Borrowdale Fell Race

Something’s catching moonlight and I can’t tell if its high trees, clouds or mountains. That’s the thing with the lakes, nestled in these deep valleys you get your perspective all out of sync, get yourself lost in the folds of the... shit, must be all the Sneck Lifter and Stella sloshing around in me but I think that’s just a security light shining out, not the moon. Actually, it is, it definitely is. I still don’t know what it’s catching on up there but one things for sure, it’s shining down on a complete and utter ponce, swooning about in the beer garden alone, me and the moths giving it Wordsworth at the wall lights. I’d come out when the musician stopped, thought I’d cool off before he returned, its getting on for midnight but he had promised to be back after his piss. Unfortunately the staff thought different and his kit was unplugged, people were dispersed from the dance floor, and lights were flicked on. All a bit unceremonious, he’s worked so hard all night screaming Nirvana and Prince down the mic with just about everything he had. Anyway, he seemed happy enough and drunk enough too, telling one woman he lives in Paris and telling me he lives in Liverpool. I don’t know which is true, but his thick liverpudlian accent explaining how there’s “a lot of water round here” and that “Tories can’t swim” suggests maybe its Liverpool. I guess we’ll never know for sure.

Earlier he’d stood aside from his mic, put Karaoke versions of Right said Fred and Dolly Parton centre-stage, he’d stood screaming Smells like Teen Spirit to the point of speaker distortion as one after another shirt was flung in the air by a group of runners hitting a big second wind. I resisted of course, in my usual deliberating, hesitant way, with fractured thoughts about toxic masculinity popping in and out my head as the dance floor swirled and stamped all around. Then someone behind relieved me of my top and I instantly got it, put the thinking to one side for a moment and joined in the abandon. I guess it’s all about being immersed, whether that’s dancing, running or anything, it’s about being totally immersed and present. Like descending Scafell Pike earlier in the day, sliding through the scree, out of control, completely at the mercy of that moment, the next step, that’s all. Thrown up to the wind like confetti, alive, smiling a smile that starts in your chest and rises, that’s what happens out there in the hills and I guess that’s how you end up stood romanticising at wall lights, half-drunk and hungry for beauty and experience, what else can you pour in whilst the lids off? Give me moonlight and narrow valleys, bring that musician back on I’m not ready for my tent.

Of course, I was more than ready for my tent, over ready. The race had been incredible, it lived up to all the build-up in my mind, five years of build-up in truth. It’s something I’ve thought about a long time, I’d escape into blogs about it in tougher times. Soaked it in, studied the route, learnt about old legends and battles that had played out over these hills. I’d follow the social media aftermath each year and wonder. Wonder how I’d fare on those last big climbs up Gable and Dale Head. It was hard work finding that out, and the best I can say is I didn’t stop! But the lovely run down the corridor route, the misty descent off gable and the surprise of finding I still had something in my legs to make places up through the quarry on the way back was fantastic. Parachuting down towards the finish field, excited, knowing I had finished one of the classics was fantastic. And although there was no Ali stood filming me at the line on her rabbit-eared phone, there were plenty of friendly faces, happy, welcoming faces keen to chat and share in the euphoria of being out there. I knocked about with Martin a while, got washed off in the river and ate Jam butties in the village hall, later as the sun dipped down behind Dale Head I sat easy amongst my new club mates. Barbecues smoked, kids raced about, stories flowed well like the beer and wine. Then to the pub, where I found out what Wharfedale Harriers are definitely the best at as they spilled onto the empty dancefloor like a bag of marbles and stayed there all night, seeing to to it that the day came to a fitting close.