JOHN EDWARDS – A short remembrance
It was with great sadness that I heard of John’s death in March. He was a distinguished “character” in the Dark Peak Fell Runners as evident by the soubriquets he was given, Gentleman John, Squire Read more
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The prize giving ceremony in the Sportsman was overshadowed by persistent rumours that Jim Orrell had been picked up for kerb crawling in Firvale. These proved unfounded when Jim burst in, an action reply of his Club Championships wooden spoon bid, and explained how he had found his way, eschewing local knowledge and street, plans by asking the citizenry the way to Wankabonk. His was the most creditable solo effort of the event. Otherwise, safety in numbers had been the order of the day. The Hayes-Berry tandem shasayed round, in step every inch of the way, in an impressive (unbeatable?) sub 2-hours time. Success was due to the crucial early decision to rely on Mike's computerised route chart and schedule rather than GB's A-Z.
Dark horse, McLewin look-a-like, N. Tebbit (Chingford Hare and Hounds) nursed Jeff Harrison through the trickier sections of Neepsend and Firth Park (pioneering a nifty detour at Idsworth Road) but could not match the Stocksbridge lad's strength over the final 17 furlongs. The scratch pair of the two Rogers, Beaumeister and Woods, were well matched for new boy RW, it transpired, is a sensitive listener. These two were obvious favourites for the sprint finish with Tebbit that was shaping up as the three converged at Allen Sike. There was a point earlier in the race when it looked as if a fourth pairing was to be spontaneously sealed en route. However, Chris 'Trousers' Stamp was riled at being Worselled in the Horninglow Road gennel by much fancied Local Hero Yates. Superior talent and a couple of lucky breaks in the Herries Road traffic flow enabled CS to surge ahead and join the legendary sub-2-hour elite.
Excitement recalled in tranquillity: all we are now left with are the memories of all the challenging intricacies of the kaleidoscopic course; stirring episodes of companionship and betrayal; the gamut of moods experienced through the unfurling geography, between gasworks and allotment, play-ground and rubbish dump; evolving patterns street by street and gennel by gennel of gruelling competition. The last laugh, it has to be said was on the promoter, rebounding onto the Chingford skinhead; each had independently discovered that a barred door and newly initiated building works inside the Northern General Hospital had shut off the Corridor Route, necessitating an expensive detour via Medical Physics. The blow to morale and aesthetic sensibilities was more devastating than any effect on performance.
'It's a poor (wo)man who can't win his/her own race', with this Harmer-inspired maxim ringing obsessively in his thoughts the promoter is now back at the drawing board, devising a different challenge for 1991. Does this mean that the Great Urban Fell Race has been consigned to the dustbin of History? Or has it passed definitively into the realms of transcendental myth, living on only in the collective memory and imagination? Is that where it always belonged anyway?
Alan Yates
PART 2: AN ALTERNATIVE VIEW
All the signs were ominous: a less than reverential reference in DP News,, the word 'urban' and even Alan's enthusiasm couldn't disguise 17 miles and most of that on roads. I had gone with the intention of setting off in the other direction to enjoy the Peak Park. However, on the day I got carried away and followed the pack for about 3 miles down some very steep roads. It was only when I stopped to look at my map that I realised that this had caused havoc with my calf muscles. I would feel this for the rest of the run and for a week afterwards.
Following minor navigational problems through shopping areas, I soon found myself crossing a railway bridge and up on top of Shirecliffe Hill, the first checkpoint. It was here that my map ran out; should I just go for a morning run or carry on with the course. Armed with no map and no local knowledge I decided to continue.
I thought the next checkpoint was Winker Hill, but noone had ever heard of it. A housing estate later, I was told that the hill in the distance was Wincobank Hill, that sounded good enough. Through a hospital, a roundabout with a road through the middle of it and a few more directions from passers by later and I was on top of Wincobank Hill. At least I think I was. I found a funny cobbled junction but never did find the skip which was supposed to be the checkpoint.
I don't know which way the locals sent me, but the road to Hillsborough went on and on. I was looking forward to a cup of tea and found a snack van, only to discover that he was going home. He'd come on the wrong day because the match was being televised on Sunday. I had to make do with a bottle of Lucozade. That's one advantage of an urban fell race, lots of safe watering holes. By this time I'd had enough of roads, and as I was now back with my map, took a diversion up Rivelin Valley, keeping a close eye out for the glue sniffers that an old lady had warned me about. The last steep ascent brought me back to the Sportsman. I think they must be used to bedraggled specimens in there as not a head turned as I crossed the floor in my lifa longJohns etc. I was warmly welcomed with a pint of my favourite cider as a reward. Judging by the gait of some of those who left the Sportsman, I don't think that I was the only one with a few aching joints and muscles.
