Wuthering Hike – and a salutory warning

After missing almost all of February with a persistent chest bug, I travelled down to Yorkshire with more than a little trepidation to meet Crispin for a trundle around the 32-mile Wuthering Hike. Despite his comforting emails over the last couple of weeks, which promised that he was hopelessly unfit and looking for a slow plod across the moors, I was alarmed to spot an ominous glint in his eye and an alarming determination to talk about pacing and finishing times over our pre-race dinner.
We’d spent quite a bit of time worrying about navigation, but for the first half of the race this was completely academic, as we started close to the back and spent the first couple of hours weaving through an intermittent stream of runners. An interesting route over the moors, passing spooky old ruins and brooding reservoirs, their surfaces whipped to choppiness by a stiff breeze, would have been even better if the clag had lifted.
My only vaguely long run in preparation for this was a 15-mile jog around my local hills last weekend, and I knew from that that I’d be in trouble in the latter stages of the race. In the event I felt reasonable, albeit tiring perceptibly, for the first 20-odd miles, but despite the devoted roadside minstrations and rice pudding proffered by Crispin’s family (many thanks), I started to fade badly as we tackled Stoodly Pike and its steep, rough descent. A slight boost when we passed our old mucker Dave Rogers was soon dissipated, and by the road-crossing at 28 miles where we were met again by our backup crew I was a shambling wreck, walking long stretches and finding it impossible to open my stride beyond a shuffle even on the descents. Unusually for me, my physical demise wasn’t accompanied by a mental gloom, and I felt pretty chipper throughout. At this rendezvous with the team vehicle I took the opportunity to strip all excess weight (map, clothes etc.) for the final heave back to Haworth. The pitiful progress continued for the next couple of miles, with Crispin skipping on ahead and showing admirable restraint in not shouting at me like he did in last year’s FRA Relays. With a couple of miles to go (although I thought it was a lot less), trail-running legend Sarah Rowell appeared at my shoulder. We’d been playing leapfrog with her throughout the race, and my determination not to let her past injected a modest dose of spring into my step. I kept thinking the finish was in sight, and apart from a short strop and a discreet snot-and-tears episode, I kept it going. Spurred on by Crispin’s continual encouragement (that’s a euphemism, by the way), we held off not only Sarah Rowell but also a mixed team from Bingley who looked a lot more frisky than I felt.
I was extremely relieved to get it over with. From the event I took succour from my mental chirpiness and a stern warning that I really need to keep myself healthy for the next few months and get some long hard miles in my bumbag to avoid a catastrophe in the 3 Peaks.
As a weird postscript, the drive home an hour after the race was absolutely fine (I’d thought my legs would spit the dummy), and the only part of my body that ached the next day was my forearms! Crispin reckons it was from repeatedly shaking my fists at his rapidly disappearing back throughout the race.