Winter Bob Graham Round
A solo and unsupported midwinter Bob Graham Round
- December 2020 -
Interview between Shane Ohly and Ally Beavon about Shane’s Bob Graham Round for the Sheffield Adventure Film Festive recorded live on 22-02-2021
It’s the morning after the night before. I sit, feet up on the sofa, laptop on knees, forensically analysing my GPS data summit by summit calculating my split times. I also want to be completely certain that I visited all the correct cairns. The visibility had been very poor on the Dodds Ridge and whilst I was reasonably confident that I’d been to all the correct cairns, I couldn’t be absolutely 100% certain. The GPS track was the verification I wanted to check. Slowly, I worked my way through the route carefully, gradually, becoming more relaxed as each successive summit passed vetting. Then I came to Grey Knotts:
The red line showing my route to the summit of Grey Knotts.
I’d missed the summit. This wasn’t a navigation error. I’d gone exactly where I had planned (you can see the little dink in my route to the summit cairn on the north east outcrop). I’d just gone to the wrong summit according OpenTopoMap. I loaded up Ordnance Survey 1:25,000 mapping next for an alternative opinion, and it also showed the summit to the west of the wall, a hundred meters or so from where I’d been. “Oh fuck”
Martin Stone was the first and only other person to complete a solo and unsupported winter Bob Graham Round in January 1987. I had spent a considerable amount of time on the phone to him that morning discussing our respective rounds. Martin is the authority and custodian of long-distance mountain running records in the UK. I phoned him back straight away and explained that I hadn’t completed the round after all, because I’d gone to the wrong summit at Grey Knotts. My next immediate thought was, ‘Right then, I’m going to have to do it all again’.
Martin was surprised too, and as he loaded up my GPS data, we discussed which top was actually the official summit of Grey Knotts. Harvey Maps had it where I’d been. Phew. However, that wasn’t definitive because Harvey Maps also had the top of Great End marked differently to the acknowledged Bob Graham top (the more southerly cairn is the BG top).
I knew that all the Bob Graham’s I’d supported had gone to the same cairn as me at Grey Knotts. That should have been a relief, but I suddenly had this awful feeling I’d be calling various friends to tell them that their BG wasn’t valid. ‘Oh gosh, I’m not going to be popular’. How come no one else had realised this? And then sense prevailed. Martin had the Wainwrights book open and it explained that the Grey Knotts top was indeed the same one that I’d been to, and also, he confirmed that every Bob Graham he had run or supported had also gone to that top. Panic over. I’d been to the correct summit. That was a bit of a heart attack moment.
I am stood at Moot Hall in the centre of Keswick. Its 00:05 on Wednesday morning 30th December. The market square is completely and utterly deserted. Silence. I haven’t seen a soul since leaving my friend Phil Winskill’s house where I’d prepped my kit before heading out. It’s clear and still with a full moon illuminating the outline of Skiddaw above the town. Perfect conditions for a Bob Graham round. I make a final adjustment to my laces, click my poles together, fold my map precisely for the first section and wait for my Suunto to confirm it has locked-on to a satellite. The night’s peace is broken by a single ‘bleep’. We are good to go and I press start.
Almost immediately I make a mistake, running past the left turn on Otley Road. I double back thinking that I won’t be the first person to have made that mistake. A few seconds wasted. Oh well, at least I am not planning to break any records. I know that a steady-away rep up Skiddaw is usually 60 minutes for me, so I think about 70 minutes should be the right pace and I mentally dialled back accordingly. In the end I reached the summit in 74 minutes, slowed down by all-but impenetrable mist that had slunk around the summit plateau. The first hour of the ascent had been incredible with such bright moonlight that I hadn’t needed my headtorch. With a full moon, I was expecting as much. Nearing the summit, I could see a veil of mist but didn’t appreciate just how thick it was until I was enveloped within it, the snow on the ground merging with the horizon to create near whiteout conditions with visibility dropping to a few meters. Usually, I love the challenge of navigating in this sort of murk but tonight it was just a frustration. At least a clear night was forecast, and I pushed through expecting the cloud to be short lived.
The full moon lighting up the route on Skiddaw
For a long time, I had wanted to complete a solo and unsupported Bob Graham Round in winter, but for one reason or another it hadn’t happened. Mostly, that was due to me being fussy about what constitutes genuine winter conditions. Having raced across frozen boulder fields in the Scottish highlights whilst they were blanketed in hard neve snow, I knew just how good optimal winter conditions could be. I’d been waiting… and waiting. However, I had to accept that climate change was making the winter condition of decades past rare indeed, even in Scotland, and let alone in the Lake District. Possibly the only benefit of the coronavirus restrictions throughout 2020, was a regularity to my training that I had not had for years. So, with a solid block of running behind me, the hills white and wintry and a period of stable weather forecast for the next 24 hours, now seemed like as good a time as any.
I had wanted a decent mid-winter challenge and ten days previously my wife Heather had suggested that I run the Cumbrian Traverse on the shortest day of the year, which was Monday 21st December. In the end I was working on the Monday, but I decided to run on Sunday 20th regardless of the weather forecast. It was a double waterproof day, with some minging wet and wintry weather in the central fells. It was also a grand day out in the hills and confirmed nicely that I was moving well, and that an Achilles niggle that had been troublesome since supporting Beth Pascall’s Bob Graham record was finally behind me. Over the next week, snow gradually blanketed the Lakeland fells and I started to wonder if the moment had come.
