HOW WAS I T FOR YOU?
With 21km of swimming and running through gnarly Lake District terrain, tackling Breca Coniston is no mean feat. Undeterred by a lack of specific training or any previous experience, 220’s own Kate Milsom stepped up to the challenge
"Slow down!” I bark for what feels like the hundredth time to my swimrun partner, Emily, who’s speeding ahead up the impossibly steep and endless craggy mountain pass before us. We’re scrambling up a narrow opening in the rockface near the top of Loughrigg Fell, the highest point of the Breca Coniston swimrun. The race is traditionally run as pairs, and to stray more than 10m from your partner spells disqualification. With a mountain goat for a partner, I was understandably very worried.
All decorum lost by this point, I loudly wheeze my way over the top where we’re instantly hit by views of Windermere’s glittering waters winking away far below. Turning ahead to glance northwards, we watch the trickle of heavily laden swimrunners disperse across the boggy fell, hints of fluorescent gear bobbing in between sprawling ferns and purple heather. We slip into the throng and begin our clambering descent towards Grasmere and the finish line.
A year ago, I’d never even heard of a swimrun. ‘Surely that’s just an obscure name for an aquathlon,’ I’d thought. Apparently not. With the pandemic scuppering the best part of two race seasons, and my typical summer bikepacking trip out the window, I was on the lookout for a challenge. I call myself a triathlete, but in all honesty, I’d only completed a measly two races in my short-lived racing career (thanks again, Covid).
More of an endurance junkie, I shy away from fast, competitive racing in favour of impossibly long challenges like cycling across the UK or Europe, where the main focus is mind over matter. As a rule, if it doesn’t sound impossibly hard and wacky, I don’t want to hear about it and needless to say, swimrun fit the brief pretty nicely. I was intrigued.
Set in the northwest of the country, the Lake District is the UK’s second largest national park and the surroundings for Breca’s first British event of the season, Breca Coniston. The course follows a point-to-point route along fells, technical trails and over rugged passes in six run legs totalling 18km. Cooling off after each jaunt, competitors get to splash through sections of Lake Windermere, Rydal Water and Grasmere over a total distance of 3km. And that’s just the ‘sprint’ distance…
Due to the pandemic, the full, ultra 45km-distance event was cancelled, which meant that the race didn’t actually travel through Coniston at all. To allow racers to compete despite teammates being stranded abroad or injured, the event organisers decided to debut a solo category, the only caveat being that racers must carry tow-floats with them for safety and visibility while out on the course.
THE CALL OF THE WILD
We’re bus-shuttled to the start, muttering race strategy under the obligatory face masks. Glancing around, we can see racers of all ages, sizes, genders and nationalities. The two lads sat in front are first-time offenders. Normally triathletes, Stuart and Adam, or team Moist & Chafe, seem excited about the prospect of trying something new after the Covid-enforced racing hiatus. With bright smiles they admit to buying a set of hand paddles just the day before. It resonates – my partner and I had only managed a few swimrunspecific training sessions in the month leading up to the event, to the amusement of those at Bristol’s Clevedon Marine Lake and Cromhall Quarry. Hey, we like to entertain.
We arrive and swimrunners spill out into the roadside at Braithwaite Hall in the quaint conservation village of Far Sawrey, Ambleside. The pre-race buzz hints of nostalgia, as we hustle together by the start line for the first time in over a year. Soon enough, the start countdown commences and 308 swimrunners rush straight onto the trails, in the direction of Windermere.
SINK OR SWIM
The first run leg is a short 2.6km jaunt that starts instantly with an uphill, putting racers under no illusion as to the undulating course profile. My stomach knots; hills are not my strong point. At this early stage, we’re so bunched up that it’s
all I can do to focus on the rolling stones of the ground beneath me. Wordless huffing and puffing fills the silence. Focus. Don’t trip. That would just be embarrassing.
Soon enough, the gravel path crests the top, and it’s a technical descent dodging roots and thistles to the first swim start at Lilies of the Valley on Lake Windermere. My swimrun partner Em hands me our tow line and I clip it to a loop at the front of my suit, the rope snaking through her legs and attaching to her front. Scrambling to secure my goggles and hand paddles, I stuff my pull buoy between my legs and faceplant into the shallows. I’m ready for my slipstream!
