The Trigger, Marsden to Edale 2020

“You’re not a proper fell runner until you do the Trigger.” J.H. Who else?!

Twice I’ve spectated the “Trigger” – a race from Marsden to Edale, along parts of the Pennine Way, run in January each year. Advertised at 21 miles, but this year closer to 25, it crosses rough, boggy moorland, with runners picking their own route between checkpoints – visiting the trigs on Black Hill, Bleaklow and Kinder Scout. Conditions are notoriously cruel. In 2017 over 30 runners dropped out with early signs of hypothermia. Frozen, windswept, and soaked to the skin, I have admired the folk running it, but also questioned their sanity. Last year I was unashamedly outspoken about what utter madness it is – that I would never conceive of running that far, and certainly not in January.

So what on earth made me want to enter this year’s Trigger? I don’t really know, to be honest. When in November the idea popped into my head, and lodged itself there inexplicably, I was as surprised as anyone. My longest race to date was 17 miles. I asked a few friends if you could train for an almost-marathon in 9 weeks. Sure, they said, but you’ll need to up your weekly mileage a bit. Sometimes I run as much as 20 miles a week, but often – especially at this time of year – I don’t feel like doing more than parkrun, the occasional lunchtime run if I’m having a stressful day at work, and fortnightly head torch runs with my club.

Naturally I’m quite risk-averse – perhaps 2020 is the year of being just a little bit less cautious? Or maybe it was the news that somebody close to me will increasingly not be able to do the things he loves, like cycling and getting out in the hills, at least not like he used to.

Life is short. Run while I have legs that will take me through the bogs.

With fellow Chorlton black sheep: Francis, Sam and Brian

Intrepid club mates are also partly to blame. Over the past year I’ve followed the exploits of serial racers Sam and Francis, revelled in their success at ever greater fell running challenges and been infected with their enthusiasm. They kindly took me out on an initial Trigger recce on 23^rd December – 5 hours of relentless wind and rain on Kinder’s edges – and I promptly went down with the lurgy, taking to my bed for the entire Christmas period.

Race day arrived and I was still poorly, having gone down with a second cold in a fortnight. Kept awake by a coughing fit at 3am, I felt pretty glum as we drove through the dark to race registration, over Marsden Moor in thick mist and rain. The cricket club was already a hive of activity, with lots of hardy-looking fell runners queuing for kit check. As day dawned, with grey light creeping over the surrounding hills, I perked up a little – that or the Sudafed Max Strength was already kicking in.

Race start, 8.30am at Marsden Cricket Club 

Hoods up, we set off up the track to Wessenden Head. It’s a gentle climb, the rain was steady but not too heavy and it was fairly sheltered from the wind. Running very slowly, as I knew what a long day lay ahead, I chatted to a few runners around me. One said, as we neared the road crossing: “Well you’re ahead of Jasmin [Paris], so you must be doing something right!” Or something very wrong, I thought! It was a relief to find out later that she was pregnant, so understandably taking it easy.

The flagstones up to Black Hill were awash with peaty water running off the moors. Uh oh. It was an indication of the conditions we were going to encounter underfoot after a night of heavy rain. Past the trig point, which was shrouded in mist, and bounding down the swampy trod across the edge of Sliddens Moss, I caught my foot in a deeper-than-anticipated hole and plunged headlong into the bog. Picking myself up, I was distracted by mud on the end of my nose, right in my line of vision, but every attempt to wipe it away – now with wet and filthy gloves – resulted in me smearing more peat across my face.

Photos from previous years’ races had shown runners forming human chains to cross Crowden Little Brook, in spate and treacherous. This year was not nearly so dramatic, though the fast-flowing, thigh-deep water helped to wash off some of the mud - at least from my lower half. Each runner was helping to heave the next one across. The chap in front of me, to my surprise, clambered onto the opposite bank and started to run off… I don’t know whether he could hear my cry of indignation above the sound of the water, or whether he’d just been in a daze, but he quickly turned back to pull me out, for which I was very thankful.

Trotting down towards Crowden, I spotted the lanky form of Matt loping up the path to say hello. We jogged down to the checkpoint together. The company was welcome – as was the sight of smiling clubmates Lorraine and Kate, who had turned out to support despite the soggy conditions.

'Too Swift' for Lorraine and her camera!

10 miles done, ummm… lots to go. Next target was the road crossing at Snake summit. As I plodded across the dam below Torside reservoir, contemplating the climb ahead, I was surprised to see more Chorlton supporters – Aisla and Lizzie – and they seemed somewhat startled to see me too. “Party rings?!” shouted Lizzie as I hugged them both. It only occurred to me later on that they perhaps didn’t want to be embraced by a creature from the swamp. Sorry girls!

