PAUL SWADDLE MEMORIAL CHALLENGE
SATURDAY/SUNDAY 9th 10th AUGUST
As you are aware we tragically lost our friend Paul Swaddle recently. Since his loss many members of the club have expressed a wish to do something in support of Paul’s family, Julie and Elaine.
We thought that it would be nice to complete a sponsored challenge, in Paul’s memory, and give the funds raised to his children to do with as they wish.
We intended that the challenge should bring together a lot of our members and their families who, we are sure, will wish to help Paul’s girls in a practical way.
In looking for a challenge to truly represent Paul we wanted something that would take grit and determination, something that would make folk utter those immortal words “Blinkin Flip”.
We found that challenge. The Lyke Wake Walk. This is a true test of endurance, fitness and determination and consists of a walk from Osmotherley to Ravenscar across the North Yorkshire Moors for approximately 40 miles. The challenge was to complete the walk in 24 hours and raise as much sponsorship as we could. Read on to see how it went.
MAL FRASIER'S INDIVIDUAL FUNDRAISER
In addition to this. Mad Mal Frasier, gutted that he was unable to take part in the walk due to work committments, made up his own challenge. He works 12 hours on 12 hours off on the rigs. On his saturday "off" Mal went into the gym on the rig and completed 10 miles on the rowing machine and 10 miles on the treadmill. His sunday "off" he endured 10 miles on the bike and 10 miles on the treadmill. A total of 40 miles sweat and toil, much like the walk itself. Well done Mal and thanks for all your efforts.
Lyke Wake Walk Jarra style
The day dawned bright and early for the eighteen intrepid walkers who were to embark on one of the most notorious 40 miles in northern England. The Lyke Wake Walk. Feared and respected in equal measure the walk has beguiled hikers fully four decades now. The challenge is clearcut. Walk 40 miles in 24 hours across the bleak North York Moors and join an exclusive club. Not impossible, yet not easy. In the middle of summer a lot easier. Or so we thought. However, one cannot take the fickle British climate for granted and, sure enough, the forecast wasn't good. But how bad can it get? Not that bad, it's summer for God's sake!
The bleary eyed walkers stumbled out of the vehicles and donned their finest hiking clobber. Brightly coloured goretex and high tech walking kit emerged into the breaking light. Ian Maxwell, ignoring common outdoor practice, elected to wear his own inimitable style of hill walking garb. Eighteen hole black DM's and black jeans, all liberally sprinkled with talcum powder for some unexplained reason. Coughing and spluttering through the potentially explosive, yet sweet smelling, talcum haze the eighteen posed proudly for the photo at the Lyke Wake stone. All smiles and cheery banter the walkers set off at five twenty led by Dave “three hats” Mcleod, sporting the first of his trio of hats. A natty South African number in the fedora style made from the finest deer hide and topped by a feather plume.
The first stretch was a pleasant stroll on a beautiful morning. The woodland echoed with birdsong and as the walkers climbed up the stone steps the views opened up as the trig point on Carlton bank was reached. Hoping the forecasters had got the it wrong the ominous bank of cloud on the western horizon was merely a part of the landscape and steadfastly ignored by the happy hikers. Reaching the first checkpoint had been a doddle and the eighteen were treat to bacon butties and hot tea and coffee by the back-up team.
The next stretch entailed two climbs and there were two options. Option one was to circumvent the climbs and save energy for later, the common sense route, or low road as it was coined. The second option was to take the high road along the Cleveland Way, expend loads of energy needlessly but not lose face by taking the “soft option” or low road. The majority took the high testosterone, hard work, sweat and toil slog up Drake How and Cringle Moor. Even mensa member owld Davey “Gandalf” Hill chose the latter. Terry Farrell's replacement hip had caused him some aggravation on the climbs and he sensibly opted for the low road, as did Tom Wilson who was suffering from minor blisters, and Andy Wood, who was just suffering.
By the time checkpoint two at Hasty Bank was reached the sun had disappeared and the walkers faced the longest stretch of the walk. Some 9.5 miles long, going over the highest point of the walk and with the prospect of rain, several walkers took the opportunity to change into more suitable clothing. Waterproof trousers and jackets appeared. Bags were loaded up with energy drinks. Dave Mcleod took the opportunity to sport the next item in his impressive hat collection. A black, no nonsense, sensible wax cotton waterproof number with fold down ear flaps and comfy fur lining. Maxwell resolutely stuck with the DM's and jeans.
