Anfoniad Cymreig (Welsh Dispatch)

Who dares wins.

By the time I reached the summit of Pen y Fan for the second time, my toes felt like mincemeat. I was convinced that if I took off my boots, they would be full of blood, not that I had any intention of removing my boots just then. My goal was to finish the Fan Dance in less than five hours, and my watch told me I had 45 minutes to make the last descent. Pain is temporary, I told myself. All those hill repeats at the ski hill with a pack on my back, all those miles pounded out on the streets since the dark days of January had led me here and I wasn’t about to stop for some smashed toes. Every step was agony and I faced the prospect of the long descent to the finish. As I rounded the bulk of Corn Du, I could see the parking lot at Pont ar Daf far below, the cars like tiny toys, and a long string of hikers slowly making their way up towards me. I reluctantly broke into a trot, and every time my boot caught on a protruding rock, I howled an unholy sentiment. The finish grew closer. I could see other participants below me, the event tents, then my wife perched on a rock near the swinging gate that marked the merciful end. I felt a surge of adrenaline and broke into a run, careening past tourists, then straight through the  shallow stream, up the last slope and finally I was done.

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We’d been to Wales once before, back in 2019, and vowed we’d go back. That trip, we spent most of our days in north Wales, hiking around the rugged, misty peaks of Snowdonia and looking for castles on the coast. Only on our return drive to London did we stop at Pen y Fan, the highest peak in the Brecon Beacon range, and walk to the top. I vaguely knew the lore of the “Fan Dance,” the legendary selection march of Britain’s Special Forces but learning that there was a civilian version planted a seed in me. It seemed like a difficult endeavour, but one that, with enough training, a good level of fitness, and some internal grit, a worthy and doable challenge. And that’s just what I needed. 

Final stats.

By early May, I had built up some solid road miles running to build my cardiovascular fitness, and peppered in some swimming and cycling for variety. To strengthen my legs for the long climbs and descents, I hit the unfathomably boring stair climber at the gym, and then filled a pack with 25 pounds of diving weights and headed to a nearby ski hill. Up and down, up and down for three hours I went, AirPods screwed into my ears blasting an inspiring soundtrack. But then, I put a foot wrong—literally. The day after my hill session, I couldn’t walk without pain in my knee and some debilitating hip flexor soreness. At first I assumed it was merely fatigue from the intense workout but after a couple days’ rest, I tried for an easy run and could hardly go a city block without shooting pain. 

I saw a chiropractor, who manipulated the joint and its associated skeletal bits, I iced it, heated it, and avoided running for two weeks. I was fairly convinced that I had strained or mildly tore my medial collateral meniscus, and only time and rest would heal it. Finally it began to feel good enough to run again. By then, the Fan Dance loomed and I wondered how I could possibly hump a loaded pack up and over a mountain and back again without risking further injury. In early June, I was back at the ski hill with a loaded pack, and a knee brace. I did a mind numbing 3,000 feet of up and down that day. The knee held and didn’t swell up too badly. It passed the test. After one last 10-mile run, I tapered off my training to rest the legs and store up some energy. Pain is temporary… 

After the long flight to London, and a tiring three hour drive across England to Wales, we settled into our achingly charming rental cottage (I am an AirBnB ninja, in case you didn't know) for a few days of rest and prep. Sleep was a priority, and on our second day, we ventured out into the surrounding hills for an easy hike. It felt good to stretch the legs after the long flight and the fresh air and sunshine burned away the jetlag. On Saturday, we drove over to the Pen y Fan car park for a trial run and to get the lay of the land. It was a windy, raw day, with lashes of rain coming in waves every hour or so. Fortuitously, I had chosen the Sunday Fan Dance option, and I pitied those hearty souls up on the mountain for the Saturday event. The forecast for the next day looked tantalizingly ideal. I had prepared for foul weather, but lighter wind and a dry trail would be welcome.

The calm before the storm.

