“Last Man Home ”

By Allan Johnson, January 2008

When we moved down from Yorkshire to Lincolnshire 25 years ago, we took more than memories with us. The challenging landscapes and rigour of the Dales gave us an energetic window on life, which we happily bequeathed to our children. Although both parents passed away some years ago, we still visit favourite haunts, to refresh our souls and just touch base.

It was in our native Yorkshire that I was first introduced to the not-so-gentle art of fell running: a gritty version of jogging for those seeking an escape from the daily grind and just about everything else. In Lincolnshire we have the Wolds, a mere crease in the landscape compared to the grandeur of Whernside. My local running club prefers more modest challenges – avoiding extremes of gradient wherever possible.

Naturally enough, when I saw an advertisement last year for an off-road trail event in Wharfedale, I had to send for an application form. That was the easy bit!

Come the day, we parked close to the venue, but the facilities were sparse. Even finding the start required closely guarded local knowledge, as I discovered when I made enquiries. “Not done this before mate? It’s a bugger at the finish. Where are you from?” Ignoring my reply, our companion left us to find our own way to the start, which faced downhill in the middle of otherwise picturesque woodland, close to the sewage works.

It was too late now, I had to go through with it. Feeling I had bitten off rather more than I could chew, I waved a poignant farewell to my wife, and we were off. Ahead lay a robust six miles of uncertain terrain and plenty of contour lines, which at present were thankfully in my favour.

Running down through the uneven woodland was exhilarating to the senses, but it seemed a long way to the first mile marker. As the course levelled off, we ran along the side of the canal, saw locks in action and made good time to the next check point. So far so good, I was rolling back the years and the scenery was as I remembered it. Then we hit the first hill. Fell runners must possess extra muscle groups in their legs which allow them to accelerate up inclines, but I had slowed down to a stagger.

With fellow athletes passing me by the score, I felt a complete fraud, but there was some compensation looming. All competitors received a bottle of beer from a local brewery, but you did have to reach the finishing line. Digging deep into my reserves of stamina, put there by years of training in the hills and valleys of Wharfedale, I followed the trail of runners up through the woods, slowly retracing my steps back to the start. I have never dropped out of a race yet, but this was becoming a real possibility, as several elderly veterans sailed passed me - and asked, “Are you OK?”

This was the Yorkshire I knew: the damp earth, the rugged paths and the silent loyalty of so many of its inhabitants, bound together on this occasion by a shared hardship, self-inflicted below a clear blue sky on a Sunday morning, raising money for worthy causes. Afterwards, there would be shared moments of glory, much discussion of the race, and that bottle of beer. As I lurched towards the finishing line, I noted my time was a good ten minutes slower than the equivalent distance run at home, but I wasn’t going to complain.

Chatting with other athletes and feeling very much at home, I was reminded of the dour nature of dalesmen when I commented on the difficult uphill struggle of the last mile. Back came the terse reply “What d’you expect? First mile were down‘ill!”