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After spending several years writing, teaching and talking about mountain medicine you'd think that I might know what I'm doing in the hills. Of course not. Here's a recent example...

There's no doubt that the Trigger Race is a challenge. Starting in the village of Marsden, the course heads south over 24 miles of boggy moorland before finally finishing in Edale. To add some spice, the race takes place in early January and this normally means that the weather conditions are dreadful. It certainly was in 2022. The forecast predicted a day of heavy sleet, snow and rain, all accompanied by a strong gusty wind and low lying cloud. Worryingly, temperatures were only predicted to reach 1 or 2 degrees C. Therefore, it was with some trepidation that Glynn and I arrived at registration shortly after 7am.

Turning up on the day of a fell race and paying your money is rapidly becoming a thing of the past. People now book online well in advance and if the weather is particularly bad large numbers vote with their feet and stay away. This doesn't trouble the organisers - they have the money in the bank - but for those anxious runners looking for strength in numbers it can be a source of great concern. With over 240 expected, the arrival of around 160, meant that almost a third were missing. Glynn and I doubted ourselves. Were they right? Were we being reckless? The thoroughness of the kit check raised anxiety levels too, so did the presence of the Woodhead Mountain Rescue Team, who looked like they were dressed for a day on a North Sea trawler.

But before we could change our minds we were on our way. A good trail took us south past the string of reservoirs that head out of Marsden. The climb up Black Hill, liberally smeared in slush and mud, passed quickly, but shortly after topping out we were slowed by a biting southerly wind. Hat on and hood up, we carried on. The descent into Crowden and the first road crossing was hard going. Treacherous waist deep puddles and slippery mud tracks slowed us down and we both started to cool. Whippet thin, Glynn would normally set a fast pace on our runs. Up to that point I had been clinging to his coat tails, but as we reached the road crossing he started to fall back. I didn't think too much of it. When you've ran with someone for a long time you think you can read them. In Glynn's case I knew his descent would be slowed by the thick raindrops forming on his glasses. In fact I was glad of a break and it gave me time to eat a Crunchie and a handful of Wine Gums without the sickly breathlessness you get when you try and eat on the run.

Preventing hypothermia can be a real challenge - particularly in  a wet, windy and cold environment. On the Trigger Race this was made all the worse by poor conditions underfoot!

We joined up again on the trail that runs west beside the Woodhead Pass. Turning left onto the Pennine Way we met runners coming the other way on the first day of the Spine Race, a 268 mile multi day route that follows the length of Britain's most famous foot path. These runners were a welcome distraction and we didn't share many words until the leading group had passed. But this steep section of the route was ghastly. Thick shiny black mud seemed to be waiting for our every step. The driving rain and fierce winds were insidious. "Dress for 10 minutes time", the old adage goes. Jackets and over trousers were needed as we climbed up to Bleaklow, but finding the right time to put them on proved difficult. Too soon and we'd run the risk of sweat and discomfort, too late and our cold stiff hands would be unable to put them on. At the same time there were other distractions - we had to keep eating and drinking, as well as navigate off the Pennine Way and head cross country towards the checkpoint at Bleaklow Head. In the end we donned our jackets and left our waterproof trousers in our rucksacks. An earlier inspection of the short cut meant that we soon found our turn off and headed due south. As usual, Glynn watched the compass and I counted the steps. Normally we'd have moved quicker, but not today. Silently we made slow progress, interrupted every few minutes by my shouts "...100 paces", "...200 paces" and so on. Steep peat groughs and slush underfoot meant that slips were common and we were soon smeared in freezing mud. I remember the slap of cold water as I fell face down into a puddle. Eventually we reached the rim above Yellowstacks Clough and turned east. In just a few seconds we reached the checkpoint. Normally we would have congratulated each other on a good bit of navigation, but this time Glynn was silent. Was he having one of those low moments on a long run? I tried to cheer him up with the fact that we were ahead of our previous best and there was only Kinder left to climb. I soon realised I was doing my best to fill in an uncomfortable  silence. We were probably 3 km from the Snake Pass and the penultimate check point. It would then be over the Kinder plateau and down to  Edale to finish. Less than 2 hours to go. Maybe. Still no reply from my friend.

