Bob Graham Part 3 - Last Orders.

I was greeted by two of the coldest looking people I have ever seen. Dressed in probably everything they had with them, Daft B and Adam offered me a beer chair and I took the opportunity for a couple of minutes of rest. I swear Adam looked more tired than I did.

“Well done, you’re 50 minutes behind schedule,” confirmed daft B.

Still 50 minutes behind! At least I hadn’t slipped further, but that was surely too much to claw back.

“I’m struggling,” I explained, “I can’t see getting past Wasdale. You two might as well head there next instead of Great Gable. I’ll do the next section and then probably pack in.” They looked bemused; clearly they couldn’t understand why I was thinking of quitting. I didn’t know why I was thinking of quitting. Thankfully Daft B has seen this kind of thing before, and knows how to deal with the erratic mood swings of some brain-addled idiot in the middle of an epic ultra.

His thinking was sound. He knew that if I was willing to carry on to Wasdale then I had plenty left in the tank – in between there were still seven massive mountains to conquer, nearly all of them above 900 metres, and including the two highest in the country.

First he hit me with his trump card, “Quitting! Quitting! What would Mrs RTS say?”

Fair point!

Then he played some mind trickery, “We’re not going to Wasdale. We’re going to Great Gable. We’ll just make last orders there (the time they would stay until if I didn’t show up) earlier than planned.”

I thought about it.

“Ok,” I replied, “Make last orders one o’clock”.

“One o’clock it is!”

By this time my backpack was refilled. The two other guys (who it turns out were part of Martin’s team) were about to leave, and offered some Jaffa Cakes. I stuffed a few into my snack bag and set off for the very silly, and now familiar, climb up Bow Fell.

I munched the Jaffa Cakes as I plodded upwards, partially sulking and partially contemplating the philosophical conundrum raised by Martin’s team mates before they left for Langdale – “Ah, but is it a cake or is it a biscuit?”

Sulking and thinking helped me get to the top quickly. And then a fantastic thing happened. I doubled back off the summit to head towards Esk Pike, and about half a mile in front of me I could see Martin and his team. I wasn’t miles behind after all. That felt good. That felt better than good. Mind and body began to wake up.

A bit more strength flowed into my legs, and a bit of Jaffa Cake flowed into my brain. I checked my watch. The time was 5:55am. At a steady pace I could get to Wasdale by 8:30am. As long as I left there before 9:00am I would have nine hours for the last two sections. I knew that at a slow pace I could do them in eight-and-a-half. There was plenty of time. The penny dropped! I was 50 minutes behind schedule, but my schedule was for 23 hours - allowing me an hour in hand. Why hadn’t I remembered that?

Idiot!

With a renewed confidence I slowly closed the gap on Martin over Great End, Ill Crag and Broad Crag, and eventually caught him just on the summit of Scafell Pike. I had clawed back time on the hardest section of the round. There we were on the highest mountain in England. It was all downhill from here.

Although clearly it wasn’t!

Martin and I chatted like old friends on the nasty descent into Mickledore – the gap between Scafell Pike and Scafell. He asked what route I was taking. I said ‘Foxes tarn’. Martin’s team were going up Broad Stand, which is a rock climb, and I could see more of his team at the bottom of the face with ropes already fixed. Foxes tarn is a safer route (not that there is any real safe way between Scafell and Pike) that involves dropping quite a way down a nasty scree path before scrambling up a steep, narrow, rocky river gorge, usually inhabited by a stream.

I headed quickly for the Foxes Tarn path. I’m not comfortable in Mickledore. In my mind it is an inhuman place to be – a claustrophobic, narrow gap squashed between the two mountains, which tower over on the north and south sides. To the east and west the ground slopes steeply down to oblivion, such that one is standing on a narrow ridge, the surface of which is mostly loose rock and scree. All sound is muffled by the rock faces. There is a permanent mountain rescue stretcher and safety box fixed in Mickledore, such is its status as a mountain accident black spot.

http://www.lakesguidedwalks.co.uk/images/mickledore_C.jpg

I stood on the summit of Scafell at 8:00am and stared down the monstrously long descent to Wasdale. I’d have to drop a height of 900 metres – well over half a mile vertically – in little over a mile in distance. If anything was going to mash my knees and quads, this was it. A couple of delinquent clouds blew across, otherwise visibility was perfect, and I could see the support crew cars in the valley bottom.

But Martin was nowhere to be seen. Once again I felt dejected. My route must have been slower than the climb up Broad Stand, and they were gone.

I don’t know how many pounding steps it took to get to the bottom; but thousands, and each one made my knees creak and my thighs scream. Firstly the path was on scree that slid beneath my feet, and it was easier to try and ski down the rocks. As the grass reappeared the grip was better, but this didn’t really help. A couple of times I had to stop running and walk to ease the pain. It took almost half an hour of constant leg crunching downhill to reach the valley bottom, only to find that the crew car was not where it should have been in the car park next to Wasdale campsite.

