300km. That is one hell of a long way to go in one continuous effort. My mind was very aware that I’d never gone this distance before. Can I run that far? Will my body hold up? Can I pace it properly? What about sleep? Can my stomach handle 14 Baby Banana Breakfast pouches? All questions rattling around inside my head before the Northern Traverse.

I’d done just about as much training as I could in the lead up to this, and actually, my body felt in better shape niggle wise, compared to the Dragons Back. And thanks to having our lovely daughter Maeva back in December, I’d definitely gotten used to being sleep deprived. The sacrifices made by our family to create the time to train was the motivation to get this done. Only a severe injury was going to stop me from hitting that finish line. Turns out, 20 miles of pan flat running between Richmond and the North York Moors was almost enough. The less said about that, the better.

The start line. An absolute top-notch bunch of people lined up, all ready to go from St Bees through to Robin Hoods Bay. Shane gave us the count down, and at 8.30am prompt, we were on our way. A small group of 5-6 of us broke off on the first climb and would continue running together for the next 20 miles or so into the Lake District. These were social miles. Everyone settling into a nice steady rhythm, chatting, catching up, enjoying some company.

Ennerdale Water was the first proper sign that we had entered the Lakes. Four kilometres, give or take, of lakeside running on some technical terrain. I love this kind of stuff and the level of concentration, albeit predominantly subconscious, required to navigate through it. I vividly remember at this point needing a pee, but given that we were running in a pack still, I was so unbelievably hesitant to stop and have one. It’s not like a 30 second break is going to be a game changer on the race outcome, but it didn’t half take me a long time to actually stop and do it. Weird how the brain works during these things.

*James is chased by Lee Parker and Rob Barnes past Ennerdale Water ©No Limits Photography*

And then we hit the first climb and I was in my element. Give me the hills any day over the flatter going. There are four decent climbs to work through in the Lake District, with the last one being the largest, up over Rampsgill Head, just shy of 800m. The route through the Lakes was by far the highlight of the Traverse for me. Stunning scenery, nice climbs, and mainly trail / fell running. We completed 90% of it in the daylight and stayed dry throughout.

It was coming down the side of Haweswater when we descended into the darkness of the first night. It was also at this point where my left foot began to show some signs of discomfort. More on this later. I’d run the majority of the last 20 miles with Rich Lazenby, and we knew that only Lee Parker was ahead of us. We marched on into Shap, keen to keep a good distance between us and those behind. Little did we know that the couple of head torches closing in on us, fuelling our adrenaline filled surge to the Shap checkpoint, were two runners out on the Lakes-, rather than the Northern-, Traverse. Matches burned unnecessarily. That was however leg one of the Northern Traverse done.

I was keen to get in and out of the Shap checkpoint as quickly as possible. We might have over 100 miles left to go, but things were feeling good, food was going in, and the next part through to Richmond was the only bit I’d recce’d. Rich and I headed back out into the darkness and began chipping away at building a lead. Or at least that’s what we thought.

It turned out that Robin Carter, who would later finish in second place, came in and out of the Shap checkpoint without us noticing. Formula 1 style pitstop speed. Even when we saw a headtorch bobbing away about a kilometre in front of us, I didn’t put two and two together and figure that it could be someone else doing the Northern Traverse. I was that sure we’d got out of Shap first. I had a check on the Open Tracking app. Yep, it was Robin. He was out on his own at the front. We entered a game of cat and mouse.

I’d much rather try to reel people in than be the person being reeled in. Time goes by rapidly when you start to play these games, which isn’t a bad thing when you are out running for nearly 50 hours. Over the course of the next 2 – 3 hours, we managed to catch up with Robin and then continue that pace all the way into Kirkby Stephen. By the time we reached the checkpoint, we were a good 15 minutes up on Robin.

