13 Valleys 2025

 

• Distance: 49.1km / 30.5 miles
• Elevation: 2,053m / 6,736 feet (tracked)
• Elapsed Time: 8:05:42 (official)
• Estimated calories: 4,243
• Position: DNF
• Total finishers (within 46.5-hour cutoff): 78, of 192 starters (59% DNF)
• 13 Valleys Ultra homepage
• Race route

From Waterside, looking to the hills west of Derwent Water

Catching a ride

Saturday 0230hrs, Dunnerdale Forest

I'd been sat in the back of the black Audi for 20 mins or so, keeping warm. I wasn't sure of the model, but it was quite new and the leather seats looked very clean. I was filthy up to my knees, though most of the mud had fallen off my trainers, and I smelled pretty rotten from 8 hours on the trails. I hoped the owners didn't mind too much. They were stood waiting for their son, who was apparently at least 15 mins behind his predicted timing. Their calculations were that he had been on track for a 30-hour finish. I'd probably been over an hour ahead of him at the previous checkpoint, ahead of my calculated timings for a 37-hour finish. My plan was made with the advantage of experience; I know what a tough course this is, but he was only just starting to find out, approaching 30 miles into the 115-mile race.

During the wait, I'd wondered if the short rest might have been enough to let the swelling in my knee subside, whether I might yet be able to manage the limp over Walna Scar Road to Coniston. I jumped out of the car, jogged up and down the road, and the stabbing pain behind my knee cap was still very much present, despite the painkillers I'd taken over an hour ago. Another 10 mins, and the supporters had intercepted their son, offered him some words of encouragement and watched him set off into the dark. They got back in the car and programmed the satnav to take us to Coniston Boating Centre so that they could be ready for his arrival after the next 8 miles of running. I gave a last thought to whether I should test my knee again, whether I could somehow get moving and shuffle my way to the next checkpoint. Every other race, I'd somehow found a way through despite various types and levels of pain and discomfort. Every other time, that desperation to not fail has kept me going. The car set off, and a wave of disappointment washed over me. I stopped my watch and dialled the number for the race director, in anticipation of encountering a cellular signal. Mission fail.

Tapering, maybe

3 weeks before the race

I'd generally reckon on three weeks of a progressive reduction of training effort and an increase in rest in order to be fully ready to start a 100-mile race. During that period I'd endeavour to eat high quality food and, for the final week, ensure hydration levels are increased. Several days of excellent sleep would ensure my body was in the best condition for the race. One day, I'll actually achieve some of these goals, rather than turn up at the start line as a broken wreck, expecting my body to comply with extremely unreasonable requests for endurance performance, spanning a couple of nights, without any decent quality sleep.

The first weekend of what should have been the taper period involved an overnight hiking challenge. Our team covered 40 miles before I had to pull out in support of my son. I haven't done much long hiking, and this taxed my body in a different way to running, not to mention the sleep loss from heading deep into the night. It wasn't the right thing to be doing so close to a big race.

As ever, I felt lost in the taper period, not really knowing what I should be doing, but feeling like I was losing fitness. A week before the race, I was away in Spain on a work trip, and I took several opportunities to run up a nearby hill, as if that would help my race readiness. On the Saturday, six days before the race, I spent nearly three hours running and swimming at the coastline of Bilbao - jogging along the beaches, hopping over rocks, running along the undulating coast path and enjoying jumping over big waves. My body felt strong, in perfect condition to start the race, but it was a week too soon.

As each remaining night ticked away, I'd glance at my watch and see another poor sleep score. I'd again vow to use the remaining nights to get that essential, high quality sleep. The final night before the race arrived and I still had a lot of preparations to make. I watched the prospect of just one final good night of sleep evaporate. This had not been good preparation.

Race day

Friday 26th September

Nerves building

Having completed registration and kit check earlier in the day, I was hanging around the event village, burning the final couple of hours until the 1800hrs start. I'd eaten food and chatted to some other participants, but I could feel the nerves building inside and had to excuse myself from conversation so that I could start to mentally walk through my race plan. It was all so familiar; having run this race twice before and completed several other 100-mile events; I knew what was required. The prospect of it brought fear, as I know the scale of the challenge and the inevitable suffering, but I was also looking forward to experiencing the many beautiful places and pushing my body to achieve what I hoped would be a new best time.

