The Winter Spine race – 2023

On February 18, 2023February 18, 2023 By runningchristianIn Uncategorized1 Comment

On Pinhaw beacon (65 miles from the start, Monday 11.30am)

The snow flurries of earlier in the day have given way to blazing sunshine as we make our way up Pinhaw beacon.

Phil and I had first met at the 2019 Summer Spine race. One of the wonderful things about the Spine race is the amazing community of individuals surrounding it, with each event being an opportunity to meet up with friends old and new. Having arrived at the unofficial aid station at Lothersdale, I was pleased to find myself reunited with Phil again.

Lothersdale is nestled in amongst the surrounding hills and, as we climb out of the village, we catch up on each other’s news. Tragically, Phil lost his niece, Amy, shortly before the race. Amy loved to travel and the family decided to honour her by spreading her ashes in many different places.

The wind whistles gently through the slopes of heather and bilberry that line the hillside. The heather glows a warm red in the late morning sun despite a gentle coating of snow from earlier in the morning.

As we approach the trig point at the summit of the beacon, Phil takes a small vial out from his pack which he opens gently. As he empties the vial, the ashes seem to hang in the air, sparkling momentarily in the low winter sun before being carried away into the surrounding hills by the cool wind. It is a beautiful moment and I feel deeply privileged to be here to witness it.

I didn’t know Amy, but I feel certain in this moment that she would be happy here.

As we head down the other side of the beacon, I’m struck by two things. Firstly, as much as this race is important to me and I desperately want to reach the finish, there are more important things than ultrarunning and crazy races and the last few moments have brought that to life in a very real way. Secondly (and perhaps in contrast to the first point), it is a privilege for me to be able to pursue one of my life goals of completing the Pennine Way in mid-winter; a privilege not afforded to all. Tomorrow isn’t promised for any of us and I feel acutely the weight of responsibility to make the most of the opportunities that today presents.

I do my best to hang onto the sense of resolve; no doubt I will need to draw on it again in the coming hours and days.

Edale (the start, Sunday 8am)

The rain comes down ominously as we stand nervously waiting at the start line. “I have good news and bad news”, announces Kevin McCann through a loudspeaker. “The good news is that I have an updated weather forecast. The bad news is that I have an updated weather forecast.” The gathered runners laugh nervously. Given the circumstances, the humour is appreciated even if it is of the “gallows” variety.

“A journey of 268 miles starts with a single step”

This is not my first time standing on this spot in the field behind Edale village hall awaiting the start of a Spine race. As such, I have a good idea of the task before me. I have exactly seven days from now to run and hike the 268 mile length of the Pennine Way from Edale in the Peak District across mountains, bogs, moorland and forests to Kirk Yetholm in Scotland – in mid-winter on virtually no sleep with very little support.

Two successful completions of the 108 mile challenger race (once in summer, once in winter), two full summer Spine finshes, a DNF at the winter challenger and a DNF at last year’s full winter spine make up my full Spine history.

Finally, the wait is over and we make our way gingerly over the muddy start line; no-one keen on slipping in the mud so early in the race and in full view of the cameras and spectators.

The rain hammers down on us as we leave the village of Edale behind. The traverse across the fields above the village is exposed and offers a taste of what is to come. I look up at the skyline; Kinder Scout is hidden behind grey clouds. As we pass through Upper Booth Farm, I stop for a moment and take advantage of a farm shelter to dig my goggles out from my pack. I’m not alone as other racers who have misjudged the conditions at the start stop to add more layers before the first big climb up Kinder Scout.

The track continues taking us away from the relative safely of the Edale valley towards Jacob’s Ladder. The climb up Kinder Scout is one of the longest of the entire route. The rain becomes snow as we climb up the steep rocky path, turning the greens and browns into a wintery white.

The snow is slushy and I fall over a couple of times, despite having my poles to help with balance. Visibility is poor but I know this section of the route well as I follow the trail over the slippery rocks and past Kinder Downfall. A small leap over the top of waterfall helps keep my shoes dry, for the time being at least. The rocky descent from Kinder Scout is treacherous in the winter conditions. I let a couple of racers go past me as I deliberately take the descent very slowly. I lean back into the slope, traversing from side to side as if I was skiing down a particularly steep and icy black run. Thankfully there’s no-one around to witness this slow and undignified display. I make up a bit of time on the flagstone path across the moors, passing several runners. Past Snake Pass, the trail begins to head gradually back uphill again towards Bleaklow. I pass several groups of hardy Sunday walkers, some better equipped for the wet and muddy conditions than others. I stop for a moment at the summit of Bleaklow to dig out some trail mix from my bag. In hindsight, this is the worst possible place to stop as the icy wind is at its strongest here. I quickly start to get very cold and it takes several minutes of running downhill before I get any sensation back in my hands. I have to remind myself that I do know better than to choose exposed hilltops in bad weather as a spot to stop – seemingly I’m intent on relearning these basics the hard way today.

