Cross Country Run
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| The start of the adventure |
"Adam, come quickly!" I hear Matt shout with a sense of urgency. "We need your help"
It's the end of our first day attempting the Coast to Coast Challenge, a 190 mile self-supported run across northern England. Just the two of us. I've just stopped to take a leak behind a boulder. What on Earth is he hollering about? And who is 'we'?
Over the course of the last hour we have been descending the steep sides of an 800m high fell. A giant rock strewn wilderness with fast flowing becks and raging waterfalls that towers over Grasmere, the location of our accommodation for the night. Just another three miles to go before we can enjoy a well earned pie and a pint. It has been a tough day with two big climbs and 38 miles of running across the Lake District from St Bees Bay on the Irish Sea.
Our 10 kilo backpacks are weighing us down and blisters are already forming on the soles of our feet from the stony trails. It has been a clear day with blue skies and bright spring sunshine, but now dusk is falling and the first stars are beginning to appear. We have been on our feet for almost ten hours.
As I round the boulder, I see Matt and two women, one of them laying on the ground covered in a foil blanket. The other standing over her looking distraught.
"It's my sister," she explains pointing at the prone body on the long damp grass, "she fell in the beck after slipping on a stone and cracked her head on a rock. I managed to get her this far but she began to feel faint and lose her vision so I made her lay down. My phone has no signal. I'm so relieved to see you." She is holding back tears.
Our day, our adventure, has taken an unexpected turn...
Rewind six months.
"Do you fancy running the Wainwright Coast to Coast path to celebrate my 40th birthday?" my friend Matt asked me last year. "We'll do it over five days, carrying all our stuff but staying in B&Bs along the way."
I didn't need long to think about my answer. "Of course" I said, "Sounds like an adventure."
Over the following months we laid out maps and planned our route. Accommodation and travel was organised, kit bought, and annual leave booked.
We went on a couple of back to back long distance training runs with weighted backpacks. The North Downs was the closest we could get to climbs, but we were in good condition and determined to give it our best shot.
Watching people's shocked responses to our plans only encouraged us further. We were doing something big, pushing ourselves, launching Matt into his 40's in style. I would also use it to raise money for my daughter's school. The goal, £1000 for a new Forest School for the neurodiverse students.
Here is the planned route and elevation.
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| The route and elevation profile |
Meanwhile on the hillside.
The thin foil blanket lifts in the breeze to reveal a small, well clothed elderly woman curled up in a ball, shivering. Matt and I remove our backpacks and take out our survival bags which we lay over her. Various items of clothing are distributed and pulled on as the temperature continues to fall and night closes in. I feel myself starting to tremble with cold and nerves.
Matt takes charge and uses his phone's satellite connection to contact Mountain Rescue and give our exact coordinates. I simply look on impressed with his calmness, and try to keep the woman on the floor awake. She keeps closing her eyes, but it would be dangerous for her to lose consciousness now.
Somehow my inane conversation manages to engage her. I ask where she is from and what hobbies she has. I sound like some daytime TV gameshow host. It turns out that Cathy is 70, a retired teacher from Hampshire. She and her sister Bridget are in the Lakes for a couple of days on holiday. She enjoys crotchet and walking. On with the show!
We gather around Cathy and encourage her to stay awake despite her eyes closing more and more frequently. "Cathy, stay awake!" Bridget shouts every time Cathy so much as blinks.
Time passes slowly and night falls. An amazing sprinkling of jewels light up the sky while below, in the valley, we see only darkness. Our eyes search back and forth for lights, signs of rescue. What feels like hours later I see a pinprick of light. It disappears. Did I imagine it? Then there is another flash. This time we all see it. There is another not far behind the first and then more appear, far away but coming closer, snaking their way up the pass.
Matt and I put our headtorches on to guide them to our location and they come towards us with incredible speed. What seems like just minutes later a black and white Collie dog bounds over, followed closely by the Mountain Rescue advanced party.
An enormous sense of relief and gratitude sweeps over me and I feel drained. Minutes later with six professionals doing medical checks and preparing a stretcher to take Cathy down to Grasmere, Matt and I pack our bags and begin our final descent.
