Lake District Classic Rock Challenge

*The final recce. August 2022 © Shane Ohly*

“How can I ask my wife to accept me, when I am prepared to gamble with my life?”

Classic Rock

First published in 1978 Ken Wilson’s iconic mountaineering book ‘Classic Rock’ compiled 80 of Britain’s most celebrated lower-grade rock climbs into one book. Illustrated with grainy black-and-white photos, with stirring essays describing various acclaimed climbers’ ascents of these routes, Classic Rock quickly became part of climbing folklore and has remained so to this day. Climbers habitually tick a route in their guidebook once they have climbed it, and ticking Classic Rock became a challenge that many climbers take years to complete. The book is split into geographical regions with the Lake District section consisting of 15 separate rock climbs dotted across the Lakeland fells.

Classic Rock Challenge

Climbers have been vying to complete all the Classic Rock climbs in the Lake District in the fastest time since the 1990s. This challenge involves 50km of hard mountain running, linking nine different crags, and climbing the 15 multi-pitch rock climbs featured in the Lake District section of Classic Rock. Completing these climbs requires almost 700m of steep and committing rock climbing up to VS in standard split over 70 different pitches.

A brief, but far from definitive history of faster completions looks like this:

July 1994: Mike Van Gullick, Dave Willis & Tim Gould (first sub-24-hour completion) (MORE)
October 2005: Mark Thomas 16:17 (MORE)
April 2019: Chris Fisher 15:25 (MORE)
May 2020: Will Birkett and Callum Coldwell-Storry 12:54 (MORE)
August 2020: Tom Randall 12:02 (MORE)
August 2020: Will Birkett 11:50 (MORE)
September 2020: Tom Randall 11:10 (MORE)
September 2020: Will Birkett 10:41 (MORE)
April 2022: Katie Mackay 23:28 (First female sub-24-hour) (MORE)

Throughout the late summer of 2020, Tom Randall and Will Birkett pushed each other into an extraordinary battle that reduced the Classic Rock record considerably. I watched from the sidelines, desperate to get involved but held back by injury. I hoped my time would come and two years later, on Wednesday 17th August, my opportunity finally arrived. In the same ‘solo and unsupported’ style as Tom and Will, I would make my attempt running alone and free climbing solo. No external support is allowed if you opt for this style.

I cannot recommend what I am about to describe.

Please don’t try Classic Rock. At least, please don’t try to do it in the same fashion as me.

I’ve been a climber since my teens and in the 1990s had a brief spell of climbing professionally (during that period I climbed E8, on-sighted trad E7 and sport 7C+). Although I spend most of my time running now, I think I’ll always be a climber first and continue to regularly climb 30 years later. I have always been fascinated with risk and soloing, and over many decades I’ve soloed 1000s of routes. If you are keen to learn more, just read some of my older blog posts, such as 500 Routes in Day.

Competitive free soloing i.e., against the clock, or trying to better another time, is only going to end up with someone dying. I hope that it becomes clear whilst you read this essay, that I have an unusual combination of experience and temperament, live locally, and invested over 30 days of recceing the routes over three years.

A far healthier, safer and more fun way to approach this challenge would be to climb roped in a pair, moving together like Katie Mackay and Arthur Jones (MORE) or in traditional pitches, with the goal of finishing in under 24 hours. Much like the challenge of the Bob Graham Round. Have fun but stay safe first!

Dow Crag

Murry’s Route (S): 9 minutes 51 seconds.

Chatting easily with Heather we walk together along the track from Walla Scar car park. The track becomes a footpath and climbs into the Coniston fells and the base of Dow Crag. Superficially, neither of us seems nervous despite the enormity of what I am about to do. Heather has been contemplating life as a widow, and I wonder if my shoelaces are tight enough. I’d planned to start at 10 am so after a quick hug, we split, Heather heading to the far side of Goat’s Water to film me climbing Murray’s Route. I wander up the steep scree, taking my time to arrive at the blue stretcher box that marks the start of my first climb. I sit on the box, as has become my custom, remove my windproof top, power up my headphones (but leave the music off) and count down the final few minutes before the newly agreed start time of 10:10. Breath. Focus. ‘Fuck it’. I start a minute early.

In a heartbeat, everything stops. Physically I am frozen in time, but my mind races. No longer climbing. Not yet falling. Gravity reaches up and tugs, suddenly I accelerate down, rushing towards the dark, boulder-strewn ground. The speed is nauseating, and I know I am about to smash into the rocks below. I wake with the jolt of hitting the ground. Heart racing. Sweaty. I am struggling to sleep after my caffeine-fuelled Classic Rock day. I’ve been lying awake for hours and each time I drift off, the same dream wakes me. I stare into the darkness of our bedroom, Heather sleeping beside me, and my mind starts running through the day again.

The crux of Murray’s Route is low down crossing the initial slab. Like every route on Classic Rock, I know the moves intimately, and my hands and feet flow (mostly) automatically from one hold to the next: ‘Right hand – good hold, left hand – crimp, step through – small foothold, match hands, long reach left – good hold, match feet, adjust, big step left…’ I make rapid progress following the winding route up the intimidating flanks of Dow Crag. First rock climbing, then progressing to easy scrambling as the angle eases, which leads almost directly to the summit of Dow. For each route, I have a regular spot where I always record my split time. As the ground levels off >>SPLIT<< I hit the button on my GPS watch, followed a second later by the play button on the side of my headphones. >>MUSIC<<.

I’ve created my own eclectic playlist of music for this day, and >>Sugar by Robin Schulz<< blares into my head as the fresh mountain breeze tantalizes me for the first time. I start running. Oh wow, this sense of freedom and movement in the mountains is a powerful drug. I weave wide to my left avoiding the worst of the rocky ground, minutes later I reach Goats Hawes and join the regular fell race trod contouring to Levers Hawes. The climb up Swirl How starts but shortly I am cutting left to another fell runner’s trod contouring to Hell Gill Pike. It’s the racing line and I am avoiding as much unnecessary ascent as possible because I’ll want to stay as fresh as I can, for as long as I can, saving a reserve of power in my legs for the high steps whilst climbing later in the day.