The weather gradually begins to improve over the next few miles and by the time I drop down towards Torside reservoir, the rain has stopped.

Although there are only five official checkpoints along the entire 268 mile route, there are a handful of unofficial points where we can take shelter and have access to hot and cold water. The first of these, next to Torside reservoir, is run by a local mountain rescue team. Back in civilisation, it would now be lunchtime and so I take up the offer of hot water from the volunteers to make a pot noodle – hopefully the first of many over the next week.

The Pennine Way, having offered us a small glimpse of civilisation at the reservoir, soon disappears into wilderness again. Summer or winter, the climb up to Luddow Rocks is always challenging and I’m grateful to have my poles with me. In summer races past, I have often stopped here by one of the many streams to fill my water bottles. In winter, water is less of a precious commodity although it’s a timely reminder that I should probably be drinking more than I have been so far.

As I descend down from the ridge, the ground is boggy and saturated under my feet. Ahead of me I see four or five runners inspecting a stream, trying to work out the best way to cross it. My feet are still relatively dry beneath my Sealskin socks but there’s little prospect of them staying that way for much longer. Three runners have chosen a narrow but particularly fast flowing section to cross. The first two cross successfully but the third one is knocked over by the force of the water and totally submerged. He manages to use him momentum to hurl himself towards the bank before the current can pull him downstream. The other two runners drag him out from the water. There’s absolutely no way I’m attempting to cross there!

I double back on myself and find a wider point to cross where the flow of the water is slightly more dispersed. The icy cold water is up to my thighs and I can feel the force of the current against my legs. Again, I’m glad to have my poles for stability. I clamber out of the water and up the steep bank, helping another runner behind me and soon finding the path again. Apparently, these streams have been risk assessed by the Spine safety team and deemed to be passable without the need for a diversion. Whilst we’ve all managed to get safely across, I feel it was “touch and go”!

From the summit of Black Hill, I always enjoy the descent down the other side, mostly on flag stones towards the road crossing at Wessenden Head. The afternoon is starting to draw on and I’m keen to push on as far as possible. I know that once I turn my headtorch on, my world will be reduced to a small circle of light for the next 16 hours or so, something that I’m keen to defer for as long as possible.

This is one of the most challenging differences between the Summer and Winter Spine races. Held on or around the summer solstice, the summer races boast long days and short nights. The Winter race is much the opposite.

Inevitably, I eventually lose the battle against the encroaching darkness and I turn my headtorch on. The Sunday hikers have long gone home and the racers have become spread out meaning that I’m now spending long sections without seeing another person. At times, it feels like I’m the last person on earth, all alone out here in the darkness. At other times, I catch glimpses of the distant lights of Manchester and Rochdale, far off to the west.

Eventually I can hear the sounds of fast travelling cars and I know that the M62 crossing isn’t far. I can start to feel my stomach rumble and I look forward to reaching Nicky’s. Nicky’s burger van has been replaced with a shipping container that she has repurposed into a small café. This is a desolate, windswept part of the route and I’m grateful for shelter that the cosy café offers. A vegan burger and oat milk cappuccino taste amazing and exactly what I need to warm up for a few minutes.

As great as it feels to stop for a short period, stepping back out into the cold night again is horrific. My clothes underneath my waterproofs are damp, more likely from sweating than from the rain earlier. It’s still another 14 miles or so to Checkpoint 1 but I already start to think about a warm shower and a fresh change of clothes.

The Pennine Way can be cruel at times. The trail descends steeply into Calder Valley only to immediately head steeply uphill again. From the top of the hill, I can see the lights of the road that leads towards the first checkpoint. The road looks close but this doesn’t take account of another valley in between that has to be descended and then ascended. I’m glad to eventually reach the firmer ground that the road presents. This doesn’t last long though as it’s another treacherously muddy path down to the Hebden Hey Scout centre. My spirits are lifted, however, when I catch the first glimpse of the homely lights of the checkpoint, emerging from the trees.

I’m met by a volunteer outside the building who leads me inside. The checkpoint is really busy and I have to make do with a chair in a hallway – it’s ok as I don’t plan on staying here too long. I soon feel better after a warm shower, some hot food and a change of clothes. There are bunkbeds here and lots of people are opting for a couple of hours of sleep. It’s a tricky decision; Checkpoint 1 comes relatively early in the race but it is a very long way to Checkpoint 2. I decide to stick with my original plan; no sleep till ~~Brooklyn~~ Hawes!

Colden village (mile 45) 2am Monday

The night feels still and quiet as I retrace my steps from the Checkpoint back up the steep hill. I manage to miss the turn off back onto the Pennine Way initially and have to backtrack.

