Poster Alison Young at the start of the Fellsman
Alison Young (center) at the start of the Fellsman in Ingleton, North Yorkshire, England.
David Adamson

A soundtrack for an ultra-marathon

"Three hundred and seventy four brave souls turned up bright and early on a wet Saturday to take on the 61 miles and 11,000 feet of Yorkshire moors and peat bogs. Despite the sudden reemergence of winter on Saturday with wind, rain, sleet and full-on blizzard conditions, 279 of you managed to make it round." – The Fellsman Committee

And one of those brave souls "making it round" in her first-ever ultra-marathon, The Fellsman, was me.

For years it was called simply "a hike," an adventure of rugged, uneven, wet and astonishingly steep terrain that tested not only a girl's training, grit, endurance and mental strength — I admit that I hit the wall at least three times, whimpering like a baby when the sleet slashed sideways atop Great Coum — but also put to the test her route-finding skills in a trackless moorland during times of practically zero visibility and utterly black darkness.

Needless to say, this is not a race to be wearing a pair of headphones and zoning out. If there was ever a time in my life I was "living in the moment," it was this 24-hour period of carefully watching my footing and braving the elements.

It's interesting to note that the main reason nearly 25 percent of participants dropped out of the Fellsman was due to injury. That said, no fell-runner worth her salt tackles a fell (or mountain — we had 10) by zig-zagging up in a logical, safe set of switchbacks. Fells are meant to be "cracked up and hurled down," all at amazing speed. Though my speed was not for the record books, it was my ascents that seemed to have somewhat impressed my running partner, a bona fide ultra-marathoner who has placed at some of the most famous events in the world, including the Leadville in Colorado, the Western States in California and the Comrades in South Africa. This Fellsman was his 38th.

Much to my delight, he invited me to give this "little run in the hills" a try. I made it to the end, but let's face it, I am no fell runner — what was I thinking? And furthermore, what keeps a classical DJ motivated and energized as she pummels her body in one of the toughest races in the world?

Headphones or not, it's music.

Gragareth in a downpour
Gragareth in a downpour
courtesy Alison Young

As Julie Andrews would say, "Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start"; in the case of The Fellsman, it's a surprisingly relaxed one. We gathered around in a field outside the Community Centre in Ingleton after a thorough going-over of our kit that carried all we'd need to survive a night in the elements, including about 15 candy bars. Organizer Jonathan Carter warned us about the weather we'd face, asked that we please look after one another, then simply said, "Off you go." With that, we all funneled into the cobblestoned streets, over a few stone walls, and then shot up and up and up — 2,000 feet to the top of Ingleborough.

American composer Carter Pann opens his thrilling "Slalom" with a quote from Beethoven with a loud slap for luck. Granted, his music is written to fly down a mountain, but his energetic moto perpetuo was just right for the camaraderie and friendly jockeying for position up that first fell as the rain really began to fall. Though the pack slowed at some of the steepest bits, the group surged ahead once the tiny checkpoint hidden in a rocky windbreak came into view. We got our first click in the tally, then we threw ourselves down the other side of the ankle-busting incline.

Sheer joy gave way to bone-chilling wet and the realization that what had just been achieved earned us approximately five miles as another peak of equal height awaited. Whernside got steeper and steeper as the rain pelted unyieldingly, but my energy was still good and I was determined to pass anyone holding me up. The finale Scherzo from the "Concerto Symphonique" by English composer Henry Litholff has a sound like wheels turning, the engine pushing uphill and a body nimbly working her way to a summit barely visible in mist.

Scherzos abounded for me in the first 20 miles, though things got decidedly more off-balance. The Scherzo from Prokofiev's Flute Sonata is on the verge of out of control just like my feet hemiloa-ing through a wet descent and beginning to balk at the steepest fell yet, Gragareth, with its nearly hand-over-fist finish. I appear strong and confident in a photo, the summit's check-in monitor calling me out as "Miss Smiley, number 109!" but it would take running the top in blasting wind and a slippery, rocky descent to leave me a raw mess, near tears wondering why I was doing such a thing.

The checkpoint at the stunning North Yorkshire village of Dent has been manned by some stalwart regulars for years, and they quickly ushered me into the warmth of their cooking tent, sat me down and filled my cup with baked beans. I was slurring my speech when I pronounced these the best I'd ever tasted to much laughter. Watching the rush of runners from my bean-haze scrounging about in their rucksacks for dry clothes — or simply more clothes — shoveling down sustenance and considering the 40-odd miles left, my music became dreamier, Erik Satie's "Gymnopedie No. 3" the unreal soundtrack for this unreal moment.

I was informed later that the buses in Dent began filling with drop-outs who had had enough. I am eternally grateful to my baked bean friends for putting me back on my feet, because just then, the rain began to let up and the next climb, this time to Blea Moor, felt doable. The clouds lifted, the stunning view came into focus, my wool cap came off and Vaughan Williams filled my mind. The Romanza from his Fifth Symphony is a stark contrast to my frenetic set of scherzos, but like Vaughan Williams, the very landscape was lifting me. My legs were no longer mine. They moved forward on their own. I was simply along for the ride.

Stone House nestles in a valley of waterfalls and ancient buildings surrounded by row upon row of daffodils of blaring bright yellow. My partner pointed out to me that we had passed 27 miles and it was at that moment I officially became an ultra-marathoner. Our families met us with smiles and encouragement for the next massive height of Great Knoutberry, which we cracked up and flew back down on lumpy bumps of grass where I caught the first glimpse of my shadow running alongside. With the clearing skies came biting cold, and we formed into night groups early to tackle the remaining miles in safety. We moved at a good clip in the golden orange up towards Snaizeholme and Dodd Fell looking back towards the jagged peaks of the Lake District. E. J. Moeran's "In the Mountain Country" washed over all of us as darkness fell.

It was a star-filled night, sharp-edged and fathomless. What lay ahead now was a maze of bog and the threat of losing the way. The first movement of Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony followed us through Fleetmoss and Middle Tongue as we foolishly decided to follow a direct compass bearing that led us on a relentless up and down through sharp-edged heather and holes of icy water up to our thighs. Lights coming our way confused us but were soon revealed to be ten spooky sets of eyes of the resident sheep as freaked out by our being there as we were by them.

The Shostakovich intensifies — as did my strength — and it pulled my exhausted and spent self up the grueling 1,200 feet of Buckden Pike. On the descent, my partner ran ahead and took us on a circuitous route down a steep incline alongside an impenetrable wall. Frayed nerves precipitated a small mutiny as our group grumbled and complained, certain we were off course until suddenly we came upon the only opening that led directly to the checkpoint, one sadly missed by another group who added an hour retracing their steps.

It was as we approached the last mountain — Great Whernside — that the sky turned azure. We'd been moving the entire night, and now one of the most glorious sun rises in all of music awoke the world: Ravel's "Daphnis and Chloë, Suite No. 2."

At the finish in Threshfield
At the finish in Threshfield, North Yorkshire.
courtesy Alison Young

And I was there amidst it all, racing over another set of stone walls, through wet boggy moorland and dried heather as snow white lambs ran for their bleating mamas and a dense flowery fragrance and totally new birdsong filled the air. A Yorkshire lad, Frederick Delius, seems to have written his "On Hearing the First Cuckoo of Spring" just for me and these final miles into Grassington and on to Threshfield — the end of my epic, the last click on my tally, and a cheery chorus of "Well done, Ali! Well done!"

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