A steep climb up Carr ridge on Urra moor had the walkers strung out over some distance. As the highest point was reached at Round Hill(454m) a fine drizzle had begun to dampen spirits and as the disused railway line approached it was decided Terry Farrell would lead at his own pace. Needing no second bidding he of the false hip set off at a greyhounds pace. His limping gait showing a remarkable turn of speed and leaving several of the group struggling in his wake. Again the group was spread out and the Moor began to show his hand as the drizzle turned into a downpour and a howling wind appeared out of nowhere. Waterproof trousers and overcoats were donned, walkers cowed into the horizontal rain and struggled to keep up with Farrell. Maxwell resolutely stuck with the DM's and jeans. At the front Farrell, accompanied by Detective Constable Brian Shaw opted to ignore the huge immovable boulder with the massive white painted LWW sign pointing to the left and forged straight on ahead. They steadfastly refused to walk the two hundred yards back down the path until somebody confirmed this was correct, suggesting that some “scrote” may have moved it to fool people. Common sense prevailed and the correct, clearly indicated path was taken and the mid point checkpoint was reached. The back-up crew provided comfort with lashings of Mrs Mcleod's wonderful broth, hot tea and coffee, flapjacks and tarts. Tommy Wilson became the first casualty. Evidently his blisters, which got bigger with every retelling, had swelled to massive proportions. The size of fried eggs they were, fried eggs!!
It was a full forty five minutes before the walk got underway again. Legs began to stiffen and resolve began to wilt as the rain and wind picked up. Several soups and teas later the group began to muster. Out of the gloom some remarkably luminously dayglow yellow outerwear began to emerge. South Tyneside Councils finest, Andy Grainger, had supplied himself, Colin Mckeown and owld Davey Hill with waterproofs. At least we couldn't lose them. Dave Mcleod, realising we were up against it changed into his last hat. A plain woolen number. Basic, simple and up for the task in hand. Designed for warmth and comfort and nothing else. A hat to suit the occasion. A hat that shouted out “F**k you North York Moor, I will not be defeated”. But why he chose that horrible lime green colour we will never know.
On we went. Shawsy tried to lift spirits, bellowing out his version of flower of scotland. None joined in, the rain was all pervasive. Passing Fat Betty, a noteworthy but uninteresting big rock on the left, the party left the road and started off over, what the guide book describes as a “boggy section”. Evidently, due to climate change, this section isn't as bad as it used to be. God knows how anyone ever got across this before “climate change” had it's effect because it was awful. The path alternated between glutenous mud and slippy yellow stuff. It was impossible to place the feet with any confidence. Each step was a lottery. Ankle deep in mud, or slip and lose grip. Jamie Broadway went knee deep and almost lost a trainer, his footwear of choice proving surprisingly suited to the terrain up until this point. Maxwells DM's and jeans became coated with mud. Spirits descended lower, apart from the infuriatingly chirpy Andy “bog trotter”Grainger. Then disaster struck. A slip. Bones McCoy had previously stepped onto a slimy wooden bridge and slipped. Luckily for him, Jackie was nearby and he instinctively grabbed (not groped as some saddos insisted) her. Her remarkably grippy trainers had held firm and both stayed upright. Unfortunately Jackie was not at hand for Andy Wood. A dour Lancastrian tackling Yorkshire's grimmest walk does not bode well, and unfortunately Wood went a**e over t*t at the same spot. Fortunately he escaped serious injury but morale sunk lower as the going got tougher. Doubts within the group began to emerge. Were we on the right path? How far to the checkpoint? Is Dave wearing the right hat? Suddenly, out of the gloom, the welcome lights of the back up team's vehicle's emerged. We'd made it. More tea and coffee, more flapjacks, the end was in sight. However, a cruel twist of fate was to thwart the gallant seventeen.
A remarkably unlucky series of events had conspired against them. The walkers had picked up the wrong footpath to the road. The back-up team had chosen to ignore the layby with the huge unmissable yellow LWW painted on the tarmac and parked elsewhere, totally off route. The incorrect path the walkers had taken coincidentally ended at the very same layby, and also continued on across the road.
After refreshments the squad, led by Broadway charged off down the wrong path. Oblivious to the unfolding drama the squad’s spirits lifted as they found the downhill stretch on good paths remarkably easy going after the horrendous section beforehand. It was probably the easiest going for some hours, even the rain had eased off and there seemed no stopping us now. However, doubts began to emerge when two gates were opened and led to a farm with, seemingly no footpath to exit. The map-readers read the maps. With much head scratching and puzzled expressions the huddle around the map grew. A farmer appeared on his quadbike and enlightened the gang. We had missed the footpath and there was no way of regaining it unless we backtracked two and a half miles uphill and back to the checkpoint.
Morale pitched to an all time low, apart from the infuriatingly chirpy Andy Grainger(what was he on!). It has to be said. Tears were shed at this point. Many sank to their knees in despair, cursing the very ground they had trodden but there was no choice but to go back. An 8.5 mile stage had turned into a 13.5 mile slog, and it was getting dark.
