Montane Lakeland 50
I’d only been running for a few months when I first heard about the Lakeland 50. I wasn’t much good at it, but neither was I quite as shite as I’d expected to be, and I like taking things to extremes (although I understand now that the 50's the soft option), so I resolved there and then to have a crack at this event sometime before I was 40. I was 31 at the time, so this wasn’t exactly an ambitious target and, far from being phased by the idea of continuous movement over 50 miles of roughish terrain (it’s only running), I figured my navigational ineptitude would pose the biggest obstacle. I’m not a daft lass though, surely I could learn to read a map?
Fast forward two and a bit years and my running hadn’t improved as much as I’d have liked; many marathons had been entered and then subsequently sacked off due to my apparently limitless propensity for mangling my legs. I’m not sure whether it’s because I run like a complete twat (not according to gait analysis), lack of flexibility (working on it), or possibly a knock on effect of bodily wonkiness brought on by scoliosis and having had a section of my spine fused, but I injure myself so much that I have begun to speak in terms of taking a break from injury to do some running, as opposed to having time out due to injury. I’m impatient though, and 40 still seemed like a really long way off, so I decided to crack on and enter while I still found the notion appealing.
I’d only been running for a few months when I first heard about the Lakeland 50. I wasn’t much good at it, but neither was I quite as shite as I’d expected to be, and I like taking things to extremes (although I understand now that the 50's the soft option), so I resolved there and then to have a crack at this event sometime before I was 40. I was 31 at the time, so this wasn’t exactly an ambitious target and, far from being phased by the idea of continuous movement over 50 miles of roughish terrain (it’s only running), I figured my navigational ineptitude would pose the biggest obstacle. I’m not a daft lass though, surely I could learn to read a map?
Fast forward two and a bit years and my running hadn’t improved as much as I’d have liked; many marathons had been entered and then subsequently sacked off due to my apparently limitless propensity for mangling my legs. I’m not sure whether it’s because I run like a complete twat (not according to gait analysis), lack of flexibility (working on it), or possibly a knock on effect of bodily wonkiness brought on by scoliosis and having had a section of my spine fused, but I injure myself so much that I have begun to speak in terms of taking a break from injury to do some running, as opposed to having time out due to injury. I’m impatient though, and 40 still seemed like a really long way off, so I decided to crack on and enter while I still found the notion appealing.
Lots of time on my feet, plenty of stomping up hills, pretty much giving up on road running (didn’t like it anyway), and regular, brutal PT sessions with the sadist that is Stephen Weston, had got me through my first marathon at Grizedale in February 2015 and, somewhat less successfully, a 50k ultra in May, about 10 weeks before the LL50. I’d also recce’d the course from Pooley Bridge, some sections more than once, so armed with a reasonable level of fitness, decent route knowledge, and some basic map reading skills, I figured I’d get round, even if it wasn’t pretty. I managed to do myself a bit of a mischief (SURPRISE!) on my last recce, an out and back from Pooley Bridge to Mardale Head, so there wasn’t much running in the last 4 weeks, but for once I didn’t panic. I had a couple of sports therapy massages, tortured myself on the wattbike, kept up my gym work, and tried to tell myself that it was better to rock up a bit underprepared than broken.
I don’t really go in for handwringing. Yeah, it’s a big challenge and shouldn’t be underestimated, but I’m an a healthy woman in my thirties. I’m pretty fit, very stubborn, and this is, no matter how seriously I take it, a hobby. I’d set off, enjoy my day, and see how it went. I’d be gutted if things went horribly wrong, but life wouldn’t end and, in the scheme of things, no one else would give a shit. I didn't get too hung up on a target other than thinking I'd be pleased to get back inside 15 hours. I'm not a fast runner and, being (a) thorough (knob), I'd checked out some previous times then looked up those competitors' other, shorter race results in an attempt to gauge what might be a realistic goal. 15 hours looked achievable if things went smoothly. I didn't work out any splits as I wanted to run according to how I felt on the day and thought getting behind schedule would just be demoralising.