Crossing Wrynose, the 2017 OMM flashes through my mind on queue. The Original Mountain Marathon (OMM) is a prestigious two-day mountain race, and it was here, on the path leading up to Red Tarn that Duncan Archer and I passed the event media team. They’d wanted a soundbite, but we’d been focused on maintaining a lead of an unknown margin. We weren’t ever going to pause for anyone or anything. These ghost-like memories have been a subtle but important, and planned, part of my Classic Rock preparation. At location after location across the Lake District, I was visualising occasions that had strong positive emotions for me, and I was now conjuring up these pre-planned memories into ghostly apparitions to use as anchor points throughout the day.

This is the first overcast day after a week of intensely hot weather and the mountains are bone dry. Red Tarn is shrivelled and shallow. The optimum route down into Langdale barely touches the path if you want to stay on the fastest ground, but finding this ground is complex because you can’t see it from above, and need to make counterintuitive route choices, choosing momentarily poor ground to be rewarded with far longer stretches of fast runnable ground. Today, for the first time, I run the whole descent perfectly, weaving left and right through the rough and rocky terrain.

Gimmer

Dow > Gimmer (11.76km +667m): 1 hour 26 minutes

Bracket & Slab (HS) + C Route (S) + Ash Tree Slabs (VD): 17 minutes 51 seconds

I knew from my recces that the vegetation had exploded into life in the last few weeks. The ferns and bracken are at the peak of their power in late August and this heavy going would inevitably slow me down in certain places. Whilst the overgrazed landscape of the Lake District mountains creates runnable terrain that is perfectly suited for fell running, there is no avoiding the fact that the landscape is essentially a green desert that has been ecologically devastated by human activities. It is devoid of meaningful flora and fauna diversity. To see scrubland and trees reclaiming the valleys and creeping up the fells to restore a natural balance would be a wonderful sight.

Today I arrive at the bottom of Langdale, with the long slog up to Gimmer ahead, but I can’t see the climbers trod because of the verdant ferns. I make an instant decision to divert left onto a worn sheep trod that contours slowly up the slope, but this is not my intended route. I’m torn between ‘ignore and overriding’ i.e., forcing my way through the ferns, or the alternative approach, ‘adapt and overcome’. An overly simplistic summary of choices, but a mental model that I regularly default to at moments like this.

Either choice is a gamble, and I decided to push hard up the unknown sheep trod, hoping that I’ll be able to join the scree gully a few hundred meters in front of me, before climbing directly up to Gimmer. Luck is with me. Whilst there are a few short sections where I had to fight through the ferns at walking pace, I’m soon on the scree and powering up the hill, hands on thighs. I know the base of the crag well, and despite the unusual approach, I can clearly see the particular boulder I am aiming for further up the slope.

>>SPLIT<<. I step onto the rock having only briefly slowed to acknowledge Mark Bullock and Hannah Mitchell gearing up at the base of Bracket and Slab, not wanting to break my concentration. I’ve climbed on Gimmer more than any of the other crags, methodically testing the optimum combination of routes, and whether then to go direct to Bowfell Buttress (i.e., down into Langdale, and up) or contour the head of the valley. Either choice impacts the efficiency of the other. After many sessions I settle on this combination: up Bracket and Slab, down C Route, down Ash Tree Slabs, and up North West Gully to join the Bob Graham and Langdale Fell Race route for much of the way to Bowfell. By my reckoning, this combination is a few minutes quicker because it is 200m less climbing, for only 1km extra distance.

During the late summer of 2020, I’d had to sit back and watch as Tom Randall and Will Birkett goaded each other to go faster in their head-to-head dual for the Classic Rock record. The story is well known and Chris Fisher’s 2019 time of 15hrs 25mins was reduced to 10hrs 41mins.

When I decided I wanted to have a serious go at Classic Rock I reviewed my training diary and looked for similar 50km race efforts. This gave me a solid steer on how fast I could run if I committed to a 100% ‘race’ effort. It wasn’t hard to estimate the climbing times and therefore I quickly had a theoretical schedule of around 8hrs 30mins. Talk is cheap though and I tried hard (not always successfully) not to be overconfident when discussing my Classic Rock ambitions with friends.

With growing fitness and route familiarity, my confidence grew during the summer months. However, I’d ignored an Achilles niggle, putting off that easy week-or-two, for another hard training week-or-two... The predictable happened, my Achilles became so inflamed I needed a long period of rest to let it recover…just as the weather turned perfect at the end of the summer. By the time I was back running the wet autumn weather had arrived and the opportunity to have my own attempt in 2020 had gone.

That November I settled down to watch the Kendal Mountain Festival live talks and films. I was looking forward to watching the interview with Tom and Will, but as the conversation progressed, I was genuinely shocked by their laissez-faire banter and failure to acknowledge the immense risk that their competitive solo showdown had resulted in. Will’s final time was remarkable, but I’d strongly suggest anyone considering getting into a life-and-death game watches Tom’s retrospective film ‘The Process’.

I very clearly remember my first soloing session at Gimmer in 2020. The night before I’d been so nervous that I had hardly slept. I hadn’t done any purposeful soloing for years, perhaps the best part of a decade, and whilst I’d still climbed harder trad routes during this period, setting off to intentionally solo pitch after pitch on a high mountain crag felt serious. Running into Gimmer that Spring as lockdown rules eased, I had butterflies and pondered whether I had the stomach for it still. Nervously I’d faffed with kit, adjusted my clothing, eaten some more food, and generally procrastinated before setting off up Bracket and Slab... and then something magical happened. Within seconds, literally seconds, I was back in the zone. Flow state. Calm. Measured. Focused. My brain is just built differently, and I’ve experienced this inverse phenomenon before: as I crank up the stress, I become more relaxed and focused. How could I have ever forgotten my hardwired connection with soloing? The day was amazing. I soloed all the Classic Rock routes and more, thoroughly enjoying myself, but I’d decided not to down-climb any of the routes. Standing at the top of C Route and looking down that massive sweep of rock, it just seemed bonkers and super intimidating to contemplate downclimbing it. I could feel the fear on the edge of my mind, and that is not an acceptable mental position if you are contemplating soloing.

