The
Spine Race, to me, was like some kind
of addictive, sadistic spectator sport.
Like a real-life Hunger Games, with contestants who had been training
for this their whole lives - or so the Facebook group would have you believe.
“Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in yo
ur favour”. From the hunter, who became the hunted. I was the dot watcher, turned dot.
Although
I was intrigued by the event and avidly followed it every year, it wasn’t for
me. All 268 miles of the Pennine Way -
famous for its man-eating bogs - in January?
It just looked like pure misery.
I was always in awe of those superhuman maniacs who completed the event
, Irrespective of the time or position.
“The Pennine Way National
Trail is a 268-mile route from Edale in Derbyshire to Kirk Yetholm, Scotland,
tracing the backbone of England. It crosses some of the finest upland
landscapes in the country, from the Peak District, through the Yorkshire Dales,
across the North Pennines and over World Heritage-listed Hadrian’s Wall, on to
the remote Cheviot Hills and, finally, that elusive village of Kirk Yetholm”
I
don’t even remember the point or the circumstances that made the switch from
never to maybe to possibly, to having a conversation with my bestie that went
something along the lines of: “I need you to talk me out of something. I’m thinking of doing The Spine” to which she
replied: “Oh my God, you have to. You’d be so good at that” Well, that didn’t work out the way I wanted
it to.
I
signed up quite late, around September.
‘Through the back door’ as they say, as I’m supported by the title
sponsor, Montane. It wasn’t ideal timing, because I would have liked a few months
to prepare. In hindsight preparation is
futile. It’s a learn-on-the-job kind of
affair.
I
did use the time I had to get out on the course as much as possible. My previous perception of the Pennine Way is
that it was a miserable bog fest. Subsequent training days changed this
misconception and I would now describe the route as ‘uniquely
challenging’.
I
spent five full days on the course, covering most of the sections from Hawes
(100 miles) to the end in Kirk Yetholm.
My first recce early November from Dufton to Greenhead was an
eye-opener. It’s like nothing I’ve ever
‘run’ on before. It was -4 degrees when
I started, on a day that consisted of endless bogs, muddy fields, stiles,
gates, cow shite and very little that actually resembled any kind of recognised
‘way’. I’d bitten off more than I could
chew with 37 miles, as I quickly learned that you don’t go anywhere fast on the
Pennine Way. Think of a number and
double it. Navigation was tricky,
daylight quickly became darkness, I didn’t eat or drink anything or put on
additional layers. I was shaking, hypothermic mess at the end and resigned
myself to withdrawing from the race.
General opinion: The course was a howler. I later discovered that this section is
‘unlikely to be your favourite’ paraphrasing the guide book. Subsequent
training days proved the route and scenery is actually quite stunning. The underfoot conditions, however, remained
quite tasty and would require some meticulous foot management.
I
didn’t change my training too much. I
had lots of miles in my legs following two key races of 100 miles. The key thing was training with a heavier
pack, which goes against the grain of a trail runner’s ethos that lighter is
always best. I spent an inordinate
amount of time and money researching and purchasing kit that would be suitable
for the race and pass their very extensive and specific checklist. Sleeping bag, mat, stove, pot… right down to
random things like a knife and antihistamines.
Things I didn’t even own, let alone had ever carried on a day on the
hills. But one red cross at race
registration - they thoroughly check - and you don’t get a race number. There was no room for error. I passed.
Start to Hebden Bridge -
Sunday 8am to 7:52 pm 45 miles, 8011ft
I
do get quite nervous before races.
Mainly because it means so much to me, but on this scale the fear of the
unknown is crippling. I’m highly
motivated by fear though. Guaranteed
success doesn’t excite me. The higher
the drop-out rate, the more appeal it has.
Once I start, I’m fine, but I lie awake at night overplaying scenarios
in my head.
At
8am on a cold January Sunday morning, I was standing in a muddy field with a
few hundred, vetted nutters. We’re off and it
splits up fairly quickly, as everyone finds their groove.
Compete, complete, pace sensibly - I’m not even sure where my head
was. Regardless of the goal, I knew I
would do my best under the circumstances.
And there was to be a plethora of circumstances to contend with.
The
wind and rain started and continued through most of the morning. It was pretty grim and visibility was fairly
low. I was trying to keep a lid on the racing
endorphins, settling into a rhythm and getting used to the weight of my
pack. I never weighed it before the race
as ignorance is bliss, but it far surpassed anything I’ve ever carried before.
Up
Jacob’s ladder and passed Kinder Scout.
Names I was familiar with, but unfortunately the mist wasn’t going to
allow me to see or take in these famous spots.
I got chatting to Trish Patterons again, after we met briefly in the
hostel in the morning. At Mill Hill we
saw some runners disappear into the distance.
We stopped to check navigation as following them was wrong. We tried to shout them back, but they were
gone.
Most
of the first day consisted of mist, rain, wind, wet rock and slippy slabs, but
still mostly firm ground and good running.
In Pennine Way terms, anything that’s not waist deep bogs is deemed as
good terrain.
I
made the first mistake within the first few hours. I let my clothes and gloves get wet and spent
the best part of an hour thinking I needed to stop and change gloves, but I was
enjoying the groove across the slabs. I
crossed the road at A57 after a short group hug from the Hardwicks who’d come
out to cheer on the race. I couldn’t get
my rucksack off my hands were so cold and then I couldn’t get my wet hands in
the dry gloves. Across some flooded
peat bogs I got some heat back in hands and had a stern word with myself for
being so daft
Around
Bleaklow there was another race coming in the opposite direction. On single tracks that proved quite tricky.
Then there was the first of many river crossings. We’re not talking a trickling gentle stream,
but a waist-deep raging torrent. Along
with severe caution and much deep breathing, came the rude awakening that you
really were out there on your own. Of
course you could press the little red button on your GPS and the SST teams
would swoop in and rescue you - but you’d have to surrender your number and
call it a day.