We move fast, chasing the lights of our headtorches and leaping over rocks. All of a sudden the ground where I placed my foot is moving and I see a large rock heading towards my face. I land hard with a grunt, the air knocked out of me. I feel my mouth hit the floor and all is still. Matt turns and I am blinded by his headlamp. All I can think about is checking for the hole where my tooth used to be. Miraculously it is still there and not even loose.
Standing up I brush myself down and check my hands, my knees, my elbows and my face. No blood. Everything moves. Incredible.
"Are you ok?" asks Matt. "Sorry, I was pushing us too fast."
"It's ok." I reply "But I need to take it slower" As I speak I can feel my bottom lip is swollen. It must have acted like an airbag, protecting my tooth on impact.
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| Born Lippy |
We run on, and forty minutes later we are telling the story to a pub full of diners as we sit there, sweaty, caked in dirt, stuffing our faces with pie and toasting Mountain Rescue with a pint.
For a first day it was certainly eventful. I am in no doubt that Matt probably saved the lives of Cathy and Bridget through his knowledge and experience of what to do in that situation. This was brought home all the more the next day when we started out on day two and encountered thick ice on the ground. It had been a freezing night and was no time to be out on the fells without survival equipment.
It was also a reminder that when you run in these places it is important not just to pack what is needed to protect yourself, but extra supplies should you encounter others in distress.
Some photos from before the incident.
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| St Bees Bay |
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| The first fell |
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| Ennerdale Water |
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| Below Crag Fell |
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| Climbing to Black Sail YHA |
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| Climbing towards High Raise |
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| More climbing |
Day two.
Two more big climbs awaited us at the beginning of our second day; Grisedale Pike (791m) and Kidsty Pike (780m). We were up early to make the most of the day. Breakfast wasn't yet being served so we had a couple of jam sandwiches and an instant coffee.
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| Early risers |
Grisedale wasn't messing around. It was steeply uphill straight away. We leaned on our walking poles and lifted our legs above the long, dry grass, quads straining to lift our body weight and that of the heavy packs on our backs. Left, right, left, right, pause, breathe. Left, right, left, right, pause, breathe...
Striding edge loomed above us, leading to Helvellyn. On the other side Great Rigg. Eventually we reached Grisedale Tarn. The water was encased by ice like a mirror. In the centre an arrow shaped hole allowed the wind to create ripples across that part of the surface as though guiding us onward.
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| Spot the arrow |
We descended into Patterdale. Hungry now, we approached the only place that was open, a hotel. We approached the man at reception and asked if we could buy a couple of bacon rolls to take away. He asked the kitchen but explained that they only served residents. After some discussion he finally agreed to let us purchase a couple of bags of crisps from the bar.
The climb out of Patterdale was spent grumbling about the lack of hospitality we had encountered, but it passed the time. The first walkers of the day appeared on the slopes. Once more we were ascending. It was slow going but we were moving. A plateau gave us some respite at Angle Tarn, another deep blue pool reflecting the cloudless sky and a stepping stones path. The wind had picked up and served to cool us from the warmth of the sun and effort of the relentless climb.
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| One step at a time |
Thinking I could see the peak I pushed on, but Matt seemed less motivated. Turns out that the summit it was Knott. As in The Knott, a lump of rock we had to circumvent. Another top loomed into view which Matt insisted still wasn't Kidsty. Again he was right, this was Rampsgill Head. I was now less motivated than him, but eventually we did reach our goal, from where we were able to take in the stunning views from the high point of our route.
The descent was gnarly with big drops and rocky steps involving the need to stretch further than was comfortable on tired legs. The idea that after a slow climb you can descend rapidly was far from the truth. By the time we were at the bottom we had been going for six hours and covered only 12 miles of the day's 42 mile distance.
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| Gnarly |
We refilled our bottles from a cascading waterfall that fed Haweswater, the reservoir we had to run beside for the next few miles.
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| Water supplies |
“I’m not sure how much more I can do today” Matt admitted.
“Let’s just push on” I encouraged, “take it one mile at a
time and see how we feel when we get to Shap.”
