Two months ago one of my oldest friends, now a teacher at a school in Shirebrook, Derbyshire, called me and asked me if I wanted to take part in the Louise Smalley Challenge walk on the 19th June 2004. I asked him what it entailed and he replied, breezily, that it was a 40 miles walk to raise money for local charities. Without really thinking about I said that I would take part.
On the day we had to get up at 2am and be ready to be picked up, by bus, at 3am. The bus then drove deep into the Peak District National Park dropping us off at the former railway station at Millers’ Dale on the Monsal Trail. At 4am and after a minutes silence , in memory of Louise Smalley and absent friends, we set off at a brisk pace, my walking partners, Nick and Pete, determined to beat last years time of 16 hours. Just like me, they had fully intended to train for the event and, like me, had not actually “got round to it”. This was to prove foolish in the extreme.
As we walked we talked eventually catching up with a sprightly 68 year old ex-miner and retired nurse, Alec. We were walking at much the same pace as Alec so he joined us, turning out trio into rather a pleasant quartet.
The first 10 miles of the walk followed the river Wye along the bed of a former railway line (now known as the Monsal Trail) through silent villages as the sun’s light grew in the sky. The river was still and reflected the trees that grew on its banks. Mist hung still in the air, and frost adorned the wooden stiles which we passed over at pace as we talked and wondered about Rooney, Lampard and Gerrard and discussing England’s Chances at Euro 2004. Above us the bulk of Ravenstor and the limestone hills formed a backdrop, glimpsed, occasionally, through the trees.
By 6.30am we had climbed several steep hills and were walking in golden yellow sunlight, through fields of waking cows and villages still asleep. Birds sang and flitted through the air below a light blue sky and our conversations became more animated as the beauty of the scene lifted our spirits. At last we came over the hillside above Bakewell and began the slow descent into the valley of the river Derwent above Chatsworth House. The valley was filled with morning mist, only the trees, the church steeple at Endsor village and the battlements of Chatsworth House rose above the whiteness. The scene was beautiful enough to stop us in our tracks as we admired the vista before us. Ten minutes later we were at our first checkpoint in a car park by the ruined mill at Calton Lees. We fell upon the food offered to us and washed down multiple sausage and bacon rolls with cups of strong sweet tea as the walkers around us took the chance to adjust boots and wonder at the magnificent view from “yon hill”. We rested for around 5 minutes then set off again. Our target, the next checkpoint, 5 miles away in the village of Holymoorside.
This section of the walk was more arduous as we had to cross the Derwent and then climb up the side of the valley, heading for Hob Hurst’s House. We then crossed over Beeley Moor before gradually dropping down into Holymoorside. We followed the route along rocky tracks and springy heather as the sky turned a deeper shade of blue above us and the suns rays began to warm the air. The view from the top of Beeley Moor was spectacular. The moorland stretching in all directions and, to our left, sloping down into the green fields and woods around Chesterfield, just visible, nestled in the hills below the horizon.
By this point we had covered 15 miles and the strain was beginning to tell. Pete had developed a problem with his hip and was starting to limp a bit. The rest of us were OK, although we were not talking as much now.
At Holymoorside we drank more tea and I ate another 3 bacon cobs. I think Alec may have disapproved of my gluttony as he later mentioned that he never ate until after he had finished a walk. I also took the opportunity to tighten my bootlaces and pick up some chocolate. The support crew were fantastic, offering food and drink to us and giving encouragement.
The next stretch of the walk covered 10 miles or so and was interrupted by a checkpoint at Birdholme on the outskirts of Chesterfield. The course of the walk wandered gradually downwards off the hills of the Peak and into the relatively flat and populated land south of Chesterfield. Fatigue was beginning to show. Pete was limping badly and had to ditch his knapsack. My own boots were giving my left shin hell, and I binned them in favour of my trusty trainers. It was an immediate relief and I almost floated the next few miles. Nick also swapped boots for trainers. Alec soon became nicknamed “the bionic man” as he showed no signs of fatigue whatsoever. His stride never slowed and were we beginning to struggle to keep up with him. He left us soon after the next checkpoint at Grassmoor where he joined up with some faster walkers.
The next few miles passed through relatively industrial area of Grassmoor and Holmewood. Our next checkpoint was in the village of Heath, 27 miles in. A small village perched on the hills overlooking the M1 motorway. Our route had been climbing, steadily, for about 4 miles and I had become detached from Nick and Pete. At Heath we were informed that we were just outside the first 20 walkers and “were doing very well”. Sadly though, we encountered our first casualty of the walk an old man whose knees had given out, resting under a large blue coat with a cap pulled over his face. I was glad of the rest here and could not really summon up the energy to respond to questions thrown at me by the support crew. My legs had begun to ache a bit in the last few miles and I was worried about my right knee. The back of the knee was very painful and I was finding it difficult not to limp. However, I was cheered by the fact that my left leg seemed OK. My feet were also in good condition, no blisters as yet, thanks to the 1000 miles socks.