It’s the longest swim of the race, a 900m cruise between fishing boats, trying to stay out of the lines of other swimmers. Soon though, I realise that we’re not making much progress. We’d shortened our rope so we didn’t obstruct any other swimmers, but in doing so it had become obsolete. I unclip myself. It’s not working. We continue weaving between swimmers and I try to keep up with my speedy partner, but without our line, I’m lost. I panic and gulp in several mouthfuls of lake water. Splashing desperately in Em’s wake, who hasn’t yet realised she’s dropped me, I bump into other swimmers and receive a kick in the head. Eventually, we’re reunited and stumble to the shore onto the next flat 3.5km run to High Wray Bay.
TRUE GRIT
We’ve now been racing for over an hour and my mouth salivates expectantly as we trudge up to the first aid station at Wray Castle. It’s an eco affair, with competitors instructed to carry their own reusable cup if they want a drink.
“I’m breathing so heavily I worry I might pass out and create a domino effect with the racers behind us”
I unzip mine from a back pocket and start filling up from a barrel of electrolytes, simultaneously squeezing a gel across my face in the direction of my mouth while Em stuffs her face with salty potatoes. I later find out that overall race winner Davide Molinario’s secret to success is not to waste time at aid stations, but to rehydrate during the swim by drinking the lake water. If he hadn’t had done so, first woman Julia Anderson would have beaten him. As it is, she finished a mere three seconds in his wake.
One more 700m swim leads us to the monster of all runs, with 200m elevation in the space of a couple of kilometres. It isn’t going to be pretty. Halfway comes and goes as we pass the 10km mark and, suddenly, we’re climbing. The thin, uneven trail we stumble along begins to get more and more undulating and I slow to a walk up the steep sections. A purely tactical move, of course. Unaware it was possible, the path becomes steeper still, moulding into jumbled chicanes snaking upwards out of sight. Clambering over a boulder wedged into the trail, we realise just how far we’ve come, Windermere a mere glimmer bedded between rolling hills below us.
I’m breathing so heavily I worry I might pass out and create a domino effect with the racers behind us. Thankfully, I pull through as we begin our descent. It’s technical. Keeping our footfall quick and light, we attempt to keep the avalanches to a minimum as our quads strain with the effort of stabilising our strides. I hear muttering and yells from racers further back – there’s solidarity in discomfort.
Before we know it, the final 800m swim is upon us. We crash into the cool depths of Grasmere’s lake with a sigh and tether up for the final push. Both Em and I spent our school days in the same local swim club, so we know how to hustle. Em leads us past scores of swimmers, breaking away from our swim pack we bridge the gap to the next group, managing to reach the front by the time we crawl out on the cobbles.
A WELCOME SURPRISE
We saunter into Grasmere while exchanging encouragement with the steady stream of Lakeland ultra-marathon racers heading the opposite way. The ding of cow bells crescendos in the distance. Surprised, Em and I spot the sign to Dale Lodge Hotel – round the next corner awaits the finish line. Out of
nowhere, team Moist & Chafe from the bus saunter past us and leap across the line. Fair play to them, we’d been playing cat-and-mouse all race. Grinning like Cheshire cats, Em and I grab hands and rush across the line, proudly receiving our wooden Breca medals.
We finish in a time of 3:00:49 that, unknown to us until we’re pushed onto a podium hours later, wins us the first-placed female team (out of 26) by 15 minutes. I’d never done so much walking and still won! But it goes to show that swimrun is another beast entirely compared to any other multisport event. It’s an experience, an adventure that can’t be measured by time or pace, but on grit and effort. Or in my case, by a very tactical partner choice.
For such a logistical beast of a race, Breca and its network of volunteers did a great job of proving a safe and enjoyable experience for all participants. Not only this, but their push for sustainability shown in the resources used and biosecurity checks at registration to protect the local ecosystems is impressive. As for Em and I, we enjoyed parading around in our swimrun get-up and exploring the stunning local scenery. I think some of that lake water must have got to our heads because I’m pretty sure we’ve caught the swimrun bug. ’Til next time Coniston. We’ll be back to defend our title.