I took my shoe off to try and figure out what was giving me so much pain. Stabbing all down the outside of my foot, with dark purple bruising showing exactly where the problem was. I recognised it, or so I thought, as a sprained peroneal tendon. It’ll be fine. Put some ibuprofen gel on, have some paracetamol, crack on. We didn’t spend long in this checkpoint; just enough time to sort feet, have a plate of shepherd’s pie, re-pack the bags. Back out we went, this time definitely in the lead.

The Nine Standards was a major milestone in my head as it was the last big climb of the race. In my recce, I’d run from Shap to the top of the Nine Standards, and then back down into Kirkby Stephen. On my second recce day, I got dropped off at a layby about 4-5 miles from the top of the Nine Standards. What I hadn’t recce’d, therefore, was the boggy moorland section coming off the back of the Nine Standards. I’ve no idea even now if that was a blessing or a curse.

The weather at this point was the poorest we had throughout the whole race. Drizzle, fog, and cold. There didn’t seem to be a good line through. I remember seeing a sign where the footpath split; our route to the right and then another to the left which was only recommended in summer months. Our route saw us trapsing through ankle- to knee-, sometimes thigh-, deep bogs. I can only imagine what that alternative route must have been like. By the time we were through, we were cold.

That section dragged. Once we’d got back onto some better footing though, the sun was on its way up. Night one, done. The morning light provided relief just at the right time. Somewhere in between here and the next climb though, things took a turn for Rich. We’d run together now for the best part of 24 hours. As always, bonds build quickly during these events, and this was no different; it had been an absolute pleasure to run with him to this point. From here on out, we were running solo.

*James makes his way through the Lakes followed by Robin Carter ©No Limits Photography*

The going gets a lot better once you hit the farm down in Ravenseat. The scenery around Swaledale, and the valleys near Keld, were second only to those in the Lakes. And the single track running around the two climbs here was faultless. Perfect terrain.

After a quick coffee stop in Reeth, Richmond was calling. I’ve got a long way to go before I master the art of drinking a coffee whilst walking quickly. 25%, minimum, ended up down my front. Given that the coffee didn’t provide as much of a pick me up as it should have, seeing my wife, daughter, and Mum in Marske provided more than caffeine ever could. I also bumped into a couple of friends who had come out to support just before Richmond. Spirits were high going into the penultimate checkpoint. My feet didn’t share the same enthusiasm.

The stabbing pain that I had in my left foot was mirrored now in my right foot, although rather than just going down the side, it radiated across the whole top of my foot. What the hell had I done? Surely I haven’t sprained both feet in the same place? Then it clicked. You f**king idiot. My laces were too tight. In my tired state, I hadn’t realised. I slathered a load of ibuprofen gel on at Richmond, changed my shoes, had a quick bit of food, and got out of the checkpoint before anyone else came in. *Only* 65-70 miles to go! Game on.

I knew this next section was going to be tough for me. Around 20 miles of pan flat running, largely on roads, through the Vale of York. Five miles in and I mentally started to struggle. I passed Laura and Maeva probably four times throughout this section, and Laura knew I was in a hole. No smiles, minimal conversation, lots of swearing. I gave myself a proper talking to at some point, told myself that everyone was in the same boat and had to cross the flatlands, and chipped away at it. Five minutes running. One minute walking. Far from pretty, but eventually, the North York Moors – the final leg – was here. The roads had left their mark. My feet were on fire with blisters.

I tried to grab a quick five-minute nap before heading up the first hill into the North York Moors. I spotted an excellent looking bench, directly in the evening sunlight, laid down, set my alarm, and pulled my buff over my eyes. Although I didn’t manage to fall asleep, whatever pre-sleep state I got myself into worked wonders. The lethargy I had 10 minutes ago was gone. I felt back to myself again and able to make good headway through to the Lordstones checkpoint.

The blisters and maceration that I’d developed on my feet wreaked havoc on the descent into the checkpoint. I was trying as hard as I could, at all times, to plant my right foot on flat ground. Any misstep, any slip on a rock, I could feel the skin moving around freely on underneath of my foot. Lovely.