Over the summer months of 2020, I’d found myself reflecting on the differences in style when it comes to completing the big rounds and other mountain challenges, whether in summer or winter conditions. Whilst I might dream of a record-breaking time, I realised the balance of style over time, had tipped in favour of style for me. This shouldn’t have been a surprise really, because the purity and rawness of an experience has always been important to me, ever since I was drawn to free soloing as a rock climber in my teens. It is a style of climbing where every action has potentially profound consequence.
I also thought about the added complications of arranging a support team, selecting a date in advance, and I just didn’t want that pressure to mar my experience. Many of my friends who I have supported have described their rounds as one of the best running days of their life, and I’ve taken great pleasure supporting friends to achieve their goals. I get it, but I wanted an experience that had uncertainty in the outcome, because for me, real adventure only begins when there is genuine jeopardy, and the final result is uncertain.
So, like others before me I was drawn to a purer approach. Lake District 24-hour record holder Carol Morgan neatly summarised her desire for adventure after completing her solo and unsupported Bob Graham in July 2020. Carol said, “I wanted this to be as scaled back as possible: just me, absolutely no support, no GPS, map and compass only and no watch. Just me, challenging myself in the big hills.”
Conditions under foot were wintery for sure, but far from optimal. Most of the snow was loose and unconsolidated and about 15cm deep above about 300m. Descending Halls Fell with ice axe in hand had been slower than expected with ice-covered rocks lying just under the snow increasing the risk of a fall if I wasn’t careful and precise with each foot placement. I had to throttle back my usual enthusiastic descending. Leaving the snowline, I relaxed a little and was immediately punished with a heavy fall on an ice-smeared rock on the path. I fell hard, bashing my shin and winding myself whilst rolling a few meters downhill. Face pressed into the frozen ground, Had I actually damaged myself? I allow a few seconds to pass. ‘No. Right. Get up, and carry on running now’, I demanded.
Martin Stone had worn PBs for his 1987 winter round and carried the heel part of his crampons for the first two legs. There is no doubt in my mind that I had the advantage of much improved clothing and equipment for my round over 30 years later. Especially my Salomon Snowspike shoes, which are both insulated and have metal dobs set within the rubber lugs of the sole. I had further customised these with a layer of neoprene glue to make them waterproof. Despite the advantages of my fancy footwear, I still needed to be careful while descending, concentrating on each foot placement as the ground changed from complete snow cover high on the mountain, to intermittent snow and ice cover as I descended. These were the most dangerous moments, and I was mindful that I wanted to avoid being a patient in a COVID ravaged hospital for the sake of a few minutes here or there.
My Salomon SnowSpike shoes with their added neoprene layer.
Technology improves with time, and I feel it is important to accept that runners in the future will have better clothing and equipment. I recall the late Pete Bland’s comments at Kendal Mountain Festival in 2018 inferring that Kilian Jornet’s Bob Graham record was not comparable to Billy Bland’s because of the advantages of modern clothing, equipment and his professional athlete status. With all due respect, I think that misses the point. Kilian and Billy both went up the same hills, visited the same summits and this is what is directly comparable. There is a risk of turning the Bob Graham Round into an historical re-enactment if every contender has to wear 1980’s era PBs, Tracksters with a matching string vest!
Approaching Clough Head from Threlkeld, I could see that the Dodds Ridge was completely enveloped in mist. Bollocks. I was already a little dehydrated and stopped to fill my softflask in Gate Gill after dropping off Hall’s Fell. I’d drunk this whilst walking up the road towards Newsham Farm and stuffed a High-5 electrolyte tablet straight into my mouth (I call this taste sensation a refresher bomb). I make a mental note to refill my softflask in Birkett Beck before heading onto the Dodds Ridge because there are no further options for any more water until I reach Grisedale Tarn. Staring up at Clough Head, I knew just how difficult and time consuming the cloud was going to make the next section as I replayed the route through my head. Sure enough, at about 500m I was enveloped by the cloud and visibility dropped to less than 10m. Fuck, this is really going to slow me down. Suddenly, I realised that I hadn’t refilled my softflask as planned. Fucking brilliant, now I am just making it hard for myself. Oh well, it wasn’t optimal, but I had some tricks up my sleeve for dealing with the lack of water.
Cresting the ridge, I turn right, south west, expecting the summit cairn to appear shortly. It didn’t, and I’d underestimated how far away it was. I started to feel nervous as I probed forward, slowing down all the time and increasingly doubting myself. I was relying on my memory of Clough Head to find the cairn whilst following a few ad-hoc footprints in the snow. Stop. You fuckwit. You know you’re relying on luck, and you can’t bingo your way down the Dodds Ridge in these conditions. Get your compass out, get your map-in-hand, and take a fucking bearing! The cairn appears. Ok. I am in the right mindset for proper navigation now. Map-in-hand, thumb compass pressed against the map. Distance. Direction. Duration. The three most basic components of a navigation leg. Next stop Great Dodd. I am going to descend south west for 1km to the col, it’ll take me 8 minutes. I’ll feel the ground flatten, turn south and gently climb for 500m, this will take another 4 minutes. I’ll be slow climbing in these conditions, because of both the poor visibility and effort of moving in the slippery snow. Therefore, I estimate a further 15 minutes to ascend 1km, heading south east to the summit. My thumb compass has a fixed bevel and simple coloured blocks to align it. There is no such thing as taking a bearing whilst using it and I need to always know where I am and rotate my whole body, rather than moving my hand or wrist, to head in the correct direction. The ground starts to flatten, the timing is right, but no cairn. Ok, use the Force (if you have no idea what I mean – read this). I pause, then turn to my left and adjust by 10m, using an old Jedi trick of not looking directly where I am going to allow my peripheral vision to pick out the cairn. Trust me it works, and it can double your effective vision in these conditions. Bingo. I fucking love this.