At
the Torside, Trish and I parted company and soon I joined Jan Kriska, a
Slovakian living in the USA who’d flown over just for the race. I’m not going to lie, I was thinking what a
shit holiday to have. We swapped brief
life stories and race tales before I pushed on.
He was never too far behind though as he was far better - and braver -
at negotiating the river crossings than I was.
Shortly
after Wesseden Moor I’d caught up with Jon Hall. He had done the summer version of the race
and the Spine Challenger the year before with his wife, so he was in my eyes a
Pennine Way veteran. We toed and froed
for quite some time.
Just
as the light was fading on the rocks and
boulders of Blackstone Edge, I could see Jon’s headtorch behind. He said we were lucky to get there in
daylight as he had got lost in the dark in the Challenger the year before. I can imagine the elusive race line would be
hard to find in the dark. We stayed
together until the pop up aid station at White Hill Pub. We stopped for a hot drink and snack and I made him hurry up to push on to Hebden
Bridge.
The
next section was annoyingly runnable. On
landrover tracks with tired legs and brain,
I tripped and decked it hard – twice.
I cut my hands and took the knees out of my brand new leggings. Jon was
so kind and told me to walk a bit until the pain subsided. I told him I was fine and to push on, but he
stayed anyway.
The
section over the slabs and over to Stoodley Pike must be stunning in
daylight. Definitely need to visit there
again, as the silhouette of the monument in the dark was quite spectacular. The
long descent in the village was a welcome relief. The additional unexpected
climb up and steep muddy descent down into the first checkpoint was not.
Women’s
race leader, Sabrina Verjee was leaving with another couple of guys and we
exchanged cheers. Sabrina is an absolute
powerhouse. Even with my A-game I
couldn’t compete with Sabrina and I’d
quite happily take bridesmaid. I mean,
if her wheels fell off I‘d be fine to
take the reins. It’s not a coffee
morning! But I had to focus on keeping
my shit together for another few days out there.
Arriving
at the Hebden Bridge checkpoint, Cameron from the Japanese film crew was there.
He’d messaged me before the race to see if I’d be happy to chat on camera. I ain’t camera shy, so happily agreed. Little did I know they’d be everywhere.
My
friend Rob Allen - who I’d spent a recce weekend on the Pennine Way with - was
there and just about to head out again.
He asked me – via a volunteer –
If I wanted to join him for the next section. Going into the unknown in the
dark I jumped at the opportunity for some company. I probably shouldn’t have as
I rushed too much to get ready, rushed food and didn’t take in enough calories
– which would come back to haunt me in a few hours
Hebden to Hawes (to Monday
7:06pm) 61 miles, 6138ft
Heading
out with Rob, I was acutely aware that I felt more tired than I should do at
this early stage. A weird phenomenon,
but I recall from my time on Tor des Geants and reading previous Spine reports,
that the first night is always the worst.
It’s that fight against mind and body and overwriting that natural
instinct to wind down for bedtime.
Trying to add fueling into the mix just causes mass nausea.
I
felt flat AF and everything was just a strain. I was under-eating and
overheating, after putting on way too many layers at the previous
checkpoint. Within a couple of hours I
was crashing hard. I told Rob to push on
because I was holding him back, which was causing me unnecessary additional
stress.
After
following what seemed like a completely unnecessary road diversion, I sat on
some steps in Cowling and tried to force down some snack bars. Half-chewing, half-gagging. Eating with
nausea is a truly awful situation, but I knew I had to keep on top of my
energy.
I
got going again and frustratingly took a few wrong turns. Navigating round fields in the dark with a
defunct brain is quite tricky. At a farm
gate in Cowling Hill, I went for the full-frontal splat fall. I tried to
convince myself it was mud, but it was definitely covered head to toe in cow
shite.
The
unofficial aid station at Lothersdale, which is set up by a local triathlon
club, was a welcome sight. Although I
must have looked like a mess when I arrived, as
I could barely muster up the energy to lift my head to speak. I sat in a chair trying to take in some hot
soup and bread. Black coffee with five
sugars gave me a little bit of spark, but I just felt so deflated. This was only the first night, how was I
going to get through the rest.
The
next few miles were an absolute riot.
Endless miles on manky fields and farmland. My feet weighed about a stone each as mud
accumulated around my ankles and feet.
This is when my shins started to ache.
I would later learn that shin tendonitis was a big problem for
competitors, due to the motion and effort required for pulling feet out of mud
for so long.
Just
before dawn, there’s a road section around Gargrave which felt really unsafe. I
was dazzled by the car headlights of commuters heading to work, while they were
faced with me covered in mud and stumbling about the road, completely off my
tits.
Along
the riverside heading to Malham the sun was starting to rise. I expected it to
be some momentous occasion but daylight and an underwhelming sunrise just crept
up on me. I was happy I was going to see
the splendid Malham Cove, so that lifted my spirits. Despite my pre-race efforts to find the route
around the boulders, I found myself
clambering, crawling and sliding my way across the top of them. So slow and treacherous, but when you’re in
the midst of it, you’re kind of committed.
The
route over the Malham Tarn is absolutely stunning. I stopped in at the mid-checkpoint (Monday
8:20am) for a hot drink and water top up.
I really wished I’d packed something to heat up. I really wanted hot food, but all I had was
some fecking oat bars.
I
was definitely feeling the physical effects of the distance covered so far, but
Ieft in super happy with a spring in my step.
There’s a good bit of climbing up and around Fountains Fell Tarn and I
felt I had a good strong marching pace going.
In Spine terms that really is the best you can hope for. Moving with conviction.
Starting
to settle in to enjoying this lonesome adventure, I could see the beautiful Pen Y Ghent in the
distance. Up until a few weeks before
the race, I thought this hill was in Wales.
I didn’t look too threatening, so I was quite looking forward to a hike
up to the summit.
It
was a nice sunny morning, but the wind was picking up and storm Brendan was
making itself known. At the foot of the
hill I could hear a drone buzzing around and knew the ever-smiling Matt and
Ellie from Summit Fever must be around.
