Mike P

I can see it in his eyes, he really means it. I look again, deeper, searching... just to make absolutely sure... his trembling hand extends, it holds the trembling foil, and there, sat upon it, his last, trembling Rolo.

I believe it's an age-old act of deep affection. The selfless demonstration of love between two people, the giving of your last Rolo to someone you love, to someone who means the world to you, to someone who, quite simply, deserves the whole packet... and so sensing the tenderness of the moment, I snatch that minuscule, teeny-tiny speck of a chocolate covered toffee excuse of a Rolo and I... sorry, I have to digress at this point... let's get this straight... Rolo's are smaller, Wagon Wheels are smaller, everything is smaller, and no, before you say it, it ain't because I'M ALL BIG NOW! Can I get a hell yeh? Can I get an amen? Breathe, relax, calm... thank you, sorry... anyway, where was I? Oh yeh, I scoffed his last Rolo.

I arrived at 11am, played the electronic drum kit in the front room, then squeezed Mike and his bags into my adequately and perfectly proportioned car. Wishing Ruth a good day, "See you later! See you in Keswick!", we buckled up. Mike almost forgot his fell shoes... and with that, we were off to a sketchy great start.

Happy times on the M6. Mike tortured me with his choice of tunes introduced me to some new and interesting music. We chatted about this, that and nothing in particular. I remember thinking how calm he seemed to be, (much more so than I was before my attempt). Reaching Keswick, and reclining on the grassy slope of Hope Park, we gazed dreamy-eyed at each other over Derwent Water, breathing deep and soaking in the beauty, expecting, but not hearing, the Typhoon roar. Mike smashed his way through a massive pasty we'd picked up from The (BEST) Cornish Pasty shop. Then we, as everyone must, made the short pilgrimage to The Moon and Sixpence, for what is undoubtedly the best coffee known to humankind, before mooching along to Kong to touch some shoes, purchase a couple of soft-flasks and pick up the not-tracker.

Roy, award winning Yorkshire tea drinker and all-round-super-hero-road-support, was already parked at BG Support HQ. The three of us took the opportunity to settle in before a steady influx of willing-wonderfuls began to arrive. I, as the only chief present to have almost obtained a bona-fide food hygiene certificate some 35 years ago, sourced local ingredients in order to rustle up a truly outstanding mornay sauce. Lesser chiefs, finding themselves in an unfamiliar kitchen (with unfamiliar utensils), would have no doubt played safe with a Béchamel, but not this chief. This sensational sauce I paired with some pretty average pasta and broccoli. It would be remiss of me at this point, not to mention my amazing sous chief, Ruth, who despite having a cold, took up the unenviable mission of acquiring flour, which I had neglected to pick up... this she did on her bicycle, thank you, sous chief Ruth! Leaving the carnage a little bit of washing up in the kitchen, I mumbled my excuses and set off for Penrith Railway Station to pick up Oli. 

Back at HQ.

Hugs.

Firm, earnest hand shakes.

Excited smiles.

Last-minute-pole-panic.

Read those not-tracker instructions!

Hearty-belly-laughs.

Bag-faffs... followed by a mass exodus... the short stroll in the warm evening air (air ever-so-lightly infused with the delicate blend of expensive beer, expensive takeaway and free fag-breath) to the Moot Hall, a three-way embrace, a kiss on a fluffy head, a green door. 

The laughter.

The posing for photos.

The more photos.

The loud admonition, repeated multiple times, in case it wasn't clear, from the pointy-finger-in-your-face drunken stranger: "don't you dare f**king give up". Mike takes it in his stride.

The count down.

The wild cheering, the clapping, the sound of studs on street... Mike, Crispin, Ali and Matt disappear from sight into the dark ginnel and the Moot Hall falls silent once more.

Now, if you believe the not-tracker, then Mike didn't actually go anywhere at all... that f**king orange pear-drop bounced merrily up and down atop the Moot Hall for the entire weekend... Thanks a lot, not-tracker.

Mike seemed to be 10 minutes up 10 minutes in, before locking in his schedule pace, which he maintained all the way through the crystal-clear night with Oli, Gary, Jim and Geoff, to a stunning sunrise with Oli (Oli supported 2 and 3), plus Will, Andrew and Micheal, to a scorching hot day on the southern fells, before descending down into the shimmering, simmering cauldron of heat that was Wasdale.

