The Lap Clockwise (Spring Forward). Saturday 14th May 2022

I was late to the start line. Again.

The Lap was my first attempt at an ultramarathon eight months previously. I was so concerned about potential gastrointestinal issues that I had forced myself to take advantage of the toilets at the start, and subsequently missed the klaxon. I was last out. That was not going to happen again this year. Oh no. This year, I would be there on the start line in time for the briefing and very much a part of the collective excitement of race day. Well, you know what they say about the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, right?

Last year I camped on site. This year I arrived from home. This, in itself, was a bit of a hassle as I had to go register the previous evening. Needless to say, I got exactly zero hours sleep on the Friday night. I finally found ninety minutes to get some shut-eye. I set my alarm for 3am and spent the majority of that repeatedly asking Alexa for the time. I could have sworn at one point she replied ‘three minutes since you last asked me. Now go to sleep’. Alexa is a disembodied voice trapped in a little round box that sits neatly on my bedside table. She plays my favourite music, gives me the news and weather reports, attempts to get me out of bed on time (and often fails through no fault of her own; she lacks opposable thumbs and access to a cold, wet flannel), and she farts on demand.

Despite all of this, I managed to get to the site forty minutes before the start, figuring that would afford me plenty of time to park up and get changed. What I hadn’t considered is that everybody else would have had the same idea, the difference being they were all in cars and ready to lock up and rock up. I, on the other hand, had arrived by motorcycle. After fifteen minutes of queueing to be allocated a spot, I then had the challenge of changing out of bike gear and into running gear, then securing said bike gear on said bike. This took twenty minutes, leaving just five minutes to get to the start. I ran. I arrived just in time to find myself pinned up against the side of the entrance onto the camping field by a throng of eager runners. I had to wait to allow them to pass before I could run up to the big inflatable arch so that my tracker would clock me a start time. So, my second ultramarathon, and the second time I had been last off the block. Third time’s a charm, they say. Don’t hold your breath, mind.

My tardiness resulted in more queueing. Those who know me well, know that although I am a stickler for respecting that quintessence of Britishness, the humble queue (they are a fair and logical way of organising access to many things), I also despise being in them. Especially when this queue happens to be on my favourite kind of effortless trail running terrain (narrow, undulating paths strewn with roots, rocks, and puddles of mud). By now my energy was interacting with my frustration resulting in an effervescence beneath my skin causing me to hop about on the spot like some deranged Rumpelstiltskin; shaking my limbs and craning my neck in an effort to see beyond the long line of bobbing heads. I was all too aware of the finite nature of this energy, and that I would do well to conserve it as it would sure as hell come in useful later on in the day, but I was incapable of restricting its expenditure.

Windermere was a sight to behold. The early morning mist rising from the waters as the temperatures rose from bone-chilling to pleasant, was as pretty as a picture. It looked like the start of a very beautiful day.

By the time I reached the first feed station, at around 11km into the route, I was keen to make up for lost time. There appeared to be a queue at the tables, and since I’d just spent a fair proportion of that initial trail around the shores of Windermere in a long line of runners and hikers, not to mention the early morning queue for the car park, the last thing I wanted to do was wait in line yet again. I poked my hip-slung softflasks and concluded that I had enough fluids to last until the next stop.

Last year I had turned up, pretty much untrained (having done no more than nine runs totalling 99km in the eight months prior to the challenge) so my only objective was to finish it, and I had accepted that it was going to be awful, painful, and a generally unpleasant experience but nonetheless I was going to haul my degrading body over that finish line at whatever cost. It was actually quite an uplifting experience, in a masochistic sense.

This year I had a plan. I was still massively undertrained for an ultra but in a much better place than last year. I had amassed nearly fifty runs totalling just short of 500km in the same length of time prior to the race. I’m choosing to call it a race from herein simply because having completed the challenge, I had a time to beat. So it was a race against one other: the previous version of running-me.

My plan was focussed on the first of three goals. Now the reason I chose three instead of one, was to avoid the bitter disappointment of knowing early on that I had already failed to achieve my only goal. The mental consequences of such might lead me to question the purpose of continuing. So my first goal is always something that is probably unattainable. Probably but not definitely. My second goal is something attainable with a little effort, and my third is the easy goal but still progressive enough to be worthy of being a little self-congratulatory upon completion.  

• Goal #1: to complete The Lap within 12 hours.
• Goal #2: to complete The Lap within daylight.
• Goal #3: to beat my previous time of 18:15:20.

