These boots were made for walking ....

I have included a picture at the end of this blog of what's left of my feet. It's not for the sensitive. It is what happens when you run, walk, shuffle, hobble for 15 hours, 53 minutes and 40 seconds over 50 miles of sodden bog in sodden shoes and sodden socks burning up over 6000 calories in the process. Some of you have already shared the sado-masochistic pleasure of an endurance event with me. And many of you have sworn you will never indulge in such pleasure again. But I ask you, like chocolate ... can you ever really have too much? There is always that little bit of a craving to go further. And so it is that yet again I'm giving up my Saturdays and several nights a week and pints of real ale and cleaning the house and a social life for 3 months to train for the great Lakeland 50, a run that takes in at least four lakes and as many Fells passes in the lake district of northern England. There is a 100 mile event run at the same time but that's just plain crazy.

http://www.lakeland100.com/
http://www.lake-district.gov.uk/

Now 'run' may be a bit of misnomer. Taking the middle ground like a good Buddha I figured walking the ups and running the downs and the flat would be fine enough. The fact that I wouldn't get to see the course before the event, that we had to be able to navigate at night, and my training ground was Richmond Park, London, not known for its Fell like conditions, more manicured trails and wandering stags, did not deter me from making predictions about my finish time. And anyway, the weather forecast was for dry and mild conditions.

Given a list of all the things that could have gone wrong, having deformed feet at the end of it all is not too bad. There was a moment when an early checkpoint ran out of water and bottles had to be filled with coca cola. There was a moment when, finally finding myself on my own on the fourth section, all map reading skills went the way of my cap in howling gusts of wind, and I managed to take the wrong path finding myself in a caravan park on the wrong side of a river. Worse of course is joining another team for a night section and insisting you know the way because you'd been right up to then and would have been right this time technically if we'd been in Chapel Stile instead of Elswater. It was fortunately only a ten minute detour. There was of course the weather. It had lashed on the poor 100 mile runners the night before and while we were spared rain most of the day the damage was done ... the trails disappeared under bog and puddles and raging torrents as the water made its way down the peaks to the lakes below.

But in return for these hardships, I got to see some spectacular scenery (when I remembered to take my eyes off the path to look up at the scenery although this risked serious ankle injuries as the path at times was just a guess that the rivulet running over rocks hidden under shoulder high bracken was heading in the right general direction). I got to eat some amazing malty fruity cake that someone's mum had made by the truck load to feed some 200 competitors at 14 checkpoints staffed by the loveliest volunteers that tired, sweaty, dirty competitors could ask for. I got to be inspired by fellow Fells shufflers in what is clearly a sport for the older generation. I hardly saw anyone under 30 years. I shared a seat on the bus to the start with Janet, a woman in her 50s at least who still runs sub 4 hour marathons 3 to 4 times a year and had just completed the Long Distance Walker's Association's annual 100 mile event. Finishing in 14 hours, 22 minutes, Janet passed me half way through the second section and that was the last I saw of her. There are also the eccentrics that only endurance sports can bring out. I wonder if the man and his dog made it? The mad Italian who registered in the 100 miles just in front of me eventually finished in 42 hours, 40 minutes and 31 seconds! Torelli Giovanni Battista, you are a legend!

But I think the real reason we do it is the that there is nothing more guaranteed to bring out the best in people than sharing adversity. Even a self-inflicted one. My utmost thanks to Shelley, Ellen, Allen and Tracey who adopted me at Chapel Stile, the second last checkpoint with 20 km to go through unmarked sheep paddocks, bogs and bracken. If they hadn't so graciously given me their spare torch and led the way, offering as much support to me as to their own team members, I would still be wandering around the Fells trying to get home without my head torch (which blew a fuse at about 1am), looking for a 'notch in the skyline' that marked the beginning of the descent into Coniston and home (seriously, that was the instructions on the route guide ... hello! it's night time guys!!!). And there is no better feeling than to share the experience in the pub or around the breakfast table in the guest house with fellow survivors, easily spotted the next day by their limping gait and bandaged toes.

For the statisticians among you, the winner of the 100 mile made it back in 22 hours, 46 minutes and 29 seconds. The winner of the 50 mile made it back in 8 hours, 29 minutes and 7 seconds. This would have required not only running up the hills but also making like the Man from Snowy River and bolting down the other side on slippery, rocky steep descents. Only one female 100 miler made it back, in 31 hours, 47 minutes and 3 seconds. In the 50 mile the first woman made it back in 9 hours, 51 minutes and 19 seconds ... 6 hours before I hobbled over. I'd like to think that I'm not that competitive, that it's all about just improving my own times, that it's just between me and the mountains, but bugger it ... I really wouldn't mind decreasing that gap next time. Or perhaps going that little bit further ... perhaps another 50 miles further ... :-)