The race briefing made for an entertaining start to the day, particularly the bit about the way we make friends with like-minded people and might therefore find ourselves under the mistaken impression that running 50 miles is a pretty normal way to spend a Saturday. I'm quite guilty of this; I have some incredibly talented friends and I read shitloads of blogs - my perception of what constitutes 'normal' running has definitely become a bit skewed, not to mention my expectations of myself! The #liveinthemoment theme was a point well made, but I couldn't help recalling those 'moments' (or 12 hour stretches) when our son was a baby and simply wouldn't sleep. People kept telling us to enjoy every minute, but sometimes you wish those minutes would Just. Fucking. End.
The section to Howtown was uneventful. I felt good, it was warm but bearable, and it's a relatively easy part of the route with cracking views of Ullswater. It is all runnable but I walked the hills, knowing I'd pay for it later if not. My right knee felt a bit niggly on the downhills but not agonisingly so, and I had paracetamol if need be. I had aimed to be a bit of a checkpoint ninja but I was definitely more of a turtle - that technique needs work! It took me just under two hours and I was fresh so figured I was pacing things about right. I wasn't hungry but grabbed a handful of jelly babies anyway, then heard someone ask if I was Jodie Laird? It was Angela, we'd never met but had been chatting on Twitter - always nice to put a face to an online account. We saw each other many times along the route and finished within about 20 seconds of one another!
Fusedale is what it is, a slog! I'm not bad at climbing but have a tendency to throw everything at the ascent only to realise I'm done in once I get to the top, so I decided taking it fairly easy but not stopping was the way to go. High Kop, Low Kop, down to Haweswater, knee still grumbling but felt more like an ITB thing than any issue with the joint so I continued to ignore it. It was definitely better when I was less cautious on the downhills so it's a shame I'm crap at them! Something else to work on.
I didn't hear many people say they liked the path round Haweswater. It does seem to go on forever, but I think the volume of people is partly to blame for its unpleasantness on race day. Not that people aren't lovely, it can just feel a bit claustrophobic. I quite enjoyed it when I ran it alone a few weeks ago.
I was a bit knackered at Mardale Head. Quads felt stiff and my stomach was sore (although, no alfresco shitting yet - miraculous!). Coke, half a sandwich, bottle refill, and away I went. Didn't look at my watch. It did occur to me at the time that this would only be the fifth time in my life I'd run over 20 miles so gave myself a bit of a pep talk about how of course I'd be bloody tired - suck it up, soft lass!
Gatesgarth took me just under 32 minutes (according to Strava), which is almost ten minutes longer than it took me last time I did it on fresh legs - hardly surprising. I managed to do something that looked a bit like jogging all the way down the other side (to call it running would be overstating the case) and the weather was perfect. I chatted to some women (didn't take note of anyone's name) when we got past Sadgill who said they'd like to get back in about twelve and a half hours. It occurred to me that I might be going a bit quickly if they were on target but I felt OK. I didn't kid myself for one second that I'd keep up with them though!
Cup of coke and a bottle refill at Kentmere, grabbed a banana too, which was clearly a product of some running induced brain injury because I don't like bananas at the best of times. Toilet stop was unavoidable at this point - oh the luxury of not exposing my bare arse on a run! Resisted the urge to tell the person in the queue after me not to go in there for a while, and made my way back out, gagging on my foolishly acquired banana.
The weather was still fantastic so I enjoyed the climb up the Garburn Pass, and the run down to Troutbeck is a pleasure. My stomach felt rubbish though, probably hunger pangs, and I farted and belched my way along the trail, hoping I wouldn't barf, and promising myself I'd eat well at Ambleside. Thinking about Ambleside I realised I'd get there with a fair bit of daylight left, which pleased me enormously! As did the fact that my knee had miraculously cured itself. Holy shit, this was turning out quite well. And I was ENJOYING myself!
