The Long Tour of Bradwell is a 33-mile race I’ve seen advertised over the past few years, and always wondered whether I’d be able to run that far or not. After a decent showing at the Marmot 24, I decided it was time to give it a go.

After a reasonably early start from the YHA at Edale, I arrived in good time for registration. The drive around took place under a clear blue sky; not a cloud in sight. There were clearly a lot of very serious people there with all kinds of fancy gear, although this was a round of the UK Ultra Running Championship so that was to be expected.

Everyone started at a sensible pace, and I deliberately held back on the immediate long climb up Pin Dale to eventually meet the Limestone Way. We followed this down Cave Dale (wet and slippery), and into the first checkpoint at Castleton. I drank one glass of water (wanting more, but resisting to avoid a dodgy stomach) and poured one over my head. Then it was across to Hollins Cross, up a route I’ve only done in descent as part of Castleton fell race a few years ago. By this point I was feeling tired (climb number two, out of seven – doesn’t bode well) and the open hillside was like an oven.

I recovered on the rough-but-runnable descent into the Edale Valley, but without my “running downhill” breeze, I started withering once more as I crossed the flat fields. At Checkpoint two I had a couple of glasses of water and again doused my head, before getting caught up in completely unaware walkers across the bridge towards Ringing Roger. As this point lots of people caught me, and I had to really put some effort in to match their moderate pace and not get completely dropped. Exposed to the sun again on the climb all the way to the top, I took shelter in the shade of Druid’s Stone (the next checkpoint) and had a drink. For some reason everyone looked at me like I was crazy; how were they all coping in this furnace?

I think it was at this point that I realised I wasn’t going to finish 33 miles. This became clear when I absolutely tore down the descent back in to the valley; I passed loads of people, really enjoyed myself, but more crucially I knew I was trashing my quads and didn’t really care. The subsequent climb up to Back Tor was purgatory, and halfway up I again took refuge in the only shade for miles around (a lovely leafy tree, this time).

To cut a long story short, I eventually made it over Lose Hill and down in to Hope, where I drank lots more water and retired from the race. A gentle bimble back to Bradwell followed; I didn’t even try to run, and made another drink stop at a shop in Hope too. To add insult to (metaphorical) injury, when I got back to the finish, it became apparent that my dibber had fallen off somewhere after retiring, so I didn’t even have any split times for the bit I did manage.

So, a spectacular DNF (and my first ever), without even the slightest official record that I at least got through almost 14 miles and 1,100m of ascent before I, as Becs said, “gave up”. I did inform her that the correct word is “retired”. I’m usually pretty grumpy when I do badly in a race, but I’m pretty chilled out about this one. It was plainly just too hot for me to cope with; I was utterly wrecked at the end of what I did run, despite it being a distance and height gain I’ve done many times before. What it also showed is that I definitely prefer proper fell races to trail races, so I think that will be the focus in future. Anyway, at least I tried!