I think anyone with the mentality to run 100 miles will inevitably want to try 200. It’s the natural progression. My finger has twice hovered over the ‘enter’ button for the Tahoe Rim 200, but I couldn’t justify the cost. Then, last year, after receiving my now-annual refusal from the Western States, an advert flashed up on Facebook for the Northern Traverse. I’d read about the route in 2008 in the book Life on the Run, about three guys journeying across the UK coast-to-coast. I’d bought the Harvey maps and dreamed of one day doing it myself, but of course shoved the maps to the back of a drawer. This felt like it was meant to be. The morning of the race came after a couple of enjoyable days of fine weather and R’n’R at St Bees. We collected our number bibs, had trackers attached and walked out onto the grass ready for the 10am start. I dipped my toes in the water, as is the tradition; touch the water on the West coast before you start, and on the East coast when you finish. We all assembled for a group photo to be taken, and then to the start line. On long events like this one sometimes people are tentative about stepping forward, which I find a bit strange; almost as though everyone is waiting for a group of elites to step up. Well, Eoin Keith eventually did step forward, and so did John Knapp, so I tucked in with them. No need to be shy.
The horn blew and we were off, sprinting straight for a single track bridge, then immediately the trail moved into a half-mile climb out of St Bees. It was already warm, with crystal-clear skies. We power-hiked up, and Eoin started edging ahead along with John and a couple of others. Their pace was slightly too quick for me, so as we rounded the lighthouse at the top I maintained a steady pace and let them go. We turned inland and within the first hour I was on my own. I was loving it; running a nice slow pace, and soon reached the first climb, Long Barrow. I power-hiked through the woods and up the hill, soon flying down the other side while still thumbing the map. I’d made a late decision to carry an extra bottle, making 1.5 litres in total, which I already realised was a good idea as the day was very warm. One of the main hurdles of this event was the self-sufficiency – the feed stations were between 30 and 46 miles apart, so between those points I was on my own. The choice was either to carry enough water to get me through, buy it on route, or source it from elsewhere. Despite carrying extra, just before Ennerdale Lake I found a café and stopped for an ice cold water. I ran alongside Ennerdale water and it was gorgeous, beautiful surroundings, cracking trail, red hot: this was heaven. The trail soon left the water and headed into the forest. It was roasting and I was quickly getting through my water. I stopped and filtered some water with my Sawyer straw, very time-consuming but I filled a couple of bottles.
Leaving Rosthwaite the run took us through some cracking trail to Grasmere and Thorney How, an unofficial drinks stop. I wandered in to find a lovely lady standing at a table with jugs of squash, flapjack and the like. No one else was around. We chatted about drinking stream water, and she said she’d drunk straight out the mountain streams all her life. I was 50/50 on this; on one hand I had contracted campylobacter just the previous year drinking from a stream, but on the other the Sawyer straw was taking too long. I left there with a big chunk of flapjack and headed for the nine miles up and over Grisedale Hause, and got to Patterdale before nightfall, bang on schedule and ready for a good feed up. Joe Faulkner was running the food, and I knew how good his soup is. I had three bowls. John Knapp was there and we chatted about what a great day it had been. My feeding plan for the event had been to consume 3,000 calories every 12 hours. This was to be made up of Gu, Jelly Babies and Tailwind, and then stuff as much real food as I could at the feed stations. Also at each feed station were several tents so you could either sleep at every station or none, or indeed sleep on the hill should you need to. My plan was to skip the first sleep, then sleep for two hours at Kirkby, then grab any other sleeps I needed on the hill. John left, and I put on my long-sleeved top and head torch in preparation for the night. Kirkby Stephen was about 36 miles away so it would take me ‘til morning to reach there. This is a great section, up past Boredale Hause, Angle Tarn and through to Kidsty Pike. I was well over 50 miles in, hiking the majority and running where I could. It was dark and chilly. I was only using GPS now. Had I been camping more and moving more slowly, with a clear head, I would have tried to navigate by map alone, but I was aiming for the fastest time possible. Heading down to Haweswater my eyes started flickering and the sleep demons were coming on. The previous day’s mountain running had taken its toll and I was nodding off on my feet. Lack of sleep is a weakness of mine; if you want to do well in a non-stop multi-day event you have to cope well with no sleep – and I don’t!