Key to preventing hypothermia is to keep your hands warm. Numb fingers make it very difficult to dress, whilst eating, drinking and navigation become more difficult too. I found that the key is to carry several pairs of thin gloves rather than rely on a single thick pair. As they get wet they can be replaced and put against the skin to dry

We were now moving very slowly, barely running at all. I looked at Glynn's face for the first time since we'd left Crowden. He wasn't pale, more an ashen grey. There was a washed out look in his eyes. He was gritting his teeth. I realised I hadn't seen him eat or drink anything for more than an hour. With a kilometre to the checkpoint we emerged from the cloud and were greeted by the strange sight of dog walkers and families milling around us. Many were dressed in little more than jeans and trainers, bracing themselves against the driving rain. "I can't go on" was all Glynn could say as we were overtaken by a dog and his owner. I realised that this wasn't the starting point for a negotiation, this was it. We'd covered around 2/3 of the route in under 4 hours - a reasonable pace given the conditions. But we were not going to finish it together. "You go on", he said. As we reached the checkpoint I handed my friend to the MRT and told them that I thought he was hypothermic. They quickly gathered around and set about warming him up. A cup of tea was passed, wet layers swiftly removed and a warm jacket put on. He was safe.

Did I want to continue? Snake Pass to Edale is little more than a dozen kilometres. In the height of summer, dressed in a running vest and shorts, I had ran it in just over an hour. But in these conditions it was going to take a lot longer. The weather had shown no sign of improvement and standing still with Glynn I quickly realised how soaked I was. Others around me were dropping out too. I ate another Crunchie and had a drink. I knew the way. I could break it down into sections. A short slabbed path, then a long but flat cross country short cut, a scramble up onto the plateau and the final checkpoint before crossing over to Grindsbrook Knoll and then down. I was ahead of my time in 2020. Glynn was safe. "Let's try it" I thought.

I crossed the road and started to run. Stiff and uncomfortable at first, the slabs provided an easy running surface and I slowly started to loosen up. By now my gloves were soaked and provided little in the way of insulation. In an effort to warm up, I ran clumsily with my hands in my jacket pockets. At this stage of the race appearances didn't count for much. If I couldn't dig out my map or feed myself for the next couple of hours I'd soon get into trouble. Ahead of me, a string of runners were stretched out doing their best to cut through the steady rain and mist. Whilst easy to run in, the slabs formed ankle deep puddles. Thank goodness for waterproof socks I thought.

Hypothermia slows you down - even in mild cases - beware the "umbers" - mumbles, fumbles, stumbles and grumbles!

At times the mist lifted and the shortcut south, cutting out a large chunk of the Pennine Way, became clear. Up and down, over steep banks of peat I passed. Thick streams of brown water needed fording. I soon lost sight of other runners but I knew where I needed to go. Ahead of me the plateau rose up like a giant tidal wave some 100 metres or so in height. I found a trail up beside a gully. Runners had been here before. I switched off and simply followed. I was grateful for the steepness. My limbs were finally warming up. I could take my hood off. I started to feel my fingers. Once on the plateau I checked my map and headed south. The mist was thick. A southerly wind was blowing hard in my face. Any heat that I'd made a few minutes earlier simply vanished. Within a minute or two the check point appeared. The MRT members cheerfully greeted me. "This one's still smiling", I heard someone say. He shook his head and offered me some Jelly Babies which I gratefully gulped down. Another Crunchie. That was it. All my food and water had gone. But the worst of it was over. The legs needed to work for another hour. They'd coped well so far. Could they do it? That question was raised again and again as I crossed the plateau. Anyone who's taken the feint path through the Kinder Gates will know that it's boggy and vague even in the height of summer. The mud and slush made running impossible at times. Thick mist caused me to doubt my navigation. Occasionally, I thought I'd caught sight of other runners. Sometimes a few words could be heard, carried in the wind. But I felt alone. By now I was colder than I'd ever been. I was moving too slowly and the weather was hitting me full in the face. For the first time that day I didn't know where I was. Clumsily I held the compass in my numb hand. "South", I kept repeating. I was slurring my words but somehow speaking out loud seemed to help. I started to talk and link phrases together. Sentences. Concentration. Encouragement. It wasn't so bad. As I started to descend I emerged from the mist. I saw the southern perimeter path cross in front of me. I gratefully turned left. Grindsbrook Knoll was ahead, more than a kilometre or so away, but I didn't mind. I was back. It felt like for a few minutes I'd been away in a different world. Picking up speed again, some heat returned. The stiffness lifted and a burning sensation in my fingers grew. Warmer now, I pressed on. Shapes of runners appeared ahead of me. Picking up speed I passed a few of them on my way down. Soon I was back in Edale. As I headed towards the finish, I heard my name being called. It was Glynn. He'd made it back, ferried to Edale in a warm MRT Land Rover. He was looking like his old self, swaddled in his large duvet jacket. Smiling. It was OK. We were both OK. Just.