They are always out in the most horrific conditions to get the best footage.
Pen-Y-Ghent 📷 Racing Snakes |
It’s
a short, but steep climb to the top of Pen-y-Ghent. It means ‘hill of winds’ and it was certainly
living up to that. On the slabs across
the top, I was leaning into the crosswinds just to stay upright. Despite the crazy wind, the track down to
Ribblesdale was stunning. Made even
better with sight of beautiful cakes at the mandatory mid checkpoint. It looked
far too comfortable to sit down and enjoy the baked goods and three runners
inside looked like they were settling in for afternoon tea. I gulped down a
strong coffee and left with some vegan victoria sponge to eat on the hoof. The lovely chaps manning the checkpoint
stuffed my pockets with lemon drizzle cakes for later.
I
was devouring cake on beautiful trails.
My two favourite things, I was in heaven. It soon turned to hell as the torrential rain
started and the wind picked up. I
huddled behind a wall to put on an extra jacket and get my headtorch ready as
nightfall was only about 30 minutes away.
Daylight sure doesn’t last long in winter.
I
never knew rain could hurt so much. Heading onto Cam road the wind and rain was
in full force.I thought about putting on waterproof trousers and stupidly
decided against it. By the time I regretted the decision it was far too late to
do anything about it. I couldn’t have
stopped, even for a brief moment. I was
straight up at risk of being blown away.
It was a never-ending miles of full-on assault. Rain, hail and storm-force winds. The only
saving grace was it was mostly a cross/tail wind. The harsh reality was there
was nothing I could do about it.
Nothing. No one could save me
from it. I couldn’t have sheltered from it without putting myself in danger, so
I had to suck it up and focus on getting to Hawes.
Before
Hawes I knew there was a right turn off the main track on a faint path, but I
just couldn't find it. My watch kept
throwing me off course. I had the map
and my phone out, but they were no use.
I was going up and down the track and round and round in circles. I felt like eternity, but it was only about
10 minutes. By the time I got back on the route I was a freezing, hysterical
mess. Even standing still for a few minutes, my temperature plummeted. I
frantically tried to move quickly to heat up, but then my headtorch battery ran
out. I couldn’t get my arm around to get
my spare out my side-pocket and my hands were so cold I couldn’t unclip my
pack. Thankfully I had my emergency
handheld in my front pocket. I clenched
it between my teeth and used the light to guide me into Hawes. Aware that if I
fell I’d knock out my teeth. I later
discovered some people just ran the road into Hawes. That would have saved a helluva lot of
dramatics, but I’m glad I stayed on the correct course.
I
was a wreck when I arrived in Hawes, shaking uncontrollably and slurring my
words. The volunteers were all over me
removing wet clothes and muddy shoes and filling me with hot soup, bread and
pasta. I took off my waterproof socks
and threw water everywhere. Not wearing
waterproof trousers, the water had just run down my leggings and pooled in
my socks.
My
calves cramped and I could barely walk to the shower rooms to get changed. I gritted my teeth and walked on my tiptoes
trying to hold my shit together. I was
acutely aware the race medics were watching and monitoring my general
well-being. I’m pretty sure they didn’t
expect me to leave and just resign myself to adding to the Hawes DNF tally. The
storm and the reality of a tough 100 miles on unforgiving hostile terrain had
forced a lot of runners to retire in Hawes.
A few others asked me if I was continuing. Even then, for me, quitting wasn’t an option. But I was keen to sit out some of the storm
and went for a two hour sleep.
I
woke up after 1:45 hours of broken sleep feeling like a new woman. My calves
were seriously painful, but I put that down to the cold and compression of the
socks. My shins were on fire too.
Thinking it was a strap on the Salomon boots, I switched to my trusty Scott
Supertracs RC
Rob
was downstairs - after a longer slumber - and it was so nice to see a familiar
face, especially as we agreed to chum each other over Shunner Fell.
Hawes to Middleton (To
Tuesday 12:55pm) 34 miles, 6138 ft
When
looking at the forecast before the race started, this was the time that worried
me the most. The 80 mph winds over
Shunner Fell. I really hadn’t factored
in the storm hitting in the hours before Hawes.
After that experience though, Shunner was a breeze. Quite literally.
I
left Hawes feeling good. Mood lifted
thanks to the power nap and the relief and confidence in the knowledge of what
then lay ahead.
The
rain had stopped but it was still fairly windy.
It’s a long gradual ascent up and over the second highest top in the
course. Runnable on fresh legs,
absolutely not on Spine legs. I was
still feeling good, but Rob was lagging
a bit. He was struggling to get his
energy levels up despite taking in lots of calories. The downside for being on the smaller side
was the debilitating weight of the rucksack. The upside is that I don’t need to
take in as many calories.
The
was a beautiful full moon over to Thwaite - just as well as I’d stupidly put my
head-torch on full beam and it ran out pretty quick. I couldn’t be bothered to take my gloves
off to get cold again so I used Rob’s lamp and the moonlight to guide the way,
which was strangely cathartic.
We
made the detour off course to the tearoom in Keld. They’d left the door open for Spiners to help
themselves to hot drinks and homebaking.
I used the toilets before I left and got sight myself in the
mirror. Jesus wept, I looked rough. Plus my teeth were full of chia seeds, which
is never a good look.
Rob
stopped for a sleep and I pushed on to Tan Hill. Note to future Spiners, the tearoom in Keld
is the perfect place for a longer break and sleep. Leaving the warmth of an open fire was
hard. It’s fairly undulating and easy
rolling, but the ground on Stonesdale Moor was so waterlogged I kept
disappearing down sink hole bogs.
I
was fairly content and looking forward to seeing the lights of Tan Hill, the
highest pub in the UK. There was no sign
of life there, which was weird because from a distance my eyes had me believing
there was a party going on in there (Tuesday 6am)
Onward
to the notorious swamplands of Sleightholme Moor. Summed up nicely in Pennine Way guidebook
“Even fans of the bleakest, more barren moorland will find it difficult to warm
to Sleightholme Moor”
I
was worried about navigating the miles of man-eating bogs, but it all passed by
without any drama. It was of course
super squelchy, but I focussed on my feet and staying on the route kept my mind
off the eerie silence.
