Dirt Churning in the Northwest of Another Country-Scafell Sky Race

At the pre-race briefing Saturday evening in the Lake District town of Ambleside, one statement from race director Charles Sproson stuck with me: ‘If you think you’ve signed up for the easier version of the ultra, you’re wrong.’  Although we were not vetted for rock climbing skills like the runners who were still at that very moment finishing the 55k ultra, he assured us that the roughly marathon distance Skyrace course was a unique, legit challenge in its own right, not to be taken lightly.

After the briefing I was off to prep my gear (see the extensive mandatory gear list at the end) and turn in for an early night. I had made arrangements to stay in a dorm room near the race headquarters at the University of Cumbria.

This is a point to point race, and the next morning we boarded coaches at 7:45 for a 45 minute ride to the start in Seatoller.  The vibe and mix of runners felt very familiar.  You hear about European runners being slick, smooth, and plastered in spandex.  Not the case here in the British Fells.  There was a good mix of beards, tattoos, trucker hats, and quirky outsider characters reminding me very much of an American trail race. Many looked like they were probably grizzled specialist on this type of terrain.  They seemed to be from the Lake District itself, or the mountainous fringes of Britain Scotland, Wales, and also Ireland.   Also different was what the majority of runners had on their feet.  Most seemed to be wearing Salomon Fellraisers, Inov-8 Talons, or similar.  These are very specialized shoes with deep, aggressive lugs.  Shoes with teeth.  Surely it was overkill.  This was billed as a trail race after all, not a traditional, off-trail fell race.  I looked down at my Brooks Cascadia.  Designed for running Cascade Mountain trails.  They were going to have to do the job!  Was I out of my element?  This was not the Pyrenees, not the Alps, not even Scotland.  I regularly run in the Cascade Mountains, in the Columbia River Gorge, and on the big volcanoes in the Pacific Northwest, regularly climbing from sea level to 4,000-5000’+.  These mountains top out at around 3,000′.  How hard could it be?  I had respect, but still a bit of arrogance.  I was about to have that beaten out of me!

Race start was 9:00.  It was already about 65 degrees and sunny, very unusual for this part of the world.  People were nervous about the heat.  I didn’t have any real heat conditioning this year yet, but plenty of experience and was not concerned. A last-minute change to the course added a little more than a mile of flat running at the beginning.  Good. A chance to get the blood flowing before the climbing begins, and spread the field a little.  At the end of mile 2 we approached the first check point (a Marshal manually scans a fob that was attached to the wrist the day before. 9 check points on the course), and what appeared to be a soaring wall of jagged rocks which served as the trail up Sour Milk Gill.  That was in fact what it was.  The next half mile would be a hands on rocks conga line climb, setting my overall pace for the rest of the day at a 20 minute/mile average.  Cumbria is having a record-setting drought, so the trail was bone dry for the most part; and these were actually fast conditions.  The heat may have slowed some down a little, but for me a wet race would have been much, much slower.  As it was, my shoes did the job.  It was really only warm in the valleys.  As we got above 1,000′ the air-cooled considerably, and it was quite breezy.

The entire course was scenic, gorgeous, and impressive.  We runners call rocky trails “technical.” I feel that word is not adequate to describe these paths. Relentless meat grinder would be more accurate.  Don’t get me wrong, I have huge respect for these ancient routes and all the tradition they represent.  Their construction and maintenance is impressive, awe-inspiring and difficult to describe.  Video and photos don’t do them justice.  You need to have your feet on them to truly experience them.  This was one on the birth places of mountain running and I did not take the experience lightly. I won’t give a blow-by-blow description of the course, just general feelings and impressions.  In the first half I was moving well up the climbs.  Passing some people, and never really getting passed.  The downhills however, is where the Fell runners really put on a clinic, smoothly and nimbly gliding past me, elf like, seemingly with little effort.  Picture the running sequence at the beginning The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.  In my mind’s eye I was at least moving like Aragorn, but in reality more like a very tall Gimli the dwarf, clumsily lumbering down the rocks as they floated past me like Legolas.

I still felt pretty strong coming into the first and only aid station at 15 miles. It had taken just under 4:40 to get there.  That is definitely something to consider at this race.  One aid station, otherwise self supported.  Its only about a 25 mile race, but your time on course is going to be like a very challenging 50k.  I ate maybe 300-400 calories at the aid station and had started the race with 600 calories on me.  I also had my emergency 200 calories, which I did not eat.   My biggest regret was not having more food with me. I underestimated the time I would be out there by 1.5-2 hours, and the course was about 3 miles longer than I was lead to believe.  2,000 calories would not have been too much. Just the last 10 miles took me 3 hours and 45 minutes, significantly longer than a typical full road marathon for me.