Alasdair, Joe, Sam and I had hiked over from Honister to meet Eve, Richard, Lucy and Sandy, who had camper-van'd overnight there... out of the camper van, they served us the most impressive assortment of food and beverages one can imagine, along with some questionable French excuse for Cheese Strings, which I won't mention beyond this point. I don't recall seeing any Rolo's there, but I could be wrong.

Cheering. Here he comes through the car park! He sits in his chair. A cold, wet towel is draped over the shoulders. Off with his humming-warm-vaseline-soaked socks. More vaseline and some fruit cocktail. Some flat coke and some fresh socks. I turn around, shout out a "three minutes to go" warning, turn around again and the chair is empty. He has literally done a runner, gone! Right then, I thought, I guess we're leaving NOW! I scoop up my pack, swinging it over a shoulder, take a wide-eyed look around to make sure his poles haven't been left behind and scamper off with much the same feeling you have when you've actually left the oven on after making, oh I dunno, say, cheesy pasta and broccoli. We reach the summit of Yewbarrow before I realise I haven't started my watch (as pacer, I had one job... just one, I am off to a sketchy great start), I resist the urge to announce that we simply must go back and do the climb again. 

Andrew and Michael, (of 3 fame), continue on with us. Mike had declined my offer of music on the way up Yewbarrow, stating that he wasn't in the mood for any words of encouragement from Kate regarding Running up that Hill... but later, when he requested Disco, I obliged with a truly splendid, perfect pitch rendition of Saturday Night Fever. I have no doubt that you're familiar will all the rumours, but I personally don't believe the brothers Glibb have ever supported on 4, but one thing's for sure, I did 'em mighty proud. Sadly my performance was cut short. Mike slammed his hands down on the big red button, said he'd asked for Discos, not Disco... specifically the salt and vinegar variety. It can be windy on the tops, hard to hear muttering.

Dry from vocal exertions, those high notes take some hitting I'll have you know... and in dire need of water, a mirage of Katie appeared yonder at Black Sail Pass. Andrew took some convincing that the mirage was actually an oasis... Katie had muled up bottles of much needed water and then, to thoroughly secure the title of saviour of the section, she traversed around Kirk Fell and Great Gable to pop out again at Windy Gap with yet more water. What. A. Total. Legend.

Also displaying saviour-like qualities, Graeme miraculously manifested himself at numerous locations throughout the night and day: appearing first as a shining light on the summit of Blencathra, then again, much to the surprise of all the disciples, on steep incline to Fairfield, before finally materialising in human form on a rock at an un-disclosed location somewhere before the rolo-shaped Great Gable, to provide, on that occasion, a taste heaven: after five hours of luke-warm water, the taste of five loaves and two fish freshly filtered, cold water is capable of conveying the neediest of souls into a transcendent, trance-like state that can only otherwise be achieved by taking one of Michael's special (not illegal, but probably should be) pills.

And there it is! The slate mine! What a beautiful sight! And yet more beautiful, the sight of Pam and Declan gazing toward Grey Knotts. They're ready to perform yet another miracle, to cast their love and magic upon yet another shuffling shell of a human and to send them out strong and determined to scale Dale Head, Hindscarth and Robinson. Roy is here too, he's looking tired, bless him and so is Geoff, he hiked part way to Grey Knotts to meet us. Loving family are all around and about, eager for news, eager to hug, to comfort and whisper, "We love you, you can do it, you're nearly there!", but resisting, not wanting to delay, not wanting to disrupt the focus, ultimate love... And those folks over there? Weren't they clapping as Mike came in? Yes, they're waiting for Andy Berry... what did you say? 12 hours, 22 minutes? Is that possible?

Through a dust-dry-dust cloud they go... Mike, Chris, Richard, Alasdair and an almost completely naked Joe, as he has been for most of the day. 

Three to go, just three, just three... He. Will. Do. It.

Skiddaw, which was front and centre is now to the left. Its vast flank turns from dry-brown-green to solid black as the relentless, burning sun finally recedes below the horizon behind their bobbing heads. Here he comes, here they come, as precious pizza boxes and carrier bags laden with beer move slowly in the opposite direction and now, through that same Keswick air, to shouts, to screams, to clapping and to cheering, he sprints to touch that very same green door, climbs summit 43 and turns to face us.

23 hours, 36 minutes of unforgettable adventure, fells and friendship.

You're the Champ, Mike. You are the Champ.