It was a serious fell race; for the heavyweights only. Glynn Cortantes was one such young man. He had a pleasant, agreeable demeanour, and this was his secret weapon: it disarmed his competitors. Everybody thought he was a pussycat, until they raced next to him. His body’s ability to process oxygen, to feed his hungry muscles, when they were screaming halfway up a scree run a thousand feet in elevation, was off the chart. He was half Spanish, half mountain goat. Thus his race name: El Cabro. But he was no kid. At thirty-three, he should have been considering retirement, but he had years left in him yet. He was only just beginning to smash the records he’d dreamed of his whole life. The UK Lake District races weren’t the highest, but they could be some of the most challenging because of their incessantly unpredictable terrain, and the weather.

The lifting of the cloud was a blessing and a curse. It would open up the field. Well, the field behind Cortantes, that was. He was way ahead. The Scafell Round was a winter highlight on the circuit. It took in five peaks, and was unique in that one had to rely upon climbing equipment to get from Scafell to Scafell Pike, via Mickledore and Broad Stand. It was a delectable piece of topography for those who were turned on by that sort of thing. They were on the final leg, having dumped their equipment behind them on the eastern edge of the pike.

Cortantes had won the Scafell Round for four years straight. The cloud seemed to bow to his command as it enveloped him and then cleared ahead, as if he were Moses of the mountains. He pounded his way up a stage that was a path, and some might think that these were the easier parts, but they’d be wrong. The man-made trails laid in stone were killers on the knees and ankles. He dug in and never slipped in his rhythm.

Fell racing attracted athletes from all over the world, but little press coverage. The landscape prevented it, but also the funding. It wasn’t as sexy as the big sponsorship events such as football or track and field. Cortantes was patronised by many sports labels, and made over 2 million euros per year in endorsements alone, but you wouldn’t find his name in the papers, or on the front of flashy magazines. It enabled fell runners to stay humble and lead fairly private lives. Even the best ones.