I figured that I had about an hour’s lead as I hobbled into Lordstones. Enough time to properly dry my feet, tape them, eat, and maybe get 10 minutes sleep. All I actually seemed capable of doing was faffing. This was not the smooth last checkpoint that I’d hoped for. I couldn’t get to sleep, couldn’t get my feet dry properly, and wasted 50 minutes in the process. Whilst I left the checkpoint before anyone else had made it in, Robin – who had made one hell of a recovery since Kirkby Stephen – wasted no time, and was in and out in 15 minutes, now hot on my tail.

In my head, I’d hoped that I could take it easier for the final 40 miles through to Robin Hood’s Bay. The other Robin however, the one who knows his way around a checkpoint, blew this plan right out of the water. As I made my way up the first climb out of Lordstones, I checked the tracker to see how the others were getting on. There it was, a dot with Robin’s name on it, approx. 1km away from mine. Any feelings of tiredness were replaced immediately by adrenaline. You’ve not come this far to lose it now.

It was the perfect night weatherwise. No cloud, no wind, and a near full moon - kicking out enough light to cast shadows. The route turned to gravel tracks, roads, with a couple of very short off road sections. 99% of this was completely runnable with either a very gentle incline or a very gentle decline. We are talking miles and miles of up and then the same again going down. I felt like I was flying along at this point in time, pushing as hard as I could. If I was to guess, I’d say 8-9 min / mile pace on the descents, maybe a little slower on the ups. (I checked afterwards, and it turned out I was barely running at a 12 min / mile pace, giving it all I had, going downhill!).

I was conscious that Robin was somewhere behind me, but every time I checked, no headtorch to be seen. I was sure he was nearby, and in my sleep deprived state, I convinced myself that he must have turned his headtorch off and was running by moonlight to close the gap without me knowing. So I did the same. Headtorch off. My brain tricked me into a game that only I was playing, that in hindsight did nothing more than put me at risk of a race ending injury. I ran for miles, no headtorch, with my focus firmly placed on the road and trail in front of me. Irrationality took over.

*James rests at the finish in Robin Hood’s Bay ©Tom Hecht*

The cat and mouse that we played earlier had now been reversed. I was the mouse. Once you drop off the major moorland sections of this leg, you then have a few woodland sections to navigate though. Everything else had been a doddle to negotiate from the GPX on my watch. I made so many navigational errors here. Not costing me much time, but a few minutes here and there quickly adds up. Robin had done the Northern Traverse the year before, so I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be making these mistakes! Once through the last bit of woodland, only 10 miles stood between us and the finish line. I checked the tracker again. The gap still wasn’t getting any bigger. Robin is still pushing.

The anxiety that filled my body all the way to the finish line will be hard to forget. Even when I had 5km left to go along the coastal path, I was still worried that Robin might catch up, looking over my shoulder every couple of minutes. In reality, he was about 45 minutes behind. On the Dragon’s Back, I was able to take it easy for the last five miles, knowing that the gap was too large to make up. On this, I didn’t take my foot off the gas until I crossed the finish line. My brain and body were cooked. Graham, the course director who met me at the finish line, asked if I wanted to walk another 20 meters down to the sea and officially go “coast-to-coast”. I was so tired by this point that my initial response was “no, I don’t think I can”. I’ve never had to work that hard, for that long, and to do it all in the name of [Type 2] fun.

The Northern Traverse was one hell of an event. The route is challenging in so many ways, and whilst I really don’t enjoy running on roads and gravel tracks, it only adds to its overall difficulty. It pushed me to my physical and mental limits more so than the Dragon’s Back. The continuous nature of it only introduced more factors to contend with. Night running. Sleep. Hallucinations. Rotten feet. Who knew that 48 hours of running could pass by so quickly?

James Nobles

Pascale Mathonet

Beverley Clifford