Truthfully, I felt weary - no bounce in my step like I'd had the previous weekend. I checked the stats on my watch; the "training readiness" score, which I'd hoped to be at the top of the scale after the weeks of tapering, showed a mere 49% - this wouldn't be a welcome sight for a 2 hour training session, let alone at 35-40 hour race. Experience told me that this wouldn't stop me, but it reinforced quite what a hard couple of days out this would be. Other participants seem to regularly underestimate this event, perhaps because it has "valleys" in the name, but a look at the average finish times and two years of a 60% DNF rate should make the reality clear. I was under no illusions - I was starting on the back foot for an intimidating challenge.

Leg 1: Keswick - Honister Pass

Friday 1800hrs, 0 miles

Learning from previous mistakes, I didn't want to start too far back in the pack. I find it helps to start on the side of an enthusiastic pace, and then settle into my rhythm as the pack starts to spread. This worked pretty well as we worked through Crow Park, round the town and picked up the Cumbria Way down the west side of Derwent Water. As we started the first climb before Cat Bells, I relaxed the pace just a little, ignoring the over-enthusiastic overtakes from runners who I was sure wouldn't maintain the position. Sure enough, as the trails got more technical, I was making light work of it and found myself taking back the positions without any extra effort. I was enjoying the twisting trails and jumping up and down obstacles. It felt on the side of quick for 100-mile race, but my heart rate was low and I wanted to push it a bit to have a shot at beating last year's time. I had decided not to get my poles out in this first leg, I wanted to get a feel for the pace.

Starting near the front

Approaching Cat Bells

Nearing Honister Pass

I found myself on the same pace as a couple of other runners and we chatted a bit. We all knew we were going fairly quick, but running alongside each other helped us maintain a consistent pace, not to mention avoid a first navigational error. We went more steadily up the first properly rocky climb as the darkness was drawing in, and fairly quickly closed in on the road to Honister Pass. It was getting dark enough that tripping over became a risk, but none of us could be bothered to grab head torches until we arrived at the checkpoint at the slate mine.

Leg 2: Honister - Wasdale

Friday 1941hrs, 9.5 miles

Wanting to get my fuelling right, I didn't rush through the checkpoint, and so my new friends disappeared without me. I had been feeling dehydrated from the start - not ideal - so was making an extra effort to exceed my drinking goals. I ate several things from the table, and then had a bit of faffing to locate my head band and torch, which should really have been in an accessible pocket. My poles came out, ready for the steep climb up the old tramway to Dubs Quarry.

Though I wasn't far into the race, I'd already found myself in clear air. Once I hit the flat top of the hill, I could see torches not too far ahead. I was about to hit a very technical, rocky descent. I know from previous times that many people find that sort of terrain difficult, especially in the dark, but this is my favourite type of terrain, and something I get to rehearse a lot around the Peak District. As the route

 descended below Fleetwith Pike, alongside the waterfall, I passed several people who were gingerly negotiating the jagged rocks. I was warmed up and feeling more ready to get stuck into this race.

The path levelled along Warnscale Bottom to Gatesgarth, and I was firing along at a good pace. I could see the head torches lighting up the ascent from Buttermere, up Scarth Gap Pass, and I knew that I'd need to moderate my pace soon but I kept it up for the speedy section. I emerged on to the road at Gatesgarth and felt a little disappointed that I wouldn't see my support crew this time - it had been challenging for them to arrive here post-work/school last year,so we decided that their supporting duties would begin at Coniston, in the early hours. I'd be looking after myself until then.

Climbing Scarth Gap, looking back at the runners below Fleetwith Pike

Descending technical stuff before Black Sail Hut

With no pauses this time, I was straight in to the Scarth Gap ascent. It is a steep and long one, and I saw no benefit in expending excess energy, so some folk passed me. I looked back at a long line of head torches heading down from Honister, which made it clear that I was a decent way forward in the field.