My plan comprised the following which I had printed out on waterproof paper, folded, and popped in my vest along with the course map we were given at registration:

Despite my somewhat haphazard start, all seemed to be going to plan. If anything, I was a little too ahead of my target times. Things started to go south roundabout the half-way point. Those initially pleasant temperatures at the start quickly morphed into unpleasantness. Now, I’m very much your typical Yorkshireman in that I am not built to withstand heat. I wilt, like the delicate flower I am. My first introduction to a steam room was a sight to behold. I was the guy clawing my way through the thick clag of searing heat that threatened to excoriate the very skin off my bones, trying not to upend myself over a myriad of outstretched legs, breath held tightly for fear of scorching my lungs into oblivion, and eyelids firmly locked over eyeballs in a bid to preserve my sight. All executed to a chorus of jovial giggles from the benches that surrounded me. I blindly stumbled out of that room and waded into the ice-cold plunge pool like molten lava rolling off a cliff into the sea. I lowered myself until the water hit my top lip. Ah, that was blissful! I will never forget that experience.

So that should give you an idea about my relationship with heat. Much to my chagrin, there was no respite at the half-way checkpoint. I sat down in the village hall to inspect my feet and change my socks. It was just as hot inside, if not hotter. That might have had something to do with the fact that the radiators were on. Was this the act of someone with a grudge against runners, perchance? Was it part of a fiendish plot to finish us off?

By now, the clouds had cleared and the sun had gone into full desiccation mode. The air was still. Not a whisper of a breeze. It was awful. Awful if you’re trying to run an ultramarathon, that is.

So, here is a direct comparison of target times and actual times. I’d say there is a correlation between increasing temperatures and failure to hit those target times. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

CHECKPOINT	TARGET TIME	ACTUAL TIME
START	06:00	06:00
FAR SAWREY	07:42	07:40
SKELWITH BRIDGE	09:51	09:33
TROUTBECK	12:06	12:35
CLEABARROW	13:51	15:31
COTE HILL	15:06	17:31
FINSTHWAITE	17:15	21:09
FINISH	18:00	22:18

I really think the one smart move in terms of getting over the finish line was to use chewable salt tablets rather than rely on the electrolytes in drinks and gels. I will never be without them from herein. Mango flavour Fastchews by Saltstick are what I’m talking about. There were a couple of occasions where I experienced that lightning jolt sensation that precedes a bout of cramp (my right thigh). Chomping a couple of these bad boys at the earliest opportunity stopped it before it had started. I can’t recommend them enough (and no, I’m not on commission!).

By now, I had sacked off attaining goal #1 as it was pretty evident that a twelve hour finish time was off the table, and so it was onto goal #2: to finish in daylight. The heat was punishing me, and my feet were so sore. In particular, my little toe on my left foot. There comes a point where you just press on. You don’t want to remove a shoe and a sock for fear of what you might find, and fear that you might not get either back on, leaving you to limp onwards, semi-shod, until a concerned marshal pulls you from the course despite your unintelligible protestations.

I was now starting to develop that ultra-shuffle. You know the one? Despite being slower than a walk, both feet still leave the ground so technically, it’s a run. Earlier in the day, I’d pretty much been leapfrogging the same people. I like my downhills and tend to make up decent time on those sections. I think most people are afraid of losing control and face-planting, and so they waste a lot of energy braking rather than letting gravity take the helm. The trick with running downhill is to adopt short, fast steps and try for a constant cadence. Don’t use your body to control your descent, use the terrain. Relax into it. Sit back into your stride in the same way you’d approach a descent on a bike. You’d shift your bum over the rear wheel of a mountain bike, moving the centre of gravity for a more stable ride; and just enjoy the sensation of existing in the moment with your attention focussed solely (pun intended!) on what’s beneath your feet.

So now I’m getting to the point whereby I’m mostly alone, save the odd person I’d ticked on the descent now closing in behind me. I’m willing the sun to dip and alleviate my suffering. It’s early evening and it should feel cooler. Even the wooded areas are stifling, and now the insects are coming out to feast. I’m also a walking (well, shuffling) all-you-can-eat buffet for anything that happens to have wings and drink blood. It’s a good job Bram Stoker’s Dracula is a work of fiction, or I’d never find anyone willing to risk a caving trip with me. Though I can’t imagine many folk would find a vegan vampire that intimidating.

I have some insect-repellent wipes in my pack, but I have neither the motivation nor the inclination to use them. By this point, I’m totally done in. Rather unexpectedly, I thought about calling it a day. I’m hot, tired, hurting, and now I’m being eaten alive. What am I doing? The Spine? The Fellsman? Who a I trying to kid? Perhaps this is the end of my dalliance with ultrarunning. I remind myself that I haven’t slept since Thursday night, and it is now Saturday evening. I started in a fasted state, and I hadn’t factored-in the heat. It was starting to get dark, so a daylight finish was looking more unlikely. That left goal #3. I had left the final checkpoint with a cardboard receptacle filled with crisps and Twiglets. Twiglets are amazing little sticks of Marmitey greatness, whose existence I tend to forget about until they appear under my nose on a feed station smorgasbord, usually at a penultimate checkpoint.  A good race director has a knack of anticipating your desires way before you do. Ignore needs, that’s a given. I’m talking desires. Desires you never even knew you had. Fifty shades of great ultrarunning. For the attention of Davy Newell (the race director of the Lap): despite the look of incredulity I threw your way whilst trying to stifle an honest reply to your enquiry of ‘did you enjoy that?’ had you left it a full day before posing that question then the answer would have always been a resounding and somewhat overenthusiastic ‘hell, yeah! Sign me up for the next one’.

