It’s not just the heat that saps your energy: it’s landing on loose sand, making you work hard for every single footstep. You’d wake up after that and have trouble simply standing up. So what would your legs be like if, somehow, you managed to persuade them to go through the same again, to run another 20-odd miles over the Sahara, 24 hours after doing it for the first time? Then imagine doing it for a third straight day, in the heat and the sand. And then on the fourth day casually double the distance, an ultra-marathon, still carrying all your own food and equipment. What state would your legs be in when you woke up on day five? And your legs aren’t even your biggest problem. They’re not even in the top two. More pressing is the state of your feet, bloody and swollen with nails missing and blisters on top of blisters. And most urgently of all, you somehow have to keep your mind positive enough to do it all over again after breakfast, to run another sapping, sandy marathon knowing you’ve got yet another in front of you tomorrow.
Meanwhile, every summer in the Lake District, a few dozen lunatics embark on a personal 24-hour crusade up and down 42 different mountains, or fells. Being in the extreme northwest of England, the weather is generally diabolical; freakishly strong winds carrying horizontal hailstones are not unusual. The runners do all their own navigation, frequently getting lost in thick clouds, which can appear from nowhere. They force their way up steep, seemingly impossible slopes totalling around 27,000 feet. They hurl themselves down dizzying descents in total darkness over loose stones, thick gorse and hidden boulders. Assuming they don’t get lost and run further than necessary, which most do, it’s about 72 miles of unrelenting slog. And if they finish one second over the 24-hour time limit – then quite simply, they’ve failed.
I’m guessing you may have heard of the Marathon des Sables in Morocco, but perhaps you’re not aware of Cumbria’s Bob Graham Round. Both events are currently very much on my ‘to-do’ list.
In fact I’d have run the Marathon des Sables last year if my wife hadn’t forbidden it on the entirely reasonable grounds that she was seven months pregnant and could do without the added stress. And as for the Bob Graham, well I’m becoming increasingly obsessed with it since visiting Keswick, running in the fells, and meeting perhaps the greatest fell runner of them all, Joss Naylor. It’s no exaggeration to call Joss a legend. And I don’t use the term lightly.
He runs in the fells beyond the point of exhaustion, beyond the point of serious injury, beyond sleep deprivation, and he simply keeps going. Extremely fast. Here is a man who was told as a child that his bad back would forever prevent him doing sport of any kind. A man who aged 18 had an operation on his knee, which went so badly wrong that he was warned he’d never walk without a limp. A man who was excused military service because of his poor health. A man who was advised to stop working on his farm for fear of doing himself irreparable damage. But despite all that, or perhaps because of it, here is also a man who has done more to introduce the world to fell running than perhaps everybody else combined. A man who has won so many races, and broken so many records, that to list them all becomes boring. A man who’s raised countless thousands of pounds for charity. Who once stopped whilst leading a race to go and help a lamb in trouble on a neighbouring peak. A man who once ran 20 miles over a mountain to get to the start of a major fell race, calmly and clinically won it, and then ran 20 miles back over the same mountain to be home in time to tend to his sheep.
And here is a man who celebrated his 60th birthday by leaving his house at 3am, running up and down 60 peaks, the equivalent of climbing Everest from sea level twice, and finishing 36 hours later in a faraway, lakeside car park – to the utter bewilderment of a group of tourists back from a Sunday afternoon hike. Iron Joss they call him. And they’re not wrong.
And having met him, interviewed him, shared a pot of tea with him, I admit I’m a little star-struck. Not to mention obsessed with the challenge of completing a Bob Graham Round myself. Joss once managed 72 peaks in 24 hours, but the traditional 42 will do me. In fact it was Joss who inspired me to do my first off-road ultra-marathon, the 100km Race to the Stones, of which more later. And when I got to the start line and realised to my immense annoyance that I’d forgotten my running shoes (I mean what sort of total muppet does that?), I thought of Joss and carried on regardless.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let’s head back to my first, Bambi-like steps on a treadmill in Television Centre with Andrew, the personal trainer. When I set off, there were 20 minutes on the display, which I must have glanced at every five minutes or so to see how I was getting on. Except every time I looked up, only around thirty seconds had gone by. And according to the display, I was running quite slowly, yet it felt increasingly like I was sprinting. I complained loudly that there must be some mistake, was he sure the machine was working properly? Andrew simply stood by, patiently encouraging me in my makeshift sports kit to finish what felt like a 20-minute marathon.
