The Great Lakes Run...Swim!
“Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle...glug glug,” cried Mandy as she was
mercilessly “laundered” by the River Esk. She later described it as “...like
being in a washing machine”. How she would know I’m not sure but I think a
washing machine experience would be far preferable to being bounced off rocks
and rolled over and over like a rag doll. You should see her bruises! Fiona,
who suffered a similar raging torrent experience, can match them.
The Great Lakes Run, a Lakeland Classic in the making, will
be talked about for many years to come. It had been raining for days and was
still hammering down when we registered in the barn at Stool End Farm. Clag
obscured the peaks and hung in the valleys. It was definitely going to provide
a navigational challenge. We joked about the river crossings. Race Organiser,
Ian Barnes, didn’t. In a rousing do or die briefing he made it clear, with
sergeant majorly gravity, that unless we knew how to look after ourselves in
the mountains in dire weather we should hand in our dibbers and go home.
“You’re responsible for your safety”, he barked, “you’ve got to look after
yourself and look after each other. That’s what fell running is all about”. A
round of applause followed. He captured the spirit of fellrunning, the essence
of our sport which, many will argue, has been eroded by the risk averse claims
culture which pervades our society. He warned us that the rivers would require
great care. “It’s down to you to find a safe crossing place”, he chided, “even
if that means climbing back up to Esk Hause”.
It didn’t feel too bad once we were running. Slippery rocks
were the main hazard with the potential to get lost coming a close second. Many
did. I’ve heard tales of runners ending up in Borrowdale and our own Dan Taylor
was eventually “rescued” by a passing motorist from somewhere between Wrynose
and Hardknott passes. One runner (later disqualified) managed to mistakenly miss
out Scafell altogether. Even I was temporarily mislocated when descending off
Slight Side and losing 15 minutes wandering around below Silverybield Crag, a
kilometre south of where I should have been. The rocks were the cause of a good
many injuries. One runner with an injured leg was escorted off Slight Side by a
fellow club member (Colin Moses) down to the Woolpack Inn in Eskdale and
deposited there to warm up by the fire while hero Colin ran back to the finish
via the checkpoint on Pike a Blisco to complete the race. (and then drove back
to Eskdale to pick up his team mate – who was by now no doubt completely
inebriated).
The highlight of the race was the flagged route up a gully
to Scafell. You could be forgiven for thinking, “What, up there!”, when looking
up. A tumbling cascade of water engulfed the scramble. The easy hands on rock
climb became an exhilarating 100m long shower. You just had to open your mouth
to get a drink. The main river crossings of the Esk, Lingcove Beck and Oxendale
Beck proved far more daunting. As I approached the River Esk with a group of five
other runners it presented a formidable barrier. We had to cross to pursue our
route towards the Crinkles. The brown swirling water looked deep and powerful.
We saw two ahead of us cross together, nearly getting washed away as they
lunged for the far bank. We formed a huddle of six and edged our way across
like a 12 legged crab. It was nearly waist deep with the water piling up
against us with the force of the current. Slippery boulders made for cautious
progress. Suddenly the chap on my right lost his footing but we managed to hold
onto him as, legs flailing, the river tried to propel him downstream. Then I
slipped. I was under water but still grasping tight onto my compatriots. We
somehow made the far side without losing someone and emerged dripping and
breathless. I remember thinking, “Mandy won’t like that”.
Lingcove Beck, again in crab
formation, fortunately proved slightly easier as, 100m downstream, impending
death in the form of a raging waterfall waited any impromptu swimmers. After a
nervous bumslide down the steep wet grass below Blisco wondering whether I
could stop before hitting the rapidly approaching rocks the final river
crossing near the finish was pretty tame. Avoiding the detour to a rope slung
across the river upstream, I crossed by the dam in relatively slack water.
Tales of epic river crossings
and rescues abounded at the finish. Dwayne recalled how he had dived in, Bondi
lifeguard fashion, to rescue someone in distress. Despite the hardships of the
race most were wearing big grins as they recounted their adventures. Some
however wore a haunted expression; the thousand yard stare. Mandy and Fiona for
instance. They'd arrived
at the Esk together and had joined forces with another runner. The river had prevailed
more or less straight away and swept them downstream tumbling them in its
swirls and eddies. The chap made it to the far side and ran down the bank to
try and help. Fiona was next out after a few hundred metres forging her way
across in an unorthodox swimming style. Mandy continued to be pummelled for
another hundered metres, doing her best
to avoid the bigger rocks and a watery fate. Somehow the river pushed her
towards the far bank and after several desparate lunges she managed to grab the
grassy bank. Her new hat, best buff and all the food from her rucksack pockets
were by now heading for the Irish Sea. Battered and bruised, and well hydrated,
the two of them bravely
pushed on to finish the race well ahead of many less navigationally astute runners.
What a race. What an adventure. I’ve heard debates about whether
the race should have started, or the route altered. Was it a courageous or a foolish
decision to stick with the full course? Opinions differ; I’m still not sure one
way or another but I am glad I had the opportunity to pit myself against the
mountains and the weather in truly tough conditions. There were a few “high
risks” involved but everyone did look after each other, or at least tried to,
and everyone returned in one piece... the spirit of fellrunning was seen in
abundance.
