For the last shall be first

It's a phrase that until now has always puzzled me.

Yes Tor Great West Fell Race - race report.

It is six weeks on from the LAMM now and I am in that fallow period with no Races in preparation, with nothing beyond the force of habit coupled with a reluctance to lose the fitness so arduously won to fuel the runs. (I mistyped that funs, I was somewhat inclined to let the typo stand.)  Happily it is sufficient. There is a whole-body memory of what preceded this running incarnation, and as motivation to get out there with religious dedication, there is little that can compete with that memory.  It is not a memory of words or thought, but it doesn't need to be.

But even I profit from a sharpener, and I have been aware that it has been too long since I pinned a number on my front.  Time to do it again.  Yes Tor fell race, advertised as short and steep.  Five miles, not intended to challenge navigational powers.

I don't know if I will ever get used to the start of races. The prelude always makes my mouth go dry and my legs ache even before I start running.  The sight of hard-core lean and grizzled men evokes unfavourable comparisons.  There is not much hard-core here.  I feel an imposter, on site under false pretences, a perennial newbie laying false claim to experience.

The fact that I was wearing the LAMM t-shirt may have aggravated this.  The t-shirt evidently commanded Respect, respect I felt was misplaced.  Naw, I didn't really. We were last, five hours behind the previous finisher.  I'm not really a mountain marathoner.

But that is untrue; we did it, and the course was no easier for us (rather harder, given our navigational errors) than it was for any other competitors.  I felt myself standing that little bit straighter, quite ready for the next difficult bit of a race, the start itself.

I liked this start.  There is only a handful of runners, maybe 60?  I can stand at the back and hear what is being said at the front, no mics.  The difficult bit is 30 seconds after the start, when all (not a careless generalisation, I do mean all) of the competitors are already significantly in front of me, and I know that in this case, that distance is unlikely to shrink.

But I am good at this bit.  I know why I am running and I want to be here.  There will be people who get home faster, all of them, in fact, but there will be few who enjoy it more.

Dartmoor on a benign day is a joy.  The turf feels good underfoot.  The wind feels good on my face, even if it is in my face.  The clouds are there only to give some shelter from the sun, it just doesn't get better than this. I am entirely on my own, the others have disappeared around the side of the hill, and Dartmoor is mine, all mine.

First checkpoint at Longstone hill and I can again see the others, like so many party coloured sheep, moving humps among the lumps and rocks of Yes Tor.  The majority have clearly taken the direct route.  I will not.  That involves going down, which is against my principles when running up anything.  I am more than content to put in the extra distance, dilute the slope to one I can trot along in comparative comfort.  

There are many little animal trails, and the going is easy.  I am no longer alone by now; I have the company of the fell version of the sweeper van; one dog (rescue dog, name of Dave) and his man.  No horrid diesel fumes, just jubilant tail wagging and the occasional backward glance over his shoulder, tongue hanging out, enjoying the day as much as I am.

Don't get the idea that Yes Tor was an easy run.  It wasn't, but I knew it wasn't going to be and I got the pacing right.  Check in at the checkpoint and on along a short ridge to High Willhays.  This is a broad and well used path, but rocky, which I don't find easy.  It is too easy to catch a foot, and the thought of a tumble is not attractive: the rocks look too much like teeth.  Slow down, think about picking feet up.

High Willhays to Black Tor is a lovely patch.  Easy running through calf height grassy tussocks for the most part.  Again, there were plenty of little trails to follow, many made by those who ran before me.  From time to time the going was good enough to let rip a bit, knowing that a tumble would probably be on soft ground.

Black Tor back to Longstone was again along a path, and stony to begin with.  At one point the path became a stream bed, but one with good footing that was on the whole a pleasure to share with the water.  Nonetheless, I did keep eyes on the path, or stream, to avoid the worst of mud or rock.  In doing so, I spied a fish.  Not a very big fish; hardly an inch long I guess, but a fish for all that.  In a stream.  On a path. On top of a hill.  A more highly implausible concept I have rarely considered.  There were to be other implausible experiences in connection with this race.

From Longstone to the finish was the reverse of the route up, with gravity helping all it could.  This was a track through closely cropped turf, a joy to run, and I let the legs do their best, no holding back.  Dave lolloped on ahead, following his man who was pulling up way markers as he trotted down the hill.  A short pull along a gravel road and the finish.  Last, as I knew I would be, but the marshals were still there, it had been a beautiful run, there was a Kitkat and a bottle of water, son and daughter-out-law waiting, and generally things couldn't be improved on.  We set off back towards the car park carrying the extra water bottles, the rubbish bag and such like.  The others were chatting behind me.  I overheard some of it.  ...first in age-group.  I wasn't paying much attention.  

Back to the cars, and I turned to thank the organisers again for a super afternoon - and found myself presented with a bottle - the first in age-group was me!  I've never been first in running in anything as far as I can remember.

It's in the fridge.  I'm looking forward to that bottle.  Birnham wood may come to Dunsinane, pigs may fly, fish may swim on a path on a mountain, the last may indeed come first.  Be it known that I am not one to grow sheepish, to apologise that I didn't really win it, it was just that no one else showed up.  I won that bottle.  These old legs got out there and did their stuff.  They did the homework too. I ran up Madingley rise Wednesday on Wednesday, I ran the long slow miles along the river on Sundays, and the old legs did not let me down today.  Won it indeed.