I ran the Windermere Marathon last week and thought I’d tell you all about it. Hope you enjoy my race report below…
From Ambleside Lakefront To Treetop Nets – Windermere Marathon 2026 by Matt Harrison
Marathon training is a dangerous thing. The early weeks spent carefully increasing the mileage can easily – if training goes well – give way to overconfidence and deranged decision making. With this in mind, I celebrated the start of my 2-week Manchester Marathon taper by clicking on an advert for the Windermere Marathon 8 weeks later. Within seconds I had impulsively signed up. I awoke the next morning with incalculable remorse, afraid to confess even to my closest family.
As my post-Manchester recovery began, I confessed to my wife. Once discharged from hospital, I crowbarred three 20-milers into my summer training plan and decided to try to relish the experience. My family has enjoyed stays at Windermere for decades, and I’ve run every section of the lake’s perimeter at one time or other. Doing the whole lot in one go, I started to tell myself, would be more of a nostalgic holiday than a race.
The starting point, Ambleside has not always been the tranquil holiday spot we see today. A one-time military outpost, its Roman fort dates back to the reign of the Emperor Hadrian in the early 2nd century. Following the dismantling of the Roman Empire, the town remained largely peaceful until Paul Barrett’s stag-night in 2021. The race tracks Lake Windermere anticlockwise, down the hilly West shore to Newby Bridge before returning up the Eastern shore to Brockhole.
So I awoke on race day with no plans to obsess about minutes per mile, gel strategies or even finish time. I had however rested for a couple of days and spent a day carb-loading: my marathon-eve dessert was from a nearby chip-shop that declared itself ‘award-winning’. I’m assuming the award in question was for Britain’s Stodgiest Chip Butty, a carb-on-carb abomination that left my digestive system close to surrender.
As we headed uphill out of Ambleside, the lake popping in and out of view, a mellow vibe pervaded the runners. A guy in short shorts and an Eton-style boater hat fibbed that there ‘wasn’t far to go’. Another, wearing the biggest headphones I had ever seen, was sporadically yelling Calvin Harris lyrics into the Cumbrian sky. A couple of Blackburn runners trotted alongside me, prompting us to exchange low stakes banter about how this was nicer than running up the A56. As we made our way through 6 or 7 hilly miles, the weather was a perfect 15 degrees. At times we were under cloud cover; at others the hilltops glistened like Matt Spragg’s cheekbones.
At the Manchester Marathon, I had relied on one Phil Richardson (in fact there seemed to be at least 3 of him) turning up at key points of the course to hydrate me; cheer for me; and where possible fan me as if I was a Manchurian emperor. Today I was testing a new hydration system, in the form of 2 foot long, self-shrinking latex bottles tucked into the front pockets of my rucksack. These objects quickly proved both too long and too wobbly to stay secured, meaning I would have to hold them in place until I’d drunk them dry. The race photos up to mile 16 show me in a peculiar hunched position, grasping my refreshment bottles tightly like a massive, thirsty baby.
Through High Wray, Hawkshead and the Sawreys, the hills kept coming. I was relieved that my toe-nails weren’t causing me any grief, as since Manchester they had been like bin day on Dane Road: some grey; some green; some missing. At 11 miles, most of us walked a steep climb that threatened to finish us off before halfway. Then past the bottom of the lake and, at 14 miles, through Newby Bridge. Calvin Harris was now struggling, and outside the Swan Hotel knelt down to splash himself with water from a muddy puddle. I hope he’s alright. Over the bridge we joined traffic, giving the race a pleasing resemblance to the Stockport 10, albeit without Bea Cordingley motoring past me with 800 metres to go. Instead, a trendy couple cheered from a passing Tesla, before whizzing up a nearby lane like one of Elon Musk’s rockets. I’d have probably done the same if my Sunday morning drive had been interrupted by a sweaty East Midlander wielding a pair of giant latex udders.
By now the 700 or so runners were thinly spread throughout the course. My super-cautious first half and the flatter terrain since The Swan meant that I was overtaking quite a few of them, an unusual feeling for such a renowned ‘wallhitter’. Every slight hill heading towards Storrs chewed up another couple of runners and spat them callously into the roadside.
The sun came back out and the lake came gloriously back into view. As I arrived in Bowness my lovely parents who had travelled up from the Midlands to see me run past a car park, waved enthusiastically. I was touched that not only had they come to watch me; they also seemed to have recruited half a dozen holidaymakers to cheer me on. I yelled my thanks, blew them all a few kisses, arranged to meet them for lunch, and headed towards the crowded lakeside. The ginormous swans hissed. Day trippers cheered. A grumpy-looking bloke offered me a bite of his Cornetto. Then down a backstreet we cantered, and up a small climb to the long finishing strait of Rayrigg Road.
I put my foot down along the narrow stretch of pavement and tried to pass as many runners as I could on my way to Brockhole. Also in this late battle for places was a Chorlton Runner and Bramhall’s Rob Downs. Cars hooted at us appreciatively, a man yelled ‘yes lads’ from a sunroof, and I inexplicably punched my fists in response. In my head I looked like Stuart Pearce celebrating his penalty against Spain. To onlookers, I looked like Tim Henman losing his temper. But I was having a lovely morning, and sometimes that’s what counts. In fact I was just getting a proper tempo going when, out of the blue, I was directed into an inauspicious field next to Treetop Nets and found myself almost disappointed to see the finish line. My marathon complete, I looked up just in time to see a zip-lining Dad hurtle through the air above me in the brace position, like an out-of-control pterodactyl. ‘What an idiot’, I reflected. As he looked back down at me with my backwards cap, red marathon face and deflated blue udders, I assume the feeling was mutual.
And so I conclude this race report by reflecting that whilst I still love the relentless rhythm, the intricate planning and the stretch goals of a Spring Marathon, I discovered in Cumbria an equal joy in rocking up in the countryside and ignoring my watch. A relaxed Summer 26-miler through English hills, French vineyards or along the tip of an Icelandic volcano is just a very pleasant way to spend a morning. On which note, I’ve noticed a cheerfully chaotic event in Alsace next June, and there’s every possibility I’ll accidentally sign up.