There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth when the correct layby was discovered with it’s unmissable LWW in large yellow lettering pointing the way to the path. However what’s done is done and the brave jarrovians stoically marched on. An easy downhill section soon turned into a long pull up Wheeldale Moor and Blue Man I The Moss. The path was strewn with rocks, difficult to navigate and the rain pouring down again. It was an effort just to lift ones boots. That final hill was enough for Andy Wood. Cresting the hill the next part of the path slowly revealed itself in the large and unforgiving shape of Simon Howe. Down into a valley of Wheeldale Beck, then up another bloody great hill. The great man’s resolve crumbled. Still suffering from his earlier slip, he couldn’t drag himself any further. Sensing the opportunity Owld Davey Hill selflessly volunteered to abandon his walk and stay with the crushed Lancastrian. Truth be told his knees probably wouldn’t have carried him much further, even with that ridiculously slender stick he was using as a walking pole. Neil Metcalf also chucked it at this point. He’d had it. Couldn’t take any more. His texting thumb was done in and the phone battery almost gone. Enough was enough, there’s only so much a man can take. The back up crew couldn’t be raised so it was agreed to march on and send help from the next checkpoint. Little did anyone realise that the hapless trio would be abandoned fully two and a half hours on the minor road, in the foul weather, in the dark before rescue came.
It was with great relief that the next checkpoint was reached. It was dark now and torches were pressed into service. The rain was flooding down. The paths were torrents of water. Slips and falls were many and desperation began to grip the walkers. The welcome site of a torch walking back along the path emerging into the shape of back up crew member, Steve Mcleod cheered the hikers. The news, however was not good. The police were now involved. A concerned resident, seeing flashing torches on the moor and realising there were idiots still out on the footpath in the horrendous conditions had decided to raise the alarm. The rozzers were pressed into service to help locate the forsaken trio on the minor road. The coppers thought it best we abandon the attempt so it was with heavy heart that the walkers finally reached the checkpoint.
An honourable withdrawal might have been an option here, still 7.5 miles to go in total darkness in the worst possible conditions. It would be madness to continue. The walkers waited in agonised silence as Dave Mcleod stomped into the checkpoint. The gnarled weather beaten prop adjusted his mud grimed hat, threw down his map, grabbed a brew and said “right, who’s in?”. Phil Mcleod almost fainted, he’d really had enough. However, the walk had been his idea, plus his own mother had said he’d never make it. Phil had no option but to press on. Shawsy was up for it. McCoy didn’t really have a clue what was going on he was so knackered . Before he knew it he was also in. McKeown and Grainger stood up as did Pat and John Barker with daughter Sarah.
With grim determination, the nine set forth, torches piercing the gloom. The good luck calls from the checkpoint receded out of earshot. They were on their own with the traverse of Goathland Moor ahead. Within minutes the path was lost. Conditions were too awful. The path up Little Ellerbeck too difficult to follow, overgrown in places and following multiple routes through the thigh high heather. McCoy's hand held satnav was pressed into service. It was the only way to maintain progress although it entailed marching straight through the heather, which was demanding on, already knackered legs. Only Shawsy the scotchman was prepared for this. To go charging through the heather, ill equipped and against overwhelmingly insurmountable odds is in his blood. All he was missing was the kilt and claymore. For the rest it was sheer torture.
So the valiant nine struggled onwards. Cursing each step and desperately trying to stick to the vague path. Pathfinder McKeown led the way with compass in hand and instructed to go east, backed up by the marvellous little satnav(God Bless America). With great difficulty the squad reached Lilla Howe. The guide book states the finish can be seen from here in the shape of Beacon Howes radio mast. Not on this night. Gradually, with great relief the heather petered out and the path became navigable again for the descent down Fylingdales Moor. Mud now replaced heather to antagonise the group. Slipping and stumbling, the mud clinging and making the boots feel as heavy as Maxwells DM's. The exhausted group struggled on and made for Jugger Howe ravine and the checkpoint. Mud made way to blissful easy going stone steps and the climb down the crevice began. As we descended relief turned to despair as the depth of the ravine revealed itself and the realisation dawned that we faced a hell of a climb back up the other side. Each tortuous step threatened cramp as the squad dragged their sorry a**es up the other side to the final checkpoint. As the lights of the van flashed a welcome signal the party approached the last stage knowing that the worst was over. The end of the ordeal was in sight.
None could afford to linger at the checkpoint long for fear of legs seizing up. The first problem of finding the path was overcome with surprising ease, then it was simply a two mile slog uphill to the finish. Each had his own private agony in every step. Groins, knees, backs, ankles, all protested but the nine marched on. The conditions were forgotten, conversation scarce (even Grainger had piped down) as the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other overshadowed everything else. It was almost an anticlimax when the radio mast suddenly emerged from the gloom. No sense of jubilation, just relief it was all over and there was no more walking to be done. It was three o'clock Sunday morning, twenty two hours after we'd started, the moor and notorious British weather had thrown everything against us yet we had prevailed. Congratulations were exchanged photographs taken. It was done. Swad would've been proud.
LINK TO PHOTOS: http://jarroviansrugby.myphotoalbum.com/view_album.php
The sat nav showed we had travelled 45.9miles. It had taken 22 hours. From memory the stopped time was about 4.75 hours. Walking time 17.25 hours. Average moving speed was 2.7 miles per hour. Overall average 2.1 miles per hour.
Dirgers and witches: Pat Barker, Sarah Barker, John Barker, Dave McLeod, Phil McLeod, Brian Shaw, Andy Grainger, Colin McKeown, Bryan McCoy