Daylight
appeared as I crossed the bridge onto the Moor Road. Turning off into Wytham Moor, I could see the
underpass in the distance, but I ended up lost in the fields trying to find the
‘racing line’. Lost in daylight with a
clear trajectory is very frustrating, but I got a bit paranoid about dot
watchers thinking I was cheating and taking a shorter route.
From
early in the race, I was feeling the effects of some major lady chafing. I forgot to lube up before starting the race
and a full day of rain had taken its toll and my nethers were on fire. I joked pre race about a small knife being
part of the mandatory, but I used my overpriced mini Swiss army knife to chop
my pants off in the A66 underpass.. Not even joking. Snipped them off and stuffed them in my
pocket and was on my merry way.
Although
I nailed it on the course’s most notorious featureless bogs in the dark, I was
all over the place in daylight. Faint
lines in grassy fields just all look the same
After some major topographical embarrassment, Middleton eventually
appeared as I peaked over Harter Fell.
As did the torrential rain.
I
was completely soaked when I arrived at the checkpoint in Middleton. As I got there mid-morning, my plan was to
take advantage of the daylight hours and push on to Dufton. There was a 30-minute time cap at Dufton, but
there was a cafe there staying open for Spiners so I was hopeful they’d let me
kip on the floor. While faffing about
with my kit I learned that the time cap had been dropped due to the storm, to
allow competitors to ascend Cross Fell when they felt comfortable and safe to
do so.
Although
my plan was for a quick turnaround, I still managed to spend a good 90 minutes
dicking around. It was constructive
dicking around though. I got changed and
dried all my waterproofs and gloves on the radiators. There was a lovely chap
in there who even washed and dried my socks for me. Ate lots of amazing food including soup,
veggie stew and creamed rice. The Japanese
film crew even filmed me eating. I don’t
mean a few spoonfuls, I mean everything.
I’m sure that will make riveting viewing.
Middleton to Alston (To Wednesday 11:51)
39 miles, 6568 ft
I
reluctantly left the warmth and friendly hospitality in Middleton into the
torrential rain. It was absolutely
shitting it down and the trails had turned to flowing rivers. A mile or so in, I slipped on some rocks and
fell hard on my knees. I screamed so
loud in pain and anger that it must have been for quite some distance.
Where
Rowten Beck meets the River Tees, the stepping stones were completely submerged
in water. I couldn’t see a way over and
kept running up and down the banks. I
put my poles in the water to gauge the depth and they didn’t touch the bed. Getting wet wasn’t a problem because I was
already soaked, but the water was so fierce I was at risk of being swept
away. I eventually found a safe place to
pass about 200 metres upstream. In the
panic and a stomach full of five-sugared coffee, I kinda peed myself too.
I
could hear the powerful sounds of the waterfalls at Low Force and High Force
long before I could see them.
Spectacular - but I certainly wasn’t hanging over the rocks to marvel in
their glory . I was trying to cover as
much ground in daylight as possible.
It
had started to snow quite heavily as darkness fell. I was acutely aware of the
flooding and my anxiety level just thinking about the riverbank to Falcon
Clints was at breaking point. The river
was so high and so fast surely the whole course would be under water.
A
lovely smiley lady (Eilidh, I think) came out of her house at Saver Hill and
started stuffing my pockets with snack bars.
She said the safety team were out marking a detour around Cauldron
Snout. There’s no way I wanted to head
along there if competitors behind me were diverted along the road, so I waited
until the headtorch from SST came along.
I ran back to explain the river and how I narrowly avoided death
(dramatics) crossing a river in spate.
He was calm and told me in a matter-of-fact tone that he hadn’t received
any information about route changes and therefore I had to stay on course.
Carrying
on, I was a lot scared and a little raging.
What if everyone else behind me got to miss this section? I could see footprints on the snow that were
heading back on the course, but no sign of life. At Widdy Bank Farm the sheep were going
mental, half-following, half-chasing me which was a bit unsettling. It was like
a weird zombie movie.
Awkwardly
clambering and sliding along large slippy boulders along the riverside, for
what seemed like miles. The map has it as one kilometre, but it feels much
longer,because covering distance is so slow.
It’s a relentless and awkward full body workout, but to be honest, it
was totally fine.
I
was also worried about the climb up the waterfall at Cauldron Snout. This was
another race section I built up in my head in the weeks prior to the
race. During recce it was fairly icy and
one slip would have been detrimental.
Listening to the sounds of the waterfall was deafening and
terrifying. One slip and the fall would
have been the least of my worries, as there’s no way anyone would survive in
that water at night. In reality it was fine. Unnerving, but I found the safe
line ok and kept my wits about me.
Hitting the bridge I was so relieved, happy and a little bit proud of
myself. I tried to call the SSTs to let
them know the section was ok to continue on - and to apologise for my dramatics
- but I had no signal .
Continuing
on the land-rover track that gently ascends, I focussed on maintaining a brisk
marching pace. I was following footsteps in the fresh snow. Whoever it was had huge feet! Like twice the size of mine. After a while I was off the main track in
some dark boggy forestry. I was using my
GPS to navigate round, which would have been fine on an identifiable line but
in muddy snow was near to impossible. Searching for anything I remembered from
the recce, I was so thankful to reach the bridge and cross the river. I was on the path up to High Cup Nick. There was so much water, I’d convinced myself
I was walking up a stream. I kept going
off course and found myself going round in circles trying to get back on
track. My gloves were soaking wet and my
hands were freezing. My head-torch ran
out and I couldn’t get my hands to work to change the battery. I was shaking
uncontrollably and muttering to myself to ‘calm the fuck down’. I hadn’t eaten for hours and just couldn’t
hold it together.