As we rose, painfully, to our feet Pete said “I hope there are no more hills now”. The man of the blue coat and dodgy knees spoke out cheerily “There are no hills on the next bit lads apart from the reet big bugger just before Palterton”. My heart sank a little as I contemplated what another hill would do to my knee as, even by this point, any incline was pretty painful and energy sapping. Every break in the rhythm of walking was painful. Aching bones and muscles were a constant companion. Sharp pains accompanied each stile in a fence or wall. However, it’s amazing what a nice cuppa can do for you and we set off from Heath in high spirits.
From Heath, our route took us through fields of unripe rapeseed and proceeded sharply downhill until it passed under the M1 via a tunnel emerging into pasture fields on the other side. Bolsover castle glowed yellow in the sunlight as dark clouds gathered above it menacingly. Pete spoke for us all when he said “I don’t like the look of them buggers”. Conversation had passed back to football and we sang various songs from the terraces and made bets on which teams would go through to the next round. Nick and I regaled Pete with stories from school and we felt we were doing OK. The route climbed gradually for a mile or so before becoming steeper and steeper. By this point the world had shrunk to the area surrounding my feet and the dull aching in my legs. Fatigue meant that my thoughts were becoming more concentrated on finishing the walk and on trying not to think about the growing pain in my legs. At last the hill reared up above us in a vicious steep slope, crowned by the houses of Palterton. I summoned every shred of energy as I watched Nick clamber up. I started the climb and was startled by how much it hurt and how slowly I was moving. The mind was willing but, the body appeared not to be able. I gritted my teeth as I heard the shouts of encouragement coming from above. I remember thinking how unfair it was to put such a steep hill here at the 30 mile mark – DAMN THEM. I finally reached the summit and was hugged by an old couple who had been shouting encouragement. As Pete climbed up the slope his eyes reflected the pain I knew he was suffering. We stood, gasping, at the top looking back over the valley we had just crossed. In the far distance the hills of the Peaks were visible. We could see Beeley Moor and it looked a very long way away. I couldn’t stop thinking about sitting down. My legs were feeling very sore, and my right knee was giving me serious gyp. The old couple told us the checkpoint was only half a mile away. We set off again with tea and chocolate forefront in our minds!
2 miles later we almost crawled into the next checkpoint. By God, we were limping badly now, like 3 uncoordinated break dancers. Nicks feet were blistering. Pete’s hip was now accompanied by his shins and ankles and my knee was being joined by my left hip. Every single step was an effort. My mind was now wonderfully concentrated. My eyes were focussed, mainly, on the ground immediately in front of me. My thoughts now clear against a backdrop of pain like an orchestra tuning up. We were now singing, tunelessly, as we walked. All of Bugsy Malone, What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor, It’s A Long Way to Tipperary, all at full volume if not strictly to song sheet. Distances were now becoming magnified and our pace slowed. Nick and Pete began to talk about different levels of pain that we had endured, but seemed cheered by the fact that they had appeared to have gone through a kind of “wall” and were not too bothered by the pain now. I, on the other hand, was in agony made worse by their talk. I tried to hurry ahead but I couldn’t hobble any faster so I gave up pretty quickly.
At last, the next checkpoint, Scarcliffe. Half mile my arse! A kind woman called Julie gave me some paracetamol which, she said, would not take the pain away but might help. I briefly though about the fact that I should really try to complete the walk without the aid of drugs but rapidly cancelled that idea. I would have smoked crack at that point to ease the pain. Others were suffering too as could be seen by the eagerness with which people were spraying themselves with “deep heat” and the like, talcing feet and swallowing pain killers. Red faces and distant, focussed eyes sat at each folding chair. Cups of tea clenched in fists. Cheese baps chewed silently and Lucozade gulped down by those about to set off on the next leg. People asked about friends and family “Heyup miduk has tha seen owt of our Adrian?”.
“Ah” came the reply “about an hour back our kid, doing alreet anall in spite of the blisters”.
The hardest part was getting out of the chair. Every muscle screamed as you pulled yourself upright. Every tendon and ligament protested. The first step sent fire shooting up from your toes to your hips. It was incredible. And it did not fade as you walked on. It merely became more bearable as you got used to this new level of agony.
We began to be overtaken by wiser walkers. These people had paced themselves for the first 20 miles and only began to accelerate at Heath. Cheery comments of encouragement were called out as they passed by eliciting muttered curses from us (or was that just me?). A Lancaster bomber passes low overhead in a surreal moment, engines roaring. What a sight. Moments later, as the path wound through thick woodland, we chanced upon 3 boys from Nick’s and Pete’s school making a Sasquatch video (who says kids have no imagination theses days?).
