Based
on feedback from the first instalment of the 100
recce weekend blog, I have re-branded this series as a
'Trilogy', and the second instalment is named 'The Two Holes'.
My understanding of the Lord of the Rings is fairly scarce, and was
obtained mainly through watching the films (a mere 15 years ago), and
attempting to read the books - but this was abandoned by the end of
page one, when I got Gandalf confused with the Gimili, then Gollum,
followed by Galadrial, and then becoming totally lost in Gondor.
Where Gloin turned up, along with Gamgee, and who is Grima? So any
similarities with the actual Lord of the Rings will be by
accident. Although, I suppose there are some obvious parallels; I'm
thinking along the lines of the Misty Mountains, Mount Doom, Shires,
the Old Forest, and Boggles (an addition from North Yorkshire; more
on those later).
Fascinating
though all this is, we must continue our journey through Middle
Earth/North Yorkshire. The first Hole
in our
tale, was Hutton-le-Hole, where we had spent the night (in luxury,
see part 1, now renamed 'The Fellowship of the Luxury
Item'). Breakfast was vastly improved from yesterday, and I
managed to finish the whole delicious
plate of scrambled
eggs, mushrooms and toast without fear of it cementing my insides
together. The same praise could not be heaped upon my trainers, which
were as cold and wet as the moment that I had
flung them from my feet
last night.
We
were quickly reminded
that we were in fact
in a hole, as the start of the route began (as it would indeed
go
on) with a hill, which Tara fell up, in shock, as it had been a full
12 hours since we had come across such a hill. Any concerns that I
was going too slowly were quickly calmed, as a sign instructed us,
quite clearly, that we were to slow down as to not frighten the
lambs.
It's
always dreadful the first few miles on the second day of a multi-day
challenge, especially after a nice breakfast, and I felt quite
unhappy for the first few miles. This was followed by our first
recce moment (which is my new name for ‘lost’) not long into the
run. One of those moments came up, where the exact same line of
instructions quite clearly meant three very different things to
three different people; and upon explaining to each other, each
alternative explanation also made sense to the others, and so
everyone ended up confused. After a considerable debate, involving
much turning upside-down of maps (and route descriptions) a decision
was reached, and turned out to be right. Hurrah! The trick now is, I
guess, to remember what the right decision was, for the real thing.
Moving
on, we arrived at a more straightforward instruction, which directed
us to continue along a path in a straight line for 5.5 km. I quite
enjoyed that part. Even I can manage these type of directions. Plus,
my breakfast had gone down, I felt a bit warmed up, the scenery was
nice, and it was quite sunny. All in all, I felt quite good.
And
the trick with ultras, I've learned, is that feelings never last for
long. I hold this thought firmly in mind in those moments when I feel
terrible, after all, it won’t last forever (although it may seem
so, at the time). But the flip side is, it's a sobering thought when
you’re feeling quite good, but are aware of a little shadow
hovering somewhere close by. Around the next corner, up the next
hill, behind a tree, in a bog...a shadow ready to sap your energy and
your spirit, ready to whisk you in a quick moment straight from the
sunny Shire right back to the gloom of Mordor. Beware.
My
shadow was waiting for me in Rosedale, the end of the first stage for
today. There was even an air ambulance there when we arrived, which
was an ominous sign. Team Luxury convened in the centre of the
village green, along with the rain, which is good at choosing it’s
moments to coincide with other low points. In the moments where we
all scrambled about for waterproofs, my shadow appeared from
behind a nearby tree, and quickly enveloped itself around my soul.
Right in time for decision time - due to the route, this was the last
point in the day where any sort of shortening to the route could be
negotiated.
Paris
and Jen decided to take a slightly shorter route, right across the
top of the moor. I ran the Lyke Wake race here a few years ago, with
my old running club. In the middle of July on a sunny day, it had
been delightful, and I even managed a light tan in Yorkshire. Today,
in the driving wind and rain, I wasn't so sure of the desirability of
a route right over the top of the moor. Plus, I'd come to recce the
100 route, so recce the 100 route I would do. Shadow or no shadow,
decision made.
