Raffle Rage at the 10 mile Bluebell Trail Race

For the past 3 years I've quite liked the idea of writing an article about an actual race for the WWR magazine. However, this is always hard when you tend to spend most of a race looking down at your feet, trying not to fall over, or at your Garmin, counting the miles until it is all over. The common phrase of many a runner before a race is 'you'll feel great when you've finished' comes to mind, well it comes into my mind about every 20 seconds until I see the finish line.

On a bit of a whim I entered the Bluebell Trail Race this year, courtesy of Mick Edge who kindly gave me his number. I should have left the number in his name, so he won't be encouraged to do so again!

The first challenge of the day was how to get to Halifax!

The answer - squashed in the back of Dave Waywell's trusty white Vauxhall estate. Well five of us squashed in Dave Waywell's car, thankfully only three of us in the back, Ruth, Sean and I, (A thorn between two roses).

The journey up there was fairly calm, although Dave and Shaun may disagree as myself, Ruth and Kath tried to put the world to rights.

When we arrived I did transfer my number and headed straight to the ladies. It's always a good place to wind yourself up before a race by listening to horror stories of years gone by! 'Do you remember the year Steve fell of a cliff and had to be rescued by helicopters', 'Didn't he lose a limb', 'Yes, and he's running this year, Great Bloke'.

This race wasn't any different with ladies exchanging tales of woe and asking if you'd run the race before. This was where I first heard about 'Trooper lane', but I'll come to that little gem a bit later on.

Before the race started we went for a nosey at the infamous river crossing. Kath, (queen of river crossings), advised that it wasn't too deep this year, but there would be some great photo opportunities if you fell in. Once I'd put my blister plasters on, finally made a decision about trail or running shoes and been to the toilet three more times, we headed to the start.

I have to say it was a bizarre start, (not as bizarre as running around a car park twice at the St Annes 10 - sorry Dave), but you do a loop of a playing field. I always tend to start at the back of the crowd now, not wanting to get crushed in the rush. However, for all you serious runners get to the front as it is hard to over take anyone for the first couple of miles.

Once you come out of the playing field and past the church (or was it a school - told you I just look at my feet!, although I'm sure I saw some gravestones), you head out onto the road for about 100m and then take a sharp left up through the forest. I have been informed that this part of the race is the Calderdale Way. It was at this point I remembered that most trail races were run in single file. The path was narrow and had a number of hazards which a couple of runners found out about for themselves, when they fell over some tree roots and rocks. No Mike Walsh, I didn't trip them up vying for a better position, however, I was on the constant look out for a short cut!

Through the woods we continued until we hit a road and then had a pleasant but hot run along a tow path for about a mile. It was around this point that I tried to pick things up a little and managed to over take a few people. I know I shouldn't chat when I'm running a race, but it's nice to meet new people so I exchanged some pleasantries with a couple about the Wesham 10k and how they could enter.  Royalties very welcome Mr. Waywell!

I can't really remember much after the canal, only that we were on the road and passed some mills! I did keep wondering when I would hit Trooper Lane!  A few tunnels, cobbled paths and steps and we did hit a hill.  I asked the lady next to me if I was on Trooper Lane, I'm now surprised she didn't laugh as what was to come made this hill look like a molehill.

TROOPER LANE! Well what can you say? The name of the flamin road says enough. I started as I intended to go on - slow and steady - small strides, small strides telling myself it can't be that bad I can see the top. In fact I couldn't see the top of the hill at all; just continuous bends in the road, where I kept telling myself, it must be round the corner. However, it wasn't and the road just kept getting steeper and steeper.

At this point I did think about a conversation we'd had with Shauny Boy earlier in the day, when he had declared 'I'm not walking up any hill! I'm running all the way' - which I actually believe he did. The fact Ruth and I had to push him out of the car when we got back to Kirkham, because he couldn't move evidences that he wasn't lying. Hope your bum is better Shauny?

It was when we hit the cobbles again and the sun was beating down on me I started to feel less than pleased. For those of you that don't know me well, I don't do hills or hot weather, never mind both of them together. I started to walk backwards but this didn't help. You just have to keep on going! Some bloke who wasn't running the race was boasting that he did hill training up and down Trooper Lane - I was tempted to ask for a piggy back so he could prove his point!

Up and up we continued, 570 feet in half a mile and finally we saw some houses. I'm glad I don't live up there, fancy realising you'd run out of milk! Then we reached the top - thank god - We were so high up, I could have thanked him in person.

Once at the top we crossed the road to join a track onto Beacon Hill, the views from here were stunning. You could see right across Halifax. It was worth the climb. I had some 'thin chicks' in my sight and decided to try and catch them. We then dropped down the other side of Beacon Hill. What an exhilarating run - you are flying down a single track lane, then over a dry riverbed. At last bluebells, it was fantastic!

You then carry on along the old pack horse route to Wakefield, past a farm and then onto some more tracks. There was another steep incline around this point, where I struggled a bit as my legs decided to turn to jelly. You then run around a quarry, and start heading across the fields, towards a church, more cobbled paths (they play havoc with your ankles on the descent). More fields, a few stiles, another couple of lanes and you are back in the woods. I was on my way home - yippee! Did I see some more bluebells??

More roads, a pub (now that was tempting) and back onto the canal. By this point you only have half a mile to run, but it is a long half a mile. Said ‘hello’ to some chaps who were asking me what the time was on my Garmin, and kept on going. Now I did wonder where the river was, did I have to wade through the canal? No a little bridge and then a sharp left onto the river crossing. It was that sharp even I struggled to stop! I jumped into the river. It was great as by this point I was boiling! The Wesham Gang were at the top of the river bank chanting 'Shazza Shazza', I almost felt like a celebrity! Thankfully I didn't fall in and scrambled up the river bank on my knees. The end was in sight, no wonder I was smiling.

Great run, well marshalled, lots of jelly babies on offer and good company. What more can you ask for?

Well you could ask to win a raffle prize! It was following the race, and heading out onto the field that raffle rage seemed to descend on the group. I hadn't bought a ticket, but Ruth and Dave had! Would we win anything? Not a chance! There were a lot of numbers and different colours. There were a lot of prizes. We stood on the field for at least 40 minutes. I'm not joking but the raffle took longer than the race. Dave had his eye on some home made lemon curd and Ruth was eyeing up the wicker bird house. Every number and colour surrounding Ruth and Dave's were called out! Barry Allman, (a blokey from another club), was stood with us and we all cheered when he won. In fact I believe he got a PB running to get his prize. He was scared someone else would grab the hand/eye lotion. The drawing of numbers went on and on, and on and on, and on and on. Should we leave, no we might miss out! As time passed Ruth and Dave became more frustrated, but were sure that there number would be called. The lemon curd was gone, but the bird house was still on the table. We decided to leave and started to walk across the car park, as the last number was being called, with Dave and Ruth craning their necks, could it be them? No such luck! Never mind there's always next year!

Written by Sharon Cooper

Submitted: 30^th May 2011

Edited by: Brenda J Earnshaw WRR Editor