There is only one way to deal with that feeling. I needed to turn this weakness into a strength, and the only way to approach this reluctance to commit was to refocus and force myself to climb the route up, down, again and again. Building that familiarity with each repetition, and with that increasing familiarity, confidence and speed builds.

I’ve just fired up Bracket and Slab, turned to my left, jumped down the little rock step and startled a climber belaying near the abseil anchors. I nod to him but don’t pause, turn to face inwards, and lower my legs over the edge and start the down climb of C Route: ‘Long reach – hidden foothold, right hand – big hold by my waist, left hand – finger lock, lower myself to the left (avoid suspect hold), left food – small foothold, long reach down again, match hands…’

“I took this yesterday on Gimmer, just after we’d dropped our bags. Shane Ohly did the stomp up through bracken and scree, up Bracket & Slab, down-climbing C Route & Ash Tree Slabs, in trainers, before we’d finished gearing up! Unfathomable time!” © Mark Bullock

Bowfell Buttress

Gimmer > Bowfell (5.03km +478m): 49 minutes 58 seconds

Bowfell Buttress (VD): 7 minutes 43 seconds

I pause at Stake Gill to refill my two soft flasks. These pre-planned water stops are the only times I am intending to pause during my record attempt. Twenty-plus years of experience racing in the mountains tells me that each water stop will be essential, but every second drags, as I watch the water level rise. I drop an electrolyte tablet into each bottle and I am off.

Despite waiting for this moment (my favourite anchor of the day), contouring around the side of Buck Pike, it still feels like a surprise when I see myself and Duncan coming towards me from the opposite direction. In an amazing coincidence >>I Hope There’s Someone by Avicii<< is playing and the lyric “There’s a ghost on the horizon,” is perfectly timed. For the last few minutes, I’ve been conjuring up this image of the two of us racing together at the OMM in 2017 and literally, I can now see us running together, dressed in the same black tights and grey waterproofs that we wore when we raced together. We are about to punch Checkpoint 9, which is the penultimate checkpoint after two hard days of racing, and we know that another Elite win is all but sealed. This is a powerful and defining memory for me as an elite runner, and five years later these two ghosts echo that sense of satisfaction that comes from all-out effort, reminding me of what I am capable of today.

*Shane Ohly and Duncan Archer in the final few kilometres of the 2017 OMM. ©* *Sleepmonsters*

I have a great contour line leading almost straight to the base of Bowfell Buttress. Crossing the scree in the final 50m, I slow, looking up at the crag for the first time, and pulling out my chalk bag ready to climb. >>SPLIT<<. Hands-on the rock and I am climbing.

“I am going to pass you, please stay exactly where you are and do not move.” I use the same well-rehearsed line each time I approach other climbers whilst I am soloing. If I get any sense that they are going to be non-compliant, I follow up with a stern, “Do not touch me.” Although it is rare that I need to be that directive. Most climbers are so surprised to see me, partly because I am soloing, but mainly because of the speed at which I am suddenly appearing next to them.

Despite an outward appearance of being highly organised, my natural state is a whirlwind of chaos. I knew that if I wanted to minimise risk and maximise my chances of success, a rigorous and detailed preparation would optimise this. I’ve learned that embracing the process is as important as the end result, and by not just focusing on the preparation, but by taking great pleasure and joy in those running and climbing days in the mountains, I’d actually prepare thoroughly.

I broke down Classic Rock into 30 different sub-components which included the 15 routes, the various running legs and route choices. Then I used a traffic light coding system to define my readiness at a glance: red = not ready, amber = not optimised and green = good to go. Each year I promised myself that I’d only classify the climbing sections as green only once I’d spent at least one session soloing repeatedly up and down the routes at that crag. There were various unknowns about the optimal running route between the crags and these needed AB testing, and there were some important considerations about the order in which routes were climbed and the precise approaches to and from the crags. More AB testing.

This methodical approach to the recceing of the optimal running route and increasing my familiarity with the climbing routes, combined with decades of experience resulted in systematic control of the controllable aspects of Classic Rock, which whilst not guaranteeing success, I was stacking the odds in my favour.

It was obvious that it was the running sections of Classic Rock were a record would be made or lost. As an example, Tom Randall is a significantly better climber than me: let’s suppose that his current on-sight grade is F8b and mine is F7b. This makes a huge difference if we were both trying to climb F8a, but when we are climbing a F3c (such a traditional ‘severe’ graded route) then the difference between us becomes negligible and the time gains will be found on the running sections between the crags.

There is an old adage in running lore that ‘sprinters are born, and endurance runners are made’. What this means is that there is no substitute for years of endurance training. The challenge, as I found, was balancing how tired I was prepared to get whilst running, with my risk appetite whilst soloing.

Inevitably, whilst preparing for Classic Rock I’ve had to pass many different climbers on every one of the routes at one point or another. I’ve made no attempt to wait, or pause, as I’ve always known when I executed my record attempt, I would not be able to do this, so I wanted to be well-practised at passing other climbers wherever I found them.

Today on Bowfell Buttress, there are two pairs leading separately but close together. They seem to be related judging by the chatter and fortunately, it is straightforward to pass them, and we exchange pleasantries as I climb past. There is a false summit, before a final short section of scrambling lands me on the ridge plateau >>SPLIT<<. Another counter-intuitive route choice leads to the best running terrain, and I feel energised by >>Midnight (The Hanging Tree)<<, one of my favourite running tunes.

The route through to Scafell Crag is one of the hardest sections underfoot with long continuous sections of higgledy piggledy boulder-strewn ground making any kind of running rhythm all but impossible. Running in shoes that were too small (optimised for climbing) makes this section painful on the feet.