Continuing on our weary way through Whaley Wood we finally reached our next checkpoint and was greeted by hearty cheers as the support crew and our fellow walkers watched us limp painfully in at 34 miles. Here to my sorrow I discovered a blister on my left foot as we gulped down more sugary hot tea and munched on chocolate. A large group of walkers arrived just after ourselves and they, too, were greeted with cheers and for some moments, we were in a melee of people swearing and calling out names and amusing comments “Heyup Trevor…. Has tha shat theself or summat? Tha’s walking funny”. Oh God I need drugs…..give me drugs.
As we were about to depart we were told that It was only 1.75 miles to the next checkpoint, the final one, at Elmton. Hobbling as we set off, Pete fell immediately behind in spite of his new role as route leader. After nearly 2 miles we were lost. Something was wrong. It was either us or the route description. We walked back on ourselves for half a mile. No, we were, in fact, on the right path. Damn and blast. Half a mile of agony for nothing. Teeth gritted, we set off again. Each step was a feat, every metre was a distance consciously overcome. All I wanted to do was rest. I wanted to pain to go away. I wanted to see my girlfriend. I wanted to never have set off on this damned walk. I wanted to finish. ABOVE ALL I WANTED TO FINISH.
The route took us through a field of rapeseed. A narrow path of downtrodden stalks showing the way. Rapeseed grows in tangles and it catches around your feet as you walk. F*#k, f*#k, f*#k. The stalks catch my feet as we walk through and it hurts, it really hurts. Why did we have to walk a whole half mile back on ourselves? Why couldn’t these people be honest about the mileage between checkpoints?
The final checkpoint at Elmton is reached as the wind picks up and begins to blast drops of rain down at us. The support crew serve us with more tea and offer chocolate and fruit. I talc my feet while a little girl watches with large dark eyes. I try to smile at her but it turns into a grimace. We ask “How far to the end now?” and they reply “3 miles lads, you’ll do it. No problem”.
We stand up slowly, like old men, and putting one foot in front of the other, move off. The little girl claps us on our way. Can’t smile, too tired. Just look at the ground and focus…..left, right, left, right as we walk passed the village pub in silence. Nick says “I wonder if they do B&B?”
We trudge along a track for 2 miles or so before hitting a road. We follow the road for another mile, and it becomes obvious to us that it is more than 3 miles to the end. Why do they lie to us? Why? Every step is agony, absolute agony. The orchestra is playing a never ending crescendo! Time is meaningless. All there is in the world is grey sky and my left foot and right foot and the crusty brown earth beneath me. If I stop now I’ll never be able to start again. I can only go on. I just want it to be over. No more….no more walking. How can this hurt so much? All I’ve done is bloody walk! Nesh bastard!
Ahead we can see the tall chimney stack from Whitwell quarry. We are so near but so far from the end. We can see two large fields before we reach the crest of a hill above the village. An old slag heap covered with light green saplings stands to our right as the clouds whip overhead. My mind is foggy with pain. It’s not far, not really, but it’s going to take us hours! I wonder, vaguely, how many steps it will take to get to the finish line.
This final stretch is too much. I am crying even though I don’t want to. The pain won’t fade and I can hear my best mate whimpering as his blisters burst and reform. It’s too much. I can’t take it. Surely, this is the most pain I’ve ever been in. Nick is groaning, pleading with each step “F*#k it, f*#k it, bastard!” We shout encouragement to Pete who is some 100 yards back.
At last we come to the end of the field only to be faced with a stile over the wall. We shout and swear at the stile, pointlessly, wasting energy. We have just got to find a way to get over it. My legs are dead. I can’t lift them. I pull my right leg up onto the step, forcing myself not to cry as cramp strikes. I force my left leg onto the next step and then grit my teeth before pulling myself over the stile and onto the grass verge on the side of the road leading into Whitwell. A boy on a moped zooms passed honking his horn. 250 yards after that house we can see is the finishing line at The Royal Oak pub.
250 yards……………2500 yards!
My eyes focus on the ground at my feet and I begin to move forward again. There is nothing in my world now apart from pain. Somewhere I realise I have been thinking of my girl and my family, not anything specific, but, they have been there floating around me in the void. As we turn the final corner I can see a large crowd outside the pub now, their cheering made me look up. I stop; have to walk in with the lads. We did this together. I hear them approach as I stare at my feet. We’ve done it lads…….we’ve bloody done it! We hug together and shake hands. “Well done lad, well done”. We turn together and walk the final 50 steps into the cheering, clapping crowd. I see my parents and some friends who have come to meet us and I am suddenly OK. I am still in agony but it doesn’t matter now. There’s my mam and my dad and they are proud of me and it was all worth it…….I DID IT, WE DID IT! Only somebody who has done that walk will ever know what it takes.
I was still limping 6 days later……………………
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