Eventually
I found the route that curves around the stunning High Cup Nick and forced
myself to just keep moving briskly to try to heat up. I would later learn another woman in the race
tried to descend the valley wall in the dark and had to be rescued off a
ledge. Even now that makes me shudder
just thinking how terrifying that must have been.
On
the descent, I saw a light coming towards me.
It was Paul Wilson out taking photos.
I was so destroyed, I could get my jaw to function to get words out. So tired, cold, traumatised, hungry and the
mud was so slippy I couldn’t stay on my feet.
I was ‘running’ and Paul was walking beside me. He’s got little legs, so I knew I was making
hard work of this descent.
📷 John Bamber |
It’s
a few miles downhill to Dufton (Tuesday 10:52 pm) and my brain was gone. I kept seeing buses full of people having a
party on board. When the chap from STT
came out to meet me I wasn’t sure if he was real.
Straight
into the tea room, rather than go into the empty village hall,I kept
apologising for dripping mud everywhere! I couldn’t get my pack off because I
was shaking so much and was generally in a bit of a pickle. The lovely couple
in the tea room made me lots of sweet tea and coffee and beans and toast. It wasn’t hitting the spot, so I ordered a
fried egg roll. I can only assume they
had in the same vegan eggs I was eating during Tor des Geants.
I
went along to the Village Hall and lined every radiator with my wet and muddy
clothes and went off to sleep on the cold hard floor.
The
prospect of going up Cross Fell by myself scared the shit out of me. I texted Marco and said I didn’t think I
could go on, as I just wasn’t brave enough.
He told me to go to sleep and think about afterwards.I slept, but kept
waking up every 5/10 minutes as my bones ached.
I slept for about 90 minutes all in and stirred to find Japanese runner
Taro Kuchimi sparked out at the other end of the room. He’d carefully laid out his kit - and mine
was EVERYWHERE!
I
started piling on the layers I’d dried on the radiators, had my kit checked by
the SST and chatted with the medic assessing my general well-being. Not sure if
this was mandatory or the fact I arrived like totally incoherent. He was so
impressed with my feet - not one blister or hot spot. Although they were pretty chunky looking by
this point.
I
took the time to eat loads of food, including one of the ‘only for emergencies’
stodge snack bars that could kill seagulls. I had to make sure I had enough
energy to get over Cross Fell. With the sub zero temperatures, snow and 80mph
winds up at the summit, there was no way I’d be stopping for a snack break.
I
really didn’t want to go up alone and spent far too much time overthinking
it. The SST even suggested I wait on one
of the guys behind. Not in a patronising
way, but to give me some ressurrance. We
checked the tracker, but the next person was hours behind.
Fours
hours later, I left feeling a gazillion times better than I did when I
arrived. I was energised and more
positive, but still quite anxious and edgy. I was so thankful I knew the route
and knew what lay ahead. Cross Fell is
England’s highest point outside the Lake District. It’s altitude of 2625ft, position and ‘Helm
Wind’ also makes it, officially, the coldest place in England. My previous ascent of Cross Fell was on a
crisp winter’s morning. Even on a clear
day, it’s a fairly hostile place to be.
I
was really lucky as the guys ahead left prints in the snow the whole way, so I
didn’t really have to navigate. Again
following the prints of the person with the MASSIVE feet. I
didn’t want to get too complacent though, because if the snow came on heavy I
would have had to pick my own way.
I
congratulated myself on every recalled milestone: Green Fell, Knock Fell and
then up the short part of the road.
Passing the weather station at Great Dun Fell, the snow was up to
knee-deep, but I was still managing ok.
I went off track a few times and had some mild panics trying to find my
way back on. Over Little Dun Fell and on
the final push for the summit, the wind was outrageous. By far the strongest
gales I’ve ever had to contend with, as there is no way I’d ever venture up a
hill in those conditions. But if I wanted to stay in the game, I’d have to suck
it up. I was leaning in 45 degrees just
to stay up and using my poles to stab into the ground sideways to move forward.
Sabrina
had a big lead on me now and I was fine with that. I was just focussing on
forward motion and maintaining my second place position. Having Sabrina ahead was a massive
motivator. When I was whining about
being small and weak, it was great having her up front going full speed into
the storm. She’s an inspirational, strong and fearless woman.
Seeing
the lights of Greg’s Hut twinkling in the distance made my spirits cartwheel. I was fever pitch excited when I
arrived. I heard so much about legendary
John Bamber who holds residence for a few days and cooks up noodles sprinkled
with his own homegrown chillies - for extra warmth and a big kick. I could have
stayed there forever. It was so warm and
cosy, especially after the battering I’d just experienced. And the banter and hospitality was top
notch. But John escorted me out, took
some pics and waved me on my way.
Leaving Greg's Hut 📷 John Bamber |
Happily
stomping through the snow on the ominously named Corpse Road and welcoming a
new dawn. Heading down the icy track
into Carrigill a lovely lady came out to give me some flapjacks and asked me if
I wanted to come inside for a cup of tea.
I looked like I’d been doing roly polys in a field of shite and she was
offering hospitality to a stranger. I
was so touched, but politely declined on
the basis it was daylight, I’d just spent ages at Greg’s Hut and the checkpoint
at Alston was only four miles away.
Along
the river Ellie from SFM appeared from behind the bushes filming as I pathetically attempted to
jog with shy of 200 miles in my weary sleep-deprived body. I chatted to them both and Matt filmed as he
moved alongside. As I write I’ve got no
idea what he asked, but I’m sure my replies were total mince.
Before
Alston I had a brief chat with race media who were filming me for the race
social channels. Apparently this kept my Mum happy during the week, knowing I
was alive and still chipper. I was
firmly in my happy place, as daylight does such amazing things for energy and
spirit. I will never take daylight for
granted again.
When
I arrived at Alston, I was greeted by a sea of smiley faces. The volunteers were just so amazing and
attentive. The good thing about being
higher up in the field - well, other than finishing quicker - is the undivided
attention at aid stations. My shoes were
off, waterproofs hung up to dry and lots of delicious warm food was placed in
front of me. Amazing chickpea stew and
for extra fusion cuisine, some crisp sandwiches.