I packed my bag about four times that night. I had received a packing list of mandatory items (rain jacket, first aid kit, etc.) and then I threw in clothing layers for just about any scenario. Puffy jacket stuffed in the bottom, rain shell, thermal base layer, spare shirt and socks, first aid kit, two hydration reservoirs, a one-liter one with an electrolyte powder mixed in and a three-liter with just water, then a liter bottle with more electrolytes. In the outer pockets for easy access, I stuffed with energy chews, bars, homemade protein oat balls, and electrolyte tablets, plus my iPhone and AirPods. I weighed my pack with a small scale I brought along. It was a bit over 25 pounds. I had registered for the Fan Dance in the “Clean Fatigue” category; i.e., no specific weight requirement, but it turned out I was loaded up for one of the load bearing categories. Not that I cared. I was doing this for me. Doing the Fan Dance end to end was a purely personal challenge, outside of any categories or times. It wasn’t a competition. It was a statement to myself.

Sunday morning dawned calm and sunny, crisp at 45 degrees Fahrenheit. In other words, perfect. I made a game day call on what to wear. My biggest fear was overheating, and I knew with the first two miles going straight uphill, I’d get warm quickly. I pulled on a pair of compression tights, then a pair of stretchy shorts with oversized cargo pockets. On top- a lightweight long sleeved running shirt. To stay warm until the start, I wore a pullover hoodie. I’d worn the same ripstop brimmed cap for most of my training, a gift from a friend, and I cinched that on for the big day, a reminder of the support I’d gotten during my training. Around my neck, a lanyard with my grandfather’s World War I dog tags. On my feet, I made the fateful choice of a thick pair of socks inside my Triple Aught Design Ghostwing lightweight boots. The one thing I feared along with leg cramps, was blisters, and I didn’t want my boots too loose. As it turns out, this was a bad decision.

I hadn’t participated in an organized “race” in many years, but the familiar feelings came back when I picked up my official number and pinned it to my pack. Were those butterflies in my stomach, or was my breakfast gurgling? Multiple trips to the toilet to tap off my over-hydrated body, nervous laughs with some fellow participants, and a chat with a 60-year old Welsh woman who had done the Fan Dance more than five times. This year she was entered in the “Hunted” category, where she’d be given a 20-minute head start and then be chased down by a “Wolf,” a former SAS operator. She seemed relaxed and happy to be there, and shared her own advice with me (don’t go out too fast). Her calm demeanor both reassured me and unnerved me.

Splashdown! (photo by Ryley Paquette)

We all hiked over to the red phone box, and after a short briefing and a minute of silence in memory of those who’d died doing the Fan Dance, one of the Directing Staff (DS) called up the Clean Fatigue category, and with little ceremony, shouted, “stand by… stand by!” before sounding a gun and we were off. The start is not a high speed affair. In fact, it’s a little anticlimactic. The first two miles are straight uphill, and at a steep angle, so pretty much everyone sets off at a measured, but brisk hiking pace. I was determined to not redline, and settled into a steady, short stride pace, using a “rest step” technique (lock the knee of the downhill leg for a microsecond with each step) I’d learned when I climbed Mount Rainier a decade earlier. I saw a few people who’d set off faster stopping to catch breath along the way, but I just persisted on, only looking up occasionally. 

I knew from my research that we first had to summit Corn Du, a twin peak next to Pen y Fan, before descending into a saddle and then up again to the top of the Fan. Corn Du loomed above me, its summit curled like a breaking wave, and I could see people ascending the final switchback trail to the top. Finally, I got there, and could see Pen y Fan. I took out my iPhone to take a photo, but the screen said, “iPhone locked. Wait 15 minutes to attempt.” Great, the last thing I needed was a technology failure out here. No playlist inspiration, but beyond that, my phone had all the AirBnb instructions, and my airline flight details. But this wasn’t the place to worry about that. I switched it off and stuffed it in my pocket and crossed over to Pen y Fan. My soundtrack would just be my heavy breathing.