Approximately
one half of a second after we went our separate ways, I had second
thoughts. Who was I kidding? We hadn't even done 7 miles yet, and
there was at least 30 more to go. Everyone else on this weekend was
so much better and experienced at this than me. I was already
tired – physically, but mostly mentally from a day and a bit of
trying to convince myself I could do this along with everyone
else. And now I'd just chosen to run 30 more miles up and down and
around the moors, in the driving rain and wind, and I was probably
just going to slow everyone down, and ruin the whole thing for
everyone.
I
was an idiot.
And
spent the next few miles reminding myself so, as my shadow danced
around, laughing at me, and the rain beat down.
The
route writers also joined in, and turned up the gradient. The hill
went on and on.
Then
the wind joined the party. I referred to the A to Z of swear words,
but none were really a match for my current mood.
Instead,
I tried
to channel my discontent into moving forwards, which was requiring
increasing effort, as the wind had different ideas as to which way we
should be going. As
we continued up the hill, The Lion Inn came in to view. This
had been the scene
of a
most pleasing checkpoint
on the Lyke Wake race;
a welcome break after a long uphill
drag
in the beating
sunshine, and a car park full of family and friends. Those
scenes seemed very far away today. I couldn’t even remember what it
felt like to be too hot, for a start. Instead, we continued
up road for a mile, which felt much more like the whole 100 miles,
all concentrated into one little section of road.
Finally,
finally! The 1.6 km of hell finished, and we turned right off the
ghastly road, and up across the moor, where we headed for Fat Betty.
If, like me, for you this conjours up images of a lovely warm tea
room, with hot tea and scones, you will, also like me, be bitterly
disappointed. Fat Betty is a wayside cross, a Christian Cross
constructed in the 10th or 11th century,
serving the dual purpose of reinforcing the Christian faith to those
who passed and reassuring them, and also pointing travellers the
right way at points where the way could easily be lost (helped by
the dashing Young Ralph cross, which is found nearby). In addition to
all this, the Fat Betty cross also marks the meeting point of the
three original parishes of Danby, Westerdale and Rosedale. So she’s
quite busy, but continues to be helpful, guiding tired runners in the
right direction. We continued across the top of the moors for a while, running along the narrow paths through the heather, and dodging bogs. The rain had eased off, and even the wind had chilled out a bit, and there were some great views from up there.
After a while, we headed down off the moor, down a valley so steep and rocky it was hard to stay upright. Quite an abrupt change from the last few miles through soft bog and scratchy heather, but that's what I love about trail running, things are constantly changing, no few steps are ever the same.
We
arrived at Botton for our next break, welcomed
by the smell of wood-smoke. Botton, as well as having a delightful
name, also has great purpose; it’s
part of the Camphill Community, initially based in Scotland, which
supports adults with learning disabilities. We stopped in a little
circular shelter and munched an array of goodies. A man holding a
packet
of smoked
sausage walked across the bridge, I imagined in the direction of the
source of the wood-smoke. Sigh….a
fire, and sausages…….
My
daydreaming was interrupted by the departure of Team Luxury from our
shelter for the next stage of the run. We were headed to Glaisdale
next. I had given up counting how many stages were left, as there
seemed to be loads, and they were all really long today.
In
hindsight, that was exactly the right thing to do. 100 miles is a
pretty long way, and I find it best not to think about it all at
once, which I found on my first few self-navigated ultras I was
pretty good at, but lately I seem to have lost the knack. Maybe it’s
time to get back
in the habit. So, instead of seventeen
stages, it’s best to think of just one at a
time.
In fact, even
better is
breaking it down to
only
one
line
of
the route
description at a time (e.g. turn right at the third telegraph pole
whilst going diagonally....).
It is
very mindful really I suppose, living (or, running) in the moment.
Not thinking of what’s ahead, or what you’ve left behind, focusing on the moment, and experiencing the here and now. I was
trying hard to do this, and getting on quite well, until we got to
the very last point on the instructions of this stage, which turned
out to be almost 4 miles long. 4 miles. In one line! I guess that was
the ultimate test of mindfulness, which I quickly failed at, and
reverted to thinking too far ahead again, and panicking that it was
too much to tackle.
