“Hello Mark”, a low voice out of the shadows of the admin
area. It was Karol, the thickset Pole, instantly recognisable by his
magnificent sideburns. I’d flown passed him going down Jacobs’ Ladder during
the Summer Fan, and he’d returned the favour by steaming past me on the way
back up. I thought “my God, how can anyone sustain that pace up this hill?”, he
seemed completely driven, his steps sure and
mechanical, pushing further and further ahead of me until I realised I
would never catch him again. Jacob’s doesn’t lie to you, all of your
uncertainties, doubts and insecurities are realised right there on its slopes.
If you’re not headstrong enough, it’ll erode your confidence in a creeping,
insidious manner, as slow and agonising as each step up its dreadful gradient. It’s
a counsellor, motivator and demon all in one.
But that was back in July.
Here I was, in Wales again, with November’s attendant gloom
shrouding not only the starkly beautiful Brecon Beacons but my mood as well.
I’d arrived back in London that afternoon from a business trip to Paris that
was full of the excesses that I should’ve been wiser to avoid, considering what
I was about to attempt. The four hour drive in rush-hour traffic to reach the Danywenallt
youth hostel hadn’t helped my morale either, nor had the quagmire that greeted
me as I was directed to the parking area in the lower field.
I immediately felt out of my depth, and even though I would
be in the company of like-minded people, some of whom I knew by sight from
previous events and others by way of social media, I felt completely alone.
Perhaps it was the gravity of what Point to Point represented; perhaps it was
the sheer size of the hills surrounding our accommodation, but I had the
distinct impression of being dwarfed by it all.
I’d experienced every conceivable kind of anxiety in the
preceding weeks; do I wear the Gore-Tex boots or not? Had I done enough hill
training? Why couldn’t I find a bloody crusader-type cup anywhere on the
Holborn Road? Will the clash of DPM and MTP be a catastrophic sartorial
faux-pas? What if I actually die doing this? How much over my allotted
lease-car mileage is this trip going to push me? Does it really matter that I
can’t read a map at all?
But now I was here and I’d have to face up to it all – sure,
I’d volunteered; I’d paid a lot of money to be part of this – but I was scared
to death. But that was the point. It was one of the reasons that I entered
these races; it was why I put myself through hours of boring, painful
repetition up and down Yates Meadow while everyone else slept off a Saturday
morning hangover. It was why I was the one doing the ridiculous man-twerk
looking exercises to strengthen my quads, as suggested by my gym instructor
missus. And it was why I was persevering with the high-carbohydrate, high-protein
diet that made me spend more time on the toilet than with her, it seemed. It
was because I was frightened of doing Point to Point; surely it wasn’t the
place for me because I was scared cold.
Chuck Palahniuk said, “Find out what you're afraid of and go
live there.” So there I was.
I asked Karol if he was going solo or if he was part of a
team, "solo...” he said coolly.”Do you think I could tag along with
you?" I asked, acutely aware of my lack of navigational ability.
"Sure, but it's at your own risk.” was the laconic retort. I thought, “If
only you knew the risk I was carrying anyway, my friend”.
The ensuing odyssey held nothing in the way of pleasure for
me, every step was treacherous enough to threaten a dislocation or sprain of
some sort and I marvelled at how the selection candidates must move at speed
over this terrain. It was pure relief to happen across the relative comfort of
any path that was surer underfoot, but such luxuries were not so common. The
headlamp-light of those first few hours before dawn played mean tricks on a
confused and tired mind still trying to make sense of the unfamiliar. More than
once I thought for sure we were about to stumble onto a flat, firm, grassy
plateau, only to be faced with yet another disappointingly steep incline, sown
with tussocks and treacly mud traps. None of it was easy, there was no respite
and each pace had to be calculated and considered to avoid cracking a bone or
stumbling and launching the bergen overhead to faceplant in the peat, or worse,
the rocks.
The hours merged, the weight of the bergen making for a
dead, dull ache, toes mercifully numb...
“It’s probably about another hour to the next RV”.
“Yeah ok, we’ve done six already, so what’s one more?”
It was approaching the summit of Pen y Fan that I noticed
Karol69’s eyes drooping and his movements becoming more lethargic - by his own
admission he was beginning to fade. "I'm falling asleep mate... get your
compass out and go on your own" he slurred. Of course, that would never
happen, I'd brandished my compass with confidence at the RVs more so to satisfy
the DS than anything else but I really didn't know what to do with it. Karol
was a superb reader of maps and terrain, and there was no way I was going to
leave him let alone chance it on my own.
We checked in with
Jason at the top of the Fan and Karol managed to summon enough of his faculty
to deliver an erudite route selection to the FRV, enough so to attract a DS
compliment. He was still in a bad way though and needed to eat if he wasn't to
tumble down Jacobs Ladder in a vortex of Polish camo and facial hair.
So I gave him pretty
much all of the food I'd carried and made sure he ate it, despite his protests.
But it wasn't just about keeping my navigator awake and switched on. I would've
given him the smock off my back if he needed it... I would've carried his
bergen if he couldn't manage. Because that's just what you'd do. That bond that
forms through shared hardship doesn't take long to cure, and it cures strong. I
would've taken any burden for him in those ten hours on the hills, and I'm sure
others felt the same way about their mukkers.
Being enroute to the FRV didn’t lift my spirits, the
approach to the final leg held a testing contouring route on already tired and
battered ankles and I really wanted it to end. One final stream crossing and we
were on the metalled road, a minute later, in the approaching gloom, we saw
Ken’s red torch, signalling the position of the final RV. We were done.
The only
congratulation we allowed each other was a stoic, macho fist-bump. Truth is, I
could've hugged him, kissing both those luxurious sideburns, à la française,
but this was SAS selection heartland, and real men didn't do that sort of thing
in these parts...