Jim Orrell
Members can click on their name to see a results history
Great Urban Fell on Sat 13th Jan 1990
9 startersPART 1 : A WORD FROM YOUR ORGANISERThe prize giving ceremony in the Sportsman was overshadowed by persistent rumours that Jim Orrell had been picked up for kerb crawling in Firvale. These proved unfounded when Jim burst in, an action reply of his Club Championships wooden spoon bid, and explained how he had found his way, eschewing local knowledge and street, plans by asking the citizenry the way to Wankabonk. His was the most creditable solo effort of the event. Otherwise, safety in numbers had been the order of the day. The Hayes-Berry tandem shasayed round, in step every inch of the way, in an impressive (unbeatable?) sub 2-hours time. Success was due to the crucial early decision to rely on Mike's computerised route chart and schedule rather than GB's A-Z.
Dark horse, McLewin look-a-like, N. Tebbit (Chingford Hare and Hounds) nursed Jeff Harrison through the trickier sections of Neepsend and Firth Park (pioneering a nifty detour at Idsworth Road) but could not match the Stocksbridge lad's strength over the final 17 furlongs. The scratch pair of the two Rogers, Beaumeister and Woods, were well matched for new boy RW, it transpired, is a sensitive listener. These two were obvious favourites for the sprint finish with Tebbit that was shaping up as the three converged at Allen Sike. There was a point earlier in the race when it looked as if a fourth pairing was to be spontaneously sealed en route. However, Chris 'Trousers' Stamp was riled at being Worselled in the Horninglow Road gennel by much fancied Local Hero Yates. Superior talent and a couple of lucky breaks in the Herries Road traffic flow enabled CS to surge ahead and join the legendary sub-2-hour elite.
Excitement recalled in tranquillity: all we are now left with are the memories of all the challenging intricacies of the kaleidoscopic course; stirring episodes of companionship and betrayal; the gamut of moods experienced through the unfurling geography, between gasworks and allotment, play-ground and rubbish dump; evolving patterns street by street and gennel by gennel of gruelling competition. The last laugh, it has to be said was on the promoter, rebounding onto the Chingford skinhead; each had independently discovered that a barred door and newly initiated building works inside the Northern General Hospital had shut off the Corridor Route, necessitating an expensive detour via Medical Physics. The blow to morale and aesthetic sensibilities was more devastating than any effect on performance.
'It's a poor (wo)man who can't win his/her own race', with this Harmer-inspired maxim ringing obsessively in his thoughts the promoter is now back at the drawing board, devising a different challenge for 1991. Does this mean that the Great Urban Fell Race has been consigned to the dustbin of History? Or has it passed definitively into the realms of transcendental myth, living on only in the collective memory and imagination? Is that where it always belonged anyway?
Alan Yates
PART 2: AN ALTERNATIVE VIEW
All the signs were ominous: a less than reverential reference in DP News,, the word 'urban' and even Alan's enthusiasm couldn't disguise 17 miles and most of that on roads. I had gone with the intention of setting off in the other direction to enjoy the Peak Park. However, on the day I got carried away and followed the pack for about 3 miles down some very steep roads. It was only when I stopped to look at my map that I realised that this had caused havoc with my calf muscles. I would feel this for the rest of the run and for a week afterwards.
Following minor navigational problems through shopping areas, I soon found myself crossing a railway bridge and up on top of Shirecliffe Hill, the first checkpoint. It was here that my map ran out; should I just go for a morning run or carry on with the course. Armed with no map and no local knowledge I decided to continue.
I thought the next checkpoint was Winker Hill, but noone had ever heard of it. A housing estate later, I was told that the hill in the distance was Wincobank Hill, that sounded good enough. Through a hospital, a roundabout with a road through the middle of it and a few more directions from passers by later and I was on top of Wincobank Hill. At least I think I was. I found a funny cobbled junction but never did find the skip which was supposed to be the checkpoint.
I don't know which way the locals sent me, but the road to Hillsborough went on and on. I was looking forward to a cup of tea and found a snack van, only to discover that he was going home. He'd come on the wrong day because the match was being televised on Sunday. I had to make do with a bottle of Lucozade. That's one advantage of an urban fell race, lots of safe watering holes. By this time I'd had enough of roads, and as I was now back with my map, took a diversion up Rivelin Valley, keeping a close eye out for the glue sniffers that an old lady had warned me about. The last steep ascent brought me back to the Sportsman. I think they must be used to bedraggled specimens in there as not a head turned as I crossed the floor in my lifa longJohns etc. I was warmly welcomed with a pint of my favourite cider as a reward. Judging by the gait of some of those who left the Sportsman, I don't think that I was the only one with a few aching joints and muscles.
Jim Orrell
Members can click on their name to see a results history
| Position | Name | Club | Class | Time | Comment | Bonus |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | Graham Berry | Dark Peak | MV45 | 01:55:43 | ||
| 1 | Mike Hayes | Dark Peak | M | 01:55:43 | ||
| 3 | Chris Stamp | 01:57:55 | ||||
| 4 | Alan Yates | Dark Peak | MV45 | 02:04:00 | ||
| 5 | Jeff Harrison | Dark Peak | MV50 | 02:29:00 | ||
| 6 | Roger Woods | Dark Peak | M | 02:35:47 | ||
| 8 | Will McLewin | Dark Peak | MV45 | 02:36:51 | ||
| 9 | Jim Orrell | Dark Peak | MV40 | 03:38:30 |