The Recce

The Recce

I hadn't been running for very long when I received my first copy of the FRA race handbook and I was soon eagerly perusing it for races that I could do. My eyes fastened onto the Black Combe Fell Race” It looked good and at 8 miles with 3000 feet of climbing I reckoned it was within my modest capabilities. As it was in a part of the Lake District that was totally unknown to me I decided to recce the route and I was pleased to find out that with a 5.30 am start, I could even get there and back on public transport on the same day.

But what a day it turned out to be. I could not believe the number of things that went wrong. I suppose the trouble really began the day before when I was due to travel back to Newcastle after giving a talk in London. Arriving at Kings Cross I was confronted with an indicator board full of train cancellation and delay notices. I overheard a porter telling a colleague that my train would be an hour or so late leaving for Newcastle. The “or so” bit ended up equating to five hours and I reached home at midnight, six hours late.  I put off the recce for a day. A bad decision as it turned out.

On Thursday I left a dull, cold Newcastle on a dull, cold pacer train and arrived in Carlisle on time, So far so good! The Silecroft train left on time and reaching into my rucksack, I  was confronted with my first setback. I had left all my food at home and there was no chance of buying more because Silecroft had no shop. Still I thought, I could survive that because I was only going to be on the go for two hours or so. If only I hadn't forgotten yesterday's lesson of just how long “or so” could be.

At Workington along came problem number two. The guard asked us to leave the train as they were going to couple a broken down unit to it and drop it off at Barrow. It would only take a couple of minutes or so, he said. Over an hour later we were underway again and I suppose it was a sort of comfort to know that it wasn't just me who had problems with “or so”.

However, this delay caused a real problem because this effectively cancelled out all the spare time I had to do the recce and get back to the station in time to catch a train home and I had no option but to cut it short and miss out part of the race route. Even worse was the knowledge that I wouldn't have time for a pint at the Miner's Arms.  The train duly chugged along the west coast of Cumbria through a succession of small communities to arrive at Silecroft at 12.55. The little hamlet looked deserted and as expected there was nowhere to buy any food nor did there appear to be any sign of life at the pub.

As I thought the race start was through a private field I decided to begin my recce from the start of the fellside and to reach it I had to effectively walk around three sides of a square. I didn’t run this bit because I didn’t want to make a mistake and end up in the wrong place and for the next hour or so everything went well. A footpath beside the church at Whitcham took me to the bottom of Seaness and I started my run. Not that I was running for very long because it turned out to be a very steep climb and I was pleased and surprised to reach the top a whole two minutes earlier than I’d expected. A combination of jogging and walking took me towards the summit of Black Combe more or less on schedule and from the top I took a good path down hill and then realised I was going too far west. A jog across tussocks and heather took me to the route that led to White Combe where a decision had to be made. I could follow the race route down to the stream junction and where the re-ascent of Black Combe begins, drop down to the road. By missing out the re-ascent there would be time to reach Silecroft to catch the 15.25 train and it was absolutely necessary that I caught that train because it was two and a half hours until the next one. Alternatively, I could go back up to Black Combe and then recce the final descent to the finish. I chose the latter option.

I made good time despite temporarily losing the way at one point and reaching the track that skirts the bottom of Seaness with a good 45 minutes to spare, I set off at a brisk jog to find the spot that I’d started from earlier in the afternoon. It was now that things really started to go wrong. Unaccountably, you’ll read that word again soon, I missed the point where the footpath passed the church and annoyingly when I went to look at my map to check exactly where I was, I couldn’t find it. I ended up following the track until it ended at a small quarry. There was no obvious way from here to the main road, which was tantalisingly close at this point. Still I was not too concerned as I retraced my steps until I finally reached the church but not by the path I’d taken earlier.

