TASTING NOTES: LANGDALE
It was spicy, everyone agrees on that.
Eventful.
Just how eventful depended on which level of kick you opted for. The mild version came in the form of thick clag and general bewilderment over the location of the fifth checkpoint. The two-chilli option brought the distinct tang of wandering so far off course that you end up having to run back up the final descent in the wrong direction. And for the bold, the three-chilli option meant falling and breaking your wrist, on the trod from Angle Tarn to Bowfell: a path greasier and bumpier than a freshly cooked popadom.
Should have gone for the Korma, Nichola.
On the drive over to the 2023 Langdale Fell Race, I was getting an earful of mild mannered but confident smack-talk from Charlie Lowther, who quite fancied himself to pull off an upset in the Eden Runners fell champs and sneak past the lightning fast pixie-king himself – Mr. Jonny Cox – for the trophy. A strong showing on the day would give Charles every chance of doing so, but I promised him that, instead, I would soundly thrash him, ensuring that he stayed as runner up, and securing my own rightful prize of third overall in the process.
After the classic cow-pat infused farm-barn registration experience, we all lined up at the start gate. At the ‘Go!’ Charlie set of at a bold lick, mixing it up at the front end with some of the usual suspects: man of the moment T. Simpson of Ambleside (his aunt was my teacher at Primary School. Sadly this fact has not made me any faster); former champ S. Tosh of Carnethy (He’s quite quick too); and current champ William Cartwright (the best thing to come out of Matlock since… urr… where is Matlock anyway? Very far south, I think. Basically Surrey).
After the initial mad rash out of the gate (Mad rush… Madras… curry), the rest of us traipsed along the track and up the ghyll in fairly predictable positions, the climb sorting out any imposters well before Stickle tarn. It was a bit of a grey day, but not jal-freezing cold (get used to them, there’s more).
After we tackled the slip-and-slide behind Pavey Ark and approached Thunacar, occurrences began to occur. Billy and Sam got bored of being in the lead, and went for some private time over near the Langdale Pikes somewhere, while our little chasing group took the correct-ish line over the squishy, grassy, downhill bit down to Stake Gill. I surprised myself by being half-competent on a fast descent, and then knee-pushed my way into the ‘lead’ of the group for the nice rough bits up Black Crags. Josh Hartley (the tall man with the Black Combe vest on… you know the one, yes, that one) was just behind me. ‘I think you’re leading the race, Bobby’, he said. His theory was given some credence as Billy and Sam emerged from the clag behind us. I allowed myself an internal high-five for this moment of glory, ignoring the fact that Tom, Matt Atkinson and a couple of others were long gone and running without mishap ahead of us all. The champs cruised quickly past and disappeared, never to be seen again, or so we thought… (spoiler: we saw them again).
We had a nice little pack of a dozen or so, as we rounded Angle Tarn and started up what (Rogan) Josh grumbled was ‘the worst trod in fell running’.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about!’ I threw back over my shoulder, skipping from stone to stone with the elegance of a ballerina (I assume). Nichola Jackson, running somewhere not far behind us, probably now agrees with the Hartley school of thought on this one, given than some seconds/ minutes later she fell over and broke her wrist pretty badly. She probably swore in pain as it happened, but I wasn’t there to hear, so I’m going to pretend she shouted ‘Vindaloo!’ instead. It really helps me force all ten of my curry references into this piece – thanks Nichola, hope it’s healing up well!
Towards the top of the climb, I slowed up, not entirely sure of the line I was taking to skirt Bowfell to the south. All the runners in the queue behind me slowed too, looking around. I took out my map at a slow jog. They loitered. Josh gained us and pulled his out. His map, that is. We agreed that we were probably sort of maybe on the right kind of line-ish, and carried on. The rest of the group fell into dutiful step behind us. Up to Bowfell checkpoint, and then on towards Crinkle, we moved as one. Despite all having maps and compasses in their bags, they all seemed naan too keen to use them. You can lead a fell runner to kit check, but you can’t make them drink, or however the phrase goes. No matter. I was making all the right kind of noises and pointing hither and thither, and Josh was going where he thought he knew he was going, and between us we led the merry band onwards.
Josh’s brother plays pro rugby for Saracens. That’s not relevant, it’s just interesting. Good athletic genetics.
