin in the face, but just before I could another man bolted into the feed station. Number 17. He grabbed the bottle of water I was clutching, snatched a few jelly beans from my now trembling hands, and grunted a few words of insincere thanks. The bastard. At least I got the pleasure of seeing him miss a sign and run off in totally the wrong direction. I wonder what will happen to him now. Gain a place, lose a place. I reckon I was probably still in 10th then.
It feels like I might be missing a toe. There’s a real chance I marmalised it back there.
I borrowed some electrical tape to wrap around the worst of my gashes, and Colin did come out with a bit of a blinder when he revealed he had a couple of Ibuprofen he could give me. I did have a stack in my racing bum-bag, but I had lost that when grabbing 35 and hurling him into that mountain stream. It occurred to me losing all my scant supplies could be dangerous, but I had still thought it worth it to see that bugger land on his back in the water, and making that cracking sound which must surely have been a broken rib or two.
There was really nothing left to be gained from this feed station now. I thought about stripping off the jacket Colin was wearing; taking it by force. But wasn’t sure I could muster the energy to come out tops in the scuffle.
I heard the sound of another runner coming up the pass, they’d be here in a few minutes. If I hung around, at best i would be losing my 10th place, and at worst there’s a chance 35 had recovered and was on his way. Shit. Couldn’t take that risk. I needed to motor. All I was doing here was losing places and losing blood.
The end draws closer
Things were looking bleak now. My resolve was finally cracking. My arms were close to exhaustion and I was struggling with each lurch forwards along the ground. I wondered if there were any predators large enough to think about trying to finish me off to feast on my warm flesh. A determined badger would probably do it.
The injuries I had sustained in my earlier fight with 35 were starting to get the better of me. Those gashes on my legs were looking particularly bad, and they felt even worse.
I thought back to the moment 35 and I had clashed. It had been building for kilometre after kilometre, and then finally came to a head when we were running on our own, in 7th and 8th position. We were on nothing more than a goat track, running up through some woods.
Neither of us had spoken for the last 10 minutes or so and then I felt a hard shove in my back. I had been a expecting this, but what I hadn’t counted on was 35
carrying a small knife out with him. Had he been preparing for this eventuality all along?
The initial conflict was all straightforward enough. Some loose punches, some grappling on the floor, so wild aimless kicking. I had managed to make a few decisive blows, and momentum was going my way. But then he flicked out his knife and starting wildly swiping at me.
Knowing that unless I did something, I may never make it off this hill, I grabbed the closest thing I could, which happened to be a smooth round rock, about the size of a large baking potato. As soon as I had a good grip I swung it hard across my own face, and into his. Stunned, and spitting out blood, he staggered backwards. Looking at me in shock. I knew I had to strike, before he came around and started going to work on me with that knife again. So I lunged forward and aimed another swipe straight for his skull. He was aware enough to dodge a clean hit, but it came down hard on his shoulder, and sent him teetering on the edge of the track, looking down into the icy cold water of the stream running along the path. One last kick aimed at his back, but only reaching as high as his thighs, was enough to see him fall the 7 or 8 feet down the bank, and into the inky black water. Crack. I smiled a grim smile. It had been a grim day filled with grim deeds. This was just one more.
Who’s this, coming up the garden path?
I had been reliving this moment. Playing it over and over in my head as I sat on the path. 25km more to go, but unable to move any further, wondering, passively, if life was truly draining out of me. An objective thought, which worryingly was bothering me less and less. I think I was probably currently in 15th place, but I was finding it harder and harder to keep track.
It was a recognisable sound that brought my alertness back. The distinctive pitter patter of a runner below me clipping up the mountain path. I crawled to a position where I could peer back down the track. This could be it! This could be my life line. Sweet lord deliver me home from this hell. I believe. I repent. I will do as you wish and as you say, just please save me now.
But squinting through the evening light, my eyes delivered me only terrible news. Foul eyes, I’d rather you deliver me nothing but blackness, than to deliver me this. It was 35, and he was making good pace. He must have recovered from his injuries a lot better than me. He would be upon me within a minute or two.
One thousand chances
Looking back, what happened next was inevitable, and if I had 1,000 chances to do anything different, I’m not sure I would have.
Nearby to the track, and crucially, within crawling distance of myself, was a large rock. It was half muffled by brambles, which would not make for a comfortable bed, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I looked at the distance to it, and made a quick calculation I could drag my body there and hide, before 35 rounded the bend giving him a clear view up the path.
A surge of adrenaline gave me the vital boost I needed, and I clumsily folded away out of sight of the chaser, behind my chosen stone, trying not to think of the new grazes I had just acquired and the uncomfortable thorns sticking into me. I thought of it as penance. As I knew that’s exactly what it was.
Pitter patter pitter patter he came ever closer. I look down and see my arm is covered in ants. Thump thump thump, my heart beat ever faster. I didn’t want to turn and look and give away my ambush, so I just had to guess his location based on the slapping of his feet and his increasingly loud panting. I noticed how sound travelled surprisingly far, so once I felt his presence close to a few metres, I took a deep breath and held it.
And then, just as I felt him draw level with my concealed position, I leapt. Or rather I flopped.
I had wagered I would have enough strength for a heroic rugby tackle, leaping up and hitting him hard in the hips, and sending him thundering to the ground. However, my weakened physical state had only really allowed me to flop limply out onto the path. And to make matters worse I had misjudged his position – his breathing clearly far louder than I can ever have imagined. So I simply flopped onto the path several metres in front of him, not unlike a seal emerging from the water to take a rest on an iceberg.
Fortunately, running for as long as we had, and bleeding as much as we had, makes you incredibly weak, and very badly adapted to dealing with any kind of surprise that causes you to move in any unexpected way. And such was the cry I made as I emerged from my hiding place, that it was enough to startle him, and he couldn’t stop himself from tripping over to come crashing to the ground, only a foot or so from my face.
Now I needed to act quickly whilst I still had surprise on my side. I quickly grabbed his feet and tried to hold them still. He was clearly too stunned to put up any resistance, and I didn’t want to wait for him to come around, so I took my chance whilst I had it. I bit down on his Achilles. Hard. And I didn’t let go.
35 came out of his stunned inertia now alright. He screamed in a manner I didn’t think possible and was thrashing around like a landed fish. But still I didn’t let go. And with all the trashing, it started to work loose his achilles in my mouth. Before long a chunk had come loose, and I spat it out, tasting the iron and wondering if drinking any of his blood might replenish my own stocks.