What a day for the race; sunshine and glorious scenery, with an inspired route taking in waterfalls, caves, fells, gills, river crossings, woods, dark tunnels, ancient bluebell-lined lanes, heather moors and of course the classic Dales limestone paving for which Ingleborough is famous. The Cave Rescue Organisation, the organisers of the event and the local mountain rescue voluntary organisation, did a brill job of marshalling the checkpoints, generally encouraging us and pointing us in the right direction along the winding course, and stocking us up with water and snacks. I sampled jelly babies, homemade flapjack and the pink, strawberry one from a box of Cadbury's Roses. 

I ran with Jim Gray for most of the race; we soon worked out we were on similar schedules and the length of the race meant we could merrily chat for most of the middle section of the marathon. Running as a pair meant navigation decisions were sped up and we didn’t have any major issues in that department (except, perhaps, our brief ‘leg-it’ across permit-only Natural England wildflower-enriched limestone paving and subsequent scaling of the corresponding barbed wire fence, and also my fatigue-induced barmy decision to start running back uphill on the descent into Wharfe — Jim soon shouted to correct me when he saw what I was doing and we had a good chuckle about it after the race). 

About 10 miles in we were told by the marshals that we were the first to come through, which added more far impetus than the foul-tasting ‘energy gel’ I’d brought along with me. I had a quick descent down the Pennine Way into Horton, about 18 miles in, but Jim had caught me up by Wharfe; I lost lots of time on the climb out of Horton up to Sulber Nick as the first fingers of cramp shot through my calves and quads and I began to feel the distance. By 23 miles I was really hurting. Jim dragged me up the evil dog leg which then lead to the final half mile dash down the track to Clapham and the finish line. Unfortunately, I was in no state to dash and instead waddled awkwardly in a feeble attempt to fight the on-coming cramp, which had slowed me to a walk at the worst times and a walk and a half at the best of the times. I insisted that Jim — who had selflessly taken on the task of getting me back, and who was still in fine fettle (and the better athlete) — blast onto the finish line and enjoy the final descent. Less than two hundred metres from the big white CRO flags which marked the finish line I slowed my descent from under the dark, sightless tunnels to turn the last corner. I was suddenly, and completely, paralysed by cramp. I stood, convulsing, and shouting wildly, trying to rearrange my uncommunicative legs into a less painful configuration (cramp in the quad, ouch, cramp in the hamstring, OUCH, argh!, cramp in the quad again, …). Two elderly couples, out for a stroll around the village, doddered passed me like I was a madman without so much as an acknowledging glance of sympathy. To be fair, I probably looked quite scary, covered in mud and saturated in sweat, floundering in the road like a fish out of water. I looked on jealously as they moved towards the finish line at a rate of a fraction of a knot. After a couple of minutes, I discovered I could move without a further wave of nervous spasm if I kept my right leg just shy of straight. My finish, therefore, involved an inglorious outward swinging of the limb like someone with one leg somewhat shorter than the other. 

Two recovery brews, and two slices of pork pie later, as I lay down on a small patch of grass outside the CRO HQ, I was coming back to life. The pain was over, the sun was out. Clapham beck rushed and roared under the stone bridge, as it has done for centuries. At that moment, as I basked, and closed my eyes, my mind was empty — utterly empty — and completely at ease. Everything seemed right in the world. 

I had stumbled across the finish line, completely shattered, in 4 hours and 24 minutes. Although the field of runners was really small (probably only 30 or so on the marathon route), reflecting over a pint of Helvellyn Gold, I decided I was absolutely chuffed with second place.