World Champs Selection Race

by Tonk

Watching elite sport on TV can sometimes hide just how extraordinary these athletes really are. In the Tour de France, riders look almost effortless as they fly along. Even though the camera motorcycles are working hard just to keep up. In the Olympic 100m final, a sprinter running over 10 seconds can look “slow,” even though they’d leave most of us in the dust. Imagine pulling someone straight out of the crowd to line up against them. Only then would we truly appreciate the scale of what world-class athletes are capable of.

On Sunday, I felt exactly like that fan pulled from the crowd and dropped onto the start line with the best of the best. The field was stacked. Every single male runner on the start list had never seen me anywhere near them in a race. Honestly, I had no real right to be standing shoulder to shoulder with them. After all, I’ve spent most of this year focused on road running and throwing myself into challenges like the Lakeland 50, just three weeks earlier, hardly the ideal prep for a world champs selection race.

So naturally, I decided this would be the perfect moment to stage my big, long-awaited comeback to the fell running scene — nine miles around Whinlatter. Ironically, it’s a route I usually tackle with my dog, Hector, at the Lakeland Paws Canicross. I even emailed the organisers to ask if he could join me, but they politely declined. Probably for the best — he’d have embarrassed the fast boys and girls with his sheer speed and power.

The weather didn’t help — it was scorching. I was already drenched in sweat just jogging to the start line. I threw in a few strides for my warmup, mostly because that’s what the serious athletes do, and before I’d even had time to regret it, we were off. The climb out of Thornthwaite into Whinlatter hit straight away, and I tried to run hard — but not so hard that I’d self-destruct within the first mile. As we rounded the first corner, though, I realised I was already clinging to the back. The leaders looked like they’d skipped the climb altogether and teleported half a mile up the path.

By the time I hit the visitor centre, the leading women — who’d started a few minutes after us men — were already gliding past me. I even found myself counting them off as they went by, just to rub it in. Still, I dug in and kept pushing, reaching the summit in surprisingly decent shape. A quick thank-you to the marshals, a shout of encouragement from Scoffer, and I braced myself to make the descent count.

Surprisingly, I was actually moving pretty well — not bad considering I hadn’t thrown myself down a fell race descent all year. Then, for reasons I still can’t explain, I started chanting four words to myself: “Strong! Sexy! Confident! Free!” As the slope steepened, so did my volume. I even managed to overtake a couple of the ladies… though I had to mumble an awkward apology when my timing went horribly wrong and it sounded like I was declaring one of them “Strong Sexy” as I flew past. Not quite the race-day vibe I was going for.

At the top of the steepest section, one of the Junior racers caught up with me. He politely asked if he could pass for the descent — which, for some reason, hit me like a red rag to a bull. I just grinned and said, “Aye… if you can!” Then I went absolutely mental down the hill. The kid yelled, “I didn’t know you were a mad descender!” By the bottom, his race was done. Mine was too really, but the senior race was two laps. So, I set off back into the unrelenting sun and up to the visitor centre.

As I climbed, my whole left side started tightening up — the same familiar, unwelcome feeling I’d had a few weeks back at the Lakeland 50. I tried to push through it, but my pace was slipping. Near the Gruffalo, my clubmate Hannah Havelock-Allan sailed past, looking effortlessly strong. Just as I reached the picnic area, I heard a shout from my good friend Tommy D: “Come on, Big Sexy!” Maybe he’d caught wind of my earlier chanting echoing through the forest.

I gave it my all up to the summit of Seat How. The second descent wasn’t quite as explosive as the first, but I still hurtled down through the woods, grinning like a maniac, and felt pure relief when the finish line finally came into view.

There was never a cat in hell’s chance I’d qualify for the World Championships. The fast boys and girls are terrifyingly quick. Part of the reason I entered was to scare myself — to find out where my fitness really stood after a year spent exploring other running adventures. Honestly, I think I got exactly what I deserved. I was happy knowing I’d given it my absolute best. More importantly, it reminded me what I truly love: fell running. That’s where my heart really is.

And if British Athletics happen to be looking for the sweatiest runner with a slightly overinflated sense of their own sex appeal… well, I’m your man. I’ll be eagerly awaiting their invitation in the post.

Thank you to all the organisers, marshals and folk who came to cheer us all on.