Winter Paddy Buckley FKT

Fuck you. Fuck them. Fuck this whole thing.

December 2021. I’m aiming to break the record in the Paddy Buckley Round. The Paddy is 62 miles, 47 summits and 8000ft elevation.

Fifty miles and sixteen hours in, I reach an abandoned quarry, it is the dead of night. A spooky enough place in broad daylight, where men worked and died, too young, deep in hillside tunnels. Slate ruins loom silently around me. The moon shadows play tricks on my eyes. Sharp ghosts are closing in from all angles.

I’ve reached a crossroads. I could turn right, down the hill, and leave this whole thing behind. I could reach my town, and get in my warm, safe bed. All this could just be over, and fuck every one of you.

Or. I could go straight on. Ten more miles, over the hardest terrain in the whole of Eryri. No paths, just fields of bogs, deep enough to drown in.

Back in February, eleven months earlier, I was stood on my treadmill, in the garage. I had an eight mile run on the schedule. About to press the big, green ‘start’ button. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d been running 100 mile weeks, week after week, alone, in lockdown. And, I’d just had enough.

Motionless, in the dark garage, I contemplated my life choices.

I had to convince myself that the door to my house was locked shut, and wouldn’t open until the treadmill display read: 8.00 MILES. Even if I had to walk, or sleep on the treadmill, the door would stay closed until I finished.

Every tenth of a mile clicked by painfully. I said; I can’t do this. I can’t do this. All the way through. Until, finally, I did it.

I was in training for a marathon in April, hoping every day it won’t get Covid cancelled. Three months of 100 mile weeks. I was fit. One night I threw my seven yr old boy on the top bunk, got an unusual twinge in my back, the next morning I could hardly walk.

I missed the race. I was crushed. I felt all that fitness slowly slide away. Nothing to show for it.

When my back healed enough to run again, I spurned the roads that had cheated me, and turn my attention to the mountains. The big, wide vistas helped me get a sense of perspective.

I learnt to completely let it go. Start again. I rebuilt slowly, over the next three or four months, things started to click. I ran the fastest solo Paddy in August, and two weeks later I undertook the awesome Dragon’s Back Race, finishing 2nd in an incredible adventure.

A seminal year, but, as December approached, I knew I still had unfinished business with the Winter Paddy. I felt like I was fit and experienced enough to get the FKT.

Sunday, December 19th, the weather is perfect. There is actually a temperature inversion, the higher you go, the warmer it gets. The crystal clear sky gives excellent visibility. I am moving smoothly over the Carneddau first, then the Glyderau. The jutted out, kryptonite rocks are dry and gritty. I know I am going too fast. I don’t care. It feels so epic.

I capture Wyddfa in the sunset, the patches of snow are an iridescent orange. Not a breath of wind in the sky. It’s all feeling too good to be true. I start to climb Yr Aran, my thighs cramp up, they are responding to the pounding from the long descent off Wyddfa. I have to lie down and shake them out for about five minutes. It’s my first scare of the day. Things are going to get worse.

Darkness closes in just before I reach Nantlle Ridge. I had really wanted to get here with some daylight left. In darkness it’s much slower. The big rocks hide the way, a massive black abyss yawns away to my right. I have to take my time.

I’m scared shitless of the dark. Always have been. An overactive imagination or something. I can’t accept the black canvass, so my mind paints all sorts of nasty characters to fill the void. They get very real in my head. Behind me, chasing me, always just out of sight.

Running down Aberglaslyn woods, there are reflectors stuck on random trees, for scouts to do night exercises, I hate them. They reflect the light from my head torch and turn into the shining eyes of the nine Ringwraiths. I know, Ringwraiths don’t have shining eyes, but this is my nightmare.

I narrowly avoid capture and burst out of the woods into the relative safety of the street lights in Nantmor. As I begin the final leg with the gentle climb up Cnicht, I am 2hrs 45 up on record pace, I’m not feeling great. It feels distinctly like I am about to bonk. Fuzzy head and finger tips. I don’t understand, I have followed my nutrition plan, bang on, all day.

I have to slow down to a walk. A few summits later I try to eat another energy bar and it comes back up violently, and five more bars come with it. Nothing has been absorbed for the past two hours. My stomach is in a terrible way. I throw up so violently and conclusively that I know I will not be able to eat anything again during this attempt. I had been pushing too hard and too fast during the day, force feeding myself and now my belly has totally shut down.

I reach Rhosydd quarry, fifty miles and sixteen hours in, it is the dead of night. Standing at that crossroads, tired, cold, hungry, wanting badly to turn right, towards home.

Suddenly, I realise, I’ve been here before. That silly eight mile run on the treadmill.

The door to my house is locked. The only way home is to keep going.

All that marathon training I thought I had lost to the ether, it all came back. When I least expected it.

The energy you put out into the universe, is the energy that comes back.

I finished the round, at 3.15am. In the stone cold, dead of night. With my family, the camera crew and a low mist enshrouding us. I had broken the record by 1hr15min. But I had no energy to laugh, dance, or say something witty for the cameras. It was just relief.

The pride and satisfaction still burns now. Every Tuesday, when I drive over to Bangor to coach my squad, I like to take the high pass. I look into the mountains, and, sometimes, I see a lone headtorch, up in the scary black. My stomach feels a sudden jolt of fear, then the warm pride sets in. I did that.

I ran this FKT exactly four years ago today, it still stands. I know a local guy who is going out for an attempt tomorrow, so thought I’d better put this out quick!

This article was first published in 2022 Fell Runner Magazine, but this is the online debut.

There is also an excellent documentary about the whole thing here, costs £2.99.

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Last week I ran 101 miles. I twisted my ankle. I tore ligaments there a year ago, and I keep setting it back. The human ankle is not perfect. Evolution is very good at adding bones, not so good at subtracting them. 26 bones in the foot. Ridiculous.

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Free, every Friday, you love it. So do I.