The
Spaniard, Eugene - one of the race favourites - was sitting in there like a
fallen soldier. I was gutted to see this
as anyone who has followed the race over the years knows he goes all in and
wears his heart on his sleeve. Last year, he had to be rescued and pulled from
the race when he collapsed only a few miles from the finish. His feet were in a bad way and he certainly
wasn’t going anywhere on those stumps.
He was trying to tell me something via google translate, but we were
both too destroyed to converse.
Although
I could access all the race info on my phone, I chose not to. I couldn’t stop
people giving me unwanted stats though, I just tried to block them out. It
wasn’t a conscious effort, I just wasn’t that interested. To me it was a personal adventure and I was
only (just) functioning in my little Spine bubble. Simply out there, doing my
best. I was informed a few times Huw
Davies was ahead. He was certainly causing
quite a stir with the ladies and there was some heavy swooning going on. I just
asked if he had massive feet.
Deep faffing with Taro 📷 Ian Burns |
Again
it was morning and I was trying so hard to maximise daylight, but I was
exhausted. I was spending far too long
faffing with my kit. Unlike Tor des
Geant I wasn’t just sitting or staring into space, I was eating, sleeping or
sorting out my bag for the next section.
I just seemed to pack my gear about 100 times! It’s just so hard to decide what you might
need for another full day and night out in the winter. And triple check out the mandatory items were
included.
My
eyes were so heavy and swollen they were starting to hurt. I knew even a short sleep would be hugely
beneficial, so I went off to one of the dorms for a nap. One of the lovely volunteers, Debi let me use
her bed. I crawled in, checked some
messages on my phone and set an alarm for 30 minutes. I merely dozed, waking every five
minutes. When my alarm went I dribbled
all over the pillow. Sorry, Debi. I never told you this.
Taro
was downstairs and planning on pushing through.
He left before me, having opted to skip sleep.
Alston to Bellingham (To Thursday 7:46 am)
40 miles, 5492 ft
Leaving Alston 📷 Ian Burns |
The
dream was beginning to feel like a reality now.
In most cases nothing short of a limb falling off would make me stop,
but the Spine is a different beast. I
always said I wouldn’t put myself in danger.
To be frank, to me that meant risking my own life. At the end of the day, I’m someone’s mother
and that means everything to me. I
skipped along, safe in the knowledge that I didn’t die in the storm, or freeze
on Cross Hill. I wasn’t swept away in a
torrent on the River Tees and made it up Cauldron Snout without falling
off. I was so content even the endless
miles of bogs, farmland and Blenkinsopp Common didn’t faze me.
Tara
was in the distance but I was gaining on him quickly. His plan to skip sleep was coming back to
haunt him. I passed him shortly before
Kirkhaugh and we exchanged a few words.
He told me his English wasn’t great, so I didn’t want to make him feel
uncomfortable. I’d later discover his
English is better than most British people.
Through
the next village, I met Joe Faulkner serving up hot blackcurrant juice and the
Angel of Slaggyford dishing out coffee and home-baking. The most amazing part of the race is that the
community along the way gets so involved.
People dot watching and coming out their houses or out on the course to
see if I needed anything. Sweets and
chocolate left on roadside and stiles with ‘help yourself Spine races’
signs. There’s no individual support
allowed in the race, but as long as it’s available to all competitors, it’s
fine.
I
was pushing hard to try and get onto during daylight but the odds were stacked
against me. I was so thankful I’d recced
this section as I knew what lay ahead.
When faced with the prospect of never ending shite-filled fields and
swamp. it’s weirdly comforting having experienced it before.
Shortly
after nightfall I was cutting through a farm, when a chap came out to tell me
he’d been waiting for me and asked to film me for his youtube channel. In hindsight it was a very surreal
situation. With a sane mind it might
have been a little intimidating, but he seemed harmless enough. Although I was
thinking he might chop me up and keep me in his freezer. One of the guys I work with found the video,
so I’ve posted a link here. Weirdly,
someone contacted me on Twitter to say she’d been talking to the farmer that
day and mentioned our chat.
Onwards
to the bogs of Blenkinsopp Common, which nearly ended my Spine dream the last
time I was there. When I recced in November, the tops of the water had frozen
and shredded my shins. This time there
was no ice but navigation was still tricky and I found myself off course and going
round in circles many times. The recess
forced me to find contentment in the fact that you just don’t go anywhere fast
on the Pennine Way. Everything takes
twice as long.
After
what seemed like hours - mainly because it was, in fact, hours - I hit the road
crossing. This was another of the points
that haunted my dreams in the lead up to the event. Crossing the A69 in the dead of night,
completely off my tits, with cars flying by at
70mph. Again it was nothing to worry about.
Up
the steps, over the field and stiles and then I got completely lost in the golf
course! Round and round, up and down I
just couldn’t find my way down to the next road crossing. Then I lost one of my Seal Skinz mitts, which got me into a
massive panic. I needed them for the
next night. So I started backtracking on
my circling, but it was so windy it would have definitely blown away. Then Mike Halliday appeared. He’d come out to say hi, which was so lovely. He probably wished he hadn’t because he too
became invested in the hunt de mitt. I
wrote it off and decided to push on.
Chatted to the SSTs who were trying to find me extra gloves. I guess everyone is a bit spaced out there
that far into the race, but they must have thought I was a complete bombscare.
(Greenhead Wednesday 8:39pm)
At
the Walltown carpark at the foot of Hadrian’s Wall, I went into the public
toilets to wash my hands. I mean I
looked like I rolled in cow shit for days, but washing my hands seemed very
important. Then I decided to lie down
and have a quick nap. I wasn’t even
tired, but sleeping on a cold stone toilet floor seems to be a perverted, yet
traditional, part of the authentic Spine experience.