Well, I wanted winter conditions and I have definitely got them. The snow is not as hard as I’d hoped and far from optimal. With no freeze-thaw cycle I knew that there’d be no neve, so I just have to contend with the energy sapping conditions underfoot. With most steps, I sink a little, slide a little, and consequently time and energy ebb away centimetre by centimetre. It is subtle at first, but hour after hour means this cumulative drain on time and energy turns a 20-hour round into something far more marginal. The one positive of the fluffy snow is that it is easier to stay hydrated, and I scoop mouthfuls of snow at regular intervals to ensure my earlier blunder doesn’t scupper my attempt later on. Eating snow is a terrible survival strategy for staying hydrated if you are stationary and exhausted, but anecdotally, I think the metabolic calculation for a winter runner is different. At this point my energy reserves are good (i.e., the energy cost of maintaining my core body temperature despite swallowing freezing snow is acceptable) and I am also generating a lot of heat by running, which offsets this additional cold stimulus.
Over many decades I have been spending my time in the winter mountains. As a climber, as a runner, as a walker, as a mountain leader, as a skier and as a mountain rescue team member. I’ve always been struck by the huge variety in conditions and weather during the winter months, especially in the UK, and how this so directly impacts your experience, the hazards you may face, and the difficulties you may encounter.
Mountain professionals understand that it is winter conditions and not the date that defines winter. Therefore, awarding bodies like the Mountain Training Association only accept training and examinations for winter qualifications, such as a Winter Mountain Leader, when the courses are conducted in winter conditions.
The Bob Graham Club has taken the view that defining a winter round is simply a matter of dates. They state that a ‘winter round’ must take place between 1st December and last day of February, and that a ‘mid-winter round’, must be completed between the “weekend before the shortest day through to the first period of decent weather after the shortest day but to be completed no later than 10 January”.
Whilst I acknowledge the impossibility of arbitrating on the degree of winter conditions anyone’s round may take place in, I hope we can all acknowledge that a round completed in the winter months but essentially in summer conditions, albeit with less light, is a completely different undertaking to completing a round in classic winter conditions.
Jonny Muir in his excellent book The Mountains are Calling recognises the difference between summer and winter conditions saying, “To accomplish Ramsay’s Round is to join an exclusive club, but the club within the club – comprising those six winter conquerors – are at the top table.”
My personal standards for a winter round are very clear. I’d agree with the Bob Graham Club that the dates must be between the 1st December and last day of February. I’d acknowledge that a mid-winter round has more kudos. However, I would add two further and critical requirements necessary for a winter round to qualify as such: 1) that the mountains must be in winter condition i.e. snow covered and 2) that winter skills and/or equipment must be essential to complete the round. Point one is self-explanatory, but I’ll elaborate on point 2 because this validates point 1. Winter skills and/or equipment only become essential in genuine winter conditions i.e. the requirement to use an ice axe to ascend/descend.
I would like to make it clear that there is a degree of subjectivity to my definition, and I am definitely not trying to diminish the incredibly fastest winter rounds that have been completed in less severe conditions. As Ally Beaven notes in his book Broken, “…the more levels of qualification and explanation a record needs, the less worthwhile it becomes”, and that neatly summarises the challenge of which winter round was more or less wintry than the next.
The eastern horizon starts to burn and brighten, marking the arrival of dawn. I’d deliberately not checked any splits throughout the night, as I’d been very clear to myself about the type of experience I was after, and it wasn’t one filled with the stress of chasing a time. Adventures like these have become deeply personal for me: replenishing and restoring a sense of inner balance, and that would be hard to achieve if I was chasing a particular result. In the days before starting, I had deliberately done no research about other winter rounds, particularly solo and unsupported rounds, and I absolutely didn’t want to know who had the (rather niche) record for the fastest solo and unsupported winter round, and what their time was. However, I knew a few facts and there was no escaping from that. I knew for example, that Martin Stone had completed the first solo and unsupported winter round in 1987 (listen to his brilliant audio diary), after many attempts spread over many years. I knew Jim Mann’s 2013 winter record had been 18h:18m because I’d supported him. I knew that Kim Collison had improved that winter record in 2019 with an impressive time of 15h:47m. I knew I was running well, and my Cumbrian Traverse ten days ago neatly confirmed that. I was confident that I could run about 20 hours, although in reality I had been adjusting that outlook throughout the night. Climbing Fairfield, I resisted looking at my schedule. Climbing Seat Sandal, I resisted looking at my schedule. However, I could recall it well enough to know it shouldn’t be daylight as I dropped down to Dunmail Raise if I had been on track for a 20-hour round.