As I bumbled along Haweswater’s rocky edge I was tripping and stumbling. I took a Pro Plus. The trail improved as the caffeine kicked in, and I felt good enough to run without fear of falling over. At the end of the water I was passed by two runners. My tiredness had cost me already. I left the road and came across a metal container full of drinks and an honesty box. Very nice, I thought, as I chose a drink and choccy bar, my head torch shining brightly in the box. A car passed by, then quickly spun round and screeched to a stop next to me. “What the hell are you doing!” a voice shouted at me. I looked up and two massive geezers were in the car looking ready to stove my head in. After a quick explanation the air was cleared and I could move on, enjoying my can of Coke. I ran into Shap at 2am. The race plan showed an unmanned drinks station located there, which I thought would be closed so I pressed on into the night. I found out later that it had been fully stocked with drinks and sandwiches – doh! The route veered off onto moorland and open fields. It was very dark and the terrain was up and down. I realised one of my bottles was almost empty so reached for my spare bottle... shit, it had gone! I must have dropped it earlier while fiddling with my pack. I had 300ml left with 18 miles to Kirkby Stephen. That was never going to last.
After the previous red hot day I needed to find water fast, but as the miles ticked by I realised there was nothing; no streams, no tarns, nothing. I was seriously dehydrated, my mouth was almost stuck shut. By now it was daylight and I spotted a tarn ahead, and ran towards it with visions of gulping down loads of fresh water. But, a massive barbed wire fence stood between me and the tarn. In my shaky state this was an obstacle too far. Then, I found a puddle. There was sheep shit in it, but it was wet. I popped out my Sawyer straw and drank. Needs must. It was enough to see me through until I found a nice flowing stream. It didn’t matter too much that I’d lost a few places through this tough stage, I was running my own race and that was all I could do. I got in to Kirkby Stephen mid-morning, roughly 24 hours in, bang on my schedule and ready for a few hours of kip. I ate and drank and headed for one of the tents. Inside it was hot and every sound was magnified, the light shone through my closed eyelids, and my heart was pumping. I was never going to sleep.
I lay there for a further 20 minutes before trudging back indoors for some more food and a mental re-plan. It was 10am and the next section to Richmond was 37 miles. I decided I could continue through all day and reach Richmond by nightfall, then I could sleep. My mind was made up, and after greasing my feet I headed out of the feed station. Soon the route began rising again, a steady hike up to Nine Standards Rigg. It was gorgeous at the top; I would have been quite happy to stop a while and look around, but it was time to push on. After some cracking trail running on the high ground it was time to descend again. I was running well and my quads were holding up; the shin on my right leg was sore from the hard descents of day one, but this was a minor issue. Across Malbecks Moor my eyelids were flickering again, the lack of sleep really taking its toll. It was a lovely afternoon and every so often I would lie on the soft grass for a five-minute power nap. They gave me the strength to get through. I was about 20 miles into this stage, and had gone 30 hours without sleep. Just before Reeth there was some great technical trail, and I was loving the scrambling. The route climbed to the top of what seemed like a disused quarry and found a well-made path heading down. I was hallucinating really heavily now. I have learnt to embrace hallucinations and they don’t faze me, they just make life tricky especially when my eyelids are so heavy. I ran into the village. In my tired state I had it in my head that this was Richmond, boosted by the prospect of sleep and rest.
I chatted to a random guy who had been following the tracker and waiting ages to see a runner. He told me this was Reeth, not Richmond, and my heart sank. There were still another 11 miles to go. I walked into the local shop, sweaty, stinking and incoherent, but the shopkeeper didn’t bat an eyelid as I bought water and chocolate. I trudged through the village eating my chocolate and trying to get motivated. This was a tough moment in the race; we were around the 100-mile mark, 33 hours in and roughly halfway; my feet hurt, I was tired, my shin was killing me. I’d had enough. But, the route to Richmond was very nice, fields and woodland, not too many hills. The miles ticked by as I dreamed of the lovely sleep I was to have. Richmond was visible in the distance, and everything seemed great again. I jogged into the feed station just as it started to rain.