The climb up Torside Clough was made more interesting by encountering the front runners in the Spine race coming the other way. The lead group with American John Kelly, Catalan Eugeni and Irishman Eoin Keith was moving at pace. Knowing that they still had nearly 4 days (and nights) of running ahead of them until they reached the Scottish border, in those conditions and worse, helped to put my own particular challenge into perspective. I found myself daydreaming about what they must be going through, about what it would be like to drag a sleep-deprived body the length of the Pennine Way, remembering bits from Jasmin’s recent blog that had made me chuckle…

Back to the present, it was time to turn my focus to more immediate concerns. I had set myself one mission: to eat a banana. A huge food-lover, I’m remarkably bad at eating anything when I run. Usually that doesn’t matter as I’m only ever out for a couple of hours – and have generally eaten enough for a small army in preceding meals - but for a run like this I knew I had to get at least a bit of energy in, one mushy bite at a time.

Bleaklow has always intimidated me. A vast, featureless expanse of hostile, tussocky terrain, typically cloaked in pea soupy mist and waiting to swallow up novice navigators like me – I’ve never dared to venture across it alone. When I decided to enter Trigger, I knew that would have to change. We reccied this section on a glorious day at the end of December. Warmed by winter sunshine, and in perfect visibility, ‘Bleak’-low was anything but. Looking at the map afterwards, I’d realised that there was a much more direct line across to the next checkpoint, at Higher Shelf Trig, but I had no idea what the conditions were like underfoot so intended to stick to the way I knew.

Sure enough, the four men that were around me all started bearing off to the right, rapidly disappearing into the clag, and I was alone. Sudden panic. Do I follow them? Too late. I resolved to stick to my guns and head up to Wain Stones. (Chatting to one of those men later in the village hall, I discovered that he had spent quite a while running around lost, bumping into other confused runners, all heading in different directions). Everything looked unfamiliar. It was so much wetter underfoot than on our recce and visibility was about 30m. Feeling a bit lonely, and doubting myself, I stopped for a wee, mid-trod – there was nobody else around it seemed, so as good a time as any! Trying to pull multiple layers back up with sodden, muddy gloves proved a bit tricky and so I ran the next sections with my knickers in a total twist. The rocky outcrop known as the Wain Stones or ‘Kissing Stones’ loomed up ahead of me – and a familiar jacket appeared out of the mist. Tim Culshaw and his friend John, studying a map! I shouted out, but they sped off, eyes fixed on their compass. The bearing they were taking didn’t quite match the one I’d scribbled on a piece of paper and hastily sellotaped to the back of my compass the night before. Again, uncertainty, but I stuck with my plan. Due south to Hern Stones. 210 degrees to the aircraft wreck and Higher Shelf trig.

It was rather unwelcoming up there, with a strengthening wind and minimal visibility. No spectators as in previous years – just the wonderful mountain rescue guys and gals. I didn’t want to hang around. Just below the summit there were a couple of runners looking at their map. They asked if I knew where I was going. I said I did – it might not be the quickest way, but I’d get us down to Snake summit. Was this the time to admit that I’d just won my club prize for total navigational ineptitude, having got hopelessly lost in a fully marked trail race earlier in the year?!

Hitting the flagstones to the road crossing, Matt suddenly popped up again, as did a load of runners coming from the left who had taken a different line. I was starting to feel a bit cold and weak, but mainly emotional from the relief of having crossed Bleaklow solo. The sight of Ma and Pa Swift cheering at Snake Top brought a different kind of lump to my phlegm-filled throat and again I stopped to give them a hug – forgetting that I was covered in mud, snot and mashed banana.

Heroic Aisla and Lizzie were also waiting, offering up their party rings and vegan baked goods. For some inexplicable reason, I was more concerned about somebody removing the banana skin from my vest pack than taking on any food or water – mid-race brain fade had dictated that I couldn’t run another step with it in there!

The next section was the big unknown for me. I had never been there, and had wanted to recce it last weekend but Northern Fail cancelled all its trains meaning I couldn’t get out to Glossop. So I sped off after the group of guys, hoping to catch them and not run it alone. However it quickly became apparent that nobody knew where they were going. One runner had stopped – I asked if he was OK and he said he’d lost his ‘nav guy’ so was waiting for him to catch up. Alas, I didn’t have a ‘nav’ guy or gal, so I just set my compass, tried to remember what my clubmates had told me about the optimal route, and set off from the flagstones hoping for the best.