07:56 and on the summit of Fairfield
Should I give up? I’d been much slower than I’d expected. The soft snow and poor visibility throughout the night had sapped time and energy, and I wasn’t sure I could be bothered to carry on, when I was moving this slowly. I could feel myself wavering, right on the brink of calling it. However, it was clear that today was going to be a stunner. Blue skies had emerged from the monotone pre-dawn and a bright winter sun was already casting fantastic light across the fells. I knew that to continue would all but guarantee I’d run out of food, because I was only carrying sufficient for 20-hours maximum, such was my confidence when I packed. I phoned Heather at 08:42 and explained I was going to carry on, but that 23-hours was a more realistic schedule now. Please could you meet me a little later in Keswick?
I trudged slowly upwards, gaining height above Dunmail. I always think this hill looks enormous and the split to Steel Fell feels difficult to achieve when I am gazing up from the road below. Sure enough though, it’s achievable and just like any big challenge you just need to keep pushing forward. I am fortunate to have some walkers to focus on catching as I ascend whilst chatting briefly with Heather on the phone, before reply to Jim Mann’s text message. Jim is one of only three people that knew in advance I was going to try this.
I make a spur of the moment decision to go to High Raise first, rather than Sergeant Man, then High Raise. It wasn’t a logical decision at all. I had been following a well-trodden path in the snow until that point, and on a route I knew well. Now I am veering up Birks Gill just because I fancied going a different way. It was a mistake. There were no footprints to follow the entire way to High Raise, and the snow in the sheltered Birks Gill was the deepest of the entire round, occasional sinking to my knees. I wallowed step after step but just had to live with the decision. It takes 50 minutes to get to High Raise.
Approaching Sergeant Man, I am feeling more positive and it’s good to be moving a bit quicker again. “Well done John” a person shouts from the summit cairn. Momentarily I am confused before I reply, “err… I am not John”. The person looks at me strangely and then asks, “you look like you are doing a BG?”. “Yes”, I say. He continues, “I’m here to meet John Kelly”, the stranger announces, “He started a solo and unsupported winter Bob Graham this morning and I’ve been following his tracker. He should be here soon”.
My heart sinks with the news that John Kelly is chasing me down. This was not the Bob Graham experience I signed up for. I imagine the social media dot-watching-frenzy and feel the growing humiliation of being caught, of the trod of shame leading back into Keswick somewhere behind the triumphant John. I really, really didn’t want this experience to be about racing. I didn’t want my experience to be tainted by someone else. I feel irrational ownership of the Bob Graham Round: today it is meant to be mine. And, for the first time I acknowledge to myself that I am having a really lacklustre run. Sure, I am enjoying being in the mountains. Sure, I am enjoying overcoming the challenges of the wintery conditions, and the poor visibility through the night. But no, I am definitely not moving fast, and I certainly wasn’t here to be a bit part in someone else’s story. I feel my psyche fading by the second.
In January 2018, I had suddenly started experiencing severe lower back pain that quickly developed into sciatica. I’d been here before with a herniated disc in September 2013, which resulted in such severe and debilitating pain that I could barely maintain the dignity of using a bathroom unaided. Within a few weeks I was having surgery. My recovery had been much slower than I had anticipated. Prior to the injury, I was fit, strong, healthy and I expected it to be matter a months before I was back training. It took nearly a year. Another year passed before I was racing again, returning to compete at the OMM Elite in 2015. And now the pain had returned, and I was fearful of what was to come. There were differences though. This time the sciatica was in my left leg, whereas five years ago it had been in my right leg. Many of the other nasty symptoms returned like the aching testicles from the referred pain. Naturally, I assumed it was the same disk because the symptoms were so similar, but now herniated on the other side. In 2013 the pain had been so severe that surgery was the only option, and it couldn’t have come fast enough. This time, the pain was less intense, and I could struggle through a working day by sheer force of will (and assisted by countless painkillers), but by early evening I was exhausted by the effort to be positive and the endless cycle of pain. I’d collapse on the sofa munching codeine after codeine whilst drinking gin and tonic, until the pain was numbed, and I thought I might be able to sleep. I wasn’t much fun to live with.
I wasn’t going to rush into more surgery. I knew enough to understand the risks and I was happy to slowly make my way through the NHS as a less urgent case, all the while hoping that there would be a spontaneous improvement. At the same time, I started down a traditional physiotherapy route to try and get my damaged disk to move back in the right direction. I also decided to see a psychotherapist. If you’d asked me at the time, I would have explained that I needed help to manage the day-to-day pain, but deep down I knew I needed professional help with my mental health.
The months ticked by as I worked my way through the NHS system. I got an MRI scan, which showed some mild disk degeneration and nerve impingement. It was consistent with my age and sporting background and nothing that should cause this level of disability. I waited a little longer and got referred to a neurosurgeon with experience of elite athletes. He took the time to carefully pick through my MRI scan, pointing out the anatomy, and very clearly explaining that there was not actually much wrong with my back. By this point I had suspected as much. I was delving deeper into the psychology of chronic pain and reading widely about psychosomatic disorders. Psychosomatic disorders manifest as physical pain or illness because of an underlying psychological conflict or stress. It can sound far-fetched, but there is growing body of health care professionals that recognise the complex relationship between mind and body and believe that some morbidities can be linked to mental health causes rather than physical disease. Back pain is the classic example.