Whether it was lack of food or just a bad memory, I just couldn’t seem to fit in where I was now with where I had been earlier, although logic told me it had to be the same place! Time was pressing now so I set off at a fast pace for the station. After ten minutes I had a suspicion that all was not as it should be. Surely the road into Silecroft wasn’t this far? It had barely taken this long when I had walked it but still I kept on going, unwilling to admit I was wrong. Surely it must be just up ahead. But the only thing just up ahead were some traffic lights and roadworks with some men tending them. Feeling a bit stupid I pointed back the way I had come and giving voice to my worst fears asked “That’s the way to Silecroft isn’t it?” It was and he added that it was all of three miles away. Three miles? How could I have been so stupid to keep going for so long? That I must have been running really fast to have covered three miles so quickly was scant consolation. I asked how far it was to the next village, Bootle, Just over a mile was the answer and a glimmer of hope was born. I still had 10 minutes before the train and tired as I I was I reckoned I could just about make it. I hastily said thanks and goodbye to the roadworker and as I ran off I heard him repeating his invaluable information, “Yes, you'll reach the station after a mile or so” An icy hand seemed to grip my heart as I heard those dreaded two little words.

But I had two minutes to spare when, in state of almost total collapse, I reached Bootle. “Oh thank God for that” I thought when I saw an old BR station sign and an arrow showing the way. It was only when I drew near that the cruel hand of fate intervened and revealed the writing underneath the sign “Station 1 1/4 miles” I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in all my life. Talk about having your morale destroyed and your hopes crushed. But hope, as they say, springs eternal and maybe, just maybe the train was late? I pushed on and I was halfway there when the afternoon’s silence was broken by the sound of a diesel train accelerating away in the direction of Carlisle. I stopped and considered what to do. I had two and a half hours to kill. I had no really warm clothing and already there was a definite chill in the air and sitting on a bench at a deserted station was not an appealing idea. Bootle seemed a fair sized village, it might have a shop and possibly a pub. I wandered back to the main street and there was indeed a shop, at least I’d have some food. I bought two Cornish pasties that cost £1.50, which coincidentally was exactly the amount of change I had in my pocket but as I sat down to eat one a sudden thought struck me. 

Wasn’t my wallet supposed to be in that pocket along with the change? Trouser pockets proved to be wallet-less, as did my rucksack and apparently my jacket. Now I really was upset, I had lost about fifty quid, as well as my credit card, my local season ticket and worst of all, my rail ticket home. I had 25 pence, what on Earth was I going to do? With no real hope, I emptied my rucksack again. Nothing. I checked my trouser pockets, nothing. I checked my jacket pockets, nothing. Hang on though, there was a zipped pocket I couldn't recall searching before. Not daring to hope, I opened it and miraculously there was the errant wallet, I felt like yelling out loud with relief.

I walked back to the station because I remembered there was a train at about 4pm, which although it didn’t go to Carlisle, would get me to Ravenglass where I knew there’d be an open pub. The train was duly caught and Ravenglass duly arrived at. I thought my luck had turned at last because the scene at this little seaside hamlet was breathtaking. There wasn’t a breath of wind and the only sound was that of a few seabirds on the beach and a couple talking at the far end of the waterfront. The sun was low in the west and silhouetted against it were half a dozen small boats at rest in the harbour. It was an utterly tranquil scene and so much at odds with my mood of less than half an hour ago. Despite the rapidly chilling air I sat for half an hour on a bench and ate my pasties, serene in the knowledge that behind me glowed the cosy looking lights of the hotel bar. When the sun had almost set I went inside and sat by the roaring fire and had a pint of Jennings. It was with some reluctance that I left at a quarter to six to catch the train to Carlisle.

I should have known that it would be late, no the day hadn’t finished with me yet. It was very late, but it was just late enough into Carlisle to ensure that I missed the Newcastle train and had to wait an hour and a half for the next one. Of course everything was shut at Carlisle station by this time so I popped out to the fish and chip shop over the road and bought a fish supper and a bottle of water. I sat reading my kindle in the waiting room until it was time to leave. I finally reached home at 11pm, a little later than the 7.30pm I was anticipating when I left home all those hours ago.

What a day it had been and to cap it all, it was almost useless as a recce because now almost seven years later, I still haven't done the bloody race.