High Cup Nick Fell Race Report (by Kathleen O’Donnell – roving reporter)
We left Macclesfield at 9am on our way to Appleby for the High Cup Nick fell race – after asking Mark Burley what shoes to wear, he had answered it was a tough one which was highly irregular – explaining there was heavy bog, stony tracks and a rocky top. Alan talked us through the route, explaining the bog had indeed been like running through butter – nobody wants that. Our attentions then turned in a linear fashion to recommendations for shows, gigs and eateries and of course races planned for the rest of the year. I always enjoy the car sharing to races – learning so much from my fellow passengers and although we are all on the same journey to our race, many other life journeys are woven in, just like the different lines we would all take through the forthcoming mire.
My word memory from this journey was when it was suggested light-heartedly that the older members in the car could be in decline. I was inclined to think otherwise – that we were here with our shirts on our backs and by Christ would get up ….and down it.
A stop at Tebay for coffee had been requested and agreed. It was the usual hive of journeys once more intertwining – we felt closer now to the race and welcomed the caffeine buzz in our cups that would hopefully take us up the very High Cup.
Arriving in peaceful Appleby, we were greeted by the kind faces of the parking attendants and as always mused on how fit our fellow competitors looked.
Into the busy hall – number queues, excited chatter, vigorous rustling of every manner of receptacle – any number of items being unfurled like the sails of a ship and painstakingly stuffed back in.
I sought out a quiet spot so I could focus on the job at foot – tinkering with pins, extreme faffery with baggage and then once more onto the breech. Happy to see so many friendly Harrier faces – snippets resounding – are you going for it? Yes. Why am I doing this? I don’t want this feeling. We’ll be OK after – we always feel like this before – we’ll be happy after and glad we did it, won’t we .
A happy photo – more snippets – I’m nervous, don’t worry everyone is – aren’t they .
3 …2…1 – we’re off – no idea what to expect. One foot in front of the other – lovely smells of farmland – snowdrops, barely opened daffodils along the way, thick, muddy fields – I’ve never seen butter like it, flora maybe. Welcome rests at stiles, freezing, invigorating river crossings cleaning off the slurry. Onto the true bog – no line in any way more suitable than other – you can’t go round it, you have to go through it. Connecting brain and foot to tussock.
I could see the climb looming and was excited – it looked ominously beautiful – so high and steep – I am here, I am in this moment, we’re all here trying to do the same thing, get round it – a sense of camaraderie – we are here, we are in this beautiful place, rasping in this mild, windy air and by God we will get up it. Soon onto all fours, brain to foot to hand to rock connections – which one will you choose? I don’t need to think – my brain does it for me – is this thinking? No it is being . This sentiment was shouted out with glee by the photographer at the top – are you enjoying it folks? Look where you are in these mountains – Of course! I love it ! Thank you!
Onto the top and left straight into the freezing, enlivening wind – all of the senses and sinews on fire. How stunning – look where I am and what I am running through. Guide me forward, sidewards, onwards with your mighty gusts. Starting the descent and I snap out of it with the fear of other snapping – I see small rocks and my brain switches on and forces itself to think – to say, if I put that foot there, that rock might slip, if I put go round that one, I can avoid this one – I breathe, look forward and up and look for a sure footed goat to follow of which there are some now passing – thank you .
To the bottom and my body is tired – a muddy, heavy field but I am determined – I can, I am, I will, I do. My mind is clear and fresh.
To the finish, past the snowdrops and daffodils again – I am here – how beautiful – a Spring village kindly welcoming the tired Soles in.
There are the same friendly Macc faces, now splattered in mud, sweat but no tears. Resounding sense of I loved it . Into the hall with its cheerful atmosphere, chunky soup, bread and every manner of tray bake and boiling kettles – a lot for the senses to take in and I slope off to get changed and gather myself from the 4 corners of the hills. Returning to the happy chatter and the personal accounts of our lovely Harriers but all with the same essence and spirit.
Back in the muddy car park facing the hills full of their natural power that we had savoured – Steph produced an array of the most delicious home baking, sprinkled with pecan and pistachios – it was lovely to hear how therapeutic she found baking where she could be focussed and in the moment as we all were today in our own special ways.
A sense of satisfaction, achievement and joy on our way back and the final words from this journey that struck me where ‘it leaves a lot to be interpreted’ .