After checking in with a DS who’d set up a small tent checkpoint, I laid eyes on the dreaded Jacob’s Ladder. People were literally disappearing over the side of the mountain. The “ladder” is a steep descent made up of crudely placed rocks. Negotiating it meant careful footing, sometimes full contact hand placements, leaning back like a novice alpine skier for fear of going ass over tea kettle. Fortunately the path had been blown dry by a breezy night. I couldn’t imagine descending Jacob’s Ladder in the rain, or worse, the ice and snow of the Winter Fan Dance. This was where my snug boots made themselves known. I could feel my toes smashing against the toe box with every step. It was already painful by the time I got to the bottom, and I wasn’t even halfway done. I still had the trail around another mountain, Cribyn, and the long Roman Road to go, then back again.

Spectators.

Jacob’s Ladder gets all the attention from those who’ve done the Fan Dance, but for me, the Roman Road was an interminable slog—about four miles of rutted, cobbled, muddy, and often flooded, path. It was here where I could make up time and put on some speed. It was relatively flat, even gradually downhill, to the halfway turnaround point, and I ran a good part of it. To trot along actually felt good compared to the awkward scrambling and lung busting climbs I’d gone  through. But it just seemed to go on forever. I passed some people, some people passed me, and then I started to see the first of those who had already made the turnaround and were heading back. There were shouts of encouragement in both directions, cattle gates held open for each other. Non-Fan Dance hikers looked bemused and bewildered by the passing SAS wannabes, running with heavy packs and numbers pinned to their backs. 

The halfway point was without fanfare. A couple of DS’s, one of whom assessed participants with a few questions about their condition, an SUV whose trunk was full of candy and snacks, and a few people retying boots or simply resting. I didn’t want to lose momentum. I’d made it there in two hours, fifteen minutes, well ahead of the three-hour cutoff, and within striking distance of my target five-hour total time. I chugged some electrolyte drink from my bottle and set off back. Now my feet were really starting to hurt. The Roman Road seems flat, but that gradual downhill on the outward way was now slightly uphill the whole way back. I’d been advised to not overdo it here. Jacob’s Ladder awaited and I’d need my stamina there. By this time, my iPhone started working again, and I cued up a playlist I’d made and just put my head down and shuffled forward, picking my way around rocks, puddles, and people.

Stairway to Heaven? Jacob’s Ladder, the second time.

Jacob’s Ladder went relatively quickly on the way down just an hour earlier, but now, facing it going back up, seemed to climb to the sky itself. But I’ll always prefer going uphill to down. My lungs and heart were strong and my legs weren’t cooked yet. Also, going up gave my smashed toes some respite. I locked into my measured pace and went up, and up, and up. I didn’t stop once. My Achilles tendons burned, my heart hammered in my chest, and my thighs were quivering by the time I scrambled on to the summit of Pen y Fan for the second time. I shouted my number to the DS at his checkpoint, took a summit selfie, and aimed downhill for the finish. Now it was all about mental toughness. This is the stuff all the fitness training doesn’t prepare you for: smashed toes, torched quads, sore shoulders. I mentally pulled from those dark winter days when running on snow and ice was unappealing, all those six-minute planks I’d done, going beyond what I thought was possible. Pain is temporary.

The Fan Dance isn’t about podium spots or medals. It’s a strange event, one I have trouble describing to people who ask about it. Is it a race? Not really. A march? Maybe. A lovely hike in the mountains? Sort of. The beauty of it is, it means something different to everyone who does it. It’s an incredibly personal endeavour, one that rewards discipline, fortitude, preparation, and mental toughness. I’m not saying it was the hardest thing I’ve done, and I don’t want to overstate its importance or difficulty. While I met my goal time, there were many others who did it a lot faster, and with less effort than me. 

Beyond the accomplishment of finishing the Fan Dance, and in the time I wanted to achieve, the most significant thing about doing it was simply signing up, making the commitment, and sticking with it. The actual doing of it became almost a formality. The motto of the British Special Air Service, the group that originated the Fan Dance itself, is, “Who Dares Wins.” And while that sounds like a bold statement of swagger and bravado, I take it in a different sense. It’s the mere act of taking on the dare, of even attempting something, that is the supreme accomplishment, the win, no matter the outcome. I never had any doubt that I could do it, and like cresting the six-minute mark with a plank, I’ve redefined my own boundaries of possibility. I feel emboldened to seek other, new challenges, both physical and otherwise. As soon as my toes heal, that is.