Dumps, Plums, Always

I was having the mountain race of my life at UTS 50k when suddenly, I sprained my ankle.

Down with the bad, up with the good.

Of all the possible scenarios I had imagined for this race, spraining my ankle was not one of them. Besides anything else, I grew up on ballet, my ankles are strong, I’ve pirouetted on the very tips of my toes. But a loose rock at a bad angle found me, then so did a section of loose scree. I heard a crack, both times, and I decided it was just the sound of rocks moving.

Up until that point, I was having the mountain race of my life. I was hiking and running up Llanberis path relatively quickly and efficiently. I’d identified a woman who was a little faster than me and I’d lassoed her in my mind. We were wearing the same shorts, we were kin, it wouldn’t be hard to re-identify her. I would stay near her and learn from her because although I caught her on the runnable sections, she had much better power, cadence and efficiency over the rocky slopes. Always when I come to these races, I remember I am still a road runner at heart, and take every false flat that I can. You have to work to your strengths.

I was taking on fuel, I was enjoying the heat of the morning sun, I was taking mini moments to gawp at the views. I nearly stumbled into a walker because I was so distracted by looking around me - a fellow runner kindly told me to watch out. I can’t do Eryri justice in description. It’s not my strength, you have to work to your strengths. I can only encourage you to go to it on a bright warm day in May.

So we came over the top, just shy of the actual Snowdon summit, and turned off to the Pyg track. And that’s when it happened. Loose rock, loose scree, howling my pain at the mountains. I sat, overlooking Llyn Llydaw, sobbing, telling other passing runners that I was fine. I phoned him, first of all, and whimpered down the phone that I only wanted to hear his voice. Then I phoned Race HQ and explained that actually, I was calling because I didn’t really know what to do. I didn’t know how I would get off the mountain. With compassion, humour and warmth, they sorted out a medical team to collect me. “Call us if anything changes, or if you just want a chat!” I had to stop another runner to ask if he could get a what3words location for me - I didn’t have enough signal to locate myself. (Massive top tip: it works offline. I’ve since looked into it.) I told him I had stopped the right person and thanked him profusely. He was a man in a hurry, a man having a nice race, but he’d been patient with me: I knew I needed to write down the location because my brain was unreliable in that state, but he waited with me and checked that I typed it into my phone correctly. Dumps, plums, always. Let karma be a thing. Let him have had the day he deserved.

Another man came past.

“Did you radio for help?”

“I phoned Race HQ, they said a medical team are on their way.”

“Ah, so you did radio for help.”

“I guess so.”

Mark, the first responder, sat with me for a while. Yes, we looked at my ankle, we talked about what had happened, we discussed what a shame it was. But then we chatted about tree climbing races, mountains and icicles. Pretty early on, he asked me if I’d ever read The Overstory by Richard Powers. Some friends reading this will know how much I lost my mind at this point. It is one of my favourite books, and a litmus test for the level of connection I will have with another person. If you love that book, we will always understand one another. A part of what we want from art and humanity is similar.

We walked together for a bit, Mark and I, chatting and laughing like we were just on a hike. He pointed out Crib Goch. He told me where he’s been and where he’s going. Questions, queries, agreement that being in mountains like this is all that really matters. The medics, David and Steve, met us from the other direction. I was a little bereft to be separated from Mark, my rock and my guide, but David let me lean on his arm to help me on the steeper steps down. He told me to step down with the bad foot and up with the good one. Steve’s dry humour gave me proper belly laughs. Soon I was just in a new phase of the journey, learning a new batch of interesting things. For mountain rescue teams, there’s been a sharp increase in incidents within the 18-25 age bracket. You could say that more people in this age group are out in the mountains, or, I guess, that this age group no longer knows what they’re doing, but either way, we agreed that it’s just good that they’re outside. Scouts is still really popular - Steve got his kids on the waiting list from birth. We heard that there was another twisted ankle on the other side of the mountain. Dave told me that my sprain was equivalent to a big workout and it would come back stronger. This happens to people all the time.

I felt grief to be parted from these men too, nearly two hours later, when I was handed to the course director who would drive me in a UTMB branded Dacia car from Pen-y-Pass to Llanberis. He’s the longest serving member of the crew - he has been working at this race since the very beginning, since before UTMB took it over. I can’t remember the exact numbers, but he’s seen it go from 2 races to 4, and something like 300 entrants to nearly 3000. The original race director was inspired by UTMB in Chamonix to make this race in the UK. It is ironic that it should actually become UTMB.

Again, the grief, as he handed me over to the medical team at Llanberis. A sprain, possibly a fracture, get it X-rayed if the swelling doesn’t go down in the next few days. Then Sophie, sweet Sophie who was crewing our mutual friend Jen, came running down off the mountain and met me. Good timing. A hug and a small cry. She let me wallow then she cheered me up with her company. We enjoyed seeing the first 50k runners come through, including Elsie Davis and Ingvild Kaspersen, then Jon Albon winning the 100k. It’s inspiring to see what really goes into these performances via the eventual collapse, and also to see the other side of the media frenzy. The routine - break the tape, grab the baby, have the photos and interview, have a sit down. Have a lie down.

Our friend Jen was out there doing the 100k. We kept track of her progress. I felt a deep, shivering glee at the fact that she was really doing it, she was going to finish this thing. Her journey towards that finish line has been years in the making and despite a tricky journey to this start line, she was hitting all of those peaks, some of them twice over.

But now it’s the following day and you find me here, sat outside our caravan surrounded by birdsong. A little earlier, I sat on the steps and a robin came and sat on the fence beside me. They do that, don’t they, but I haven’t had it happen to me in a long time. The robin’s song sounds conversational, and this one hopped about the garden as if it was just tending to things while it chatted away to me. Then it moved on. I moved on too, to the patio chairs and tables, to write this.

I won’t go into how devastated I am. I won’t attempt to outline how shocked I am, how worried I now am about recovering and training for Lavaredo 120k. I’m trying not to think about that. I’m focusing on the story I’ve written here, one of deep human connections that I really wasn’t planning on having. I’ve written a lot of late about how I prefer not to chat in races, prefer just to get into my own groove and move in silence. But I learned something here. My experience would have been far more miserable without those people and their physical and emotional support. It made me want to volunteer myself, to pay back a little of what was given to me.

But yes, for now, the birdsong and maybe another coffee. We will celebrate Jen finishing soon and then go home. I will have to leave the mountains, but a part of me is still waiting up there on the Pyg track, waiting for the day she expected to have.