Great Whernside stands tall in the
endless mid-winter sky. Not far from the orange glow of Kettlewell at its base,
a concentration of white head torches flicker and bounce off neon running tops
and throw light into great clouds of rising breath.
Its 7pm and there are twenty-three
names on a sheet of paper, in a few minutes they’ll set off into frosted fields
towards the perma-bog of Upper-Wharfedale. The day has been peppered with a
thousand exchanges about the startling blue January morning. The low sun
catching on a frozen canal brought the world to the towpath at lunchtime,
disturbed gulls circled above, their cries baying for the return of their
deserted, muted-grey home.
Any heat that had built during the
afternoon has since been lost to the dark and puddles are rings of frozen white
along the lane towards registration. A small beck hurries by and kitchens glow
out from converted barns, one man is changing behind his car, another two are
shuffling into a jog ahead. In the field where the race begins people are
gathered and conversations follow the upbeat tempo of jiggling legs and rubbed
hands.
The race begins with a few words “Know
where you’re going? OK go”.
The talking turns to heavy breathing as
field gives way to fell. Frost crunches and the grass glistens under white
beams, we all find our pace and stick to it with few change in position. I’m
pleased not to wilt tonight and the summit soon appears as we advance well
across frozen bogs. The top is tended by a lady clasping a flask and she
congratulates us individually as we turn back for the descent.
I’m in a group of four now, and one of
them follows me as I confidently veer off in the wrong direction into tussocks and panicked grouse. He catches up when I stop to admit I’m lost, he regrets following me
but between us we find our way back to the path and resume racing each other
down the fast grassy paths to the finish. My name is written on a clipboard and an email will arrive over the following days with a result, the
winner being the person who most accurately predicted their race time.
Kettlewell was quiet as I jogged back
towards the car, a runner threw a holdall into his van and gestured good night.
We were all turned towards home now, pleased to be keeping pace against the
long winter.
