Skipton Skedaddle – 34 Mile Ultra Marathon Race Report
34 miles through the Yorkshire Dales, taking in Sharp Haw, Malham, Gordale Scar and Malham Tarn. Throw in a dodgy knee, several questionable pacing decisions and far too many cows, and you’ve got the Skipton Skedaddle.
Race Morning
Saturday morning arrived and I was up, showered and preparing myself for the Skipton Skedaddle 34-mile ultra marathon.
Conveniently, the start line was only a stone’s throw away in neighbouring Skipton, so at least there was no ridiculous 4am motorway journey to contend with. Hosted by Punk Panther Events, the day offered a choice of distances: half marathon, 20 miles, 34 miles and the full-fat 50 miler.
Thirty-four miles was about as much as I was willing to stomach. Training had been more hit-and-miss than Stevie Wonder playing darts, so expectations for the day were fairly straightforward: get round, enjoy myself and preferably return home with the same number of functioning limbs I started with.
I arrived at around 6:30am, handing over an optimistic £8 for the privilege of leaving the car in Cavendish Street car park all day. Registration was inside St Andrew’s Church, where the atmosphere was surprisingly lively — like a mild version of the Hacienda on a Saturday night, just with more hydration vests and fewer glow sticks.
Once all the ultra runners had gathered, we received the race briefing. Among the important information, we were told that anyone worried about livestock could attempt to avoid them, and we were assured there “weren’t many” out on the course that day.
That, as it turned out, was absolute bull. Quite literally.
More on that later.
With the briefing complete, 70-plus runners began the ten-minute walk to the start at Aireville Park, shambling through the early-morning streets of Skipton like a horde of zombies dressed head-to-toe in expensive running gear.
At the entrance to the park, a small but enthusiastic crowd of about five people had gathered to witness the grand beginning of our suffering. A chap at the front confidently counted us down and, just like that, we were off.
For a brief moment, I considered sacking the whole thing off, hanging around town for a couple of hours and doing Skipton Parkrun at 9am instead. A nice, sensible 5K sounded increasingly appealing, but unfortunately I’d already committed myself to something considerably bigger — and considerably more stupid.
So I settled into an easy pace. There was no pressure and absolutely no intention of breaking any records. The plan was simple: survive, enjoy the miles and take in everything the Yorkshire Dales had to offer.
What could possibly go wrong?
Sharp Haw – The First Climb
The first 5K took us out of Skipton and onto the gradual climb towards Sharp Haw.
On a normal day — being the mountain goat and all-round athletic specimen I clearly am — I’d probably have run all the way to the trig point. This wasn’t a normal day, though. There were still thirty-odd miles to cover, so burning matches in the opening hour seemed like a particularly stupid way of approaching things.
Even so, the pace felt comfortable and before long the first major climb was behind me. Mentally, that was a nice early win. One proper hill down, although there was obviously plenty more stupidity to come.
Waiting near the top was my mate Adam, who would continue to appear at various points around the course like some kind of ultra-running Obi-Wan Kenobi — materialising whenever morale was beginning to dip to offer encouragement, take a photograph and occasionally remind me not to do anything stupid.
After a quick catch-up with Obi-Wan, it was time for the fun bit: the descent off Sharp Haw.
The trails rolled nicely from the summit, with just enough technical stuff to keep you awake without immediately launching you headfirst into a dry-stone wall. Eventually the trail opened out into a pleasant-looking field: flat, grassy and, on the face of it, perfect for some easy running.
That was when I rolled my ankle.
The chap behind me — who would shortly become my unofficial running buddy for the next few miles — had the pleasure of watching me roll it not once, but twice. A real two-for-one special.
Thankfully, everything still appeared to be attached, so onwards we went.
The Long Climb to Malham
The next section was fairly straightforward before the route eventually pointed us towards a long climb over to Malham. By now I’d fallen into step with another runner, but I let him march on ahead while I stayed behind to have some very strong and deeply unhelpful words with my knee.
Apparently, my ankle had been having too much fun and the knee now wanted to join the injury party.
After around 25 minutes of climbing, I finally reached the top. By then I’d settled into the mindset that would get me through most of the day: ignore what everyone else is doing, don’t get dragged into racing strangers and run my own race.
The reward for the climb was glorious — roughly a mile of descending, dropping around 500 feet towards Malham. It was part field, part road and entirely too tempting.
I told myself to stay controlled, be sensible and save the legs.
Naturally, I ignored myself completely.
I opened up and flew downhill like a man who had temporarily forgotten he still had another twenty-odd miles to run. Seven minutes later, slightly carried away and operating almost entirely on vibes, I was heading towards the out-and-back section at Gordale Scar.
And to be fair, it was absolutely worth it.
Gordale Scar & Malham Tarn
Gordale Scar is an incredible limestone gorge around a mile outside Malham. It’s the sort of place dramatic enough to make you briefly forget that your legs are beginning to fall apart.
If you’ve never been, it’s well worth a visit.
Preferably without running double-digit miles beforehand.
Even better, waiting there once again was my personal photographer, morale booster and Jedi master. Obi-Wan had returned. Another quick chat, another photo and I was moving again.
From Gordale Scar, the route became a mixture of steps, short trail sections and road leading towards Malham Tarn. By this point I’d fully committed to the day’s strategy: walk the climbs, run the flats and descents, and avoid doing anything spectacularly stupid.