Shap was the halfway point of the day but all the climbing
was behind us. We met a couple of hikers who had
already passed along Haweswater.
“Is the trail runnable around there?” we asked
“Yes, you’ll be able to move pretty fast” they confirmed.
Happy days.
Never believe what people tell you. Everyone has a different
perspective on what is a ‘good’ trail. This certainly wasn’t close to runnable in my book. The path began to
climb and was littered with angled rocks and boulders which prevented us from moving
forward with more than a tentative stumble.
Matt had gone quiet and I knew better than to
continue to try and encourage him. He needed some time and space. The lake was
only three miles from one end to the other but it took almost two hours. At times it
felt as though we weren’t gaining any ground.
Tap, tap, tap went our walking poles as they picked out gaps in the rocks to support our tired limbs. Passing through a gate we
came across a plastic honesty box filled with flapjacks and bottled drinks. This
gave us a much needed lift.
“I don’t think I have another 20 miles in me" Matt
admitted.
“I’ll be honest, I’m struggling too. Let’s push on to Shap, another four miles and then reassess. We may need to change our plans, I think we have bitten off a little more than we can chew.” I said demonstrating this by nearly choking on my flapjack
“We’ve done the biggest hills of the route, but its another marathon distance across the Yorkshire Dales tomorrow and
then another 42 mile day over the North Yorkshire Moors before a final marathon on the last day.” Matt reminded me. "There are no big hills like here, but it is all rolling terrain."
“One step at a time.” I repeated, knowing the truth of his words while coming to terms with accepting that we probably weren't going to complete the Coast to Coast.
We walked to Shap despite it being perfectly runnable terrain. We encountered pools of water filled with frog spawn, fields full of new born lambs and the ruins of Shap Abbey. Skylarks rose from the fields like feathered elevators, whistling and chirping urgently before hovering above us desperately fluttering their tiny wings against the breeze while remaining motionless.
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Frog spawn
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Lemon yellow daffodils bunched together in pockets on grass verges and celandines threw open their petals like golden stars fallen to the earth. We wandered through the trees at Burn Banks, the trunks and branches coated with deep green spongy lichen.
Rabbits wasted energy darting across the fields to safety as we lumbered past more tortoise than hare. Our sagging backpacks our shells, our expressions turtle like, thousand yard stares from glazed eyes. Noting the beauty but unable to fully appreciate it in the moment.
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| A flat bit! |
We arrived at Shap and were struck by the amount of bird poo on cars and windows. Everywhere was caked in the stuff. The pavements too were covered in a layer of guano. Apparently this is due to the starling murmurations that occur above the village at this time of year. We found a café. It was one minute before they closed for the day. We purchased two take away coffees and pondered our plan of action.
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| A welcome sign |
We were mentally exhausted, in physical pain and emotionally drained after the rescue the day before and the exertions of four huge fells. After some discussion we were in agreement that in order to give ourselves any chance of reaching the east coast we needed to be sensible. Pushing on for another 20 miles would result in arriving in Kirkby Stephen in the dark, knackered and demoralised. We both doubted that would leave us able to cover a marathon the following day.
First decision made. We called a taxi to take us to our end destination for the day. We would regroup and, after a shower and some food, take stock of the situation.
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| Taking stock |
Over glasses of Borrowdale Bitter we agreed that although we felt able to tackle the marathon distance from Kirkby Stephen to Richmond, we both knew that the following day’s 42 miles across Moorland was a big risk with nowhere to stay or pull out if we couldn't go on. At our current pace we would be anticipating 15+ hours on our feet with the last of these being in the dark. The Mountain Rescue situation lurked in the back of our minds. How big a risk were we prepared to take to achieve our goal?
The reality was that we should have planned a seven day route as opposed to five. Knowing that the long day was not something we were prepared to take on meant we had two days left and were not going to make the coast.
Change of plan. We decided to spend the next day going up to Nine
Standard Rigg, a famous sight of nine large cairns that dominate the hillside
outside Kirkby Stephen. We would then run the route back to Shap.
“At least we will have connected the route and made it all
the way from St Bees to Nine Standards Rigg.” I said.