2018 passed in a haze of opiates and gin. The early stages of psychotherapy gave me some tools for managing chronic pain, but the real question to resolve was, what was driving the psychological conflict that was manifesting as such dreadful pain. I don’t think I am ready share that part of the psychotherapy process, I probably never will be; but I can confidently say that the deeper we dived into my innermost thoughts and feelings, the more we dissected my character and emotions, the less and less pain I experienced, and a growing sense of inner calm and control prevailed.
May 2019. 18 months since the initial symptoms, I am finally pain free and doing some running again. It takes me the rest of the year to get back into the routine of regular training and running, and I was determined to run OMM Elite for a final time with Duncan Archer (read about it here), although I had accepted my competitive days were over. I had thought that the desire to push hard again would rush back, but the reality was that I was exhausted from the transformational mental health reconstruction.
Why on earth I am sharing all this? Because two years of psychotherapy had given me a toolbox of psychological skills to breakdown and analyse how and why I felt a certain block of interlinked emotions. I just didn’t have these before. Despite a night without any sleep, and whilst making steady progress over the Langdale Pikes I now applied this box of tricks to my present state of mind with an internal conversation that went something like this:
The thought that the Bob Graham could be yours alone for the day is absurd.
Yes, I know.
It is a perfect winters day, and you take great delight that likeminded people are enjoying the fells.
You are right, I wouldn’t want to deny this day to anyone.
It is only a race if you make it a race. You own that state of mind.
I am letting go of my ego. I will not allow something I cannot control to influence my sense of self-worth.
John Kelly is a brilliant runner, there is no shame in being caught by him.
There is not, and I have made my peace with this, and in fact I can help him by leaving a great set of footprints.
John Kelly is a brilliant runner, and he probably will catch you.
And I will celebrate his awesomeness by cheering him on.
John Kelly is a brilliant runner, and even if he catches you, your times might be broadly similar, and this only validates how tough a solo and unsupported winter Bob Graham Round is.
Now that is sounding much better.
John Kelly is a brilliant runner, and he might not catch you.
Perhaps, but I truly hope he also has a wonderful experience as we share these fantastic mountains.
It takes me an hour, but I reframe the whole experience. I flip my initial emotional reaction to see sense and feel centred. Nothing has actually changed: I wanted to have a personal adventure in the mountains, and I am still in full control of that outcome.
10:18 The view from High Rise looking back east at the Dodds Ridge
With Pike of Stickle falling away behind me, I am enjoying the descent towards Stake Pass in an entirely different frame of mind. I feel positive again, and I am looking forward to the gently raising trod leading to Rossett Pike, which is one of my favourite Lakeland summits. I am able to follow ad-hoc sets of footprints as I descend, and I know the route well. However, arriving at Stake Gill, I can’t make out the trod used by the Bob Graham and Langdale fell race to ascend the other side. Usually it is clearly visible, but in winter conditions it has becomes obscured by the snow. I pick my line and make the best of it. Clearly there is some more trudging ahead of me as I climb and munch on a Lucho Dillitos energy block.
The long traverse to gain height towards Bowfell drags. The rocks are slippery with snow and again, there are patches of ice that even my dobbed running shoes struggle with. The snow also obscures the occasional cairn that mark the route. It can be difficult to find and follow this trod in perfect weather, but today I keep finding myself standing still and peering ahead trying to identify a buried cairn or make out the tell-tale sign of the trod. I wonder if Martin’s route up was different to mine: he describes really difficult conditions, and having left his heel-crampons at Dunmail, had to make a series of dangerous lunges across consolidated snow between pimples of rock, totally committed to ascending. I suspect that there was a lot more snow on the ground to create these conditions for Martin, which would have been typically for 1980’s winter.
The Tier 4 restrictions that almost the entire UK, including Cumbria, is subject to are being liberally interpreted by the groups of friends and families enjoying the superb winter conditions as I pass over Bowfell. I’m not passing judgement, just observing, and know that my own slate is not entirely clean, but the cacophony of regional accents is hard to ignore.
Descending to the Ore Gap I bump into Adam Perry and a small group of fell runners heading in the opposite direction. They must have thought I looked odd with my headtorch still on my head: I couldn’t be bothered to take it off earlier, knowing I’d need it again. Adam is the only person I know that I meet all day, and after learning what I am doing, offers me his Snickers bar. I can’t take it though as that would be support, and besides I really hate peanuts!
Debating the definition of a winter round has become largely academic, with almost universal acceptance that the simple December to February dates are sufficient definition. Individual runners can decide what sort of experience they desire and choose accordingly: if you are chasing the winter record then go on a day with summer-like conditions; if you want uncertainty and adventure, then dial the weather notch round a few turns. You might have thought that the definition of solo and unsupported was clear, but it’s actually a continuum with different runners taking varying approaches. I was impressed by Tom Saville’s decision not to even take a GPS enabled device, because he considered that to be support, when he recently attempted a solo and unsupported winter Bob Graham a week before me. Some runners have arranged for friends or media to meet them along the way. Personally, I think that just knowing there are people out there to meet you is a form of support. Likewise if you have supporters waiting at Dunmail or Wasdale, even if you don’t accept any aid from them, you have a safety net in place. Some ‘unsupported runners’ have pre-stashed supplies at the road crossings, and I consider that this approach clearly shifts their round into the supported category. Gary Tompsett on his 2003 solo and unsupported winter Ramsay Round would not step inside a bothy, because he considered that to be aid of sorts. I realise that I am not immune to this detailed scrutiny, and the perfectly timed text messages of encouragement I would receive later were no doubt a form of moral support.