The thing is, he kept telling me, once you’ve done 20 minutes or more of continuous cardiovascular exercise, your metabolism is fired up for the rest of the day so whatever you eat, you digest quicker and more efficiently. That’s what he said, and as I’ve since learned, it’s largely true. That’s what he said. What I heard was, just keep running until this stupid timer reaches zero, and you can eat whatever you want with impunity for the rest of the week. Which is exactly what I did, via the half-hour of weights he made me do, and a quick shower. On my weary way downstairs for my shift that day, I gleefully visited the on-site sandwich shop for double portions of cheese ploughman’s plus two packets of celebratory Frazzles. (Unfortunately I soon realised that if you’re hoping to lose weight, it doesn’t work quite like that.)
Fair to say I found my first proper exercise for over a decade quite a shock to the system. But somehow, I persuaded myself to return for more the following week. And the next week. And the one after that. And gradually, ever so slowly, week by week, month by month, I stopped viewing the treadmill (always the same one, the one in the corner, away from view) as the circle of hell that Dante had inexplicably forgotten to mention. I even began to wonder what it must be like to run outside.
Which is where I could be found quite soon afterwards, on my porch, trying to motivate myself to move.
The trouble is, running from home necessarily means running down my street, and potentially running in front of neighbours/friends/relatives/real people who actually know me. Which I found a little intimidating. So as I closed the front gate and turned towards the river, I set off at what can only be described as a flat-out sprint. If these people are going to see me run, I was thinking, then they’re going to think I’m fast!
Of course a few dozen houses later, I was completely exhausted and found myself leaning against a friendly front wall to catch my breath. And that, sod’s law being the sod that it is, was when the owner of that wall decided to leave her house along with a friend, both of whom I knew well. They did a collective double take as they saw me gasping for oxygen having clearly run no more than 200 yards.
Seriously quick thinking was required to spare me from weeks of ridicule. ‘Just on my way home from a nice run,’ I announced confidently. And in a classic case of protesting too much, added: ‘I always finish my runs here, at the street lamp outside your house. Then I walk home as a warm-down.’
‘Oh, we’re all walking that way too,’ came the unexpected answer. ‘Let’s all walk together.’
Nothing else I could do then, as we reached my front door, except confidently let myself back into the house. It was precisely four minutes since I’d proudly announced to wife and children that I was setting off on my inaugural outside run.
The ribbing I received was merciless, unremitting. And fully deserved.
And thus, with my three favourite people all enjoying themselves hugely at my expense, ended my first-ever proper run. It’s a wonder I ever dared try again.
Joss Naylor MBE
‘Iron Joss’ is perhaps
the greatest fell runner who ever lived. A sheep farmer from Wasdale Head, he’s broken countless endurance records running in the Lake District but remains the most humble, unassuming and generous man you could ever hope to meet. He simply loves what he does (still does, even in his ninth decade) and where he lives.
When I first really got into running it was 1960, and it was the Mountain Trials at Wasdale Head. I was just having breakfast, and the proprietor there walked round to the counter where I was sat, and he said, ‘Do you fancy running the Mountain Trial?’
I said, ‘I don’t know. I haven’t got any running shoes. I haven’t got any shorts. I’ve got nothing.’ He said, ‘You’ll be all right.’
