I ran the Nine Edges at the weekend and on the day the exertion made me feel ill, but by the time the morning came, I wanted to do it more often. I felt like being sick at the end of the race, but that was an improvement on the middle section – specifically the bottom of Curbar – when my eyes were invaded by dancing black spots and I felt like I was being forced to sleep.
That’s never happened to me before and I think its because I didn’t eat properly beforehand or during the race. My pace was slower than I would normally go too, because I was conscious that 20 miles and over 2000 feet of ascent is a long way, especially over broken ground and in the wind and the sun. By the end the sun had caught me, I was woozy and my lips had turned blue.
The beginning of the race was memorable and scenic. Autumnal sun made the things it was touching glow brightly; winter was in the ground, the rocks and the water and summer was dying in golden pools of light on the hillsides. There was ice in the breeze and leaking, grey and white Derwent Dam was towering over everyone: the runners, the organisers and the families, gathered in its shadows to run, walk and record the day.
The running starts after a spoken word countdown and a microphone-boosted “go” and continues steadily steadily across the front of the dam and up onto the reservoir trail that runs along side the dam. Its not a long distance to the first major uphill section which I’m happy about. The pull up to Derwent Edge is hard and long and almost un-runnable by the top. I’d much rather fight through this section now than later, with say, 12 or 13 miles in my muscles, legs and brain. There’s a bit of walking – which is good for activating muscles I think – and then we’re off, running proper, across the Edge, south and into the Peak District sunshine and further than the eye can see from here. This year, there’s only Matt and myself running. Last year there was 4 of us, but Jawad and Tony either can’t make it or haven’t trained enough.
The trails to the top are winding and peaty and the ground is dry but very broken. We’re running through a rolling, petrified sea of honey-coloured grass swirling around black, rounded and stacked rock formations that address the heart with the shapes they’ve been given. I count yellows that are the same shade as saffron, number plates and gold. There’s green too, but its not as interesting.
Matt and myself chat about older runs and the weather, hoping it’ll hold and stay as it is. Matt points out that it’s basically perfect conditions for running this race and he’s right. The sun is out but its not hot – last year it was a murderous 29 degrees – there’s a wind higher up (when is there not a wind higher up?) and the ambient temperature is approximately 14 degrees.
The going is tough still. It takes me a while to warm up properly and the sweat is running over me faster than I can wipe it away and by the time we get to the first checkpoint it feels like its going to be a tough day. However, at the top of Stanage, after an interminable climb up and over rubble-strewn, water-wrecked paths, the sweating has diminished to a dribble and I feel like I’ve warmed up and I’m ready to settle into a natural, steady pace. Stanage is covered in rocks and its hard to look anywhere except at your feet, which is a shame because its beautiful up there. I overtake a few people and a few people overtake me. Matt starts to pull ahead and off he goes when I stop for a banana break after an hour and a half.
I’m not going that fast, but I feel slightly ill by the time I get to Upper Burbage and by the time I get to Lower Burbage, to the checkpoint and water station there, I can feel my head start to swim and consciousness start to relinquish its grip on what’s around me, the scenery, the living things, the people and the day. The general aches and pains that bloom in a fell runners muscles and bones are not too bad, but the sickness and the creeping confusion conspire to remove portions of memory and the beauty of Burbage is lost on me by the time I get to the Longshaw Estate.
Its relatively flat here – the paths are easy to follow and the apple-yellow autumn light is clear enough – but I have to shift down another gear and I start to feel queasy. I have a stitch, which I can ignore, but I feel very, very thirsty (perhaps this is hunger? I’ve only consumed a banana) and black flowers are blooming in my vision. I get to the check point and I have to sit down for 5 minutes. I feel faint and I consider retiring. Check point 5 is very friendly and they check on me and how I’m feeling. More people pass me.
I eat some Jellybabies out of desperation – I hate them – and they revive me a bit after a few minutes. A background sickness settles on me and it doesn’t leave for the rest of the race and well into the evening, but the black flowers shrivel and die. I keep going and eventually start to get a slow, basic rhythm back, which I’m pleased about and the hillsides start to glow again.
After Longshaw, we get to Froggatt, which I know very well. I have to walk up some of Froggatt, which is galling because under regular circumstances I blast up this incline and have enough spare power to daydream, step lightly over the rocks and think no more about it until next time. This time however, I can do none of these things and I have to slow right down to a quick walk, hands on knees and head swimming with weirdness.
Hereafter is a blur. I come back towards reality around check point 7, on Clod Hall Lane, when I have to ask about the route to the end from there. Another kindly runner agrees to show me, which he duly does and then he picks up the pace slightly and heads off. The final mile or two is about 30% walking and 70% hobbling, but I remember the run through the head high greenery beneath Birchen and Gardom’s Edge very well indeed. It looks like English jungle and there are three other runners around me. I manage to overtake one and I can feel myself getting sleepy and there’s a feeling in my eyes that’s like a magnet.
And then I’m on the road and accelerating to the finish line, looking and feeling like a ghost. Matt greets me when I sit down I feel so sick I can barely move, eat or think. Immediately after the race, I drank orange juice rather than beer and wait for my constitution to return to its normal state, but even after 45 minutes, I still feel ill.
Apparently my lips had turned blue and when I got onto the bus, I felt like I couldn’t keep my eyes open, like I wanted to sleep but was too ill to do so. The coach drive from the Robin Hood to Fairholmes made things many times harder by triggering the worst case of travel sickness I’ve ever had. It took until around 7 o’clock that night to subside and the period between the coach journey and 7.00pm, the period that incudes a car journey along the Snake Road, a conversation with several people and composing some of this piece, can best be described as psychedelic.
Want to read about the previous year? You can find an account of the Nine Edges fell race in 2023, here.