Fortunately,
we arrived at Glasidale (about 4 miles later, mind you), where I was
able to sit on the grass for a while and collect my thoughts,
while Tara and Fabrice went in search of water (and
I realised
I’d drunk less than a litre all day, which
was probably part of the problem).
After
some chocolate coated coffee beans (which had turned out to be an
exciting new discovery on this trip, in terms of new options for
rocket fuel), we headed off towards a place called (Dire) Straights
on the last long leg (8 miles) for the day. A pretty couple of miles
along a river took us to Egton, where there is a big posh house, so
posh it has a toll cottage. Those of you with keen (very keen/ superhuman)
eyesight, will note the cost of a hearse was much cheaper than any
other form of transport (and if you can't see it, you will need to trust me on this one). Team Luxury’s sense of humour, which might
be questioned by some at the best of times, was compounded due to our
increasing fatigue, and several jokes were made in poor taste, as to
which the best way we could continue our journey may be.
Hearse
or no hearse,
no one seemed to be collecting tolls, and so we made it to Straights
with
our finances intact.
Fabrice had
to abandon
us to return home for work,
and to
send him off, we
had a quick
refueling
stop at the local
shop. I was becoming concerned
at my current level of crisp consumption, which had risen from
occasional
crisp usage to 2 bags a day over the recce weekend. But,
no time to fret, as there were now just two short sections left! The
sea soon came into view, followed by Whitby Abbey. Suddenly, all the
anxieties of the day melted away, as I looked out to sea in the
fading light, and
finally had a mindful moment.
We
arrived at Hawsker, our
last
stop of the day, and took our last break in a field, opposite a group
of cows. A conversation about burgers ensued, between the carnivores
in the groups, and Tara, who was on the side of the cows. The general
demeanour of the cows suggested they didn’t particularly require
any support,
as they glowered across the fence at us, and stamped their feet.
Moving
swiftly on, we headed for Fyling Hall. On the way we encountered my
favourite part of the instructions
which warned ‘Beware! Friendly Alsation dog loose!’. Sure enough,
the Alsation
was indeed loose, and was
joined by two horses. Not having been warned in the instructions as
to whether these additional creatures were friendly or otherwise, I
approached with apprehension, but following the brave lead of Alan
and Tara, soon found that all creatures were happy for us to cross
their farm yard.
In
the fading daylight, we made it to Fyling Hall, the end of the
official route for the day, without needing head torches! On the real
event, this will be the breakfast stop. Through Tara’s retelling of
previous 100s, I was shocked/ enlightened to discover that whisky
porridge is a menu option for breakfast, and by the revelation that
several hardened members of the LDWA 100 club are half-cut for the
second half of the walk.
Unbelievable.
And
there I
had been
with my bacon sandwich. No wonder I’d
found the second half harder. This must be the missing piece of my
training, and I am busy sourcing a hip flask
to
fit in the front pocket of my running pack, so it will be accessible
at all times.
Back
to reality, it was now just one (or two, ish)
short miles to our Youth Hostel for the night, in
the second hole of the tale, Boggle Hole.
Head
torches to the ready! The last part was not without its own drama, we
ended up in a (another)
farmyard, where a barn full of cows, their eyes glinting in our
torches, followed our progress with 100 reproachful glances. Then we
mistakenly ended up in the wrong valley, and to correct our detour
needed to climb literally the steepest hill of the day, while a bat
tried to drive bomb us from above. Thankfully, we made it to our
place of rest and
relaxation,
and enjoyed a wonderful evening in the bright and welcoming Boggle
Hole YHA,
with Jen and Paris. Boggle Hole YHA has recently been renovated, and
in a final punch from the day, just in case we had been getting cocky
that we’d nailed things,
our rooms were 70 steps up the cliff to the new building. I
conceded
it was worth it though, brand new rooms, hot showers, a drying
room….Team Luxury are well at home!
At
the end of this epic,
I will finish with a quote, lifted straight from the mighty tomes
of JRR
Tolkein:
“The
World is changing. Who now has the strength to stand against the
armies of The
Hills
and The
Yorkshire Weather?
To stand against the might of Boggle
and Bog
... and the union of the Two
Holes?
Together, my Lord Boggle
... we shall rule this Moor."