Ambleside offers a nice bit of variety after a few hours on trails. Who doesn't love a bit of drunken encouragement/heckling on a Saturday evening? I was congratulating myself on finding my way to this point without so much as a shifty at my roadbook, when I heard someone shouting my name. My first thought was 'oh fuck, what have I dropped' and then Kev from DH Runners came hurtling down the road behind me. Now, if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a bit of an anti social bastard, so I was quite surprised by how brilliant it felt to see someone I knew. I told him I was absolutely fucking knackered, much to the amusement of some ladies in the lane outside the bike shop, to whom I did have the wit to apologise for my potty mouth, and got an update on Wes, who was on for sub 9 hours (finished 6th in 8.48 - see what I mean about skewed perspectives?!). Lots of encouragement and an assurance that I was doing brilliantly (despite being the slowest of the DH Runners on the day) and into the checkpoint.
I dithered a bit here. Washed my face, had a wee, couldn't decide what to eat (half a ham sarnie, again, couldn't really stand the thought of anything else, especially not cake), had a bit of a sit, cup of coke, bottle refill and dragged myself back out. Sarah, another club member who also lives just down the road from me, was waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. I realised I was cold so she helped me get my long sleeved top on. I did mention that there were a couple of hot spots on my feet but I didn't dare remove my shoes as I could feel my toenails starting to detach inside my socks - I think I said they were floating, much to her disgust! Again, I felt really chuffed to see a friendly face and set off feeling happy, especially as I didn't need my headtorch yet!
The rest of it was just a case of grinding out the miles. I'd run this part of the route twice so had no qualms about getting lost. I managed to approximate something like a run far more frequently than I thought I'd be able to, but there was no doubt I was goosed and that lack of long distance experience was starting to tell. I spent too long at Chapel Stile, only ate a slice of bread (there's a theme developing here), but then surprised myself by moving quite well through Langdale.
The torch went on just before Blea Tarn and not long afterwards I was caught by a runner who had lost his. He asked if I had a spare, which I did as I'd thought it was probably more sensible than just carrying spare batteries. I'll admit, I had a moment of indecision here; I was confident my torch would be fine but reckoned it would be just my luck to be subject to a random kit check when I got back. In the end I couldn't say no, I'd have felt like a right twat - ethic of reciprocity and all that.
The path around Blea Moss is technical and great fun in the daylight, but can present a problem to underfed and tired runners in the dark; I managed to miss my footing and fall quite spectacularly. I grabbed hold of the bracken, which stopped me from tumbling too far and someone gave me a hand up again, no damage done. When I arrived at Tilberthwaite the guy who'd borrowed my headtorch was playing the harmonica. No, I wasn't hallucinating, he definitely was!
I always knew the last bit would be horrible, even if by some miracle I felt OK. My balance was starting to go, I hadn't eaten nearly enough all day, but I was almost back. I passed a few 100 competitors and consoled myself by thinking I couldn't even begin to imagine how knackered they must be. The descent to the Copper Mines was, predictably, shocking. It was all I could do to stay upright and it took forever. Once I hit the road though, I refused to contemplate walking. OK, it was a special kind of running, but it definitely wasn't a walk! I knew my husband Jim would be waiting for me at the school and I was also going to get back much sooner than I'd expected to.
There were still a few folk milling around, cheering, when I came into Coniston and I managed to actually do a proper run. My Garmin says it was 9.30 mile pace but it's wrong. I was definitely sprinting! I think I did shout something along the lines of 'where's the fucking school' as I was running down Lake Road but, obviously, it was exactly where it always is. Final dib, and Jim was on the other side of the finish line with beer and warm clothes, just as he'd promised he would be. It was 12.43am and I got it into my head that I'd gone sub 13 hours, because it was before 1am and 1 is 13 on a 24 hour clock. This made perfect sense to me because I was fucked! Actual time 13 hours 11 minutes, and I really couldn't have done any more on the day.
I got away without much in the way of blisters, but my poor husband had to help me soak my ininji toe socks off my feet when we got back to the cottage (sorry, I wasn't sleeping on the bloody floor after that!) because they were stuck to my weeping toenails. Who said romance is dead? Today's Friday and it's the first day I've dared to wear anything other than flip flops.
It's a fantastic event, the marshals are genuinely brilliant, and, as long as I get a place, I'll definitely be back next year. I'm pretty sure I can go quite a bit faster with more experience. I might even produce a more succinct account next time.
