Eight hours. Eight hours to run the 30 miles of the George Fisher Tea Round. Eight hours to run over 12,000ft to reach the 10 Lake District Fells visible from the George Fisher Café. Eight hours to confirm that I may be ready to run the Bob Graham this year.
My friend ran a sub 24 hour Bob Graham Round. He then went on to run an 8 hour Tea Round. At the time of my friend’s completion I was not a runner, peering in at the sport from a hikers perspective, but what I did have was a fascination with the Bob Graham Round and a desire, one day, to complete it. So, I hypothesised “If I could run an 8hr Tea Round, I could run a Bob Graham Round”. A few months later I started running. Subconsciously that thought stuck. If I could run an 8 hour Tea Round, I could run a sub 24 hour Bob Graham.
I would hasten to add that nothing scientific has gone into the assumption that an 8 hour Tea Round Equates to a sub 24 hour Bob Graham. No evaluation of times between the two rounds, no cross references of terrain and ascent had been undertaken. Just the sheer fact that one of my friends ran a sub 24 hour Bob Graham and then went on to run an 8 hour tea round. Essentially, the assumption that an 8 hour Tea Round equates to a 24hr Bob Graham Round is completely untrue. However, this hypothesis I created before I even became a runner, before I even understood what undertaking either round would imply stuck with me like a mantra. “If I run an 8 hour Tea Round, I will run a 24 hour Bob Graham”.
I had meticulously planned the route. Packed and repacked my bag, checked the map, planned the splits needed to get that all important 8 hour time. Due to other commitments (and my overall lack of organisation in planning my time) I had not reconnoitered all the lines, trusting that my local knowledge and half decent map reading skills would carry me through. I charged my watch, checked my map and headed to bed, feelings of excitement and trepidation making sleep difficult
Parking the car and heading towards George Fishers I received odd looks from passers-by. Early morning figures heading to work or to do their daily tasks, were taken aback by me heel flicking my way through the town but, with good old fashioned British reserve, I received nothing more than baffled looks (after all, I was in Keswick, the home of fell running). Arriving, I checked my watch, put my hand on the door of George Fishers, hoping I wasn’t preventing someone from exiting the shop, and, as I set off, started my watch.
This is not so much a write up of the run itself, more an examination of how a mindset can affect a run. There will be time for a write up when I return in a blaze of glory to reattempt the round. This means that the description of the time between setting off and reaching Grisedale Pike (hill seven on an anticlockwise traverse) will only be summed up in one word: solid. I ran well, made no navigational blunders, kept to the splits I had calculated and felt good. Food and drink were consumed in due course, the first section was, if any run in the fells could be called this, uneventful. This of course, couldn’t last.
Step up event one. The wind was howling and the visibility decreased, I was at one of the four short sections that I hadn’t recceid previously (the sections that connected up each of the legs). I knew the direction I needed to go and, in my arrogance, I did not bother to check my map for fear of it acting like a sail and carrying me off into the distance. So, blindly, I descended.
When one makes a mistake there is a period of time before the consequences of that mistake are realised. This of course can be near instantaneous (such as when stepping on something sharp) but it can also be drawn out with a large lag time between the mistake being made and the mistake being realised. There is therefore a period of time where a mistake has been made but the individual is happily unaware of this. This is apparent in film where multiple narratives of different characters can be seen. You look in mute horror as someone goes about there everyday life blissfully unaware of the strife that awaits them. In much the same way, I look back on those innocent moments descending the wrong hill, blissfully unaware that, upon reaching the bottom, any hopes of an eight hour time will dissipate. And that is exactly what happened, I reached the bottom, saw my location was wrong and the relaisation of my mistake unraveled. All that planning, all that preparation undone by one simple careless mistake.
I continued to run, for I was not drastically off course with only a few miles of trail separated me from where I should have come down. I hadn’t been pushing myself too hard on the prior sections. In my head I tried to bargain with my own mind, convincing it to stay positive, assuring it all was not lost and the time could be clawed back. I continued along the route, rejoining the trail at Buttermere before heading up the steep sides of Red Pike. I was feeling on edge, the mistake before had completely thrown me in a way I had never been thrown before (having never been required to follow a fixed route before) and it was worsened by the fact another unreconnoitered section lay ahead, the descent of High Stile.
I remember learning about pathetic fallacy in secondary school English, were inanimate objects, such as (and in this case) weather, can be attributed moods which match those of the characters. Like I was in my own novel, the clag rolled in again, thicker than before. I reached High Stile and descended, taking the short sharp descent I had taken on the map. But, it is all well and good assuring yourself there is a way down when in the safety and warmth of your own home, much less when you are descending through thick clag on rapidly steepening trail. I kept hitting blockages, first physical ones, cliffs and crags as I went off the line, then mental ones as I doubted the route I was taking. This was a first for me, never had I doubted where I was going but then again, never had it really mattered. Exploration was the main focus of my runs, never planning lines to take or routes to follow, mearly seeing routes and features and following them like a rat to the mountains proverbial pied piper. I made it down, I was late, very late. I was now an hour and a half behind schedule and my mind knew it. I sat on the shore of Buttermere and looked out at the water feeling sorry for myself. Thinking nothing but the wasted opportunity until an idea came to me. The clouds parted, my hands reached down to my watch fingers pressing buttons and dials until I had found the correct option and I looked up at the hills. There was no need to be disheartened. I wasn’t going to finish the round in the time I wanted, but I was fit feeling strong and uninjured. It was mid-afternoon and I was sitting in the lap of the Lake District Fells. I pressed delete on my watch. The GPS trace vanished, lost into cyberspace. I pocketed the split times and stood, feeling the tensions and the frustrations of the day melt away. My round was over, but an afternoon of fell running was afoot. With a smile, I set off into the hills.
The next day I returned to Grisedale Pike, this time ascending the steep side from the bottom of the pass. It was a warm sunny and still day. How different things could have been if I had delayed until today. I sat on the summit looking out at the section where I made my blunder. If I had delayed, would I have checked the map, seen the correct line and gained time. Would, upon reaching High Stile, I have been in a better frame of mind to find and traverse the treacherous descent. A smile stretches my lips, I probably would have done it all the same I think to myself, but most importantly, never again.
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