I can see occasional headtorch lights in the distance but I’m mostly alone for the next few miles, crossing desolate moorland before making the climb up to Top Withens; supposedly the inspiration for Wuthering Heights. I assume Emily Bronte came up here in daylight; I can barely make out the old ruins of the farmhouse in my headtorch let alone feel inspired to write any great works of literature.

I pass over the peat moorland of Ickornshaw in darkness. 268 miles is such a stupendously long distance. The only way to tackle it is to break it down into slightly more manageable chunks. The five checkpoints provide a handy way of doing this, resulting in 6 legs of approximately 46 miles, 62 miles, 33 miles, 40 miles, 42 miles and 41 miles. This is a difficult moment in my journey. Checkpoint 1 is behind me but Checkpoint 2 is a very long way away. I know this second leg is absolutely crucial. If I can make it to Hawes relatively unscathed then the worst will be behind me. This is supported by the finish statistics – racers who reach Hawes have an excellent chance of making the finish in Kirk Yetholm.

It’s starting to get light as I pass one of the cowlings, small wooden moorland structures. I’m not certain what their purpose is out here in the wild but I do recall that this means I’m approaching the northern edge of the moor.

From here the trail becomes slightly less remote as it snakes between a number of South Pennine villages. It’s not the most interesting part of the course but at this point I’m just glad to be off the endless moorland. Large white snowflakes begin to fall as I trot down a country lane. The gentle snowfall turns to driving sleet and hail as I struggle up a hill into a headwind.

It’s stopped snowing by the time I reach the village of Lothersdale, where a local triathlon club has set up an unofficial aid station. This has become a staple of both winter and summer races and is most welcome, particularly given the distance between Checkpoints 1 and 2.

Inside the tent that’s been set up, I find myself sitting next to Phil. We decide to tackle the next section together. The snow has been replaced by bright sunshine as we make our way over Pinhaw Beacon, through Thornton-in-Craven and eventually, via a long road diversion, into Gargrave.

Gargrave is the largest village on the Pennine Way so far. I’ve being looking forward to visiting the Co-op supermarket there and seeing what I can find to eat. However, Phil suggests a visit to the local chippy, which I have to admit is far more appealing. Daily life seems to carry on as normal in Gargrave as people go about their daily routines. We sit outside in the afternoon sunshine, enjoying the thick salty chips – it’s easy to forget we’re in a 268 mile race. Reluctantly we leave Gargrave behind and pick up the Pennine Way north once again, keen to push on for Malham whilst it’s still light.

Malham (80 miles, 4pm Monday)

We follow the River Aire as it winds its way towards Malham. I can feel I’m struggling a little to keep up with Phil’s pace and I encourage him to go on as I don’t want to slow him down.

The sun dips behind the hills above me as the day begin to wane. It’s dark as I reach Malham. The lights of the village emit a warm glow as I pass through the deserted streets. I try not to think too much about the cosy houses or roaring fires inside as I steel myself for a long, cold night on the fells.

Soon, I leave the village behind and the dramatic limestone cliffs of Malham Cove tower above me, visible as a darker shade against the dusky sky. The last 20 miles or so have been relatively flat, but the steep climb up the steps of Malham Cove ominously foreshadows the hilly miles to come. From time to time, I see headtorches from other races in front or behind me but I’m largely alone as I scramble over the rocky terrain leading up to Malham Tarn.

I start to feel thirsty and reach for one of my water bottles. Both water bottles have frozen solid in the cold. Not only are the straws completely useless but I can’t even unscrew the lids. I’m just carrying two giant ice blocks in my race vest for the sake of it at the moment.

I think back to last year’s disastrous race. This was the moment that I knew in my heart that my race was over. The calf strain that I’d somehow picked up around Gargrave was getting worse and by the time I hobbled into the monitoring station at Malham Tarn, broken and despondent, I knew I wouldn’t be able to continue. As I reach Malham Tarn today, I’m entirely focussed on the task at hand, last year’s failure far from my mind. The monitoring point has been moved from the main building of the Field centre used in previous years to one of the out buildings. It’s just a small room with some chairs but it’s warm and bright. I happily make use of the hot water on offer to make another pot noodle as one of the volunteers runs my water bottles under hot water to melt the ice. It is a maximum stay of half an hour here and I’m determined to make the most of every minute before I face the long climb up Fountains Fell.

I thank the volunteers and leave alone, heading off into the darkness. The climb up Fountains Fell seems to go on forever. In the dark, I can’t see much beyond a few meters and just when it seems like the trail is flattening out, it surges back up into the night sky once again. I’m wary of coming off the Pennine Way here as I know there are mine shafts in the vicinity, no doubt harder to spot in the dark and snow.