Hadrian’s
Wall with Sharon in December was a joyful and thrilling experience. During the race in the dark it was
never-fucking-ending. Up, down, up, down
for eight long miles and my energy and tolerance levels were through the
floor. The SSTs had come out to cover
some of the distance with me. I thought
they were being friendly, but they must have been concerned about my welfare.
We said our goodbyes at Steel Rigg Carpark.
They gave me a can of Pepsi Max and I sauntered on, chanting lots of
positive talk, counting, deep breathing.
Pepsi Max 📷 Paul Wilson |
Shortly
after Hotbank Crags, the Pennine Way cuts through the wall at Radishaw Gap down
to Ridley Common. I was so worried about
the cows (I have the fear) , but they were none to be seen in the dead of
night. Unsurprisingly. I huddled behind
a wall to eat something as I was struggling to stay upright. And I had to take my pack off because my shoulders
were aching so bad. I really wanted to
sleep, but I couldn’t stay still for long as my temperature plummeted quickly.
I
decided to stick in my Airpods and listen to some music, singing really loudly
in an attempt to wake myself up. The
distraction was helpful, but it was causing me to make stupid navigation
errors. I was desperately trying to push
on to Bellingham, but I was falling asleep on my feet.
My
eyelids were so heavy and I was stumbling and mumbling around. I eventually gave in and was forced to have a
short sleep at the side of the path. In
temperatures a few degrees above freezing, this wasn’t something I’d factored
into my race plan. I pulled out my emergency
bivvy, which is surprisingly warm for a bit of coloured tin foil – and set an
alarm for 15 minutes.
I
slept on and off for a few minutes.
Checked a few messages and an audio whatsapp from Dan Lawson singing “I
love your smile” down the phone. Which
of course made me smile. I didn’t feel
revitalised, but I at least had enough to keep going. Although I then got lost
for a good half hour in bogs on Haughton Common. Frustratingly, I just couldn’t find the right
line.
The
miles to Bellingham seemed to take forever, but I was content with that. I was
just dreaming about the soup at Horneystead Farm that I’d read about in the
Facebook group. I nearly panicked when I couldn’t see any lights or signs of
life. The sign welcoming Spiners in would have been so easy to miss in the dark
if I hadn’t been so desperate to find it. Eating warm soup on a comfortable
sofa was like heaven.
Pushing
on to Bellingham, my shins were on fire.
And I realised I’d lost an Airpod - joy. Although I tried to jog bits, I
would have been way better off walking. I was just conscious of not getting
into the habit of walking everything, because it’s difficult to break and start
again. The sun was coming up as I trotted along the road to the
checkpoint. Again more wasted daylight.
I
could see the lovely Lucy Colquhoun frantically waving in the distance as she
ran towards me. Lucy normally acts like
she’s been plugged into the mains, but this was fever pitch. It was so great to see a familiar face. She got me lots of food and sweet coffee as I
got dressed into dry, clean clothes for the final section.
My
Japanese film crew friends asked if they could film me getting my kit
ready. I was a complete state, so I
asked him to “give me a minute”. In
Scots’ that means feck off and gimme peace.
He waited exactly one minute and then started filming. I couldn’t stop laughing.
The
hall inside the checkpoint was set up like a camping site, with individual
tents. It was like walking into
Decathlon. Lucy had ‘saved me the best
tent’ so I slumped off for a short sleep.
After
an hour of broken sleep, Lucy came in to get me up. She literally had to help me up to my feet as
my calves and shins were ruined! I
couldn’t stand or walk. Everything from
knees down had seized and swollen. The
waterproof socks are great for foot care, but the compression causes other
issues.
Again,
Taro and I were just sitting there like lost and broken souls. I had to force myself to get moving, way
after my self-imposed allocated time.
When you’ve been outside and alone for so long, the indoors and the comfort
of human interaction is hard to leave behind.
Bellingham to Kirk Yetholm (To Friday
6:36am) 42 miles, 7040ft
It
was a beautiful sunny morning when I left Brown Rigg Lodges - and then managed
to get myself lost in Bellingham. I’m
not even sure how that is possible. Once back on the course I was in good
spirits, forcing myself to stay calm and reminding myself to embrace the
experience. It’s too easy to become
erratic and frustrated in the latter stages of the race.
📷 Jimmy Hyland |
I
got myself into a good stomping rhythm over the hills. I was feeling so (unsurprisingly) good I
packed my poles away and worked up to a good jogging pace. Up and over Whitley Pike, feeling
spritely. But also massively hamming it
up for Jimmy Hyland’s camera.
In
the distance I could see my film crew friends at the road crossing. As I approached and passed I waved over and
headed up Pardon Hill. About 15 minutes
later, my stomach was in a bit of a mess.
With my circadian rhythm and eating all out of sync, I felt swollen and
bloated. I let out a huge fart to clear
some gas. Then I heard the shocked gasp
behind me. My film crew pal had followed
me all the way up the hill and I didn’t know.
Bearing in mind I don’t fart in front of my husband of 13 years, letting
one off in front of a video camera was quite a big deal. Praying that footage didn’t make the cut, we
both laughed solidly for about 20 minutes.
The
section to Byrness is fairly sold underfoot through forestry tracks. There’s a long downhill part, which could
have been easy miles, but my shins were on fire and I didn’t have the range to
straighten my foot for descents.
A
few miles before the checkpoint Matt and Ellie from SFM were out filming (no
gas this time!) and it was so lovely to see them. They chatted alongside me for a while before
leaving to go find Trish Patterson, who was holding third position. As always, huge respect to Summit Fever
Media. There was the best part of 20
hours between the top three and they were going well out of their way to ensure
equal coverage of the women’s race.
The
torrential rain started just before I got into Byrness. The race uses the local Forest View B&B -
which I’m led to believe is a bit of an institution with Pennine Way hikers
- as their checkpoint. Manky Spiners are relegated to the
conservatory and only allowed a 30 minute stop, which is vigorously timed. I
think there’s also a camera on the door that Spine HQ can monitor in and out
time, but I think they made that up as a scare tactic to ensure I didn’t
overstay my welcome.