I remained quite calm, and slowly jogged along the lane to the roadside. Surely Bondy would be there. He was, and greeted me with a “Wayheyyyyyy!” before offering me a chair and getting plenty of food out for me. The sun was pleasantly warming, the cup of tea was more pleasantly warming still, and the bacon buttie that was thrust into my hand was simply divine.

Over the previous few minutes I had made a clear decision about what to do next. One thing that had been troubling me, and probably encouraging me to quit, was the next mountain – Yewbarrow. That painfully slow, long, steep slope had cracked my on the last reccie run, to the extent that I had renamed it ‘You Bas***d’. Here I was, sitting at the bottom of it. To complete the round I had to turn the tables and crack the massive beast. I now knew that I had plenty of time, and that my team was still working for me. I’d just have to grit my teeth and plod up the giant. If I could get to the top of Yewbarrow I’d well on the way again.

I left the checkpoint at 8:50 after having changed into cooler clothing and eaten and drunk my fill. With a bacon buttie in one hand I set off, and jogged past another support group who cheered me onwards. I seemed to recognise a few of them.

Surprisingly, the climb wasn’t unpleasant, probably because I took it easy, eating my bacon sandwich as I went. I didn’t dare look up or down, just stared at the next two or three steps in front. It was a long time before I checked my altimeter to find I was only a third of the way up. Never mind, just keep it simple and plod. Numerous times I’d falter as my balance tipped ever so slightly backwards and I’d have to stand still and recover before resuming the slow-motion trudge.

When the top came I sat for a minute to enjoy the view.

***phone picture**

I couldn’t believe how good I was feeling. I had slain the Yewbarrow demons. My round was back on track. I needed to tell Daft B and Adam, as there was a chance that the Great Gable ‘last orders’ was now too early. I fired off a text message saying “Hold last orders until 2o’clock.”

“Weyheyyy,” came the reply.

Below I could see two other teams following me. Having abandoned the reccie run here I didn’t know the route for the next eight mountains, so it was map-reading time.

The climb up Red Pike started to cause cramp in my thighs. My knees seemed to have recovered from the pounding and were feeling ok, but persistent cramp could be another thing to scupper my round. I took a few walk breaks on the way to Steeple, and also stretched while I studied the map. Alas, fuzzy thinking was in control again as I made a navigational error and headed too far west towards Haycock. I couldn’t find Steeple. This mistake cost me 20 minutes, but in the end it proved beneficial. I watched one of the teams that had followed me up Yewbarrow cross a wall and head to the north. I followed, quickly caught them, and they pointed out Steeple. How could I have missed it? It looked like, well, like a steeple.

On the approach to the narrow ridge to Steeple another team passed in the opposite direction after having beaten me to the pointy peak. I recognised a man who had cheered me out of Wasdale.

After finally hitting the top of Steeple I doubled back and headed towards the obvious lump of Pillar. Slowly I was catching the group that passed me, and finally reached their backmarker between Pillar and Kirk Fell. I chatted to the charming lady at the rear, who said they were supporting their runner, Martin.

Hey! It’s Martin. Sure enough, there he was close to the front of the line. Never had I been happier to meet a group of runners.

They welcomed me like I was a long-lost part of their team, offered me jelly babies and other sweets, and seemed genuinely pleased to have me with them. I was still determined not to trespass on Martin’s attempt but it was lovely not to have to keep checking the map. These guys knew the way. Many of them had completed Bob Graham rounds in the past, and many of the others had run the route as support runners. As for Martin, he looked as fresh and cheerful as when I first saw him on Skiddaw the previous evening.

Kirk Fell was another bonkers climb that involved hands and feet scrambling up a near vertical rocky gulley. I focused on the rocks in front of me and didn’t look around much. I think the view may have made my head spin.

The descent was equally mad, and then it was ‘repeat’ to haul ourselves through the crags towards the top of Great Gable, where Daft B should be waiting.

He was indeed there, but Adam wasn’t. We were both keen that I didn’t slip off the back of the Dallam train, so he rapidly put half a litre of water into my bottle, gave me a bag of sweets and ushered me away. I gave him a firm pat on the back. I was immensely grateful to him. I hadn’t seen him for eight hours. During that time he had walked several very hilly miles with my supplies and then spent several hours sitting on top of a 900metre mountain - hours just waiting for me, only to have the final necessary job done in 30 seconds. How do you thank someone who is willing to do that?

While he was refilling my drink Daft B told me that Adam had gone on ahead and was waiting at Honister Pass. He should be wearing his running gear as he planned to accompany me on the final section to the finish.

Great Gable was the last of the big mountains. From there it should be straightforward, especially with plenty of time in hand. I trotted to catch Martin just as he disappeared over the side of the mountain. 36 done, just 6 left. Surely nothing could go wrong now………