Scafell

Bowfell > Scafell (5.35km +427m): 51 minutes 52 seconds

Jones Route Direct (S) + Moss Gill Grooves (VS): 27 minutes 12 seconds

I scramble diagonally up and across the steep approach slopes heading towards the bottom of Jones Route Direct. Cutting little corners, one after another, that the climbers trod takes. Arriving at the base of the Scafell Pinnacle >>SPLIT<< I check my shoes. They are muddy and wet. I wipe the mud away but can’t do anything about the wetness. When I need to get my own attention, I often speak out loud to myself and now I say “Shane, be careful your shoes are wet”. Jones Route Direct is one of the routes where dry rock shoes would make a difference on the delicate gangway traverse that I need to follow up and left. The footholds are non-descript, just minute changes in the angle of the slab. I’m so dialled-in though, that the indentations of preferential rock stand out like a hopscotch pattern of footholds to follow. I commit. There is a sequence of optimal crimps for my fingers; sharp edges that provide reassuringly positive holds. “Woooo!” Suddenly my left foot pings off and my leg swings wildly after it into the air. My body threatens to follow. The ground drops away below the gangway and the exposure is magnified disproportionally. That was predictable, I think. I’m climbing carefully though, always trying to anticipate what happens if I lose one of my points of contact, and my fingers automatically crimped down hard, as I swung my foot back, smacking it back down on the same smear it had been on a second before, I subtly adjust my balance and weight it again. This time it behaves, and I push my foot firmly onto the volcanic rhyolite to make the most of the friction.

Straightforward climbing leads to the ‘The Waiting Room’ a large ledge where the rock steepens above. One of the amazing things about these ‘classic’ routes is that they often weave improbable journeys for the grade, through extraordinary rock terrain and Jones Route Direct doesn’t disappoint. The crux is a weirdly technical mantle. This is one of the moves I’ve needed to do again and again to feel comfortable now that I am here and tired from all the running and climbing beforehand.

One of the funniest moments of all my Classic Rock preparations happened at the Waiting Room. It was a warm sunny evening in 2020 and I soloed up to the large ledge arriving to find two older male climbers regaled in every imaginable item of climbing equipment on the ledge. But I was wearing skinny running shorts, a vest, carrying a small vest pack and climbing in my fell running shoes. Needless to say, they seemed flabbergasted to see me as a shuffled around and pulled out the guidebook, still a little unsure of exactly where each of the Classic Rock routes went. They asked if I knew where I was going and asked them if this was the way to Scafell Pike.

Stretching up, I match hands on the large flat handhold far above my head. This hold marks the start of the right-leading foot traverse. Making sure my left hand is slightly further left on the large flat hold than would be optimal, means that I leave a little more space that I’ll need for my knee in a second. I build my feet up until I start to feel a little off balance, then I commit to the mantle, pressing up and turning my wrists through 180 degrees so that I am now extending down, with my weight through my left arm and onto the flat hold, that is now at waist height. My right-hand reaches up to very little, but I stroke the rough rock for balance. I bring my right knee up onto the large flat hold. I shift my weight from my left hand to my right knee, which allows me to release my left hand, and reach further with my right until my fingers curl over the better crimp. I start to rock over in full. This approach suits my style and the moves flow in seconds, my body perfectly executing a well-rehearsed routine, done largely on autopilot. Honestly, it is best not to think and just do.

Not only is Moss Gill Grooves the hardest route at VS 4c, it is also the most difficult to climb in running shoes. Combined with Jones Route Direct, and the various down climbing required to optimise the overall route, the Scafell section is most definitely the psychological and technical crux of Classic Rock. However, it does mark the halfway point in my mind, and I had planned to climb these sections repeatedly until knowledge and confidence of Scafell became an anchor for my overall link-up. The weather and damp rock had other ideas though and Moss Gill Grooves is the route I’ve climbed the least during my preparation.

The initial pitch up to ‘The Oval’ is easy. Pitch two climbs the corner groove for a few metres before the crux traverse left to the arete via a series of delicate moves on small edges. Fellrunning shoes are terrible on holds this small because they are not stiff enough to support your weight, or precise enough for your toes to feel the rock. I glance across recalling the sequence. Breathe. Focus. I step left out of the corner groove. Initially all good, and again my fingers grip the famously rough rhyolite that Scafell Crag is famous for. I’m most of the way across the slab. The large hold on the left arete winks at me… but something is wrong. I am wrong handed. Fuck. Returning to the (relative) safety of the corner would be, err… troublesome. I pause very briefly. Adapt and overcome or ignore and override flashes through my mind. An instinctive choice is made, and a fraction of a second later a surge of reserve power locks the little crimp on my right hand and I make a big move, much hard than VS, but controlled and under my terms to reach the arete with my left hand. My feet scrabble to catch up.

I’m not scared by these moments. As climbers we know that every now and then we get a sequence wrong, we misjudge how to hold a handhold, or where to place our feet. There is a flash of fear as we realise, we are off balance. Perhaps we get more pumped than we expected whilst climbing a particular section and burning forearms result turbo charging the countdown to the inevitable uncurling of fingers on holds. All these experiences are as inevitable to someone climbing solo, as they are to the lead climber. The key is how you deal with these moments. To freeze is to die. To scare is to die. To panic is to die. This is why free soloing is about mastering your emotions so that fear is banished from your mind. A crucial part of this process is a fundamental acceptance that to fail is to die. I’m not being melodramatic, but acceptance that you are gambling with your life, no matter how well prepared you are, is, I believe, key to liberating yourself from the fear that would otherwise inhibit your climbing. Likewise, staying well within my physical limits so that I have the spare physical capacity to deal with these moments of uncertainty and error is important. A power to waste ratio.

My mountain racing experience taught me the importance of marginal gains and the power of visualisation in preparation. It seemed clear to me that swapping in and out of climbing shoes would be time-consuming and the cumulative impact of these swaps, at nine different crags, would be significant. Over many decades, I’ve climbed in the mountains and on easier Alpine rock routes wearing approach shoes, so given the relatively easy grades of Classic Rock, it seemed logical to plan from the start to climb all the routes in my running shoes.

For many of the climbs, it makes very little difference given the gigantic nature of the holds, but for the odd move, and certain sections of routes, you are seriously disadvantaged whilst climbing in running shoes. It is at these moments that you are reliant on being able to climb many grades in excess of the route you are on to compensate for the ineffective footwear.

