Ultra, ultra, ultra

'Twenty-six miles, that’s not even worth mentioning, why are you boring me with tales of your pathetic little marathon?'

Though I never say it out loud that’s what I’m thinking whenever I hear someone bleat on about some marathon they’ve done, as if it’s some sort of achievement.

Of course 26 miles across a desert in the heat of day would be an achievement, especially if you’re wearing a gorilla suit. I’ve done the Gorilla Run three times now and I can confirm that it is a genuine marathon effort. It’s a different world from trotting round the sites of London, New York, Tokyo or wherever for a few hours. Let’s be clear, I’m a runner, not a fucking tourist.

Admittedly that attitude has cost me quite a few running buddies over the years.

I haven’t done the Gorilla Run for a couple of years, not since my then girlfriend died ¾ of the way along the course. I often think that maybe if I’d stayed with her I might have saved her. I could have shared my water with her, even helped her towards the finish line. I wouldn’t have been able to carry her, but maybe I could’ve rolled her across the desert, or sought help in some way. But she was a slower runner than me, and I’ve never slowed my pace for a running buddy, it would just be wrong to run to her pace instead of mine. Think what it’d do to my times!

In the past year or so I’ve focussed on running up mountains. Not hills, mountains, something with a genuine gradient, something with snow on the top to let you know this run isn’t for wusses. And running up them, of course. I loathe those lazy fuckers ‘hillwalking’, making going up a mountain into some sort of extended picnic, with breaks every half an hour where sandwiches are taken out and pictures taken of the ‘lovely view’. Maybe when I’m 90 I’ll slow down to walking pace, but not before then.

This is why I run. The sheer exhilaration as I push my body to its limits. Scarfell Pike. Not the toughest mountain in the world to climb, but a real challenge to run up it. That’s run all the way, up and down, no matter what my body starts screaming. That’s part of the fun, ignoring the body’s screams. Sure I’ve been hospitalised a few times, but nothing a good doctor can’t fix. It’s why we pay our taxes, the emergency air ambulance, the doctors, the nurses, the blood transfusions.

Ah! Snow! This is what I like, the crunch of running shoes on ice. I pass a couple of jolly campers stopping at the foot of the snow to have their lunch. Doubtless they’ll take a load of photos, kiss and say ‘l love you’ and eventually patter on to the top, proud of their ‘achievement’. These sorts of people, they probably want a medal for getting out of bed in the morning. They’re so, fucking, normal.

I hope to do the white-top, up and down, in 15 minutes. As long as I don’t slow down I shouldn’t slip. It’s a theory that usually works.

The top of the mountain is clear of people, it’s funny how a slightly iffy forecast can empty the mountains. In fact it’s a lovely sunny day. Not up here, as soon as you’re amongst the snow the weather changes from mid-April spring sunshine to Artic blizzard that would freeze your average penguin.

At the top I don’t pause. I’m aware there’s a view but that’s not why I’m here. The view will still be here when I’m dead, if you want you can drag my corpse up here to look at it then (hmm, that’s not a bad idea, I wonder if my ex’s family will let me borrow her body for a couple of days. She’d like that).

The key to running downhill is to do it fast. Yes, I know, I’m saying the opposite of every single running textbook, but as long as you just bomb along your limbs don’t have time to … aaagggghhhh fuck!

That’s my ankle. Who put that fucking rock there? Hidden under the snow. Who puts rocks at the top of mountains? Right where all the snow is, that’s just asking for trouble. Jesus.

It’s okay though. I ... fuck, I hate pain. Sort of, love it too, but not this much pain. There’s a tree over there, I can make a crutch with one of the branches.

I crawl across the snow for 20 minutes and finally reach the tree. There are branches that would make perfect crutches, but they are attached to the tree. I have, on me, in total, including my clothes: One pair of shorts, on pair of socks, on pair of training shoes, on T-shirt, one set of car keys, and not the type of key-ring that would somehow be useful in hacking down a bloody great tree. I remain crutchless and the tree smugly retains 100% of its branches as I crawl away. Fucking trees!

I shiver. There is, I finally explore the view, nobody else around. Not for miles, not for over an hour, did the world end this morning and I not notice?

The nice spring day at the bottom of the mountain has been lost to distant history. It is winter here and a cold, icy winter. I stagger down. Hopping, walking, crawling, dragging my body one way or another down the mountain.

Because as long as I go down it will be fine. I realise that I’m lost, that I veered away from my normal route in my tree-visiting exploits, but it doesn’t matter, the best way to get down a mountain is to go down, you can hardly get lost in that sense. Down is down just as the furry little feathers on a baby duck are, well, furry little feathers. Down, down, down, that’s the way to go.

Except; I hit a sheer precipice, so staggeringly dangerous that even I don’t attempt it. With a good ankle maybe, but not as I am. I stagger, I wander, I shiver. Yes, the cold. I wasn’t prepared for that, 15 minutes I expected to cross the snow in, 20 on a bad day. It has been over two hours now, nearly three. If I head down I must eventually find safety (or another deathly precipice). But will I make it? Will the fried, dehydrated ghost of my ex-girlfriend gain unexpected revenge by watching me freeze?

This, I tell myself, is it. Time to wake up, smell the coffee, stop these ultra, ultra challenges.

By this time I am reduced to crawling through the ice like some slave to an evil polar bear. Or something – evil polar bear? Where did that come from? You don’t get evil polar bears in England. Is my mind totally …?

I stagger down. The ice goes on and on and on and … stops. There’s sunshine! There’s grass. I have reached the bottom. Well, the bottom of the ice, I’ve still got most of the mountain to go, but the end of the snow.

My fortune has truly changed. An angel appears, two angels. Well, not angels, a couple of backpackers.

“Can we help?” the man asks.

I collapse. Pass out. When I wake up I am drinking coffee from a flask. Ah, how nice, a couple on a walk with a nice picnic and flask. I munch my way through food, coffee, I am, I realise, draped in a picnic blanket. I shiver at the indignity.

“We’ll help you get down, then drive you to hospital,” the woman says, “we’re parked near the information hut.” She points to the car park not far from the foot of the mountain, this is clearly the easy route, the beginners route, the picnic route.

“I wouldn’t want to ruin your walk.”

“It’s okay, the snow looks a bit of a challenge to be honest, we’re glad of an excuse to turn back.” (wimps).

I lean my arm over the guy’s shoulder (“Darren” he says, “call me Darren”) and set off down the mountain.

As I walk I reflect on my experience. That was a close escape. My closest yet. Another half hour wandering lost in that snow, or even a more serious injury that left me unable to move entirely, and I could have died. Would have died. Even my body has its limits.

I must learn from this. I am no more immortal than my one time gorilla girlfriend. If I’m going to do these challenges I should be smart about it. Carry a first aid kit, some warm clothing, a thermos, some food. Fuck, even emergency flares. Why not, running up mountains with a backpack is MORE challenging, there’s more to carry, I should embrace it, toss a couple of bricks in for good measure.

I’ve lost too many friends to extreme sports, not to mention the little finger of my left hand. It’s surely time for me to start acting responsibly. Not put my life at risk every time I slip into my trainers.

And yet … I have to admit it. I am buzzing with adrenalin. That was the BEST RUN EVER!