Massive sigh of relief. I could rest! I took my shoes off and started to eat some chicken stew. There were two other runners in there discussing the night ahead, preparing their maps. They looked so unflustered – yet I felt so shit. I grabbed my kit and limped over to my tent in the now-heavy rain. I got into my sleeping bag and set the alarm for three hours. In seconds I was gone, then in what felt like a few more seconds my alarm was bleeping. It was 1am and still raining. I wearily put on my headtorch and sorted my kit in the cramped tent. My feet were swollen and I struggled to get my shoes back on. After 20 minutes I walked back over to the main feed station for some porridge, a fried egg sarnie and a couple of teas. There were two others in here now, one had just walked in and another was prepping to go back out, although he didn’t look keen. I was mentally preparing for the next stage by breaking down the mileage. I was told there would be no sleeping at the next aid station; a storm had hit and they were unable to set up the tents. This meant I had 45 miles to the next feed station, before entering straight into the last 30 miles on no rest. Okay, keep calm. I’m going to leave here at 2am, walk for two hours until daybreak. I should be at the feed station by 3pm, an hour’s stop then an 11-hour 30-miler for a 3am finish. Simple...
The rain had stopped and I power- hiked into the darkness. My legs were stiff but I soon shook it off and the swelling in my feet subsided. I broke into a run as the first waves of light guided my way. I passed Catterick racecourse through flat fields. The water on the grass was rolling down my legs, quickly soaking my feet through. This was going to be a hindrance later on. I entered a secluded lane and walked towards a car with its full beam bearing on me. This felt weird in my tired state and I half expected the engine to roar before the driver attempted to mow me down. I walked the couple of hundred metres to the car and its open side window. My eyes adjusted to the driver. “What ya doing?” he asked in a gruff voice. “Running the Coast to Coast” I replied. “Sure you are, it’s four in the fucking morning!” “I know.” “Well,” he said, ”you better have some chocolate, keep your spirits up,” and he cracked off a few squares of his Aero for me. He pulled away, shaking his head. A quite surreal experience, that I’m positive actually happened. The lanes and fields continued for miles, and I had several variants of running on the go, varying from actually running to power-hiking to the ‘ultra hobble’. I felt happy at this point and was confident about the miles ahead. Through the ever- overgrown fields I eventually reached the A19. I knew there was a garage there and bought food, a sandwich, coffee, chocolate and malt loaf. I gulped down the coffee and stuffed in the sandwich before running the gauntlet across the very busy dual carriageway. My thoughts were on my feet which were soaked through and badly macerated. The pain was searing up my legs, and by my reckoning I was at mile 150. It was about 1pm, 40 miles to go. I was hoping my feet might dry out a bit with a fresh pair of socks. Little did I know what lay ahead. The trail rose up through the forest, and it was stunning, a very different scene to the grassy fields. After a lengthy climb I joined the Cleveland Way, where the wind was getting up and coming from the north, whipping the tree tops and driving the now-constant rain into my side. The rain was soaking through my windproof top and there was a chill in the wind.There was an unofficial feed station at the Lord Stones Café.