So I cut the legs out of my trousers and ran in my boots. I found it was the competition of running that I actually liked. I was going well, I was in the lead for about two-thirds of the way and then I got cramp. For about, I would say, an hour or so, I was struggling with cramp. I couldn’t get rid of it. Just as we dropped towards Westmorland and one of the most beautiful views in the Lake District, there were two old ladies having a picnic. They had a little salt pot, so I said, ‘Can I have some of your salt?’ They said ‘Yes, help yourself.’ I turned half of it onto my hand and just ate it raw, and the cramp more or less went after that.
I finished the Mountain Trial, but I had very stiff legs the next day with having had the cramp. And that was my baptism to running. I always ran when I was at school and that sort of thing, but I never really thought about it till that day because there was no athletics in this area of any kind.
But then I really got into it. I’ve run the Mountain Trial, I think, over 50 times now. I still run it every year. You know, you get into something like that and, I don’t say it exactly takes your life over, but it’s something you look forward to each year because it’s held at a different part of the Lake District. It’s been a great way to discover the Lake District, a great baptism into this area – I’ve been into practically every inch of the Lake District with Mountain Trials. And that’s without doing the Wainwrights and things like that. [Joss once covered the famous Wainwright route – 391 miles, 214 tops and 121,000 feet of ascent – in 7 days, 1 hour and 25 minutes.]
And what I love about running I think is the tranquility. When you are running well and just floating along, it’s one of those magical feelings. You can’t really describe it. When you’re running on a full stride and you’re letting your feet drop, it’s just something out of this world. It’s one of those feelings that’s pretty difficult to describe to people. A lot of people don’t run right. If you’re running at full stride and let your feet drop... your legs don’t stiffen up the same. You get that sort of mythical sensation and you run and run and run, and just really enjoy it without taking a lot of energy out of yourself. You get to a certain stage of fitness and I just find myself thinking, well, how lucky I am to be here really. It’s such a beautiful part of the world. We know the weather isn’t always good in the Lake District, but even on a wet, bad day, those were the days I used to train because I couldn’t get on to the other work, the sheep farming and that. If it was a bad day, I would always put plenty of thermal wear on the top – two good thermal tops and a light cap and it would be enough to keep your body heat without getting hypothermia or anything like that.
To anybody just starting out, I would say keep on the paths where you can’t get lost. Learn to run on level places before you start climbing and just gradually work yourself into it. When you go out, gradually go a bit further – say every other week, add a mile to it. Concentrate on getting your climbing right. Just climb fast walking and then when you come to a bit of easy running, which is slightly uphill, just shorten your stride and try and run it. Try to keep a jog going until you do get to running on the hills, because it can be done so simply if you go about it in the right way.
And then improve slowly, run for longer. Because running for 24 hours in the fells, it’s one of the great things. The night sessions, if you’ve got a good team with you, there’s always a good craic and the time passes well.
It’s magical because of the company you’ve got with you at night, and you rely on that company just to keep on track. It used to be a bit harder to see where you were headed, but nowadays there are some tremendous head torches. They run on a very small battery and the vision off them is magic. They weren’t quite as good as that when I was doing the long runs on the fells. Now you see a lad coming at you at night, cycling, but when you first see the lights come you think it’s a car. They light the whole road.
But I’ve seen some awful nights. When I did the 63 peaks [in 24 hours in 1975], it rained and stormed from start to finish, but apart from my face being a bit swollen with the rain and the wind, I took no harm at all. I just went home and Mary was milking the cows. And I said, ‘I’ll finish them off. You’ll go and make the lads who’ve been out with me some breakfast.’ Then I just worked all day.
3
Kaiser Chiefs, On the Run
‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, Mile 3
We’re running round the long, thin lake of the National Water Sports Centre at Holme Pierpoint near Nottingham. So far, I’ve managed to hobble up one of its 1½-mile sides, around the top, and now I’m heading back down the southern shore, back to where my wife and kids, if I can spot them among the crowds, will be waiting to cheer me on. It’s mid-afternoon, and I reckon they’ll have arrived up from London by now.
