And it was going so well...

I'm still a bit raw, physically and emotionally from failing to knock off a winter round again. I'll write it up properly with some photos some time but felt the need to post something.

This time, the weather was ok, the snow was not brilliant but not bad, I was as ready as I could be and all was going well.  Then all of a sudden, it wasn't.

Basically, i was fit enough, but not strong enough, if that makes sense.  My calf tore towards the top of Dollywaggon Pike on leg four.  I;d been going for about 17 hours and i felt ok.  I was finding the snow a bit energy sapping and having to work hard to stay near my 23 hour schedule, but i was going ok and was starting to feel like this was in the bag. 

Legs one and two were brilliant, with Simon Ellis putting in a brilliant effort to support me on both legs alone after Dave's calf had also gone on him.  Wayne Percival was there on Scoat Fell, waiting with his cafe which was wonderful.  Dave and Heli gave us a cheery wave on Red Pike and we were 10 mins up heading into Wasdale.  All was well in the world. 

Leg three was tough, more so for being anticlockwise with that extra climbing in there.  Two non running friends were waiting on Scafell with Jaffa Cakes and yet more friends waiting to tell me their attempts to rig Broad Stand safely were not on so we went around via Foxes Tarn.  Peter Taylor, Andy Kitchin, Ian Lancaster and Simon Martland (from Bowfell) brilliantly guided me through a gorgeous sunset and into the darkness from the Langdales onwards.  I lost about 15 mins on the leg, all in that last darkness section.  I was slowing a little as we were in slushier snow that wasn't taking our weight and was harder for me to run through.  I was also starting to tire, but was still moving quite well and running the downhills reasonably well.

Arrival at Dunmail was great, just 10 mins down on a 23 hour schedule.  I was hoping to be up here but the snow, cold and darkness were conspiring to ramp up the challenge.  I did feel strong though as we descended Steel Fell (having aquired Rhys on the way who was out to check our progress).  Spirits were high.

I had a good feed at Dunmail because leg three would have taken a lot out of me.  I ate well, saw my heavily pregnant wife for the first time since before starting at 0500 and started on that tricky climb up Seat Sandal.  I struggled up there - a bad patch.  Nick, Ian, Carl and Dave were grouped in front and behind me and moving was an effort.

I dropped 6 mins on the 23 hour schedule just on that one climb.  I felt better on Fairfield and dropped just 2 mins.  Descending to Grisedale Tarn, we met Jen Taylor, Jen Chambers and Alex Duncan-Price who supplied hot drinks and laughs before we headed up Dollywaggon, the last of the big climbs on this leg - 'plain sailing after that until Threlkeld' I thought.  I decided to eat on the way up here and not worry about the pace.  Then i could work harder on the rest of the leg.  I had a plan, I was doing ok.

The iron post was in sight where the main climb from Dollywaggon meets the path.  A milestone for leg four.  And then it happened.  A sharp pain shot from my right calf to my groin and buttocks.  I stopped and cried out.  I took another step and the same thing happened.  I found that walking uphill, wihch lifts your toes towards your shins, was impossible without pain.  I tried again, walking about 10 paces.  It was really uncomfortable, and my calf went VERY tight.

It was game over.  The disappointment was, is, crushing.  The first thought was for my supporters, those on the hill and the road crew who had all invested in a bigger, better day than this.  What about those who travelled all this way to run leg five?  What about all those hours of training the Alison supported me in doing?  What about all those people that were here now who were faced with getting me off the hill...

Shit...getting off the hill!!  Ian Charters was dead right, this was no place to muck about.  Nick Holmes had spotted that the girls were still down at Grisedale Tarn and he headed for them to let them know as they had a car at Dunmail, our new destination (it turns out they saw us stop and waited to see what was going on).  Dave Hindley was straight on the phone to the road crew and the lads who were waiting at Sticks Pass with more coffee to advise them to get off the hill.  The support was snapping into action and being brilliant.  I just had to move down the hill.

That first step downwards brought heartache and relief in equal measure.  Heartache from the fact that this was the first step away from a return to the Moot Hall i'd taken in 17 hours and that it was all over.  Relief from the fact that I could walk downhill so long as my foot stayed level and so this was a self rescue and not a stretcher job.

Depending heavily upon walking poles, I was able to hobble off the hill.  The calf went very tight, and then disconcertingly numb.  Then pain would return.  My body was fighting it in waves, with the pain between those waves making descending a trial. 

For the second time in two years, Ian Charters was patiently nursing me down a big hill.  I felt terrible. I wanted to cry like a baby, but decided keeping ones shit together was a good idea on a freezing lakeland mountain in the dark.  Plod, limp, hobble and the odd yelp when my foot wasn't level...on it went for what seemed hours.  Dunmail appeared and the tears almost surfaced.  Great people there to look after me, console me, tell me they'd gladly help "next time" and that I'd done well.  Until the calf went, I had done well despite the fact i had started to slow down a little.  I;d done well because of the help i had and right there, i didn't feel like i deserved it.  It was a horrible moment, made bearable by the compassion and care of friends.  I'll never forget it.

Arrival back at Abernethy (BGR HQ in Keswick) and there was my brother and fiance on a surprise visit.  They had intended to come and see me finish.  I felt sick with disappointment for them.  It was brilliant to see them though.  I wanted to show my appreciation for everyone's help, but also wanted to lock myself in a room and have a big sulk.

And that was it.  An unexpectedly early sleep after a long, contemplative shower and a big breakfast next morning before heading home.  It's Monday now and my calf is bruised, tight and sore.  The rest of me is also a bit sore but nothing much more than after a normal long day in the hills. 