The climb lasted longer than I'd remembered but once at the top, I wasted no time, packed up my poles and got stuck into the descent to Black Sail. Back on the pace, I recalled the first year of the event where there was a checkpoint at the remote YHA building, but this year were just a few folk in dressing gowns clapping the runners. I was very prepared for the next climb over Black Sail Pass, having walked it a few weeks ago, and again decided not to rush it. I remembered the waterlogged grassland from a couple of years ago, but even the recent heavy rain hadn't done much to moisten the ground; it was fine.

I started down the descent, around the base of Kirk Fell, which was a mix of grassy and rocky. I felt more nimble than previous years, and was happily skipping down the tricky terrain, passing a bunch of runners who'd already settled into a walk. We had passed 16 miles, not that I was counting, and I felt my legs had the strength to carry me round this run at a better pace than before.

Leg 3: Wasdale - Eskdale

Friday 2207hrs, 18 miles

As with the previous year, my race number had torn from one of the punched holes at some point in the previous leg, and I'd stuffed it behind the belt it was attached to. I'd forgotten to reinforce it with tape before the race so found myself, at the checkpoint, digging around for my medical scissors and Rock tape to fashion a repair. It slowed down my checkpoint visit, but was also using the time to eat stuff. My stomach wasn't very happy, and I knew rushing would only lead to problems.

I got chatting with a fellow veteran of the event who I'd also spoken to whilst volunteering on another race. We headed out alongside each other, and it provided a bit of a distraction on the fairly mundane ascent from Wasdale to Burnmoor Tarn. We drifted apart a little over the boggy tops, and a group of us ended up trading places. They probably regretted following when I led as I found myself having the same problem holding the path as previous years, resulting in some tramping over deep, rutted grass to relocate something like a path. We began the descent towards Eskdale, and the freshness had gone from my legs a little. My hips felt a bit stiff, but I tried to force myself to hold form and skip lightly down the hill.

Leg 4: Eskdale - Coniston

Friday 2339hrs, 24 miles

I entered the checkpoint at Dalegarth Station feeling ok, but aware that I'd gone backwards with hydration and eating. My stomach was getting fairly unhappy. This was a stop with some hot food options, and I decided I should make a proper effort to eat. I had curried noodles, some rice pudding and various other snacks. It took me a while to get through a cup of coffee, but this would all help. I saw a friendly face I knew, amongst the volunteer crew, and said hello. It was a little morale boost to see someone familiar, especially without my support crew around. My feet were feeling ok, so no other maintenance was required. It wasn't long before I was heading out again.

Food options at Gatesgarth

After a stint along the road, the trails twisted along the river Esk and then weaved around some secluded properties. My right knee started to feel a little disgruntled, which I ignored at first - sometimes it takes a little while to get warmed up after a stop. As we hit marathon distance (26 miles), the next steep climb appeared, under Kepple Crag, heading towards Harter Fell. My knee was rapidly complaining more loudly, with a frustratingly familiar stabbing pain behind the knee cap. It wasn't stopping me walking, but I knew that, when we reached the flat, it would definitely prevent me from running. Conscious of people  moving at a similar pace around me, and not wanting to lose time or position, I delayed reaching for the painkillers.

As the climbs got steeper and more awkward, I was getting slower with the pain. A few people passed me. I eventually determined that I would lose yet more time if I didn't act now, so I stopped to dig out the medication. As the trail started to flatten around Harter Fell I was, as expected, unable to run. I figured I needed to give the drugs time to work, so I thought I'd walk for a while. 15 minutes passed, and I expected the drugs to be taking effect, but nothing had changed. The trail got awkward through the woodland, and I had to negotiate some boggy sections. I was still walking, and people were still passing me. The pain was getting worse, not better. I checked my watch again - it had been over an hour.

From my timings at the previous checkpoint, I knew I was ahead of my schedule, which was to beat my previous time by a couple of hours. Everything had been going well. I was on this hill feeling the benefits of my big feed at Dalegarth, but my knee wasn't playing ball. I was back in that same place as at Val d'Aran; early in a long, difficult section, limping along at a progressively slower pace. People kept passing me and asking if I was ok, and offering to provide drugs or call for help. My reply was simply that my knee was hurting and I was waiting for my painkillers to work, but I now knew that wasn't going to happen.

