I shuffle skyward as I sweat profusely; I am a horrible, leaking mess. The nearby bracken is also perspiring, after the early morning mist has cleared. Lakeland sunshine and warm summer air, without any breeze, envelopes me – it’s much like climbing up through a tropical armpit. This is fellrunning: “A bit like cross-country running, on drugs,” as offered recently by a friend. I tell myself that I’m never, ever going to do it again. The faces around me express a similar message. There is no need for words.
A male voice among the collage of colourful vests suddenly disrupts the universal pain and anguish: “It’s my 60th birthday today – would anyone like to sing me happy birthday…?” Chuckles ripple freely as we all continue ascending slowly. I return to gasping for air while silently cursing every step. Even smiling is painful. As always, I know this feeling is only temporary. Then something amazing occurs: we actually do start to sing happy birthday.
I later reflected on this for two reasons: first, questioning why this bloke had decided to run 14 tough miles over Lakeland fells on his milestone birthday; and second, would the same celebratory outcome be likely at any road race? On both counts I wonder if it’s all down to character.
Much has been written about the pursuit of fellrunning. But little is reported of the individuals and characters that make up a significant proportion of any fell race. Race reports focus on the achievements of the lithe, athletic and triumphant elite. Most fellrunners will remain unknown, unreported and soon forgotten – who are these characters and why do they persist in the pursuit, especially when the only reward may be a supporting photograph in Fellrunner magazine, or token recognition in a club newsletter?
Fellrunners are often described as gnarly and full of grit (I’m sure I heard that right?). Some even say, to be a true craghopper, that one must adopt chunky thighs, wear a distinctive buff and grow wild, facial hair – I presume the latter is optional for women participants. Road runners, especially in winter, can become a homogenous hi-viz blur with musical spaghetti hanging from ears and blank, facial expressions.
On the other hand, eccentric and gregarious individuals continue to fuel the mystical nature of fellrunning and its characters: deranged, feral participants, who supposedly drink from smelly bogs and eat decomposing, moorland sheep. Lancastrians will say this is true of Yorkshire bogtrotters, and vice versa. Cumbrians are allegedly completely different altogether. Dark comedy is interwoven with the colour of the peaty trods we often stride over. Nonetheless, the pursuit does remain egalitarian: for example, on the moors of West Yorkshire, the Brownlee brothers continue to race (and win), then join others in the pub for the prize presentations.
Trophies and a shot at glory are definitely not in the target range for almost all; although, in some races, prizes are possible for creative and imaginative fancy dress. Achievement times are broadly irrelevant, too – yes, all runners want to better themselves, but on exposed terrain (unlike the dependency of tarmac) there are obviously more variables to consider, so finishing times are largely incongruous. For most fellrunners it’s just about finishing: a common goal at village gala races is to return safely; ideally before the local farmer receives the rosette for his prize-winning cattle, or the WI announces the award for the best Victoria sponge.
Maybe the pure challenge for most fellrunners is the seemingly herculean feat of man (or woman) versus nature: a return perhaps to our primitive being? After the elites have danced away over the first peak, though, this individual contest against the physical environment seems to become more collective. In fact, there is an unspoken solidarity among “pack” runners to cajole, joke and motivate – to keep moving upwards, preventing festering thoughts of defeat, and focusing ahead; always towards the next horizon. This silent agreement is sometimes emotional, physical or even spiritual – tearful scenes, jelly beans and refreshing streams are commonly shared between strangers and rivals alike.
Conversely, during an exposed section at a recent road half marathon, I asked two nearby runners if they wanted to share the responsibility of drafting into a strong wind: a scowl and one-word refusal suggested teamwork was something alien to both of them. Perhaps a more united approach is prevalent on the fells than road?
Fellrunners are largely self-sufficient – commonly carrying water, food and protective clothing, and yet paradoxically each runner remains part of the collective. That said, individual mental strength is needed to maintain focus and deliver safe and still competitive performance levels. Sharp reflexes are essential on fell or moor: to adapt one’s feet and gravitational centre in relation to constantly changing hazards; and also to offer acerbic humour, as a fellow runner performs the inglorious act of bog-snorkeling to recover a lost trainer. I wish that I could have thought of a witty reply for those runners at the blustery, half-marathon. Still, they unwittingly missed out on some of my jelly beans.
Social media does provide a snapshot of the mud, sweat and tears of those who regularly compete in Bowland, Borrowdale and beyond. But, to truly absorb the camaraderie and unconditional support of the steady fellrunner, one must double-knot the shoe-laces and witness events first hand. Many races are actually easy to navigate and – appealing to the thrifty, non-commercial purist – cost nothing more than a few golden coins. Boast to friends of your intention to see what all the fuss is about, and then laugh like a hyena when they label you crazy; this will begin to frame your own fell personality.
Then, we might stand side by side at the start of a race; tightening our waist packs in unison and in anticipation of the climb towards the first of many peaks. Who knows, maybe an Olympian will be fortunate enough to sit next to you in the pub after the race? Or, at some point on a future climb, fellrunners might even agree to sing you happy birthday.
Neil Wallace is an average fellrunner and lives in Leeds – he will be spotted cursing on Whernside at the Three Peaks race in April; and equipped with jelly beans. If windy, he will share drafting.
Source: Read Full Article