Running around the hills in the rain. Apparently the world does not understand us?

The end of summer has arrived. The days are short, the weather terrible. Too wet for rock, too early for winter climbing. A great time of year to go running around the hills. (Or fells as the English like to call them. They are so cute sometimes.) Time for the OMM. The forecast was great, by which I mean a biblical storm was on its way. "That'l sort out those soft English nonce's", I told Konrad, thinking some fake bravado would lift flagging spirits as I nervously packed an extra polypro top.

Image Richard Hill, Planet Fear

Several hours on a minibus, a sleepless night in a shaking tent, a hurried breakfast and we are off in reasonable weather. It steadily worsens though, horizontal rain, hood pulled tight across the face to stop the blasting of the skin, compelled to move quickly not out of competitiveness but out of a desire for shelter and warmth. Countless ups and downs, sometimes running sometime plodding through deep bog, sometimes staggering around in strong gusts of wind. Soaking wet, on the exposed tops comfort margins are shrunk to paper thin. We pass others sheltered behind rocks, motionless sheep sheltered behind drystone walls, we keep pushing on, hoping for shelter. We find the last checkpoint, a 15min downhill run to the end. A swollen stream bars the way. I link arms with Konrad, but retreat when it is too deep and we loose footing. We watch another party swept down, barely making it across meters above a rapid. We decide to look elsewhere. We run up and around a recently formed lake, it is still too deep, but we choose to swim in a spot that the current sweeps us to the other side. We pass dozens on the trail down to the finish, the steep track streaming with water, whooping with joy, it is a fantastic sight.

The finish is a shambles. It is cancelled we are told. After 5 hours of hard effort we are pissed off. Some start walking back to the start, 8km along the road over Honister pass. We procrastinate, enjoying the shelter of a barn and the banter of friends retelling their own adventures. The we are told the pass is shut, stay here, some return, some ignore authority and find their way back. Stories filter in, cars up to their roofs in water, controls washed away, we make another cup of tea. Eventually it is obvious we are staying here tonight, about 1000 people make the barn our home, concrete and crowded banter preferable to pitching the tent in the pouring rain. Well it is much more fun than last year, a long night lying in a big puddle.

The next day a casual walk back and and early drive home. Rumors of a media storm spread, so we turn on the radio and can't believe our ears. Our little run in the hills has made the number one news slot, bumping both the economy and the US elections off the airwaves for the whole weekend. Stories of thousands of missing runners scattered across the hills battling for survival in barns and other makeshift shelters are breathlessly reported, the country's media descends to the Lakes, awaiting the humanitarian disaster. As people make their way back to the start, the numbers are slowly revised. 'Hundreds missing'. Then 44, then 6, then zero. We all found it a bit amusing, but feeling deeply sorry for the organisers who were inundated with criticism from the uninformed. Apparently people don't understand why we would be running around the hills in atrocious weather, no idea why.