In
the conservatory the rain was bouncing off the glass roof, which made it sound
a million times worse. The thought of
the Cheviots in another storm was not appealing. All eyes were on me as I pathetically tried
to eat soup and a Pot Noodle, which I carried around for the best part of a
day. There were frequent reminders that
I ‘only had a marathon go’ and how many minutes I had left on my countdown
clock.
When
my 30 minutes were up I had no option but to go. ‘Only’ a marathon to go. Only 26 miles across desolate landscape in
some pretty harsh conditions. When I
recced this section, I was surprised there was nothing there. No signs of life apart from a fence. There are two mountain huts on the way, so my
focus was just to get to them.
Strangely,
it was warmer than I expected it to be and after a mile I had to take off the
excessive layers. I did question whether
it was just the early signs of hypothermia, but I think it was the exertion of
dragging my ass up the mudslide that is Byrness Hill.
Up
and over Houx Hill, with a good swift pace going. Somewhere around Ravens Knowe I managed to
face-plant is a swamp. Twice. On the
second one, I got up and couldn’t steady myself so I fell backwards into the
water. I was completely drenched and raging!.
The water had soaked my gloves and gone up my sleeves through my clothes
under my waterproofs. I just screamed in total frustration.
The
ground was mostly saturated and tough going.
I know we didn’t have sub zero temperatures that previous year’s events
have been faced with, but the underfoot conditions were horrendous. Some permafrost would have been so welcome,
because sinking across bogs for days was hard work. Feet were constantly dipped
in cold water and pulling legs out of mud caused havoc with my shins and hip
flexors.
I
was so cold and so miserable, but I had to keep pushing on. Once you’re out there, you’re committed. It’s hard to believe that people drop out in
the final stages of the Spine Race, so close to the end, but the Cheviots will
wring out everything that’s left of your soul.
My
eyes were playing tricks on me and I had some lengthy in-depth conversations
with my dead Gran for quite some time.
When SST Colin Green (Who’d helped me on Hadrian’s Wall) came out of the
mountain hut to find me, I wasn’t sure he was real.
Inside
the hut was amazing and warm with lots of good banter from Colin and
James. I stayed way too long and when I
got going I just couldn’t heat up. I was
shivering so much I gave myself a headache.
Struggling
to move forward, I decided to stop for another sleep at the side of the
path. In the Cheviots, in January, in
hindsight was a truly ridiculous idea. I don’t think I slept for long, but I
woke startled when I realised my feet were in a puddle of water and were now
frozen solid.
Feeling
slightly better from the short rest, I pushed on to see a head-torch ahead of
me. Taro had either passed by the hut or
stepped over me on the path. I made it a
target to catch him again, which gave me a good focus and new energy.
Up
and over Windy Gyle I was gaining, but I was also acutely aware I could be
chasing something that wasn’t actually there.
I caught him before the climb up to Cheviot. He was so lovely and gracious and we stayed
pretty close for the next miles.
Cameron
from Taro’s film crew came out before hut 2 asking me loads of questions. I knew he was assessing my wellbeing to
re-lay it back to Taro.
I
skipped the option of warm food in Hut 2 in favour of pushing on to the end –
mainly because Taro didn’t stop either and we had a little micro competition
going on. Cameron and Taro ran off
together. I was pretty annoyed that he
then had a pacer, but only because he was in front of me.
Up
and over The Schil and I physically couldn’t get down the hill. The pain in my shins was excruciating. Any slip in the mud caused a jarring pain
and I winced and yelped all the way down.
The
focus was just getting to the stile. The
most significant stile I’ve ever had the pleasure of clambering over. Once over, I was back in Scotland. I can’t put into words how amazing that
felt. But I still had the five mile
stumble to the end to deal with.
My
brain was completely gone and I was hallucinating so badly - seeing animals
everywhere. I couldn’t run because of my
shins, but I’d also lost the cognitive and motor skills to deal with the motion
of running. Off the track and on the
road in Kirk Yetholm, the enormity of the challenge, the sleep deprivation and
calorie deficit hit me like a truck. I
have never operated that far on the edge in my life.
My
brain was functioning on another level and
I’d managed to convince myself I wasn’t even in the race and people
would think I’d just cheated when I got
to the end. I had to mentally go through
all the major sections in my head to convince myself I had covered the
distance.
People
were appearing before me (they weren’t real) way before I got to Kirk
Yetholm. So when I saw actual people, I
wasn’t sure they were real. Then I was
crossed through Kirk Yetholm to kiss the
wall of the Borders Hotel. A small
tradition to mark the end of the most amazing experience. 118 hours, 36 minutes
and 23 seconds after. 2nd woman and 8th overall.
I
had so many lows and gone to depths I’ve never been before, but the highs
outweighed the lows. I only have
positive thoughts about the event.
Britain’s most brutal – it is indeed.
But to test, challenge and push your limits, it’s the best too. Nothing
will come close to this.
Huge
thank you to everyone who helped make this happen. So much admiration and respect for the
organisers and volunteers. Thank you to
Montane who let me do stupid things that freak out my Mum. I’ve said never again, because I don’t think
I’d pull myself out of those depths knowing I have a finish in the bag. But my memory is rubbish. Until the next time. Maybe.
I had 118 hours to think of something inspired, and this is what I come out with
5 comments:
Oh dear god I just cannot imagine any of this! Bloody well done, what an inspiration you are!! X
What a great read , witty , humorous and real all in one .
Some great tips along the way too . Legend !
Hi Debs, I have not seen you in years but follow your adventures with much interest and much more admiration. I was a self confessed "dot watcher" and am in awe of what you achieved on the Spine. I can't wait to see what you do next.
All the best to you, Marco and Cairn. With love, Mandy (Judd)
Nice report - and enjoyed your interview on west highland way podcast too. Could I ask what GPS watch you used, how you recharged it, how long it lasted and so on please? thanks
Thoughtful blog, thanks for sharing
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