There is no finer prospect

Than the idyllic, tranquil scene

Of cliffs and fells and water bright

Of the Coniston Fourteen

 

And gathered all together

Beneath the Old Man’s craggy face

Fifteen hundred runners

Anxious before the race

 

Amongst them, there was I

In my gloves and woolly hat

Pondering the test ahead

And how I’d handle that

 

The announcer said the time had come

To stretch before the run

So I grabbed hold of each ankle

And pulled them up towards my bum

 

I felt a a little twinge

In a tender, private place

As I tried to stretch my calves out

By bending at the waist

 

I hadn’t crossed the start line

But my knees had started burning

Only masked by the need to pee

And my stomach’s constant churning

 

Would I make my way around

The lake’s undulating shore

With five jelly babies in my shorts

- Or should I have packed more?

 

Would the banana I had purloined

From the Premier Inn buffet bar

Keep me going for the distance

Or would it be a lap too far?

 

This was no time to query

The prospects of my mission

It was time to settle down

For 2 hours pain, no intermission

 

As I surveyed my fellow athletes

In their brightly coloured vests

I couldn’t help but wonder

If I’d stand up to the test

 

There were running clubs from Kendal,

From Preston, Blackburn, Leeds

Ambleside and Leven

Rugged mountain breeds

 

There were no men in tutus

Nor girls in wedding frocks

No pantomime horses, deep sea divers,

Or Borat mankini jocks

 

Just sinews taut with exercise

And steadfast chiselled jaws

Eyes all fixed upon the prize

Ignoring the applause

 

Of all those happy Lakeland folk

In their high-tech outdoor wear

Anti-UV, anti-soak

Anti-frost and anti-tear

 

The opening was all uphill

For maybe a mile or more

My knees were shot, my face tuned blue

And my Achilles heel was sore

 

I’d like to say the views around

Made impressions that were deep

But all I recall are the quizzical expressions

Of passing Herdwick sheep

 

Why are these humans running

In a straggly, sweating troop?

It’s as if we’ve exchanged places

And they’ve started their own group!

 

At halfway round spectators

Tried to offer sound advice

Like “keep going”, “breathe” and “don’t give up”

As I began to pay the price

 

 

For overconfidence

And running at a pace that was too fast

It was grim to watch the steady stream

Of mountain goats skip past

 

Mile twelve arrived with one last hill

Rising from the rocky shore

It twisted upwards tortuously

Then twisted on a little more

 

Which left the last long dash downhill

Back to the finish straight

Past several pubs all serving ale

And houses built from slate

 

And that was that - the job was done

I suddenly felt fitter

As I raced back up to the Black Bull Inn

And a pint of Bluebird Bitter.

 

Bluebird, that mythic name

With its heroic connotations

Of the man who played life’s most dangerous game

And was the pride of all the nation

 

I sat there with my fish and chips

Reflecting on the day

Nursing creaking knees and hips

Would I do it again? No way

 

But then the Bluebird worked its magic

Donald Campbell once drank here

Whatever would the Great Man Say

Over a foaming pint of beer?

 

Good God man - are you man - or mouse?

I’ll see you again next year

*******

I ran the Coniston 14 for the second time just over a week ago - I had almost forgotten how hilly it was, but very soon remembered! I did it for Chester's remarkable Neuro Therapy Centre, which provides a lifeline of adapted exercise and wellbeing therapies for people with chronic neurological conditions such as MS and Parknson's. You can find out more here: 

https://www.neurotherapycentre.org/fundraisers/once-more-around-the-lake