Over the past few weeks, Caroline has become increasingly anxious about today and has mounted a concentrated campaign to persuade me to pull out. For some reason, she’s convinced herself that this Ironman could conceivably do me in. Perhaps it was the heart scare last year (which, having been sent for all the tests, rather shamefully turned out to be indigestion), or perhaps she’s had a premonition. But the fact that this has turned into the UK’s hottest day for years will have done little to calm her nerves. All around, there are some extremely fit, extremely well-prepared athletes collapsing with heat exhaustion and sunstroke.
Meanwhile, I’ve just spent two days in bed with a vomiting and diarrhoea bug, and didn’t arrive in Nottingham until the early hours of this morning having helped to host the Radio 2 Dine ’n’ Disco for Children in Need. Lovely day, mind you. A round of golf including a stunning exhibition of trick shots from world champion Paul Barrington. Another Paul, celebrity baker Hollywood, on hand to judge a Bake-Off. Not forgetting a boozy mid-afternoon Big Quiz, an amazing five-course dinner with a different Michelin-starred chef cooking each dish, and all topped off with a private concert from Gary Barlow in the so-called Tipi of Love. Gary was just finishing his set when I forced myself into the car to start heading north. All great fun and for an excellent cause, but as a concerned Caroline pointed out on the phone – a fortnight of doing two jobs (a breakfast show as well as Wimbledon tennis commentary), followed by a bad attack of the runs, followed by a big charity bash, followed by hardly any sleep, represents less than ideal preparation for your first Ironman. Your first triathlon of any kind, come to that.
I’d also not had a chance to buy any proper kit, or even attach a water bottle to my bike. I was almost persuaded to turn back down the M1 except for one small thing. My sole accomplishment was having delivered my bicycle to the venue ready for the race, and the Outlaw’s benevolent organisers, correctly suspecting my complete ineptitude and taking pity on me, promised to stick two water bottles onto my bike. Seemed rude not to race when they’d gone to the trouble. So I pressed on.
In fact, not that I know it as I trundle round the lake for the first time, my family were only a few hours behind me on the motorway. Caroline had the kids up at dawn, and they arrived hours ago.
They all witnessed me stagger off the bike and limp into the transition tent clutching my injured right calf. But as I head towards what (in several hours’ time) will be the finishing line, I’m still labouring under the false impression that this is the first they’ll see of me. There’s calm water to my right,
increasingly noisy grandstands to my left, and I’m determined to put on a show. Come on Vassos, grit your teeth and grin. As I reach the last of the grandstands, I attempt a burst of pace.
I promptly fall over.
Uh-oh. This is worse than I thought.
I’ve been running for about a decade and generally I absolutely love it. But to be honest, it does occasionally still take quite a lot of effort to force myself out of the house. Some runs feel tough, some feel like a chore, some seem unending, and some are slow and laboured. Some, but not most. Not even the large minority. And by contrast, I’ll often find myself running somewhere stunning, the Lake District, say, or the South Downs, and my legs will feel epic, my lungs full, my core strong – and it seems like I can just go on forever. It’s the best feeling in the world.
I’ve been trying to remember how long it took before I started to enjoy a run, any run, to any extent. Relishing the virtuous aftermath, that’s the easy bit, it’s instantaneous. As I never tire of telling anyone who’ll listen – you never regret a run. But when do you start enjoying them?
I’m not sure you ever do have a bells and whistles ‘Eureka’ moment. I think what happens is you slowly start to embrace the fact that running has become part of your life. You appreciate that you’re no longer out of breath after climbing the stairs instead of taking the lift. You welcome the slight burn in your legs which proves you ran hard yesterday. You relish having more energy in the morning, the fact that you need less sleep, that your libido seems higher. And mostly, mostly, you just love the fact that you can basically – not actually, mind you, but basically – eat whatever the hell you want.
For your first few runs, you do find yourself frequently glancing down at the watch wondering when you can reasonably start heading home. Then you begin to revel in the challenge of added distance and more time on your feet. But actually having fun? The first time I remember taking a moment to enjoy a run whilst in the thick of it was underneath the Malmö bridge just south of Copenhagen.
Don't Stop Me Now Page 2