The section around Malham Tarn was probably my favourite part of the entire route. The sun was shining, but not in that surface of Mercury sort of way. There was just enough breeze, the trails were runnable and, for once, I actually relaxed.
For a little while, everything clicked. The pace felt good, the scenery was spectacular and there was no immediate threat of physical collapse.
This ultra-running business wasn’t so bad after all.
Then there were the cows.
The Cows
I feel the cows deserve their own section, mainly because I can’t remember exactly where most of the incidents involving them actually happened. The whole experience has merged into one long, panic-induced blur.
Some cows were fairly zen. Quiet, respectful and standing around chewing grass like heavily built yoga instructors. I liked those cows.
Others decided to sprint directly across my path while aggressively relieving themselves in my general direction, which felt unnecessarily personal.
And then there were the rude ones.
Look, I’ll admit it: I’m petrified of cows.
Perhaps I’m being slightly dramatic, but when twenty of the bloody things gather around the exact gate you need to get through and start giving you the evils, rational thought quickly disappears.
At that point there was only one option.
Sorry, farmer. I’m free-soloing your wall.
Barbed wire or not.
Alex Honnold wishes he knew pressure like this.
Halfway – And Things Get Technical
After surviving the bovine section and finishing the pleasant plod around Malham Tarn, the Skipton Skedaddle was roughly halfway to being conquered.
Or survived. Survived felt more accurate.
The next section served up the most technical trail of the route, and naturally this was also the point where I’d convinced myself I could make up some decent time. Reality had other ideas.
What I’d imagined as a fast, flowing descent became cautious, slightly panicked progress as I attempted to negotiate the terrain without completely finishing off my increasingly unhappy knee.
Partway down, I passed a lively group of women cheering runners from the side of the trail. In a moment of desperation, I asked whether any of them happened to have a spare knee I could borrow.
Sadly, nobody did.
Absolutely useless aid station.
Eventually, the rollercoaster descent dropped us back into Malham. It had been tough going, but I was relieved to reach the bottom in one piece. More importantly, mentally it felt as though I’d now covered a proper chunk of the route and was finally heading towards home.
Waiting at the bottom was — you guessed it — Obi-Wan, this time joined by another couple of mates who’d come out to cheer me on.
Seeing familiar faces at that stage gave me a proper boost. The knee clearly wasn’t going to magically heal itself, but I’d accepted that by now. There was only one direction left to go.
Back to Skipton.
The Long Road Home
The arse end of the course consisted mainly of flat running, which sounds wonderful until you’ve already run the best part of an ultra marathon.
I eventually caught my earlier running buddy again, along with another runner who helped drag me through the next section. Together, we worked our way across what felt like an endless succession of fields and trails and, obviously, more cow-infested territory.
By this stage I’d developed the survival instincts of a startled gazelle every time I heard a distant moo.
The route carried us through Airton, Calton and eventually Gargrave — all places I knew reasonably well. That familiarity helped. There’s something reassuring during an ultra about finally recognising where you are. You’re still knackered and your legs still hurt, but at least you’re knackered somewhere familiar.
Eventually my two companions pushed on. They still had enough left in the tank to properly attack the finish, whereas I knew there was absolutely no point trying to follow them.
My race was now between me, my knee and the finish line.
Unfortunately, there was one final obstacle standing between us.
The canal.
Five Miles of Canal-Induced Misery
The final five miles from Gargrave to Skipton follow the canal. On paper, that sounds ideal: flat, straightforward and completely runnable.
After nearly 30 miles on your feet, however, it becomes a mind-numbingly repetitive psychological endurance experiment.
Every bend seemed to play the same trick on me. Surely Skipton is just around this one? Nope. Then another bridge appeared, followed by another stretch of towpath that looked suspiciously identical to the last one.
At some point I began to question whether I was actually getting any closer to Skipton at all.
The canal just wouldn’t end.
Still, it was taking me towards the finish rather than further away from it, and somewhere during those final miles — while my brain slowly turned to mush — I started reflecting on the day.
Despite what this write-up might suggest, I’d actually done a decent job of not complaining too much about my knee while I was out there. Internally was a very different story, obviously, but overall I’d done what I’d set out to do.
I hadn’t raced anyone else or spent the day chasing a finish time. Well, apart from that slightly stupid descent into Malham.
I’d walked when I needed to walk, run when I could run and kept moving forward when neither option felt particularly appealing.
Sometimes that’s all an ultra really comes down to.
Back to Skipton
Eventually, after 34 miles of hills, trails, limestone, dodgy ankles, an increasingly questionable knee and enough cow-related trauma to last a lifetime, Skipton finally came back into view.
Done.
I crossed the finish line in 6:18:28, covering 34.63 miles with 4,117 feet of climbing. Somewhat surprisingly, given the catalogue of minor disasters described above, that was enough for 7th place overall.
I’ll definitely take that.
The Skipton Skedaddle isn’t the longest ultra I’ve taken on, but it packs plenty into those 34 miles. Sharp Haw gives you an early introduction to the climbing, Gordale Scar and Malham Tarn provide some genuinely spectacular scenery, and there’s enough variation between fast trails, fields, roads and technical descents to keep things interesting.
Then, just when your legs have finally had enough, the course rewards you with five miles of canal towpath to determine whether you really want that finish badly enough.
Would I do it again?
Ask me when I’ve forgotten about the canal.
And the cows.
Especially the cows.
