Ian Hodgson Mountain Relay,   25 Miles  8500ft Climb
Brotherswater,  Patterdale     1st October 2000

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Nightmare on Hart Crag,  Alan Kirk

The swirling mist and fleeting figures should have been a clue.  But no.   The mournful cries from lost souls should have started alarm bells ringing.  But no.   Like a deaf sailor  drawing ever near to the thunderous falls, I foolishly carried on .....

The climb out from Patterdale started innocently enough,  Dale and I were running easy with the leaders only yards in front.   There was no indication of the disaster that was about to befall this innocent wretch, only doom laden minutes later.   As the leaders turned to climb the steep grassy bank, they disappeared into the mist, and we foolishly followed.   The steep climb up to Hart Crag was done within the confines of an individually  tailored grey cloak, occasionally drawn aside to give tantalising glimpses of mysterious figures before swirling shut on the rest of the world.

A figure materialised from the mist, alone.
"Is this the right way ?" we asked.
"My partners left me"  he wailed.
"In life or the race ?  The answer quickly came.
"Simon, where are you ?"
"Up here"  came the reply from up here.

We quickly made the summit of Hart Crag and I punched the control card and turned to descend the slippery slate.   Only then did my nightmare materialise.     As I hit the steepening path,  both thighs tightened as if clamped by malevolent molegrips.   As I tried to run through it,  the pain and discomfort increased.

The level paths and gentle downhills were joggable, as though on splinted legs, but, any steepening descents reduced my to a walk.   Dale's cries through the mist became increasingly forlorn as team after team passed on the long downhill to the changeover.
"Pennine",  "Pennine B",  "First Women",  "2nd Women"
"1st three-legged team, tied together with string, running backwards reciting the Koran for charity".

It was a disaster.    The fields of Patterdale looked a long way  away for the termination of my relentless torture.   Suddenly, the finishing straight appeared and the forlorn faces of Simon and Martin appeared.   The map was ceremoniously handed over with the solemnity the situation merited and they were away, leaving me to walk to the car in my best Douglas Bader manner.

Dale made a decent fist of commiseration with the words of Shelley after he lost a guinea and found a farthing.       "F*** !"

The full story with a wider perspective giving results, performances and heroic personal accounts will no doubt be filed by that fine purveyor of exciting narrative,  Simon Entwistle   O.B.E.,  M.B.E.,  V.D.,  (Scab and bar)

Alan Kirk       01.10.00                                                       

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