The race briefing made for an entertaining start to the day, particularly the bit about the way we make friends with like-minded people and might therefore find ourselves under the mistaken impression that running 50 miles is a pretty normal way to spend a Saturday. I'm quite guilty of this; I have some incredibly talented friends and I read shitloads of blogs - my perception of what constitutes 'normal' running has definitely become a bit skewed, not to mention my expectations of myself! The #liveinthemoment theme was a point well made, but I couldn't help recalling those 'moments' (or 12 hour stretches) when our son was a baby and simply wouldn't sleep. People kept telling us to enjoy every minute, but sometimes you wish those minutes would Just. Fucking. End.
The section to Howtown was uneventful. I felt good, it was warm but bearable, and it's a relatively easy part of the route with cracking views of Ullswater. It is all runnable but I walked the hills, knowing I'd pay for it later if not. My right knee felt a bit niggly on the downhills but not agonisingly so, and I had paracetamol if need be. I had aimed to be a bit of a checkpoint ninja but I was definitely more of a turtle - that technique needs work! It took me just under two hours and I was fresh so figured I was pacing things about right. I wasn't hungry but grabbed a handful of jelly babies anyway, then heard someone ask if I was Jodie Laird? It was Angela, we'd never met but had been chatting on Twitter - always nice to put a face to an online account. We saw each other many times along the route and finished within about 20 seconds of one another!
Fusedale is what it is, a slog! I'm not bad at climbing but have a tendency to throw everything at the ascent only to realise I'm done in once I get to the top, so I decided taking it fairly easy but not stopping was the way to go. High Kop, Low Kop, down to Haweswater, knee still grumbling but felt more like an ITB thing than any issue with the joint so I continued to ignore it. It was definitely better when I was less cautious on the downhills so it's a shame I'm crap at them! Something else to work on.
I didn't hear many people say they liked the path round Haweswater. It does seem to go on forever, but I think the volume of people is partly to blame for its unpleasantness on race day. Not that people aren't lovely, it can just feel a bit claustrophobic. I quite enjoyed it when I ran it alone a few weeks ago.
I was a bit knackered at Mardale Head. Quads felt stiff and my stomach was sore (although, no alfresco shitting yet - miraculous!). Coke, half a sandwich, bottle refill, and away I went. Didn't look at my watch. It did occur to me at the time that this would only be the fifth time in my life I'd run over 20 miles so gave myself a bit of a pep talk about how of course I'd be bloody tired - suck it up, soft lass!
Gatesgarth took me just under 32 minutes (according to Strava), which is almost ten minutes longer than it took me last time I did it on fresh legs - hardly surprising. I managed to do something that looked a bit like jogging all the way down the other side (to call it running would be overstating the case) and the weather was perfect. I chatted to some women (didn't take note of anyone's name) when we got past Sadgill who said they'd like to get back in about twelve and a half hours. It occurred to me that I might be going a bit quickly if they were on target but I felt OK. I didn't kid myself for one second that I'd keep up with them though!
Cup of coke and a bottle refill at Kentmere, grabbed a banana too, which was clearly a product of some running induced brain injury because I don't like bananas at the best of times. Toilet stop was unavoidable at this point - oh the luxury of not exposing my bare arse on a run! Resisted the urge to tell the person in the queue after me not to go in there for a while, and made my way back out, gagging on my foolishly acquired banana.
The weather was still fantastic so I enjoyed the climb up the Garburn Pass, and the run down to Troutbeck is a pleasure. My stomach felt rubbish though, probably hunger pangs, and I farted and belched my way along the trail, hoping I wouldn't barf, and promising myself I'd eat well at Ambleside. Thinking about Ambleside I realised I'd get there with a fair bit of daylight left, which pleased me enormously! As did the fact that my knee had miraculously cured itself. Holy shit, this was turning out quite well. And I was ENJOYING myself!