Featherbed Moss sounds almost idyllic, conjuring up images of comfy mattresses and bouncy meadows. Nothing could be further from the truth. Immediately I plunged into the first of many groughs – a deep fissure in the peat moor, somewhat like a trench. Clambering out the other side, I failed repeatedly to get any purchase on the steep, muddy sides. Eventually I resorted to grabbing fistfuls of heather and heaving myself out. A bit more tussock yomping and then back down I’d go into the next trench. Heave, roll, repeat. Inwardly I gave belated thanks to Ma and Pa Swift for a childhood of enforced Munro bagging in Scotland –  those ‘character building’ days of trudging through waist-high heather were not in vain. Occasionally I’d catch sight of a runner in the distance in the mist, either side of me, but nobody seemed to be making better progress.

Showing my number to marshals at checkpoint 5: Withins Clough

After checkpoint 5, I’d told myself I’d follow the snake path up to Kinder corner, for safety – and for a bit of easy running. But now, buoyed by the new-found ability to follow a compass bearing, I marched straight up the hillside. And then… then came my proudest moment. A fellow runner who had lost his map on Bleaklow admitted that he’d followed my "super line" to the previous checkpoint.  For someone with the topographic memory of a gnat, this was high praise to receive indeed!

Kinder Edge is the section of the race I knew best. This is one of my absolute favourite places to run: a couple of miles of rock-hopping fun. But on empty, jelly legs, it’s a different – rather miserable - tale. Time and again I’d catch my toe and almost stumble – at times it felt like I was barely moving. Still in the clag, this whole section took on an almost dreamlike quality, punctuated only by a cheery “hello!” from fellow Chorlton runner Liam, who was out spectating, and by a lady popping out unexpectedly from behind a rock, dropping a sugary sweet into my hand.

Kinder Low took me by surprise as once again the comforting, red jackets of the mountain rescue appeared suddenly out of the murky cloud. Time for the final decision of the day. The two runners ahead of me along the edge took diverging paths. The girl, who was running strongly, went left – I knew she was staying high up on the ridge. Before the race I’d decided not to do that and, right now, feeling cold and weak, all I wanted to do was get down to the valley. The guy went right – I presumed he was heading for Jacob’s Ladder. I’d been advised to take a different route down but had never tried it before. Nothing for it but to once again set the compass and hope for the best. I got lucky. The mist started to clear and I saw the Vale of Edale laid out beneath me, with a long grassy slope leading all the way down. As I started to run, my feet slipped from under me and I slid about 30m on my bottom. I got up and tried to run again but down I went and this time I didn’t resist… the next 200m were my favourite of the race. Feet up, I tobogganed my way down, whooping with joy, which was only curtailed by the sight of the ground steepening ahead of me and dipping sharply into a stream…!

This rapid descent brought me out on the Pennine Way at the foot of Jacobs Ladder and I set off with purpose for the village of Edale and the finish. I wasn’t sure how far it was, but by this point I knew with certainty that I was going to complete the race – something that had seemed almost unthinkable just a few hours earlier. As I chugged along, revelling in the relative warmth of the valley, the now clear skies and easy path beneath my feet, my thoughts were interrupted by the oh-so welcome sight of a skinny figure in black running towards me. Matt was clutching a Lucozade bottle: What do you need? Feeling my now chronically cramping stomach, I shook my head: Just moral support! We jogged along, chatting a bit – it felt just like we were out on a leisurely weekend run. At no point had I felt I’d been in a race. Only a battle – no, a negotiation – between me and the terrain.

A cow bell shook me out of my musings. There was a smiling Alice and baby Edith, pointing me the right way through the farm and… “There’s a bit of a hill”, Matt warned. I slowed immediately to a walk. No chance of running uphill by this point – I wasn’t going to let my legs collapse under me now, so tantalizingly close to the end. We crested the brow and then it was a glorious, gentle descent all the way to the finish.

Gathering pace through the final field, I glanced at my watch – I’d lost all sense of time. It read 4hrs 57… could I finish in under 5 hours?! This was a totally arbitrary milestone. Before the race I’d hardly dared believe that I would complete it, strongly suspecting that I might need to bail at the Snake pass. If I did get so far, it would surely take me the best part of 6 hours. But now, this micro race against the clock was on and I sprinted down by the stream (Ed. It *felt* like a sprint but to onlookers probably resembled more of a fast lollop), turned on to the road and wondered how far it was to the campsite. Tarmac, ouch, not a fan of this…wait, is that the church, how long since I looked at my watch, it must be more than 3 minutes by now…?

Crossing the line, I stopped my watch: 4hrs 59:30.

Stats:
25.5 miles (8 more than I had EVER run before), 4100ft climb, 6^th woman (5 seconds behind 4^th and 5^th women) and 44^th overall.

John Hewitt, my legs no longer work and I appear to have pulled a muscle in my chest from vigorous coughing... but at least I can now call myself a proper fell runner J