I opened the door and peered in, but it was rammed full of people and very hot inside so I pushed on instead. I started heading higher on the Cleveland Way, and decided to tuck in to some bushes to change coats. The rain was now driving in on the high wind, and the conditions were testing to say the least. I dropped down to a road, and again convinced myself that this must have been the feed station, but I couldn’t see any sign. Maybe I was wrong again. I couldn’t face getting the map out in the high wind. The higher I went the stronger the wind blew, it was howling. I was in the clouds and the cold was going right through me. My feet hurt, I was exhausted, but I had no choice but to run as it was just too cold. I started doubting my position; visibility was poor and stopping wasn’t an option. I had a feeling that I’d gone wrong. I needed shelter but there was nothing. Eventually I squatted behind a bank to get my trousers on. Everything seemed too hard. I got my phone out to call in and make sure I was on track, but I couldn’t work out how to use it. I only had a few minutes before this got serious. I needed to know where I was now, or I’d have to get in my bivi and that could be race over. I got a grid reference from my GPS, and got a fix on my map. I was on track, two miles outside the feed station. Forcing myself I ran and... missed the turn. I went several hundred metres before realising. I chose the correct turn and found the pub. What a relief! I nearly cried. I grabbed my kit bag before setting up camp in the disabled toilets of the pub. I completely stripped down, and warmed up by the radiator. I tried to grease and tape my feet but they were shot. Mile 160, about 57 hours in, on three hours sleep. Mentally I was finished. I was dog tired, it was 5pm.
The only thing that got me dressed was knowing that I had one stage to go and it was too late to quit. I put multiple layers on and headed back out to the feed station van. For the first time I felt too sick to eat. I stood in the van while they made me some rolls for the next leg. They were lovely and chatting away to me, but my mind was in a daze and their voices passed in one ear and out the other. I prepared myself mentally again for the next leg. I shoved the door of the van open and stepped into a gale. There was a headwind as I crossed the car park; the wind was deafening and I tucked my head down and ploughed forward. I felt lost. “What am I doing? How am I going to finish this?” It was actually impossible to run into the wind. I kept my head down and battled on, the warm pub now a distant memory. After a mile the trail turned off the road and across the rough moorland. It was flooded and thick with heather, the path was indistinguishable and really tough to follow. I followed my GPS to the line, occasionally seeing snapped branches so I knew others had passed through recently. This was as tough as it gets and not enjoyable; I was praying for some lower ground. Darkness soon set in and I was cold again. The cold didn’t fight off the tiredness, and I was falling asleep on my feet again. At one point in my frustration I started yelling profanities at the weather. The trail alternated from moor to trail to road, but still no descent. The sleep monsters were full-on now. I was hallucinating constantly, every rock or bush had a face. I kept stopping and nodding off on my feet. For large portions I was convinced I was with someone and would chat with them, but the truth is I hadn’t run with anyone for 60 hours!
At last the route started to descend and the chill eased off. It was late at night as I walked into the village of Glasdale, where I cameacross a phone box. This looked so inviting that I got into the box and curled up on the floor for a five-minute power nap. My feet were so sore I could no longer take a step without the feeling of walking on broken glass. I had to shuffle along on the outside of my feet. The hills still seemed to go on for ever and the moorland didn’t become any easier. I entered the woods at Little Beck and there was a steady ascent for a while. At points I would lose the trail and end up climbing through trees. I knew it wasn’t far to the end now. The trail turned into a track, which became a road, and at last I saw a sign for Robin Hood Bay. I left the road and headed down through a campsite to the coastal path. Daylight had arrived an hour previous and this coastal path was a nasty sting in the tail. Up and down it went, seemingly forever. I was hallucinating heavily still and all the rocks were alive with faces. My movement was just a hobble now, with mind-bending pain in my feet. At last, one final climb to a gate... and standing at the gate was John Knapp. My god, is this it – the final stretch? He congratulated me and let me run off to the finish. I turned the last couple of corners to be greeted by my wife and James, the two solitary figures at the finish. I collapsed in a heap, only lifting my head for my medal. I stared into the sea and felt a wave of relief.
Eighth place. 190 miles in 69 hours, three complete nights with three hours’ sleep, over some of the country’s toughest terrain. I was spent. I slept for 24 hours straight post-race and felt completely shattered for days after. I also picked up a nasty stomach bug somewhere on the route which has not helped recovery. I’m not sure if I’ll ever enter a straight 200 mile race; the lack of sleep limits my ability to compete at this distance. My feet slowed me down massively at the end, something that can be worked on – but the difference between me and the guys above was ultimately sleep. I just have my limits there. I can easily go one night without sleep, I just struggle to go two. All things aside, I finished injury-free and have a clear race calendar between now and Spartathlon. Let the training commence.