I;ve been asked by a few people when i'm going for another winter round.  The answer is that I am not.  Last year's overtime completion in that blizzard is going to have to do.  The baby is due in 6 weeks and everything is going to change, including my relationship with the Bob Graham Round.

It's been a blast and I've got a huge amount from it, but it's time to move on.

Far from Ideal, but Good Enough...

When prepared for my summer BGR, which was a wonderful and successful experience, I knew I was going to make it. I was fitter than I’d ever been and convinced it was going to be my day. So when the pleasant start turned into a 12 hour rainstorm, I didn’t worry. When we went astray on Pillar (I’m still not sure how we managed that!) and dawdled a bit on Kirk Fell for some reason, it never entered my head that failure was on the cards. Sure enough, despite my legs pretty much giving way on the road section, I ambled into Keswick with plenty of time to spare, just as the sun finally came out and rainbow smiled its congratulations. My head was right, more than my legs were actually, and nothing else mattered.
That’s the main difference between summer and winter rounds. In summer, bad weather is probably still not going to ever stop you, except perhaps hurricane force winds. In summer, you hang on and keep positive and you should be fine. In winter it’s hard to apply that logic. You can be physically stopped in your tracks, or slowed in your tracks by ice and snow that no amount of positive mental attitude can melt. It’s fair to say that this is playing on my mind.
This December has been more like a Scottish Highland February. Snow and ice abound, and it’s powdery, drifty (!?) stuff that makes for slow going. Reports are coming back from the lakes of deep, tiring snow on the ridges and in the cols. I would normally be positive enough to say that the abundant clear skies will at least provide no navigational issues, but it now appears that the cloud will roll in this weekend, providing the worst of both worlds. I can’t help feel hard done by after last year’s winter epic and the summer deluge I had. But that’s pointless and pathetic. Winter rounds demand courage, and that is part of the motivation. It is impossible to be courageous when there is nothing to fear and so it’s time to stop worry and just get on with it.
The forecast at least promises warmer weather - 3 degrees C at 750 metres, which is balmy compared to last year.  The sheer cold took a lot out of me last year so hopefully I'd be able to hang on for longer.  So the plan is to start, work hard, and see how things pan out. I can’t expect any more. If conditions leave me an hour down in daylight then I’ll call it off, otherwise I’ll keep pushing.
But I must think of my supporters. I had no qualms about accepting the wonderful offers of help in summer when I ‘knew’ I was going to make it, because it was going to be a cracking weekend. I’m feeling guilty about lining up all this support when it’s looking a trifle marginal. I am worried about failing and putting my supporters out, esp those doing later legs. I just hope I can give them all a day/night out on the fells.
The use of poles, axes, microspikes, GPS and substantial reserves of merino wool is a real feature as I prepare my kit lists and get my gear sorted. It already feels like an epic.
 

From realism to pessimism

It's a fine line between understanding and adapting to the conditions you are presented with and becoming unduly worried and uneccesarily talking yourself out of something.

This cold snap presents exactly this situation.  Right now, it does not look good.  The snow is deep, drifted, powdery, has no weight bearing crust and obscures the route even where it's obvious.  In fact, let me express the situation more emphatically - if it stays like this then a sub 24 hour round is impossible this weekend.

However, i'm not giving it up just yet.  If all that snow became compacted, developed a strong crust and froze hard after a thaw, it could be perfect., even better than no snow.  Deep, compacted snow can offer a smooth plaster over the rough boulders and broken ground and actually aid progress, esp if the visibility is clear.  So this could work out nicely.

The forecast suggests a slight thaw on friday.  It doesn;t sound enough.  But it could be.  We will just have to wait and see.

The plan is to start, unless the forcasts presents blizzards which really would be too much.  But that seems unlikely and so we will start at 0500 on Saturday.  I've got two strong lads in Dave and Simon with me until Wasdale on the first two legs.  We'll start and assess things as we go.  There will be no records this weekend, but if i can keep inside the 23 hour schedule to Honister and Wasdale, we'll crack onto Dunmail and try and make some time.

Jim Mann, a stronger runner than me who i helped on his round this summer, is going a week after me.  He has a chance for a thaw to create the ideal winter conditions.  He's been out with Dave H this weekend on Skiddaw and the conditions look horrendous,.  Skiddaw will be my last peak and he's already imploring me to have plenty of time in the bank before we get there.  He and Dave reported waist and chest deep snow on skiddaw.  That eastern slope sounds like it's loaded and hard to negotiate.  That actually suggests the birth of avalanche conditions!!  It really does sound hideous. 

This news more than anything has made the distinction between realism and pessimism harder to determine.  The idea of getting all the way to Skiddaw to be thwarted is almost too much to bear.  Tackling that slope in the dark with windslab on it doesn;t sound too appealing.  I'm trying to hope for great conditions and that;s what will get me to the starting line, but the focus has now changed from worrying about being fit enough to worrying abot the conditions, which i can't control.

Perhaps this is a good thing.  It feels like a release of pressure.  I'll set off and see.  I'll push hard but what will be, will be and all that.  I have a million little white excuses for not making it.  So let's go and see what fate delivers...

The problem is that i'm really worried about the wonderful band of helpers, esp those turning up to help later on.  Also the road crew are there to help with a winter BGR, not some half arsed attempt.  I'm really determined to do what is possible and safe.  For their sake as well as my own.  It;s hard to be as postive as everyone is for me when i read the forecasts and hear the reports.

All i can do now is eat, rest, prepare and hope.