When my friend, Britta, asked me to do this event with her I was filled with a mix of pleasure and trepidation. The pleasure was that for all we have been in many races, and competed together as a Swimrun team, we have never returned to long distance, self-navigated runs we began with back when Britta was training for her first ultra. The trepidation came from knowing that while I am basically hanging on, hoping to get a few more events in before I’m forced to retire, Britta is still of an age – and particularly running age – that in longer races she could still look to do PBs.
As it happened, ths wasn’t put to the test as Britta was still struggling with an injury aggravated by running the Berlin Marathon a few weeks before and was forced to withdraw. A disappointment, but in all honesty likely a better chance for me to finish since it meant I could do individual stages purely at the pace I needed rather than pushing, and possibly badly hurting, myself.
The day dawned wet at home in Manchester, which translated into the far more agreeable state of snow as I drove higher towards the start at Hebden Bridge Golf Club, to the extent that those of us without four-wheel drives were advised to park further down rather than try to reach the club house.
In deference to my age and my long term injuries, I had elected to head off on the earlier start with the walkers/non-competitive runners. It also makes it much easy to check my garmin GPS has started correctly and to see how the route description fits the route – we had been warned that for today’s event the write up was more a general aid than the sort of turn-by-turn description often provided for these type of events.
A grey day of murk and 
occasional snow showers but with an even covering of 10cms of snow on the trail. I walked most of the way to the first checkpoint at 5kms as I have found my injuries tend to ease out if I give them time rather than start as I hope to go on, though once over Brown Knoll (443m) I committed the first jog of the day. From the checkpoint we descended towards the Lumb Hole Waterfall and back up via the Calder/Aire Link path and onto Wadsworth Moor. It often only seems in retrospect that one realises that without really meaning to one has fallen in with a group of people; not really running as a group but falling in and out of step, exchanging a few words as you pass and re-pass at various stages; no obligation to stay together but somehow no one gaining the sort of decisive advantage that snaps the elastic. It had happened again, and a little group of us jogged, walked, paused for photos and occasionally chatted our way to the Walshaw Dean Lower Reservoir. The checkpoint just past here where there had been due to be hot drinks had been cancelled due to the difficulty of getting cars there in the snow since gritters don’t go that way. A shame for me, since at 13.5 kms it was starting to feel like an event on my legs.
A short leg of 4.5kms along the Pennnine Way and Bridleway and checkpoint 3 gave the chance to refill bottles and an excuse to have some snacks. 18km is a long way by my current standards. My last two LDWA type events had been of 20-plus kms, but on both occasions I had been hanging on for the finish by this stage. 16km to go was not something I could afford to start counting down, for all it was nice to be over halfway with nothing hurting too badly even if nothing was really functioning as I would like. Another 6km of increasing struggle pretty much finished off any pretence of running other than painful short downhills. The descent down Jumble Hole Clough a perverse delight even if snow covered tree roots and rocks caused more than a fair share of stumbles and swearing. Finally checkpoint 4. I couldn’t be bothered having a hot drink at this stage with only 9km to go. I had, in any case, fallen behind my ‘pack’ and was being overtaken by many others, so opted to grab some food, mutter my thanks, and gain a head start on the final leg.
A steep zig zag section through Callis Wood made me glad I had opted to walk and eat, with only sufficient runners from the later start coming past me to reassure me that I was on the right route. From Swillington, we headed across the only boggy area of the run. Not long enough to hurt in itself but up until then running and walking on snow had been as easy as on any other surface and something like fun, suddenly running on a frozen surface with trainers and socks soaked with icy water added an altogether new layer of suffering. Trying to run to warm up but even the descents were now difficult on solid legs, though bypassing the worst of Daisy Bank (as advised by the race director) helped until the final juddering jog down a hill to the road.
Everything was suddenly taking far longer than it had any right to. A road should be a short connecting section, and maybe this was, but it seemed to go on forever. And so it continued once we were on the steep ascent to the finish back at the club. My legs had gone and the only reason to keep moving in any fashion was that the only way to stop the pain was to finish the event; no one was going to be offering lifts to the finish from here. Through several levels of false hopes and falling behind most the people I had spent so long in and around, the club house finally was at the end of a short stretch of track. No trainers allowed in the club house, so I painfully untied and hobbled inside to hand in my dibber.
The event had undoubtedly been too long for me at 34km, the main relief being that my navigation – one of the main reasons Britta had invited me along as she doubted her own ability to navigete the moors – hadn’t added to the distance. In the event, I was shown to be (I would say the first, others may say the only) MV60 to complete the route. An altogether vague source of satisfaction with the drive home still to come.