Hardmoors 60

Saturday 20th September 2025 | Author Andrew Ellwood

"It is only during a storm that a tree knows how strong it is."

Matshona Dhliwayo

Hardmoors 60 is a 100 km (63 mile) coastal route which follows the Cleveland Way between Guisborough and Filey. Nigel Barns, Matt Barcroft, and Darren Greasley were my companions in the venture. With three Bob Graham Round alumni amongst us, we seemed well pitched.

The coach transfer, kit check, and race briefing were all efficient and businesslike, but the weather looked doubtful from the outset, and rain set in before we reached Guisborough. A wet day then; luck of the draw.

A low-key start, typical of ultra races, set us off, and we headed through the woodland, climbing to checkpoint 1 before heading east towards the coast. Runners quickly spread out, and I found myself making good time with Darren; Matt and Nigel had also paired up at a slightly steadier pace. Darren and I yo-yoed a bit, so I reached the Saltburn-by-the-Sea and Skinningrove checkpoints first, before he caught up with me again on the higher section of coastal path before Staithes. We travelled on together to the Runswick Bay aid station, where our drop bags allowed a resupply of on-the-move snacks and a few minutes to eat some real food for lunch. Darren set off a few minutes before me, but at a pace that I wasn’t matching, so that was the last I saw of him all day.

My energy levels began to dip a little by the Sandsend checkpoint, and the climb up to the cliff tops at Whitby felt hard—though this section has great coastal views that the persistent light rain didn’t really spoil. Several runners passed me on the trail as I battled with low energy and low mood that I couldn’t seem to shake off with sweet snacks. Luckily, Matt and Nigel appeared on the section north of Robin Hood’s Bay, sweeping me up with their chipper banter.

The last few km to the Ravenscar aid station were a real grind. With over a hundred metres to climb, pain flaring, and spirits very low, I had to really dig deep. Matt and Nigel seemed to be in slightly better condition, and I was kept afloat by their light-hearted chat with another struggling runner we’d picked up along the way. Ravenscar aid station didn’t disappoint, and after ten minutes to take on electrolytes, painkillers, coffee, cake, and rice pudding, we emerged from the little chapel like new men. Regrettably, one of those new men had severely cramped adductors, so as Matt and Nigel disappeared into the mist ahead of me, I lurched down the road after them, groaning like an extra from a zombie B-movie.

Soon regrouped, we made good progress along the long, featureless stretch of coastal path past the Crook Ness checkpoint. I passed the time map reading, though it wasn’t really necessary since the sea was always at our left side. The wind and rain built steadily across the late afternoon until conditions were really unpleasant, but we were treated to an unannounced visit at several road crossings from Matt’s girlfriend Katy and his faithful four-legged friend, Isla. In my eternal optimism, I’d mistakenly chosen short-lug boots for the day, and in the driving rain of the late afternoon my downhill work seemed closer to figure skating than fell running.

By Scarborough we were all fatigued, with Matt faring slightly worse. The wind and rain had escalated to a definite storm, and the combination of high wind and long-ago wetted-out jackets brought to bear the new hazard of our dropping core temperatures. We faffed a bit trying to find the route diversion in Scarborough (30-minute time penalty for getting it wrong) before confirming the way with a marshall, who was quite admirably braving the storm on the seafront alone. Way past dusk now, we needed to don the headtorches to find the unlit paths south of Scarborough. Trouble struck: my headtorch turned out to be faulty despite having carried two battery packs all day—no laughing matter, since the trails run just metres from the cliff top edge in places and the wind gusts were easily strong enough to blow us over. Luckily, an atypically kind marshall lent me her headtorch at the Black Rocks checkpoint, so we set out on the final godforsaken stretch to Filey, all looking forward to the finish.

The storm gave no ground, and my borrowed headtorch failed after a few km, so I ran on barely able to see the ground ahead of me, sandwiched between Matt and Nigel, who both had high-end, functional headtorches. We kept a good pace given the late stage, failing physical condition, and all the misfortune ranged against us, and on reaching the end of the coastal path, the lights of Filey—thank heaven—hove into view. The race finishes at a Methodist church in Filey, staffed by the kindest marshalls, who assisted us to take on some food and to change into as many dry layers as modesty would allow.

We would later learn that Darren finished in 8th place, and that Matt, Nigel, and I took 24th–26th of only 90 full-distance finishers in 14 hours 15 mins. The rest of the field comprised ten relay pairs and a whopping 80 DNFs—a staggering fraction, given the gritty nature of the average race entrant.

So here ended the adventure. We accepted lifts back to our vans and, for my part, it was time to head for a shower, a Guinness, and a sleep—all of which seemed nearly as epic as the day.