Back in the day, Martin Stone had used transpasealed paper cards (yes, paper cards) stashed at predetermined locations at the road crossings to inform friends of his progress. He’d carefully devised a scheduled so that they would arrive 2-hours after he’d passed through and be unable to offer him any support. At least this way, if he was overdue, there would be some record of his progress. Mobile phones have changed everything, with almost universal coverage over much of the Bob Graham Round enabling me to keep Heather updated with occasional messages. As I wasn’t following any rigid schedule, I was just texting-in immediately before or after each road crossing as signal allowed. Heather in turn was keeping Jim and Phil updated. Later in the day Phil also let Martin know I was making an attempt, so unbeknown to me, Martin was added to select group keeping tabs on my progress.
The Bob Graham club rules state that, “The contender must be accompanied at all times by at least one witness. During darkness it is advisable to have two or more for safety”. Umm… I knew if I was successful my round would not be ratified, I hadn’t undertaken this challenge with the intention of trying to join the Bob Graham Club. Validating a round is important if it is a noteworthy or a record round. For high profile runners an Open Tracking GPS Tracker, plus the mandatory witness is obviously the gold standard. For solo runners, with a pedigree of similar witnessed success, a GPS Tracker log is solid evidence of completion because the data is externally controlled. If anyone doubted my round, I would be relying on my own GPX data as evidence. However, there have been attempts to falsify GPX data to claim successful rounds over the years, so this form of evidence is less robust. Fortunately, I wasn’t bothered because I am motivated by adventure rather than club membership, and the Bob Graham Club membership list is not the definitive list of completions.
One of the challenges that solo and unsupported runners face is the inevitably need to faff with poles, food, clothing and sourcing water. Minutes just dissolve while on the other hand, a well-supported runner hardly breaks their stride as poles, food and bottles are offered up on demand. I had decided that an occasional complete stop to take off my race-vest and re-organise everything was more efficient than trying to do this ad hoc on the move, and I did this three times, at Dunmail, Wasdale and Honister, each time reorganising so that there would be no further faffing for the hours ahead. This involved exchanging food wrappers for fresh supplies, swapping between warm or cooler gloves, and adding or removing hand warmers. I suffer with Raynaud's and hand warmers are the only way I can keep my hands warm (and functioning) as the temperature drops.
Returning to Carol Morgan’s experience of the difference between being supported and unsupported she said, “I needed to shuffle stuff around my backpack and needed to eat, I wandered off the line. This was hard work, concentrating on naving myself, minding myself, eating, drinking, carrying and keeping positive. I corrected my error and moved on the area in my head I call ‘The Rocks’. I began to really understand the difference between supported and not.”
I’ve never been quite sure which is the official top of Great End. I keep meaning to check, but time and again I end up visiting the summit plateau and deciding I’d better go to both the north and south cairns to be certain. The Harvey Map marks the northerly cairn as the summit, but apparently Wainwright describes the more southerly cairn as the summit, and therefore the official top for the Bob Graham Round. Back in July when I’d been supporting Beth Pascall on her record run, I’d insisted we visited both cairns to be sure, which definitely cost her a few minutes (sorry Beth). Chatting with Martin, it seems he was also unsure back in 1987 and chose to visit both cairns.
Turning my back on Great End and heading south for Ill Crag. I suddenly feel lethargic and the soft snow seems to be clutching at my feet. I’ve gone without a night’s sleep, and I’ve been on the move for over 13-hours, so it wasn’t much of a surprise. My pace seems so slow, and I think back to running this section with Beth and how we had skipped across the boulders leading to Broad Crag, feeling strong and buoyed by the knowledge of her potential record-breaking time. Initially the impact of running in the snow is subtle, but the unrelenting extra energy it takes just to maintain even a 24-hour pace means you need to be capable of going much faster in summer conditions. How much faster? I don’t know, but I am tempted to find out...
I’ve been glancing over my shoulder often. The more tired I feel, the more often I glance. I just can’t help myself, and I keep expecting to see a lone runner hunting me down, and I am constantly surprised that I don’t spot John yet I’m sure I’ll see him soon enough.
There are large numbers of people gathered at Scafell Pike summit, and I choose to tag the base of the giant war memorial cairn rather than join the small queue of people all trying to stand on the very top of England. I’d been mulling over my plan for getting up Scafell for some time. The previous night when Phil had quizzed me, I was adamant that I’d be going via Foxes Tarn. It’s the slowest route up but I thought it would be safer than Lords Rake, and certainly Broad Stand, and besides I wasn’t expecting to be chasing a time. Now, with second after minute slipping away I am re-considering my plan and thinking I might go via Lords Rake after all. Reaching Mickledore, I glance across at Lords Rake, and up at Broad Stand. I decide that with more consolidated snow cover and a second axe, I’d go via Broad Stand and note that for the future, but that is largely theoretical for now. "Stick with the plan”, I say to myself and start descending under East Crag, traversing high on virgin snow, to lose as little height as possible. I’m surprised by conditions in Foxes Tarn gully: it’s a mess of unconsolidated snow, ice formations and under it all, melting water that bubbles up to the surface here and there. The weight of time ticking away ever present on my mind, I take the most direct route up the gully, but need my axe to make progress pulling over the icy bulges and steps.