Before committing to a certain running shoe, I experimented with various brands and styles before eventually settling on the VJ iROC 3 shoes. The butyl rubber soles gave me a better grip on rock and I decided to run in a pair ½ size too small, which hurt my feet and bruised my toes but gave me the close fit I needed to climb confidently.

The weeks spent recce’ing the route and the climbs meant that I always knew where I was going (at least when I was concentrating) and provided the core element of the ruthless efficiency I was trying to achieve with every element of the challenge. This approach to marginal gains meant that as I approached each crag, I’d slow slightly, get my chalk bag out, and vest pack back on, and be ready to climb without ever having to stop. Likewise, I never stopped to eat, never stopped to adjust clothing, never stopped to navigate. The only planned stops were to refill my soft flask and I remained constantly focused on forward movement and efficiency.

I down climb Broad Stand to the col of Mickledore. With a sense of relief to have completed the Scafell section, I leave a wake of tumbling rocks behind me as I run down the scree slope to join the traverse trod under Pikes Crack leading to Lingmell Col.

Gable

Scafell > Great Gable (4.99km +251m): 48 minutes 32 seconds

Tophet Wall (HS) + Needle Ridge (VD) + Napes Needle (HS) 21 minutes 44 seconds

The route to Gable is rough and mostly follows the Corridor Route. It’s a disordered path, another higgledy piggledy mess of natural rocks poking between partly man handle rocks. Usually, it is far easier (and faster) just to run on the fell adjacent to the path which is why there is often a parallel runner’s trod next to these rocky paths in the Lake District.

At the Borrowdale Fell Race a few weeks before I’d run a relatively conservative race trying to match my race effort to my expected Classic Rock effort. It is always a little bizarre racing at recce speed, but I was fortunate to end up following one of the local legends along a hidden parallel trod all the way to Sty Head. Convinced at the time, this would be quicker, I was amazed when I isolated this section of GPS data and compared them with my recce’s splits. Staying on the Corridor Route was quicker.

I had planned to refill my water from one of the two streams crossing the Corridor Route but was concerned to find both had dried up after the previous weeks boiling weather. This was a problem for me as I knew there were no further opportunities for water until long after Gable. The bottles had already been empty for 45+ minutes. With little choice, I stopped for 5 minutes to slowly refill both bottles from a tiny trickle of peaty brown water leaking out of the bog below Sty Head. I knew that time invested here could easily prevent me from blowing up later in the day

Pushing hard up the scree approach funnel of Great Hell Gate I start to compose myself. Breathe. Focus. Chalk bag out. Chalk bag on. Visualise. I arrive at the foot of Tophet Wall >>SPLIT<<. This was the route I was most concerned about finding another party on, because passing them would be really difficult as the purity of this line makes deviations off the Hard Severe holds a big step up in grade. It’s incredible terrain for a Hard Severe and certainly the most imposing and improbable for the grade in the Classic Rock collection.

It was here that I met Katie MacKay in April when I was out on a recce, and she was instructing clients, she’d just completed her impressive first female Sub-24-hour completion of classic rock climbing roped, leading everything with her partner Arthur Jones. Later in the year, we would share the stage at Kendal Mountain Festival to relive our Classic Rock experiences.

The third pitch has an improbable-looking hand traverse (improbable for the grade) through steep and intimidating rock architecture. It really feels like it should be E2 territory. Whilst the foot holds are just smears the hand holds are large and I quickly traverse right with the confidence of familiarity. The first of the steep moves arrives at the end of the traverse. There is a short pinnacle with an overhanging hand crack up the left side. My years of climbing on the grit continue to serve me well and I feel confident moving between the hand jams.

I know the route so well, that I know to get the most secure jams deep in the crack, I need to remove my watch. As I climb through this terrain, I hear the tell-tale ‘BLEEP’ of a button being pressed. Shit. I forgot to lock the screen before stuffing it into my pocket, another move, and a longer ‘BLEEEEEP’ indicated that the watch has just stopped. Fuck. I fumble the watch out and realise I actually managed to stop and save my journey so far. I need to restart the watch and hence my Classic Rock GPX record is split in two*

* For the record, my actual time is based on the time of day the first leg was started, and the finish time is based on the time of day that the second leg was stopped i.e., the overall time is 100% accurate despite the missing seconds on Tophet Wall.

The final, and steepest move on Tophet Wall comes almost at the end of the route. I’m standing on an exposed small ledge just a few metres from the top, and on the far right-hand side of the crag. Sometimes the safest way to climb when soloing is just to make huge moves, between the biggest holds. This is one of those occasions. At full stretch from the ledge, I can just reach a large jug, and as my fingers curl around this hold, my balance tips and I swing leftwards, my feet skittling behind me as they catch up. It probably looks far wilder than it feels.

A few hundred meters of easy scrambling up the ridge lands me directly at the top of Needle Ridge, which I down-climb quickly, but carefully. There is some polish, and two loose holds I need to remember to avoid.

Initially, the thought of down-climbing Napes Needles had concerned me. More specifically, reversing the mantle required to reach the top worried me. However, over time I’ve become so familiar with the route, and these moves, that it feels straightforward. I know exactly which holds are needed for hands and feet. Today, I chat briefly with two climbers gearing up to start the route, one was tying his laces, as I step past them, I don’t think that they quite appreciated what I was about to do, but I raced up the route, mantled onto the top, stood there for a few seconds, and then reversed the mantled and down climbed the route. They were still gearing up, still tying the laces of the other boot by the time I returned, somewhat incredulous that I was climbing in fell running shoes.

Important footnote. Shown here is The Wasdale Crack HS 4c. On the day of this record I climbed The Arete VS 4c, which climbs the to the right of line 6 (an alternative initial pitch, before sharing the *same crux* *(the 4c section) mantle on to the top of Napes Needle. ©Rockfax*

I start descending the scree gully, dropping lower than the Climbers Traverse Path, to pick up the other traverse path weaving through the crags and boulder-strewn flanks of Great Gable. It’s a slow ‘path’, but the most direct route, with the least ascent, to Beckhead Tarn.