“I agree,” said Matt, “If we aren’t going to finish
we can at least so some good running and enjoy the days we have left.”
We slept better that night. I don’t think either of us had realised how
anxious we had both been since the rescue on day one.
Day three.
The next day we were in a far more positive frame of mind as we climbed the nine miles up to Nine Standards Rigg. We were back to laughing and joking while taking in the beauty of the location and the glorious weather. A red squirrel even put in an appearance at one point.
We weren't moving fast, but it was a day to rest. Usually very competitive, we both simply laughed at the fact that we were barely staying ahead of a group of retired day hikers doing the same route. A curlew swooped past whooping as it went and skylarks exploded from the tussocks around us, protecting their hidden nests.
The Rigg was a stunning sight. Each cairn was roughly four metres in height and made up of local stone perfectly laid with no mortar to hold it together. There were various shapes ranging from conical to cylindrical and even square. As we rested we listened to the group of hikers chatting over their lunch. There happened to be nine of them so we offered to take a panoramic photo of the site with each one of them beside a Standard. We descended through the marshy fields and back into Shap for a relaxing evening.
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| Nine Standards Rigg |
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| Panorama |
Feeling rested we began to retrace our steps from Kirkby Stephen to Shap. This meant that we had covered the full C2C route from St Bees to Nine Standards Rigg albeit with one part being in reverse.
We started strongly, the miles ticking off nicely for a change. The countryside was undulating but involved no climbs - at least not like the ones we had done over the previous three days. It was much warmer and the trails were dry and hard. It would have been so much tougher had it been raining before or during the run.
After ten miles fatigue began to set in again. My right ankle also started to hurt and soon caused me to start limping and lean on my poles even on the flat terrain. Blisters were still an issue but we tool painkillers and pushed on knowing that this was the last leg and that we were on our last legs.
Our spirits were lifted by the amazing and unexpected sight of limestone scars. These limestone pavements were created during the ice age by retreating glaciers. It reminded me of running at Malham Cove where the scars there were used to film scenes in the Harry Potter movies. We also passed a place known as Robin Hood's grave but there was no sign of a grave or even a sign to indicate that we were there.
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| Limestone Scar |
It was a relief to be back in Shap. We hobbled to the cafe where we had arrived two days before and booked a taxi to Penrith from where we would take the train back to London that night.
On the way to the station a seagull unleashed a barrage of thick, sticky excrement all over the pair of us. We stood there and laughed. It was a great shot and reminded us of our time in Shap. By now we were so tired and dirty we didn't care.
My ankle was red and swollen, a clear case of tendonitis. This was further evidence that we would have been unable to complete the route. If it had happened on the long day over the Moors we would have been in big trouble. We had united to make sensible decisions.
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| Joint effort |
There was a slight sense of disappointment that we hadn't achieved our goal, yet more prominent was the feeling that we had enjoyed a wonderful few days together, pushed ourselves, worked together, and made lasting memories.
What is an adventure?
No tale of heroic conquest this. Instead it is merely a tale of two overambitious novice runners failing in their attempt to do something that was beyond their ability.
Or is it?
As I reflected on my experiences during the journey home, I thought of my daughter back in London. I had hoped that my adventure would one day inspire her to take on her own challenges; to push her limits and to realise what she was capable of achieving. Seeing her dad conquer the Coast to Coast would show her that anything is possible if you just believe...
Actually, I don't believe that is true. Some people do manage to achieve these feats. I am in awe at Damian Hall running the route in under 40 hours for example. I'm no Damian Hall. I'm not even worthy of untying the laces on his INOV8 trainers.
The reality is that I hope my daughter will learn more important lessons from my experience:
- Sometimes we don’t manage to succeed and that is ok.
- Risk is something to calculate not just take.
- The joy is in the journey, not just the destination.
- If you try your best, that is good enough.
- You can't do everything, but you can do more than you think.
- Be prepared.
- Be willing to adapt to your circumstances.
- People are more important than plans.
- Enjoy the moment and prioritise fun.
And finally,
- Be grateful.
Now that sounds like an adventure.
