Kielder Borderer

Sunday, February 20, 2011

BM / 17M / 3000'

Dougie Nisbet

Britain’s Worst Fell Race

Dougie I looked at my marathon training schedule and it said ’18m at MP plus 30′ then I looked at the Fell Running calendar and it offered ‘Britain’s Worst Fell Race’. 18 miles of steady boredom along the railway lines versus some adventure up in the Kielder Fells. Unsurprisingly I decided on the latter and before long I was standing in Will’s caravan outside Kielder Castle filling in the paperwork.

It was a driech day as we huddled round our maps and discussed the route. Even Casper looked unimpressed with the snow and was not his usual vocal self. At the race briefing Will explained that there would be partial suggested route marking at the beginning and the end of the course, but it was pretty much up to us. Get round the checkpoints taking any route we wished. As we began the race, clockwise for the first time, I made sure I knew where Phil James the sweeper was and stuck close to him. I had planned to follow my course from the previous 2009 race, except in reverse, but I got cold feet and decided to just follow the crowd. After a few minutes I began to feel a bit adventurous and eased ahead of the back marker as we jogged steadily up into the forest on good tracks. I patted my belt to ensure my maps were snugly there; they weren’t so I ran back sheepishly towards the sweeper who had found them lying on the track. Ten minutes into Britain’s Worst Fell Race is not a good time to lose your maps. I eased ahead again and I was feeling warm and fresh and as the minutes passed I found I was really enjoying myself. The track started heading down and I kept my eyes peeled for the forest ride that Will had suggested as the line to take to the first checkpoint.

The track started descending a bit more steeply and I bounded over the fresh virgin snow in front of me. An alarm bell sounded loudly in my head. If there’s one thing I am not used to seeing in fell races it is snow without footprints. A quick handbrake turn and back I sped ignoring GPS and maps and relying on the age old navigation tool of looking for a splodge of mushy footprints. I found the splodge and they headed over a fence and up a tangled forest ride towards the first checkpoint. I was now some way behind the sweeper and my mood had changed from perky to grumpy in a matter of minutes. Up into the cloud and over tutfy ground and soon I was relying on dead-reckoning to intersect with the main track to Deadwater Fell. Once on the track I jogged contentedly up to the checkpoint and three marshalls emerged from the icy cloud like something out of a cold-war spy thriller.

It was decision time. Go or No Go. Visibility was very poor and the next leg was a North-easterly bearing around the curve of ridge of Deadwater Moor towards the second checkpoint at Peel Fell. Even though I was already over an hour into the race I knew in many ways it had barely begun. The really remote stuff lay ahead. And I was at the back. Behind the sweeper. With a nervous but excited check of map, compass and gps, I plunged into the gloom only to immediately bump into a runner coming from the opposite direction. He had decided to retire and headed back to Deadwater Fell to brief the marshalls. I was 1 hour and 10 minutes into the race and he would be the last person I would see for another 2 hours and 40 minutes.

The run along the ridge to Peel Fell was fantastic. I loved the conditions. There was little wind and the recent snow-fall had created beautiful patterns on the rocks all cosily wrapped up in the dense cloud. It was all rather surreal and lonely. I guess it’s whatever floats your boat, but I was loving it. I loved the remoteness and solitude and knowing that my navigation and safety were entirely my problem. This is what I’d always imagined fell racing would be like. The Peel Fell checkpoint appeared through the cloud and I turned north-east to follow the footsteps towards the border fence.

Wintery cross Along the fenceline towards the Kielder Stone I ran in Scotland for a while but it didn’t make me go any faster so I hopped back into England again. I toyed with the idea of trying to run with one leg in Scotland and one in England, but that would, as they say, have served no useful purpose. Most of the time I simply followed the footsteps along the line of least resistance unaware of the nationality of the soil beneath. The Kielder Stone emerged ominously through the gloom and I continued on my way back into Scotland and up to Haggie Knowe.

The section from here to Knox Knowe is, I think, the toughest part of the course, both mentally and physically. At this point you are at the remotest part of the course and there are no paths or trods. Just heather. Wet, snow-laden, unforgiving, unrunnable, steep heather. On the map the contours look straightforward enough but out there it’s just a mischievous series of hidden inlets and false summits beyond which somewhere lies Knox Knowe. I wearily trudged upwards on this energy-sapping climb relying on dead-reckoning and the occasional footprints to be rewarded by the sudden appearance of the cairn dead ahead. 10 miles and 2 hours 50 minutes into the race and I’d reached the furthest away point. Now it was time to go home.

Heading south along the trod to Grey Mares Knowe I met my old nemesis the Carry Burn. Although it was unexpectedly sedate it did seem to remember me and cast its gloomy wand over my mood and for the next mile or so I felt pretty low. It was exposed, lonely, windy, wet, remote and cold, and tiredness was setting in. I vowed that if I ever made it to Kielder Head alive I would retire from the race, give up running and spend the rest of my Sundays watching old black and white movies on TV and drinking tea. It was a squashy slog to the checkpoint then the terrain started descending in a more promising downwardly direction and soon I was warming up again and sliding my way gleefully downwards through the peat towards the checkpoint.

I chatted to the marshalls at Kielder Head and was expecting to be invited to retire. They seemed quite relaxed and when I pressed them on the issue they were happy for me to continue with the race. I asked whether I was currently lying modestly last, comfortably last, or phenomenally last. They tactfully replied that the other runners had bunched up and weren’t so far ahead. Not having seen a splash of another runner’s vest for hours now I was far from convinced but happy to accept the illusion as it certainly gave me a bit of a boost. I carried on, foregoing the option of cutting the corner to East Kielder as I was more than happy to go the long-way round if it allowed some gentle running on a surface that wasn’t squashy. Passing the nadger-numbing spot of the Kielder Burn from yesteryear I gave it a baleful glare and muttered under my breath, this year my pretty one, my undergarments shall remain dry! Presently, 4 and a quarter hours after race start, on a diet of glucose tablets, shot bloks and carb drinks, I found myself at the bottom of the final climb. With my carbonated body bubbling merrily I noisily and windily made my way steadily up towards the Three Pikes, and back into the clouds.

The pebble prize
photo courtesy and © Rob Stephens

Back on the tops, into the cold clouds and wind and the weariness grew more intense with every inefficient squelchy footfall. But my spirit was brightened by the thought that it was downhill all the way home. I must confess to feeling extraordinarily uplifted by seeing the first scrap of marker tape hanging from a branch as I started to descend. I still managed to go off-course just a mile from the finish but all roads ultimately led to the castle and soon Will’s caravan emerged in the distance. Whether Will was jumping up and down because he was genuinely pleased to see me, knew he wouldn’t need to call Mountain Rescue, or could finally go home, I cared not. He seemed even more jubilant to see me finish than I was! A glance at the previous years’ times for this event makes me think that, at 5h33m (20.25 miles, 4089feet) I might hold the course record as the slowest ever finisher but I don’t care. I had a great race. I loved it.

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