Cumberland Fell Runners

On the grass I was standing, holding my shoes in delight,
this was my first fell race, I didn't realise I was in for a fight.

The starter shouted his orders and off we went at a pace,
up hill and onward we struggled, oh what an exciting race.

We finally reached the summit and turned to quickly descend,
it was lovely to reach the finish where I knew the race would end.

I put my kit in my kitbag, and thought of the wonderul way,
when I ran my very first fell race on that rainy January day.
 

They set out at dawn. Some on foot others in their chariots from all directions they came and all of them drawn towards the sea, As they passed over the high fells of Sale and Ling they paused, and gathered together to celebrate. In the memory of one who had gone before. One who had inspired fellow man, woman and child to achieve, and after the celebration they continued their journey, they looked down on the waters of the Great Bass, and knew that by nightfall they would arrive at the coliseum on the moor.

I wish I were on my back, instead of just starting out. I’ve waited a year to run in this race and now I’m having a doubt. I’m a fair weather runner at heart and the weather forecast is grim; there’s a big black cloud on top of yon fell, and the rain is about to begin.

It’s a long hard pull to the top of Black doom and I’m being left behind. But I’ve got good company to share it with on this long and painful grind.

First to pass me is Mike Litt, his little legs going lickety spit, he’s charging on his way.

Flat fell, Dent, Uldale bottom, Blakely raise, Lowther gate, up the zigzags, down the track and back to Nannycatch.

This is my favourite training run; the one I call my Patch.

I’ve done this run day in, year out, alone without a care, when I mention it to my wife, she says that I should live there. (Bless her)

There’s Horses, sheep, rabbits, hawks and buzzards too, a real wild life haven,
But! Funny come to think, I’ve never seen the Raven.

Go! and down the hill they charge,
Within the blink of an eye they are gone,
Tearing down the fell side steep,
Spurring each other on

The wiser runners take a pull,
Leaving the rewards for the crazy ones
While I stand on the hill-top watching,
With the old, young, and lazy ones,

On reaching the valley floor,
Old Latterbarrow looks even steeper,
Regardless, the pacemakers thrash in,
As the river bed gets deeper,

Perched on yonder bank,
A tin horn hangs from a pole

It will never be the same again on Dent, The Timber men have
been, done their job, then went.
Great swathes of carnage by their own hand like a battlefield in
some far forgotten land.
The tunnelled tracks where I ran, once dark and scary, now
opened up are bright and airy.
All my life Dent’s borne proud trees, But the needs of man has
brought it almost to its knees.
Where trees once stood only yesterday lie branches broken, left
to rot and decay.

The old fell runner woke from slumbers deep,
From his sticky eyes he rubbed the sleep.
He coughed; he snorted, and gave a fart,
And out of the bed he did start.

A season new about to begin, it starts with the club chases
A series of running events called handicap races.
His name is always top of the list,
Its tradition now he’s never missed.

Away; shouts Grant, Jim clicks his clock,
The old fell runner sets of at a trot.
He is the first to go,
And without a backward glance,

The twelve races have been chosen,
And our committee for this year,
Have came up with some fine events,
Nothing much to fear!

Race number one, second Sunday in March,
And the path’s disappeared in the gloom,
Many a headless chicken could be seen,
On the flanks of old Black Combe.

The all new Glaramara, deep in the heartland of Borrowdale,
Provides us with race number two,
Don’t ask me anything about this one,
Because I haven’t got a clue.

There are piddles and puddles and oodles
of fag ends and tissues and stuff,
There are strips of soggy old card board,
and a pong that is seriously rough.
There are doors without any handles
and holders without paper too,
But I just stare at the ceiling, when I go into the loo.

There are driers with swivelling nozzles,
and toilets with dirty brown rings,
There are rusty machines full of pictures
of nobbly, bobbly things.
And holes where there used to be packets
and a broken window or two.