Pillar

Great Gable > Pillar (5.91km +441m): 1 hour 1 minute 16 seconds

New West Climb (VD), Rib and Slab Climb (S) 17 minutes 29 seconds

The route into, and back from Pillar was subject to my greatest amount of AB testing. Initially, I’d assumed that I’d approach from Black Sail Pass via the climber’s Robinson Cairn path. If you think like a climber, you’d then scramble along Green Ledge under the North Face, and via Waterfall Climb, access the routes on the West Face of Low Man. However, this makes no sense for a Classic Rock Challenge, because with two routes to climb, you’d ascend one, descend the other and end back at the bottom of the crag needing to reverse this complex approach route.

My initial plan was to approach via the Robinson path, then use the Pillar Cove path to ascend to the notch between Pillar (the mountain) and High Mann (the pinnacle). From this notch in the mountain, a simple moderate scramble leads to the top of High Mann. From here, you are stood on the top of the West Face where both New West Climb and Rib and Slab Climb finish. After climbing down New West Climb and back up Rib and Slab Climb you arrive back at the summit of High Mann. Reversing the moderate scramble to the notch, allows you to continue up the Pillar Cove path towards the summit of Pillar, before cutting left on an almost imperceptible trod to join the ridge east of the summit. Ascending to essentially the top of Pillar meant more height gain but was consistently quicker than reversing the Robinson path route.

I’d done this initial approach in early June and was now standing at the summit of High Mann with Duncan Archer. Duncan is my old friend and mountain marathon partner. We enjoyed lots of running success together in a partnership spanning a decade of races. It was great to be back in the hills together again, and I was delighted that Duncan had offered to join me for this recce.

*Contemplating the down climbing at the top of New West Climb © Duncan Archer*

That day we’d been running on a 9-hour schedule. It felt hard. Like really hard. I’d been minutes off on each leg and then bailed early in the relentless heat for ice creams in Grange rather than climbing at Black Crag and Shepherds. Running with Duncan, he’d applied his mathematical mind to the simple truth that if I’d determined that the higher ‘along the ridge’ route was faster in one direction, then surely I should use it in both directions because I was starting and finishing at the same location.

It was this day out recce’ing with Duncan more than any other, that convinced me I’d need a fresh approach to my preparations if I want to go faster.

Finding any training consistency whilst preparing for Classic Rock was probably my biggest challenge: left Achilles tendonitis, right patellofemoral syndrome, right hamstring tendinopathy, right elbow tendonitis… this list goes on and a combination of age, and a lifetime of wear and tear, was catching up with me. Particularly the hamstring would flare up if I raced hard or did long runs in the preceding 18 months, and once sore, it would take the best part of a week to settle. I’d been slowly working through endless rehab and had to settle for slow base-building aerobic running to avoid aggravating the hamstring. Come the start of July, I knew that if I was going to have a shot at a fast Classic Rock something had to change. I throw caution to the wind and started training hard again, mixing some local fell races and harder tempo sessions into each week. I did three races in one of the prep weeks.

I accept that I may need to borrow from the future to get the best possible performance from myself. The concept of ‘borrowing from the future’ has been a Jedi mind trick I’ve used many times when I literally imagine the energy and effort, I’d need the following day or week, and pull into the present. It works, but there is always a price to pay.

Much to my surprise, I found that the hamstring ached a little more, but didn’t get any worse. I invested most of my time into Classic Rock recce’s running hard on my 8 ½ hour schedule, or faster. Within weeks I was feeling energised and the regular faster sessions building on the familiarity of the route from the previous two years suddenly started coming together. I could feel my confidence building and I knew my time was about to come.

Despite 3 years of methodical preparation, my most important choice didn’t occur until the night before.

As my race speed returned, the problem I was now experiencing was that I was getting sufficiently fatigued whilst running that I was unable to climb as safely: I’d pull on the loose hold that I knew mustn’t be touch and, on a few occasions, I had got cramp whilst high stepping. I’ll never forget suppressing the insuppressible pain of cramp in my adductor as I wedge myself into the chimney of New West Climb until I was sufficiently stuck, that I could release my legs and shake out the cramp.

That said, I was still planning to bury myself in an all-out running effort and accept the increased soloing risk because of the simple purity and challenge of going as fast as I could. Whilst I hadn’t mentioned this to anyone, I started calling the 8 ½ schedule the ‘suicide schedule’ in those final recces. I was peaking. In the zone and very ready to go. The weather was dry, probably too hot, but knowing how wet the summers usually are in the Lakes, I felt this growing sense of urgency that my chance was now.

And then my brother arrived from Canada within days of Heather returning from the Alps for a break from her work as an International Mountain Leader. My brother’s visit was long-planned, and we hadn’t seen each other for years. He arrived with his wife and three super-charged and enthusiastic young boys. My Classic Rock plans would have to wait as we spent some wonderful, quality family time together. The value of this pause is incalculable because I’d been so focused on marginal gains and faster and faster splits, so wrapped up in my own ego bubble that I’d become completely self-absorbed. You need this level of focus, but uninterrupted time with Heather and my brother’s family nudged me towards a less all-or-nothing approach. Reflecting on that time together I realised that the two most important and original goals of the day were to 1) not die, and 2) to enjoy the experience.

The evening before I just added an hour back onto the running splits, turning the all-out race effort into something more akin to a long hard training run.

The crux of Rib and Slab Climb is familiar to me. I reach up with my left hand to big flat hold, avoiding the great, but suspect (and well chalked) hold slightly higher, in the back of the overhanging groove. Then I build my feet, stepping up and reaching high and right to another good edge, but it is a stretch because I am avoiding the loose hold. I do this on autopilot, confidently moving in flow state. But the hold I reach for is not there… suddenly I am over-extended and begin to swing… I am barn dooring off the crag. A nanosecond later my power-to-waste ratio kicks in and just a centimetre of uncontrolled movement becomes controlled: I squeeze hard, instantly over-gripping with my left hand, simultaneous and violently tensing my entire core and locking my upper body in place to hold the swing. I adjust slightly, reach again, and this time the edge I’d anticipated welcomes my fingers.