14:25 Standing on the summit of Scafell
The last few hundred meters leading to the summit drag, and despite the angle easing, I am slowing. My food supplies are approaching critical, and it is clear I’ll run out hours before finishing. I decide now is the time for another Lucho Dillitos and I save my last one for the climb up Yewbarrow. I can’t really shake the disappointment of going so much slower than I’d anticipated. I start to think about quitting at Wasdale. Could I really ask Heather to drive round and collect me? “No”, was my instinctive reaction… But I could ask Phil? ”No. Just get on with it.” My thoughts change track and I consider just heading straight back to Keswick via Styhead under my own steam. ”May as well just carry on if I was going to do that.” Somewhere during the ascent of Scafell my resolve hardens, and I text Heather to let her know my plan.
I was looking forward to the scree descent down from Scafell, but the scree is frozen into a carpet ofn immobile rocky blocks, which is difficult to run on. I’m much slower than I had expected, and it takes me 31 minutes to reach the bottom of the valley, compared to just 19 minutes when I was last here speeding down with Beth. A timely message from Jim arrives just before I stop to re-organise my kit in Wasdale.
The subtly of the message is lost on me and l am unaware that Jim has been chatting to Martin Stone through the day, and then debating with Heather whether to tell me what the current solo and unsupported winter Bob Graham record is. It is a fact that is unknown to me and reflected my very deliberate approach to not complicating this day in the mountains with the expectation of others.
Apart from going the wrong way after getting confused in the walled fields, and then failing to find the Bob Graham trod, and generally just drudging lacklustre-like upward, the ascent of Yewbarrow wasn’t too bad. As soon as I reached the summit cairn, I felt a certainty that I’d finish for the first time, and the confidence to start winding up my effort a little. In reality this increased effort, despite feeling considerable, just meant that I didn’t slow down anymore. My regular mountain marathon partners know that I always get a boost as the finish becomes tangible. Sometimes, this step up in determination happens hours before we finish, and today I could feel that same sense of focus and resolve infecting my mindset.
Dusk is approaching and the light is fading noticeably by the minute. I’m relieved to find the trod zipping under Stirrup Crag to Dore Head, but the climb up Red Pike is tedious, and I am feeling tired again. I really don’t have much food left, so I eat one mouthful of something, and ration the remainder in my pocket for later. I keep pushing my thoughts forward to maintain some focus and remind myself of what a great summit Steeple is. It is dark again by the time I arrive there, and the gullies either side of the ridge look ridiculously steep as blackness and torchlight play tricks on my sense of scale.
Two minutes after leaving the summit of Pillar I get another message from Jim.
My mind is numbed by now. I’ve been on the go for nearly 18-hours and the combination of physical fatigue and hypoglycaemia are taking their toll. I check the time, check my schedule and stumble through some basic arithmetic. “Oh wow”. Slowly it dawns on me that I am not just on track to finish in about 23-hours, but I am also on track to complete the second only solo and unsupported winter Bob Graham. I had no idea.
I glance over my shoulder and wonder when I’ll see John, but this time rather than feeling resigned to being overtaken, I feel compelled to make it as hard as possible. “Come on Shane”. The long and gentle downhill from Pillar is a joy and I’m relishing the cold, fresh blackness of the night. “I really do love being in the mountains in winter”. The small tarn just before Black Sail Pass is incredibly beautiful with moonlight bouncing off the icy frozen surface to create a mesmerising and ethereal dance of light and shadow. It literally looked as though the tarn was alive with movement and I am compelled to stop and take a picture, despite knowing I’ll never capture the moment.
18:12 Magical moonlight reflecting off Black Sail Pass tarn.
I make another impulsive decision and decide to go up Kirk Fell by Red Gully. It’s not a route I know well, but its quicker than the normal ascent route and all of a sudden, I’ve decided that minutes count. Another short, stiff climb brings me to the summit of Great Gable, and I am relieved to be joining the Cumbrian Traverse route, which I’d been on only days before. The familiarity helps and I head off in the general direction of Green Gable confident again to be relying on the Force. I do my best to maintain some speed on the rocky descent, but accept that I have to slowdown, or even stop, to carefully negotiate a few ice smeared rock steps. There are many icy sections now as the temperature drops and a hard freeze is occurring all around me. I really don’t want to fall and hurt myself having come this far and I temper my newfound enthusiasm just a notch or two.
I pause under the veranda of the Honister Pass café and re-organise my kit for the final time. I am out of food. “Oh well, I think to myself, at least I’ve been doing a lot of fat adaptation runs this year. I guess we are going to find out how adapted you really are!” Whilst stopped, I check the schedule again, confirm to myself that I’m still on course for almost exactly 23-hours and compose a message to Heather. I know I won’t be able to send it until I climb out of Honister and get stuck into the ascent without much more faffing around.
Again, I find myself glancing over my shoulder as I climb Dale Head looking for John’s tell-tale headtorch. I’m surprised not to see it and wonder if he’s turned it off. There is just enough moonlight, and it’s actually the kind of thing I’d do if I was hunting someone down in the dark, eking out every last competitive advantage I could. My mind starts wondering and I think back to a disastrous Borrowdale Fell Race a few years before when I struggled to get myself up Dale Head, no doubt exhausted from work and starting too fast. Sure, I was going slowly tonight, but I actually felt good and my rhythm was steady and unbroken. I throw a refresher bomb in, which is all I have left, and my eyes fizz a little as it froths in my mouth.