Ambleside offers a nice bit of variety after a few hours on trails. Who doesn't love a bit of drunken encouragement/heckling on a Saturday evening? I was congratulating myself on finding my way to this point without so much as a shifty at my roadbook, when I heard someone shouting my name. My first thought was 'oh fuck, what have I dropped' and then Kev from DH Runners came hurtling down the road behind me. Now, if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a bit of an anti social bastard, so I was quite surprised by how brilliant it felt to see someone I knew. I told him I was absolutely fucking knackered, much to the amusement of some ladies in the lane outside the bike shop, to whom I did have the wit to apologise for my potty mouth, and got an update on Wes, who was on for sub 9 hours (finished 6th in 8.48 - see what I mean about skewed perspectives?!). Lots of encouragement and an assurance that I was doing brilliantly (despite being the slowest of the DH Runners on the day) and into the checkpoint.
I dithered a bit here. Washed my face, had a wee, couldn't decide what to eat (half a ham sarnie, again, couldn't really stand the thought of anything else, especially not cake), had a bit of a sit, cup of coke, bottle refill and dragged myself back out. Sarah, another club member who also lives just down the road from me, was waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. I realised I was cold so she helped me get my long sleeved top on. I did mention that there were a couple of hot spots on my feet but I didn't dare remove my shoes as I could feel my toenails starting to detach inside my socks - I think I said they were floating, much to her disgust! Again, I felt really chuffed to see a friendly face and set off feeling happy, especially as I didn't need my headtorch yet!
The rest of it was just a case of grinding out the miles. I'd run this part of the route twice so had no qualms about getting lost. I managed to approximate something like a run far more frequently than I thought I'd be able to, but there was no doubt I was goosed and that lack of long distance experience was starting to tell. I spent too long at Chapel Stile, only ate a slice of bread (there's a theme developing here), but then surprised myself by moving quite well through Langdale.
The torch went on just before Blea Tarn and not long afterwards I was caught by a runner who had lost his. He asked if I had a spare, which I did as I'd thought it was probably more sensible than just carrying spare batteries. I'll admit, I had a moment of indecision here; I was confident my torch would be fine but reckoned it would be just my luck to be subject to a random kit check when I got back. In the end I couldn't say no, I'd have felt like a right twat - ethic of reciprocity and all that.
The path around Blea Moss is technical and great fun in the daylight, but can present a problem to underfed and tired runners in the dark; I managed to miss my footing and fall quite spectacularly. I grabbed hold of the bracken, which stopped me from tumbling too far and someone gave me a hand up again, no damage done. When I arrived at Tilberthwaite the guy who'd borrowed my headtorch was playing the harmonica. No, I wasn't hallucinating, he definitely was!
I always knew the last bit would be horrible, even if by some miracle I felt OK. My balance was starting to go, I hadn't eaten nearly enough all day, but I was almost back. I passed a few 100 competitors and consoled myself by thinking I couldn't even begin to imagine how knackered they must be. The descent to the Copper Mines was, predictably, shocking. It was all I could do to stay upright and it took forever. Once I hit the road though, I refused to contemplate walking. OK, it was a special kind of running, but it definitely wasn't a walk! I knew my husband Jim would be waiting for me at the school and I was also going to get back much sooner than I'd expected to.
There were still a few folk milling around, cheering, when I came into Coniston and I managed to actually do a proper run. My Garmin says it was 9.30 mile pace but it's wrong. I was definitely sprinting! I think I did shout something along the lines of 'where's the fucking school' as I was running down Lake Road but, obviously, it was exactly where it always is. Final dib, and Jim was on the other side of the finish line with beer and warm clothes, just as he'd promised he would be. It was 12.43am and I got it into my head that I'd gone sub 13 hours, because it was before 1am and 1 is 13 on a 24 hour clock. This made perfect sense to me because I was fucked! Actual time 13 hours 11 minutes, and I really couldn't have done any more on the day.
I got away without much in the way of blisters, but my poor husband had to help me soak my ininji toe socks off my feet when we got back to the cottage (sorry, I wasn't sleeping on the bloody floor after that!) because they were stuck to my weeping toenails. Who said romance is dead? Today's Friday and it's the first day I've dared to wear anything other than flip flops.
It's a fantastic event, the marshals are genuinely brilliant, and, as long as I get a place, I'll definitely be back next year. I'm pretty sure I can go quite a bit faster with more experience. I might even produce a more succinct account next time.
spot on
ReplyDeleteCheers!
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