Soon we were hopping among indeterminate boulder fields on the flank of Crinkle, and completely unsure that we were in the right place. I gave up trying to work it out, and deferred to the Black Comber’s choice of line.
The man played a blinder. Fluke or not, he was the one picking the route, and he delivered, as a few moments later we arrived smack dab on top of the yellow tent, and dibbed, and were away, while a couple of hundred other runners scratched their heads over why the control wasn’t where the control usually was.
A few moments later it was time for the sequel – Sam & Billy Part 2: Electric Boogaloo (also considered : Derbyshire Strikes Back/ Sam Tosh with a Vengeance/ 2 Fast 2 Fellrunners) – as the lads popped up to say hello for a second time, having navigated more accurately than us, and therefore not come upon the checkpoint. We dashed away with glee, insisting over our shoulders that it was ‘back there!’, and they reversed up the path.
Entering the end stages of the race, we were soon on the final climb up Blisco. Josh was accelerating slowly away from me, and my heart saaged. I was having flashbacks to 2022.
Until the real bonk has been experienced for oneself, one does not truly know to what this term ‘bonking’ refers.
I had managed many years of racing without a true blow-up, but a total mismanagement of race fuelling strategy (i.e. I didn’t take any food), meant that as I came around Bow Fell in the 2022 edition of Langdale, the wheels fell off, followed by everything else, until I was as all but stationary. I wailed at my friend Matt like a traumatised toddler – hungry and past my nap time – as he approached: ‘SANDWICHES!? PORK PIES!? ICE CREEEEAAAAAAAAM!???’. He ran next to me for a moment, confused, then ran off into the distance, still confused. I staggered past my girlfriend at Red Tarn. ‘Food?’ I begged. ‘Nope, sorry’ she said, and cajoled me onwards. I began to totter up Blisco at a snail’s pace. And then a voice broke through my starvation-addled consciousness. ‘Do you want this hot cross bun, I don’t want it’. I turned around, to see two Dark Peak vests climbing next to each other, one proffering a bundle of Easter-themed starchy goodness to the other. ‘I’ll have it’ I begged. ‘Sure’ said the lad, and offered it up. It was small, and dry, and bumbag-squashed, and heavenly. I finished the race.
I never learned the name of Hot Cross Buns man, but his image is seared into my memory. Upon handing me the bun, he faded into the mists like a Native American elder in a coming-of-age epic, his role complete. From time to time, at races since that day, I could have sworn I’ve seen him, an apparition in brown and yellow and purple, staring at me across the crowd at registration. Our eyes lock for a moment, and I give him my nod of eternal thanks. He nods back, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. Hot Cross Buns, man. Hot. Cross. Buns. Legend tells that if you, too, are running dangerously low on calories, whisper your prayer three times and turn towards Sheffield, and the Bun-Bestower may choose to bestow his seasonal treats – outside of the season for which they are usually marketed – upon you, too.
(It’s Alex Mason. Cheers Alex!)
Right, anyway, where were we… urr… 2023
Yeah, so, Josh climbed Blisco faster than me, nailed the descent and beat Billy C. by about a minute, to take 5th place. He’ll be dining out on that one more or less unto death, and rightfully so. Tom won the race (by seven minutes), for about the billionth time this year. Yawn. Leave some for the rest of us, Tom. A runner who shall remain nameless faced the ignominy of having to run up the path from the campsite, as I ran down, having gone very astray on the descent of Blisco. Given that he usually beats me in races, this offered a nice Cooling side dish to my own race. HC sauce: the raita of the fells.
And I beat Charlie. 11th to 17th. Result!
The last minute decision of whether or not to even hold the race this year, given flood waters, and the subsequent need to change parking plans, was no match for the calm stewardship of the broad smile and shock of white hair that is RO Dan Duxbury. After a decade in charge, he is handing over the reins of the race next year, so he clearly decided to serve up an interesting one in honour of the occasion. Keep ‘em all on their toes, eh Dan? Thanks for all the hard work!
If you’ve never tried Langdale, it’s definitely one to Tikka off your list.
Sorry. I’ll stop now.
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This article was originally written for The Fellrunner - the journal of the FRA - for Issue 138 (Spring 2023).
Bobby Gard-Storry
Cumbria, 2023