It’s all over in a few seconds. I don’t slow, I don’t think, I don’t reflect, I just keep climbing upwards cocooned in my bubble of confidence and purpose. This is life at its most basic making split-second decisions that are utterly unforgiving and final. There is high-definition vibrancy to life when choices have consequences.

Gillercombe

Pillar > Gillercombe (7.49km +378m): 1 hour 4 minutes 40 seconds

Gillercombe Buttress (S): 12 minutes 36 seconds

*Gillercombe Buttress, Gillercombe ©Rockfax*

I can sense the end and my concentration starts to wander. Danger. I make a nav error, drifting hundreds of metres off the optimum line as I approach the top of the crag from Brandreth. I am annoyed. I am really annoyed with myself and immediately compound the error with another mistake. For the first time in the day, I need to stop unnecessarily. Every time I have approached each of the other crags, I’ve slowed slightly in the final hundred meters, removed my chalk bag from the Gecko VP whilst still on the move so that a) I don’t ever need to actually stop and b) so that I slow down and switch from run mode, to climb mode as I approach each crag. This time I forget to do this and arrive at the top of Gillercombe, >>SPLIT<< and discover my chalk bag is still in the Gecko. “Fucking idiot Shane, you need to concentrate,” I say out loud. Standing still for what seems like an age I faff: Gecko off, chalk bag out, Gecko on, chalk bag on, chalk bag open. Fuck! Finally, I am ready to climb. The lost seconds are painful.

Gillercombe Buttress is straightforward when climbing up, but down climbing this 200m buttress is a very different experience because some of the moves in reverse are surprisingly awkward, and it is easy to lose your way on the sea of rock as the route winds left and right. Picking out the easiest line from above is challenging. Oh, but I do like the giant ledges that break up the buttress and I simply jump down from one ledge to the next on the easier sections, and the ridiculousness of jumping down a route always tickles me, especially when a land next to a startled belayer.

Despite the false start, Gillercombe Buttress flows nicely once I am climbing and the dinks left and right linking up the route appear just as I had visualised. My feet touch the ground. <<SPLIT>>. I can really taste it now.

I cut across Seatoller Fell towards the Honister Pass on a direct line to the Coast-to-Coast footpath. My mouth stings from a day of excessive sugar and caffeine as I chew another block of VOOM, but it is what I need, and I know I need to remain disciplined about eating right through to the end. My optimised route down the steep ground just before the road was totally overgrown a few weeks ago. After fighting my way down through shoulder-deep ferns to reach the road, I’d glanced back up to the skyline and spotted a different descent route. Today, I descend what I’d seen from the road for the first time. It’s good, and I drop to the road without too much vegetation interference.

Each time I’d recce’d this section I’d imagined myself running fast down the rocky Coast to Coast path, picking my way between the stones, squeezing another second here and there from the schedule. I’m doing my best today, but despite my easier pace, I am starting to feel tired.

I crash across the River Derwent. There are bemused tourists on the shores as I pause for a second, waist-deep in the river to splash my face and head with refreshing water – it feels wonderful – before surging forward again. I cut through the Bowder Stone car park. More tourists. I am dripping wet and running with a sense of purpose. What must they think? I pick up the path leading through woodland, an area I know as the ‘The Jaws of Borrowdale’ from the local orienteering map. Before the vegetation exploded into its August peak, I had planned to use my knowledge of the area from orienteering to cut a super direct line straight through the woods contouring up to Black Crag. I change my plans on the fly, based on my experiences from earlier in the day, and opt initially for the established footpath. Usually, it is slower, and it is definitely further, but at least I can keep running.

Black Crag

Gillercomb > Black Crag (7.42km +235m): 52 minutes 57 seconds

Troutdale Pinnacle (S) 8 minutes 58 seconds

*Troutdale Pinnacle, Black Crag ©Rockfax*

I’ve gone as far as I can feasibly go on the established path, and I now must cut directly up to Black Crag. Ferns, bracken, brambles. They literally tower over me. Scratching and tearing at my legs. There is a reason why orienteers call vegetation like this ‘fight’ and I have no choice but to battle my way through at walking speed given the added challenge of the steep approach angle. “Bollocks, bollocks bollocks”. I’ve AB tested this route many times, and I know this way is usually faster than going down to the climber’s approach path, but today I am not sure. Too late now.

I arrive at the crag, sweaty, breathing heavily and covered in scratches and dirt. >>SPLIT<<

There are a group of climbers hanging around the base. Months later I learn they are a group from Cockermouth MRT, but I don’t take the time to recognise them today. I glance up and see at least two parties on Troutdale Pinnacle. I say a brief hello, and again, without breaking stride, start up the penultimate climb.

Troutdale Pinnacle is a popular route, and it has been rare to climb this route without other parties on it. Moving as quickly as I can, I often climb up surprising other climbers before they even know I am on the same route. Today is no different, as I approach, I call out my normal warning, “I am going to pass you, please stay exactly where you are and do not move”.

I pass the first party halfway up pitch one by the big oak tree, and minutes later I pass the second group at the top of the groove leading to the slab. I am slowing down. My PB for Troutdale Pinnacle is less than five minutes and I am way off that pace. I focus on climbing carefully. The rhyolite at Black Crag has a slate-like quality, polished in places and there are a few loose holds I must remember not to use. “Steady now Shane”.

“Don’t loose focus now”. The final few steep moves lead to a stunning grooved arete, which is a marvel for the grade. Suddenly I am stepping onto the grassy platform at the top of the pinnacle. <<SPLIT>>. I immediately cut left, the opposite direction to the climber’s decent path, and commit myself to a complex descent down the craggy reentrant east of Black Crag. I know it’s likely to be overgrown, and I briefly mull over using the normal decent route… but I know this is faster, and I prepare myself for some new scars for the benefit of a few minutes saved. Initially, the descent is ok, but on the lower slopes the vegetation slows me to a walk again, and I have to fight my way back left, contouring across the slope on grotty ground until I reach the main path, reminded again why vegetation like this is called fight. More minutes wasted away.

