Ramblings
Saunterings
Ramblings: about North-West England
Ramblings is a set of articles about North-West England, of unknown authorship and
indeterminate date, believed to have been written for amusement on rainy days,
which are not unknown in North-West England.
34. The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Fell-Runner
“Hi, Joe, how’s things?”
“Bit of a niggle in the groin. Hope it’s ok”.
“Hello, Jimmy, alright?”
“Had a touch of flu. Coughing all night”.
“Bill, good to see you. How’s it going?”
“Ankle’s still hurting. I’ll see how it goes”.
Bob had heard it all before. Many times. He didn’t believe
a word of it. If you did you’d think you were among the largest
group of invalids in the country. In fact, they were about to run for
three hours up and down craggy mountains. Nobody asked Bob
how he felt. They knew he’d say “Great, raring to go”. Because he
was, and they knew it. Bob wouldn’t need excuses afterwards.
Bob knew nearly all of them, and they certainly all knew him,
or, rather, knew of him. Every two weeks, rain or snow, the same
bedraggled group turned up at the foot of some mountain. They
never said much. Ever. To anyone. The men all looked like they
strangled chickens for a living. The women (if any) all looked like strangled
chickens. Their skin, what little we could see of it, was red raw,
weather-flailed from running around in driving sleet. They milled
about near the starting line, like horses at the start of the Grand
National.
The race always began with a ferocious sprint. Twenty miles
to go, but you had to get to that narrow gate across the field first.
After that, overtaking would be as hard as in the Monaco Grand
Prix. Bob had a unique running style, easily identifiable at the head
of the pack as it disappeared into the clouds, and then re-emerged
three hours later. Uphill, he ran with his head between his knees.
He didn’t need to look where he was going: he knew the tracks
better than his own back garden.
Downhill, his four limbs operated independently. Legs flew
in all directions, fleetingly touching rocks; arms shot out wherever
necessary for balance. Anybody nearby risked serious injury. But
there never was anybody nearby.
“Hi, Joe, how’d it go?”
“Alright till Great Grimace, and then the groin starting playing
up”.
“And you, Jimmy?”
“Didn’t have any puff today”.
“How’d you get on, Bill?”
“OK, but I had to go a bit carefully with my ankle ... But what
happened to you, Bob?”
“Well, as I came into the field at the end, I tripped over a
sheep. I hobbled to the finishing line but they thought I should be
checked at the hospital. The nurses are very nice. They say they’ve
never seen legs like mine before. Well, they can’t see that one
now, now it’s in plaster. But it’s great to see you guys. It’s really
good of you to come here. Shouldn’t you be getting home to your
wives and kids? ... Do you actually have wives and kids?”
And after chatting for three hours, they were all the best of
friends.
Photo:
The start of the Ennerdale Horseshoe fell race.
Bob is fourth from the right. PC Penistone, in the second row,
came third. Women runners often ran with their umbrellas, which
could be a considerable advantage in windy conditions.
Comments:
• It is hard to tell but I think you'll find
that that photograph was taken in Grasmere, not Ennerdale.
• How long ago was this terrible accident?
Did they use plaster for broken legs in those days?
• As it happens, Sheila Gavin has
discussed this issue at great length (Journal of Cumbrian History (JoCH), 149, 13-15, 2100).
She concludes that the ‘plaster’ then used
was not as we know it but more like what was used on walls.
Anyway, whatever it was, it worked as Bob was soon racing up and down the fells again.
Ramblings
Saunterings
© John Self, Drakkar Press, 2024-
Top photo: Rainbow over Kisdon in Swaledale;
Bottom photo: Ullswater