“I live like my dogs now, got three cocker spaniels and I
live in the moment like them. I’ve got work left in me like, but I want to be
out here so I’ve been winding things down a bit”. His voice was thick and warm,
a bit Cumbrian, a bit dales, and his skin was browner than late May would suggest.
He was talking to a stranger in the car next to me, and I was sat in mine
looking busy, pinning my race number on so he’d not see me listening in.
But fell races are fascinating for listening, stood on the
start line the conversations were bustling like a swarm of midges, all positive
and inclusive, conducted with a keen eye for pretence, that rather than
shackling people, seems to free them up to say anything. Like what they’ve
learnt from their dogs or how they’re skint this month so couldn’t afford to replace
their old knackered Walsh’s. There is no judgement or jealousy here and as the marshall
gets up to give us a few pre-race instructions she’s afforded silence after
everyone helps her quiet the crowd down by shushing.
And we’re off, funnelled along the tarmac road at the foot
of Clough head, bound for the long ridge that will take us away over Great Dodd,
Raise and Helvellyn. Chatter continues along the lane but as we hit the fell, with
the gradient bending us double into a slow climb all there is to hear are the bleating
lambs. I keep checking behind me at Blencathra to get a fix on how much we’ve
climbed and it looks great in this heat, stood shoulder to shoulder with Skiddaw
against a hazy blue sky.
The real story of the race hits us as we crest onto the
summit of Clough Head. The incessant wind that will turn us into tacking ships
all the way to Helvellyn presents itself immediately and violently. It takes a
while to adjust but people seem to and I’m just grateful it isn’t blowing my glasses
off. Someone asks me to hold his bottle whilst he sorts his bag out on the
final climb to Helvellyn and he offers me some food as we walk together a
while.The view west from here is fantastic with the whole park on show, I could sit for hours watching. Maybe its the thought of sitting or just the lack of training in my legs, but after Helvellyn I find it hard and start to wilt, people go past me in a steady stream but always say hello.
Its bloody awful descending Clough head on knackered legs,
almost three hours after climbing it, and when I stop to say bastard, a woman
in pursuit stops too and says “I know”. We run back to the tarmac swapping
places a few times and exchanging some words of encouragement. At the finish a
guy sits down in the verge next to me and says he was done with the wind after
an hour, I agree but can’t summon the energy to add anything else. I need some
food and hobble back to the car thinking about the man living as a dog, on the
way I see the woman who’d descended alongside me and she puffs her cheeks out.
Everyone is spent, but we’re all here together in the endless summer making a go of
things whilst we can.