As I saw the prospect of a best time evaporating, I started pondering what remained to propel me to the finish - this would be my 8th 100-miler, and I was hoping to get to 10 before my next birthday. I hadn't yet failed to finish a race. They seemed like very weak motivations. I had nothing to prove, having finished this race twice before, and I didn't want to wreck my knee. I had other races in the diary for next year, so the 10 would still be possible. More to the point, all of this was academic because I had no fix for my knee, and I was getting cold. I was 30 miles in, which meant I had 85 remaining - an implausible distance to tackle in this state. My thoughts turned to practical considerations; this was a long leg (12 miles) and I hadn't yet started up to Walna Scar. At this pace, it was a very long way to Coniston, and my struggles had reached a level where even a slow limp was difficult. I couldn't head up that hill in this state - I wasn't even sure I could get off this one. 

I consulted a map and looked for the next road. When the trail emerged from Dunnerdale Forest, it would touch the road from Seathwaite to Cockley Beck. It was far from ideal; if I could get hold of Claire, she'd have to either drive over Wrynose Pass in the dark, or a very long route underneath the Dunnerdale Fells. I was getting colder, and it was taking ages to even get that far. I started pondering whether I'd actually be calling mountain rescue. As I was descending towards the road, I passed a property with a slate bench outside. I considered lying down to let the swelling subside, but I was already too cold. In hindsight, this was a mistake; I had the kit, I could have got my warm stuff out and made use of the chance, but I think my mind had already started focusing on the exit plan.

As I arrived at the road, I realised I had no trace of phone signal. I passed a car that was parked up, and started wandering down the road, not sure what to do, so I stopped to put my coat and hat on. I thought I might have to just keep limping on. But I couldn't, that would be stupid. I knew what I needed to do, but it seemed like a decisive action that I'd never before found myself willing to take. I needed to go back to the car and find a safe way out of this predicament. I figured the driver was sat in the car because he was supporting a runner (otherwise it would be a curious place to be sat at 2am). I knocked on the window and asked if he had any mobile signal. He didn't, but asked if I was ok. When it became apparent I wasn't, he offered a lift to Coniston after his son had passed through, and let me sit in his car to wait.

Coniston

Saturday 0328hrs, 30.5 miles covered

It had been a fair bit of waiting around and then a steady drive over Wrynose Pass and through Langdale to get back to Coniston Boathouse. I'd managed to message my support crew along the way. It was a grim feeling of resignation when I handed back my tracker to the checkpoint staff. I sat for a while, refuelling and talking it through with Claire. Sleep proved difficult in a van with two adults and two kids, in a bed designed only for two adults.

Not wanting to waste the weekend, and feeling like I wanted to somehow still be part of the event, we headed round to some spots on the race route throughout the day where we could see some hills, make a cafe stop and cheer some runners on. It was good fun, but I was tired. I had barely scratched the surface of the event, yet 30 miles, over 6700ft of ascent and a bunch of technical terrain is still a big outing by most runners' measure. I replayed the events many times in my head - could I have found a way to continue? What if I'd rested longer? What if I'd taken other drugs? Why didn't I know how to tape my knee, and might that have helped? Was it just the pain, or was I also lacking the motivation? We visited the finish venue in time to see the winner cross the line just after 6pm, in record time. More disappointment that I wouldn't be crossing that line or getting any medal.

On Sunday, after a night's stay in a hostel in proper beds, we went hiking in the sunshine. This gave me the chance to experience more of the beautiful landscape of the race route. It seemed ridiculous that I could easily manage that hike, even jogging down some of the rocky bits, now that the swelling had subsided. More frustration. Back in the car and heading home via Keswick, it was approaching 1630hrs, the final cutoff of the race and the last runners were crossing the line. I'd retired from the race 38 hours prior. We'd done so much in that time - two days of touristing. Surely there was a way I could have got round the route. But I hadn't, and it was over.

Consolation hike - ascending from Stockley Bridge

Styhead Gill