And so it was, being picked up hung-over (as usual) on Hayfield bypass far far to early on a dull dark dank Sunday morning, most probably with a blood/alcohol level that would have failed a certain test; whisked off on the very comfy back seat of a steadfast supporters car, over the tops to the less dull and positively vibrant Marsden (well in the Public Loo it was). Plenty of roadside banter with the usual suspects, who turn up for the annual flailing that is the Marsden Edale Fell Race. A true winter classic, despite being almost ruined by the denial of access up and over Rollick Stones, that saving grace of a firm rasping rocky ridge, sandwiched between the dark mires of Black Hill and Bleaklow.
08.57 hrs: Tanky spoke, nobody listened, someone said go, the Grough Hounds scampered up Wessenden at the usual unbelievable pace, some would be sorry, some would hang on for glory. Meanwhile the Troggers trogged, banter continued, old friendships renewed, new friendships forged, gossip continued over the Isle O' Skye. Slithering, sliding, laughter and much swearing on the greasy flags to Black Hill Summit. Novices looked askance and quizzical as the seasoned brigade turned left'ish at their own favoured spots, and the weather remained clear, kind and gentle. Underfoot was a different story, off the desperate flags and into unfathomable peaty porridge, maybe it wasn't going to be that easy today after all?
Most found the right lines, remained mostly upright and found themselves bounding along the track down to Crowden, where some found sustenance or begged, stole and borrowed victuals from the happy band of supporters. Those who had the warm memory of Rollick Stones trudged along the track alongside Torside, those who were young an innocent of those halcyon days, stretched their legs and enjoyed the 'easy going' cantering down the valley to the dam crossing.
Soon enough we all began the grinding ascent up Torside. In the distant, once on the rim of Bleaklow, others could be seen making their way on favoured courses into the complex plateau, mainly in the direction of Hern Stones? Suddenly, there was a change (as usual), in the perfect place, at John Track Well, the cloud and mist descended, conditions to suit the purist, and all in just a few moments. The wise drew out compass, bearings & a corner of map from saturated bumbag. The not so wise (or those with inherent unswerving native ability) ploughed on, on whatever directional trod they might be on, some were lucky, and some were definitely not!
Next vision was Hern Stones, emerging faithfully on cue out of the mist and mire. Yet again there was a parting of the ways, the cunning campaigners picking short cuts and good ground off the path. More cunning was had in another left'ish turn, down and onward into the grimy grip of Upper North Grain, can that midway bog get any worse, maybe not, it has been the wettest year in the Peak in my memory.
Tarmac and sunshine, the relief is very short lived, the memory kicks in again, how long till cramp sets in (is it 2 or 3 miles down the Snake Road?). Inevitable the comfortable trot turns into a stiff legged high-speed march that the Para's would be proud of - I'm not and it hurts, but thankfully there are others around me who are fairing far worse at this point, the glow of schaden-freude raises my spirits and I almost gloat, only to be passed by a sneering aging stalwart, which taught me reet good and proper!
Smiling faces at the Lay-by provide more than adequate way food; it carries us on in a daze floating past the Snake Inn checkpoint.
Hell approaches, first a little softening up of the spirits in the woods as we leave that 'lovely' smooth tarmac, then the beguiling ramp up Gateside Clough, fire and brimstone come next on the rear flanks of Kinder, Seal Stones a mirage in the low blinding winter sunshine. Then comes Dantes Inferno, the short crossing! How deep can the mire get, more than waist? Up to the ribs and still sinking, fortunately for some fading souls there are club mates and ramblers about who tug & pull until the poor Tanky sinners are wrenched free from the fearsome sloppy grip of the potentially deadly mire.
Exhausted, well I was, we reach the very edge of Kinder, Edale gleams in the most brilliant rays of winter sunshine, Golden Clough is aptly named this day. We slither, slide and tumble down beside unnamed clough, not caring about the screaming limbs and cramping muscles, all can smell the finish. For some the scent is so intoxicating they positively fly down the mountainside scattering the limping and barely jogging wounded in their wake, we who are in their wake try our very best to smile and cheer them on, whilst secretively wishing to extend a surreptitious tripping leg...
We all gain the gentle track in the valley bottom, employing a fixed gait, we mostly run towards the finish, smiles all round we are going to make it, in a reasonable time (all times are fine and reasonable in this race, some are even dead good), a few groans down and over the foot bridge, past the Nags Head.
Oh no, who's this approaching from behind, the easy finish swansong of a totally knackered legs jog is remarkably transformed into the rampant stride of a Olympic sprinter, not that any of us are competitive? Are we?
At last, gasping (but just in front), it's up the grass and into the finish tent outside the Rambler.
Tanky smiling - as usual.
Thanks Brian, it's a lovely sight and a special event.
All (who know about these things) head to and fall into the Village Hall and gorge themselves silly on the seemingly endless supply of tea, soup and monster butties. The gathering fug and fumes of fell runners thickens; prize giving (eventually) brings its own bit of special entertainment, plenty of cheers for those out front or aged and daft enough to feature, and more importantly even more mutual admiration for all who made it through this years challenge.
Many thanks are rightly expressed to the unstinting and generous supporters who make events like this possible.
Overheard after the race...
"See you next year, same place?"
"Yep, Marsden Public Bogs at 8.45am, 1st Sunday in December, bring
your own bog paper, might even do the race too."
"Maybe they will be a bit more of a KFR turn out?"
"Happen there will be, there is honour to be restored..."