Shepherd’s Crag

Black Crag > Shepherd’s Crag (1.72km +80m): 17 minutes 54 seconds

Little Chamonix (VD) 3 minutes 52 seconds

*Little Chamonix, Shepherd’s Crag ©Rockfax*

Borrowdale. Valley. Road. >>Following The Sun by SUPER-Hi x NEEKA<< reflects my growing feeling of positivity. It is so close now. I try to push harder now that I’m on the tarmac and briefly clock 4-minute/km pace, but it doesn’t last. I am tired now. I glance up and see a figure silhouetted on the top of Shepherds Crag. They are waving furiously at me, and it must be Heather. I wave back.

Stumble. My hand touches down to the ground. It prevents me from tripping. I’m running over the boulders and broken ground at the base of the crag. Suddenly I am unsure of where Little Chamonix starts as I repeatedly glance up at the crag and not at my feet. I can remember the first holds but can’t visualise the bottom of the route. Breathe. Focus. I let myself approach on autopilot. For this short section running from Black Crag, I haven’t even bothered to put away my chalk bag and, arriving at the base of the buttress >>SPLIT<< my hands feel those familiar holds. Looking up I’m confident that I am in the right place.

I romp up the initial pitch moving from one large hold to the next. A short scramble past the trees and I am starting the third pitch, the corner to the weird block in the overhanging groove. I sit on the block, then reach right for the holds and pull through onto the slab. Across the slab to the saddle and I find two other climbers belayed, and they graciously wait for me to pass. Brief words exchanged. I climb between the two of them. The giant holds of the final fourth pitch lead me on, upwards. The seconds tick by and, and, and…

>>SPLIT<< …and finished. 19:31 in the evening and a total time of 09:22.

Reflections

I am finally getting around to finishing this essay in December 2022, four months after I completed Classic Rock. What I can tell you now, is that as time has passed, and the bubble of confidence deflates, the entire thing seems really very bonkers, and the risk is increasingly hard to justify as time passes.

In the weeks after, my hamstring throbbed and ached when I went to bed, and I would wake early because of cramp-like Achilles pain in my ankle. There is always a price to pay when you borrow from the future. I also became completely overwhelmed with work priorities with both the Montane Dragon’s Back Race® and Salomon Skyline Scotland® taking place in the first three weeks of September.

Maximising performance whilst soloing requires a zen-like connection with the rock combined with a totally immersive focus in the moment. It has far less to do with how hard one can physically pull.

For me to achieve this state, I need to be completely cognisant of the risk I am taking; I am prepared to die for this challenge? Yes. Does this mean I have a death wish? No. For me, the pathway to this level of focus and mindfulness that I need for high-performance soloing is an absolute acceptance of risk and internalisation of motivation. If your experience of soloing is moments of terror and fear then I might kindly suggest that you are no rock Jedi, because I had not a single pang of fear during Classic Rock having achieved a flow state mindset.

Much like how a surfing purist might be described as a soul surfer, I think that soloing is a soul sport requiring purity of mind (i.e., motivated to be the best version of yourself, not to climb a certain grade), and absolute focus in the moment. Whilst soloing records can (and will be) achieved and bettered, the drive needs to come from within, not from external pressure to better someone else, which will inevitably lead to the dark side and eventually disaster.

A deep, lifelong, sense of satisfaction comes from an endeavour that is pitched perfectly to engage and challenge you. To achieve this, the endeavour must have uncertainty in the outcome, and I strongly believe that true adventure only begins when there is uncertainty in the outcome. Granted, I’ll accept that free soloing is at the extreme end of this spectrum, but this sense of uncertainty and adventure is one of the big draws of the challenging mountain running events I organise such as the Montane Dragon’s Back Race®, Cape Wrath Ultra® and of course, Salomon Glen Coe Skyline®.

It was only the evening before I did my Classic Rock link-up that I added an hour to my running splits. I might have completed it in ~8 ½ hours, but at what risk? As my preparations gained momentum, I entered an almost constant state of flow and confidence and very nearly lost sight of my primary goals: 1) not to die, and 2) to have a brilliant day in the mountains, totally in control, combining two of my greatest loves: climbing and running. I’m really delighted that I didn’t kill myself chasing my ego.

I can’t wrap up these reflections without acknowledging the support I received from Heather. There have been some frank conversations between us about risk and death. There have been some tears. We have been trying to balance my compulsion for madness with our everyday life. No matter how I might try and stack the odds in my favour, ultimately an attempt at a speed, free soloing record is a gamble. Asking your wife to accept you, when you are willing to gamble with your life, says more about the resilience and strength of Heather, than me.

———————

UKC Interview

After setting a new Classic Rock Challenge record on Wednesday 17th August 2022 I did this in depth interview with UKC HERE.

Statistics, Route and Splits

Stats

Running distance: 49.70km
Running height gain: 2,960m
Running time: 7h:14m
Climbing ascent: 660m
Climbing time: 2h:08m

Route

Part one. Dow Crag to Tophet Wall
Part two: Tophet Wall to Shepherd’s Crag

Summary Splits

Murry’s Route (S) 9:51
Dow > Gimmer (11.76km +667m) 1:26
Bracket & Slab (HS), C Route (S), Ash Tree Slabs (VD) 17:51
Gimmer > Bowfell (5.03km +478m) 49:58
Bowfell Buttress (VD) 07:43
Bowfell > Scafell (5.35km +427m) 51:52
Jones Route (S), Moss Ghyll Grooves (VS) 27:12
Scafell > Great Gable (4.99km +251m) 48:32
Tophet Wall (HS), Needle Ridge (VD), Napes Needle (HS) 21:44
Great Gable > Pillar (5.91km +441m) 1:01:16
New West Climb (VD), Rib and Slab Climb (S) 17:29
Pillar > Gillercombe (7.49km +378m) 1:04:40
Gillercombe Buttress (S) 12:36
Gillercomb > Black Crag (7.42km +235m) 52:57
Troutdale Pinnacle (S) 08:58
Black Crag > Shepherds Crag (1.72km +80m) 17:54
Little Chamonix (VD) 3:52

Clothing, Equipment and Nutrition

The table below has a breakdown of all the clothing and equipment worn and carried, plus all the food that took with me. I had one block of VOOM left, and one 7-gram mint cake when I finished!