SUMMAT'S DEFINITELY NOT REET
THREE PEAKS RACE
Not exactly a specific medical term as yet, but in Lancastrian layman's, summat is most definitely not reet at all. As such, it's now boiled down to finally swallowing the stereotypical reluctance of the male persona by booking an appointment at the local surgery. That's not to say that I ignored the pre-race diagnosis of Dr Barnes on Saturday. Having listened to my moans about poor performance and general lethargy, Chris Barnes prescribed some heavy duty iron tablets as a likely remedy and he's not been the only one to suggest the same since. But post-race, considering the complete lack of capability to complete the course this year, I'm going down the official route for a blood test. Whilst I tick plenty of boxes for some signs of anaemia, googling the subject relates it to the likes of stomach ulcers and much, much worse so I've spared myself reading in to too much detail for now! As much as Chris Barnes loves being right, I really do hope he is right on this one and there is nothing more sinister lurking. It would all make sense, and it seems iron deficiencies are fairly common place to distance runners.      
Back to Saturday then, and so the big long runs hadn't been done to bolster my staying power, but running decent weekly mileage over a four month period was in the storage tank and a steady two hours around Kentmere Horseshoe ten days prior to the Three Peaks suggested to me that it wasn't ridiculous to believe I could tootle around the course in a similar fashion and time to last year. But if most races I have done this year have ended up much worse than I had projected, I really wasn't ready for being faced with the reality of actually pulling out. I knew it would get messy at some point, but not finishing was not even a pre-race fleeting thought. This was my seventh appearance at the race and at no point before had I even needed to toy with the idea. I had got as far as approaching the Hill Inn checkpoint at just over 16 miles when I realised the game was up. I'd never truly felt like I had got going, or that I could get going. Yet even without really testing myself, the body seemed to be bereft of energy and my leg strength totally disintegrated. Coming off the second peak of Whernside, knee-bend felt restricted, the suspensions had gone, balance was wonky and I was descending in a ridiculous fashion. Where this steep and awkward descent begins to tame, I took a tumble and it was then that I realised I really wasn't fit to carry on with eight miles and Ingleborough still on the agenda. Fortunately I was never going at all fast enough to inflict much more than scrapes and  bruises. As I lay face down for a few seconds there, I was overcome with a submissive calm. I could have stayed there longer. Feeling shattered, pathetic and out of my depth, but yet somehow happy that I had consolidated with reality. With about a mile or so of shuffling towards the Hill Inn checkpoint, pulling the plug was now a necessity rather than a consideration. lt was strange because although I had pretty much decided it was the sensible thing to do, when actually approaching the checkpoint I had to really concentrate on sticking to that decision because I was getting bombarded with thoughts about just carrying on, calling myself a soft arse, feeling some kind of guilt and indignity. It was only once I had stopped and electronically dibbed myself out of the race that I realised I really had done the right thing. Wounded pride aside, the end came as a massive relief.
Early on I had taken it very steady up the first summit of Pen-y-Ghent. I took it easy coming down as well and maintained my composure despite all and sundry overtaking - some just overzealous in displaying their descending skills at this early stage - some with more serious intentions. But not long off there at five miles I could sense trouble and already feel some running in my legs, even at that moderate distance. So I dipped off the pace a little more to see if I could run through it. At around six miles, or quite possibly a more strategic ten kilometre mark given his otherwise entirely random positioning, that Ribble Valley Harrier in Chief Chris Barnes was out there like some subliminal apparition, arm stretched out pointing to tell us our projected finishing time based on current pace, which he somehow calculated from this very particular point on Horton Moor. "3:49 pace!".... "That'll do", I replied. But deep down I knew that the engine wasn't going to live up to the maths. Up until this point I had the regular company of Craig Stansfield who I should point out is hard as nails. Road running is by no means his pedigree, but on the back of a 2.59 London Marathon six days earlier, here he was on his way to a 3.51 Three Peaks. Next news, a few days later he's in Scotland doing twelve miles and five Munroes. Nuts, but incredible. He was whinging earlier on, but I knew he'd come through and he did. Iron deficiency is not a problem for the Stanners - he's made of the stuff.
Ten minutes or so later and Whernside begins to loom, and in the light of that day, cast in the partial shade with a slight haze fuzzing out the detail of it's contours, she looked like one bloody big vertical wall. By the time I got on to the road section down to Ribblehead, I realise that there isn't much more to offer than this very conservative pace, but that it should still be enough to get me back to Horton in one piece. My Blackburn clubmate Andy Heys came by, so based on my assertion Andy was on for a better run than his debut last year and the fact I was never going to have as good a second half to the race as 2016, I concluded we may well be in the same sort of projected finishing time today so I didn't really want to let him out of my sights if I could help it. Then Andy did get out of sight immediately after Ribblehead, but I nudged ahead again half way up Whernside. Off the top of there though, it's normal to take a minute or so to adjust to a regular running pattern after that long beast of a climb, but I felt worse than ever and it didn't get any better. My descending felt like a joke, my arms and legs were all over the place. Andy eventually came by as the gradient evens out for the run down to the Hill Inn and it was just moments later that a clumsy clip on the limestone track sent me to the deck and ultimately to the land of DNF. Nevermind Did Not Finish, I was then worried it was going to be a case of DNGH (Did Not Get Home) as this narrow section of the B6255 was at a standstill with cars backed up as far as one could see. I didn't want to hang around for the race bus which was another hour away awaiting the cut-off time and at this rate, the bus could neither get in or out anyway. I started walking up the road to see what all the fuss was about and think what I was going to do. It seemed a section had got single filed due to double-parking and there was a stubborn stand-off to determine whether East or Westbound were the ones to start the reversing convoy that would put an end to the chaos. I'd also been fishing around for a familiar face to scavenge an eventual lift back to Horton and although felt really cheeky, it was a case of needs-must as I recognised Lisa Stansfield. Most people of my generation could instantly put a face to that name, but this one is more Rossendale endurance runner than Rochdale diva and Craig's other half. Despite not knowing who the hell I was, she was happy enough to ferry me back for which I am eternally grateful indeed. No sooner had I successfully hitchhiked, when all of a sudden the cars on the left began to move and we were off. Probably boring Lisa and her son Charlie on my running doldrums during the journey back to base, uncannily she suggested I take up bowls - perhaps this was my calling!
The following morning, a lovely recovery walk with Sara and the Connie dog in Tockholes where more uncanniness came my way when bumping in to Andy Heys of all people. I was glad to hear Andy got back in to the race after Whernside beat him up and then went on to take a ten minute slice off his 2016 effort.
I hope I'll be back strong enough to have another go one day. My PB from just four years ago of 3.44 feels light years away at the moment and more than likely now set in stone. I was never really satisfied with that at the time and always thought if I could sort my climbing out there was a 3.30 for the taking. Now I'd settle for just being able to get around the bloody thing!

Saturday 29th April 2017
63rd THREE PEAKS RACE   Horton-in-Ribblesdale, North Yorks.
1st Man - Murray Strain (Hunters Bog Trotters) 2.49:38
1st Lady - Victoria Wilkinson (Bingley Harriers) 3.09:19 (CR)
My stats - DNF