I enjoy the traverse round to Hindscarth with the plummeting temperatures helping to harden the snow and making progress a little easier. I have to faff a little on the summit and upgrade my gloves because I can feel my hands becoming numb and I know that if I allow them to get cold, they will take hours to warm up. I need to be disciplined now because it’s not in the bag yet. I try to sip from my softflask but the nozzle is frozen.
I want to drop down the steep slope that the Anniversary Waltz Fell Race ascends, rather than continue along the ridge of High Snab Bank and I am preoccupied with trying to remember exactly where I need to drop down and forget about the rock steps before it. Suddenly I’m confronted by some very steep ground. The darkness and snow plays tricks on my perspective and despite knowing it wasn’t actually that steep, briefly it feels like I’ve made some kind of horrendous navigational error. There is no evidence of any footsteps or the rocky path, so I just opt to go straight down…straight is great after all. Again, I need to use my axe to make safe progress but find myself making a few wild jumps down between ledges to save myself the hassle of puzzling out a safer route. “Careful Shane”. Martin Stone also had difficulties descending off Robinson and again I feel the minutes slide away.
And all of sudden I am on the track leading to Newlands Church. A wave of relief rushes through me and I resolve myself to work hard on the road into Keswick, and I chuck in my last refresher bomb and push on.
I can feel the fatigue in my legs. That’s only pain and I know I can push through that. More worryingly though I can sense acutely how low my energy reserves are now. One minute I am running and then suddenly I become aware that I am walking. There is no conscious choice to change, it just happens. I push the accelerator again and think about some of the completely ruined and exhausted runners I’ve seen at my events, particularly the Dragon’s Back Race®, who have pushed and pushed themselves until they collapse and need medical attention. I wonder if that will be my fate on the road into Keswick. Found in the verge by a passing motorist.
I’m really slowing down now. Any hope of finishing within 23-hours has gone, but I remain confident I’ll grind out these last few kilometres within the magic 24-hour mark. I think of my friend Jenny Rice completing her 2019 Bob Graham with just twenty seconds to spare, and how hard those finals minutes must have been for her. At least I am not under that time pressure.
And then things start to get weird. I begin hallucinating with all kinds of different animals and creatures appearing on the fringe of my headtorch light. As soon as one beast merges back into a hedge or tree, another appears just ahead. “Oh shit, I really am on the verge of a massive bonk”. My sugar starved brain is giving me one final warning as I find myself involuntarily walking again. “Come on, keep running”. Or rather, keep shuffling.
I know that Heather is planning to welcome me back to Moot Hall, and I hope Phil will be there as well. As I run past the Derwentwater Hotel, I see my first imaginary people. They are talking to each other in a conspiratorial manner in the shadows by the side of the road, and I move to the opposite side to give them a wide berth. They too morph back into the undergrowth just as I pass.
I’ve been dreaming for hours about a carton of chocolate oat milk I’d left in the car ready for my finish, and I want to warn Heather of my imminent arrival:
I needn’t have worried, Heather had the chic chocolate oat milk ready. Heather is swapping rapid fire text messages with Martin Stone, who is now watching via the Keswick High Street webcam. There is a little cheer from Phil and Heather and big hug, quickly followed by Boris from The Round arriving to offer me a pint of my choice. Nice. 23:26.
Feeling happy and relieved to be finished.
I wanted to be clear in this account about the values that are important to me. However, I know that I risk sounding pretentious and I ask forgiveness if this is how you interpret this. I’d also like to be very clear, that I am not trying to diminish the amazing achievement of fast rounds competed in the months of winter, but in summer-like conditions. I can only dream of being that speedy.
Equipment
Salomon ADV Skin 12 + 500ml Softflask
Salomon Custom Quiver
Leki Micro Trail Race Poles
Black Diamond Raven Ultra Ice Axe
SOL Emergency Bivvy Survival Bag
Petzl Nao + spare Nao battery + spare Petzl eLite
Handwarmers x4
Paracetamol x8
Clothing (worn or carried)
Salomon Snowspike shoes
Sealskinz Waterproof Extreme Cold Socks
Dynafit Alpine Warm Pants
Salomon S/LAB Sense Boxer
Arcteryx Phase AR Long Sleeve Base Layer
Salewa Baranci Softshell
Marmot Precip Jakcet
Montane Miniums Pants
Berghaus Hyper-Therm Top
Lowe Alpine Triple Point Ceramic Gloves
Extremities Gore Windstopper Gloves
Lowe Alpine Polartec WindPro Gloves
Ice Breaker Merino Tech Trainer Hybrid Gloves
Salomon Bonatti WP Mitten
Food
Booths Sweet n’ Salty Almond Bars x4
Voom Pocket Rocket Bars (caffeinated) x2
Voom Pocket Rocket Bars (non-caffeinated) x1
Trek Protein Salted Caramel Protein Flapjack x2
Lucho Dillitos x6
Veloforte Avanti Bar x1
Cliff Bar x1
Costa Coffee Christmas Cake x3
McCoys Salt and Vinegar Crips
Marks and Spenser Sausage Roll x2
High 5 Electrolyte Tablets x8
All this food is vegan.