It took a while for me to concede that it was dark enough to warrant a headtorch. Since my middle goal was finishing in daylight, I’d left it in the main compartment of my pack rather than in the readily accessible vest part. That meant having to stop to remove my pack and rummage around for it. Now if you can’t finish in daylight, and you happen to be running around a lake whilst wearing a headtorch, I strongly recommend you practice nose breathing. There is nothing worse than inhaling a squadron of tiny flying critters at the late stages of an ultra. The experience merely adds to your misery.

The finish line surprised me. Last time I did this ultra, it was anticlockwise, and that lovely, forested singletrack I mentioned earlier seemed to go on forever, even offering me false hope by way of a glimpse of the illuminated archway of the finish line before cruelly pulling away in the opposite direction. For some reason, I expected the same again. I came around the corner and stopped dead, for right in front of me was the ‘runway’ to the inflatable arch. I could see folk milling about by the finish line, casually chatting amongst themselves. I stood there for a moment, worried I might have taken a wrong turn and inadvertently cheated. Nobody seemed to notice me stood there. I broke into a shuffle so I could get closer to the action, and that’s when I heard someone start clapping. That was the reassurance I needed. Then, from who-knows-where, my sails caught the wind and I broke into a run. Not a shuffle, but a proper run. Who knew I had something left in the tank after all of that?

I crossed the finish line in 16:17:39. Goal #3 attained with ease.

The take-away.

They say you should iron out the creases of a long run during training, however, some things are unexpected and impossible to predict, and that is what makes ultrarunning a great, fun challenge. If it were that easy to identify and eliminate all potential problems beforehand, then a treasured aspect of the experience would be lost.

Here’s what I learned from my experience:

• No-show socks are a no-no.

All that steep ascent and descent resulted in one of my socks riding down at the back below the line of my shoe. That created a friction hot-spot. It failed to develop into a blister because I dealt with it quickly by way of a change of socks and a liberal application of Squirrel’s Nut Butter (they do a mighty fine vegan version).

• The brain can be deceptive.

The brain tells you your body is done-in way before it actually is. This became apparent at the finish line when my legs suddenly woke up and leapt into action.

• Arrange a lift or stay overnight.

I didn’t finish in daylight, so I faced a 45-minute motorbike ride home in the dark having just run 47 miles and having been awake for the last 36 hours. Getting changed in the dark in a field amidst a cloud of ravenous midges was no easy feat. Squeezing sore feet into narrow bike boots was also torturous. Man-handling a 200kg bike across a grassy, convoluted field with jelly-legs was sketchy at best. Then there was the post-run body temp drop. Not fun on a bike. It was still pretty chilly in the evening in the Lake District despite the hot temperatures during the day. Even a hot drink, a hot snack and a hot shower upon getting home failed to stop me from shivering.

Why you should do The Lap.

• The Lap is a brilliant introduction to ultrarunning. It is 72km (47 miles) of beautiful Lake District eye candy. Though dubbed a low-level course, you still get some leg-screaming ascents and equally disturbing descents, but you’ll be rewarded by some fine panoramic views of a magnificent glacial landscape. You’ll pass by dipping beds of course sandstone, hop over granitic rocks, and cool off your feet in the humus-stained waters of the boggy fells.
• The volunteers are wonderful folk who will endeavour to cater to your every need, whether that’s a refill or finding you a shady spot to sit and cool off, to a bit of light-hearted chit-chat, they’ve got you covered. Many are people who have run/hiked the event before. Some are those who plan to take part in the future. All have a vested interest in making the event a success. It has quickly risen to a sell-out event, and I truly believe the attitude of the volunteer staff has contributed greatly to its success.
• It has a generous cut-off time of 24 hours. The length of the course can be hiked from start to finish. It’s as competitive as you want it to be, though. This year’s event saw Ellis Bland smash the course record, crossing the finish line with a time of 06:59:28. The women’s record was also broken when Emma Stuart came in at 08:08:09. Think you can do better? There’s a cash prize if you can!
• The feed stations are well-stocked. They cater for all manner of dietary requirements, and have everything from gels and bars to crisps, nuts, jam sandwiches, and, of course, Twiglets!
• It is really well way-marked. You are encouraged to brush up on your navigation skills, and a compass and map are mandatory, but I never got my map out once.
• The final word goes to Davy, the race director, whom I happen to know personally. He’s an all-round great guy with a bucket-load of time-served experience as a race director, event manager, and athlete, so you are in pretty good hands. He always has time for folk, and his enthusiasm bleeds over onto the participants. It’s hard not to get excited when Davy starts waxing lyrical about The Lap.

Oh, and you get a lovely, locally sourced wooden finishers medal.

If you fancy having a crack at The Lap, you can find out more by visiting the website here.