From the top, it’s a much quicker descent down to the road connecting Fountains Fell with Pen y Ghent. I’ve climbed up this peak many times previously, but never before in the darkness. The rocks beneath me seem to glow in the light of my headtorch as I scramble up the rocky face.

It is not uncommon for there to be a diversion in place on the winter Spine race preventing racers from going over the summit for safety reasons. Although there is snow around, the southern approach to the summit is fairly free of ice and I’m glad we’ve not been denied the chance of a thrilling night-time summit of this famous Yorkshire peak. I’ve managed to catch up with a small group of racers at the summit. The wind is icy cold and no-one is inclined to hang around the summit cairn for very long; not that there’s very much to see in the dark in any case.

Whilst the ascent up the southern side of the mountain was ice-free, the descent down towards Horton-in-Ribblesdale is treacherous under foot. Crunchy snow gives way to sheet ice without any warning and I slip and slide a few times though manage to stay on my feet.

I’m now into my second night without sleep. Without the adrenalin of the scrambling up Pen-y-Ghent, I feel the insidious threat of the sleep demons grow. The small group I’d caught up to have pushed on down towards Horton. I stop and sit down on a rock, leaning back on my backpack to doze for a moment. The cold acts as a natural alarm clock, uncontrollable shivers waking me after a minute or two. Just closing my eyes for a few moments is enough to snatch back control from the sleep demons – and stop me sleep walking off the mountain.

Down in the village of Horton-in-Ribblesdale, a local pot-holing club has opened up their building for Spine racers to use. Inside, I find the same hospitality as a full official checkpoint as I’m offered food, hot drinks, a place to sleep and a charger for my phone. The volunteers inside can’t do enough to help me in any way they can. We had been told at the pre-race briefing that there would be some form of support here – but I was expecting little more than a cold marquee and some lukewarm tea. This really is a wonderful surprise; a safe harbour for a short time amidst a cold dark sea.

With my sprits lifted, I head out of the door. Within a few metres of the front door, the trail begins a long ascent back up into the fells. It’s 15 miles between here and the Checkpoint at Hawes; several hours at my current pace.

I’m totally alone as I traverse the snowy fells beneath a clear, cold star-filled sky. It feels like I’m the last person left in the race or perhaps even the sole survivor of some apocalyptic event. I can’t help but recall my prior night-time experiences of these fells on previous races. Strange, unidentifiable lights seemingly dancing on the distant mountainsides. The feeling of isolation but also a strange contentment under the huge dark sky.

I’ve been hiking along the old Roman paths for what seems like an age. I’m looking forward to reaching the right-hand turning at Ten End as this signifies the start of the long descent out of the hills down into Hawes. My headtorch illuminates a Pennine Waymarker; “Ten End – 4 miles”. I can’t help but feel despondent. Even at a bit of a trot, Ten End is well over an hour away and Hawes even longer still.

I listen to some music to take my mind of the miles ahead. At some point I’m passed by another racer, the first person I’ve seen in many hours. A crescent moon hangs low in the pre-dawn sky and eventually, the first signs of light appear in the sky far off to the east.

I can feel my spirits lift again. Eventually, I pass Ten End and the trail begins to lead down out of the fells. The dawn light helps me pick up the correct line through the snow-covered hillside. A drone flies overhead and I pick up my pace – I may as well make an effort for whoever is watching. The fields end and I reach the country lane that will lead first to Gayle and then onto Hawes. I carefully stick to the edges as the lane is on a downhill gradient and covered in treacherous sheet ice.

It’s early morning as I finally reach the centre of Hawes, turning left off the Pennine Way to reach the check point. A man is just getting in his car to drive to volunteer at Checkpoint 5 at Bellingham. It’s probably two to three hours to drive the 100 miles between Hawes in the Yorkshire Dales up to Northumberland; I try not to think about how long it’s going to take me on foot.
“Hopefully, see you there,” I say to the volunteer.
“You will,” comes the reply. “Have faith”.

The Youth Hostel at Hawes acts as Checkpoint 2 and is a welcome sight.

The volunteers here are fantastic and run around seeing to the needs of all the racers. I’d met Victoria at the previous summer’s Lakeland 100 race, sharing a few miles with her towards the end of the race as we made our way to the last checkpoint at Tilberthwaite. Victoria is volunteering here at Hawes and it’s lovely to receive a hug and see a familiar face after a long lonely traverse over the fells from Horton-in-Ribblesdale.

Taking a break at Hawes (photo credit: Paula Bedford)

I have been here once before – after dropping out of last year’s race I was driven here in the middle of the night to be reunited with my drop bag, my Winter Spine dream in tatters. Today, the same communal room looks different, the cold light of a bright winter’s morning streaming through the bay windows. More importantly, today I still have hope; hope of touching that wall at Kirk Yethom.

Great Shunner Fell (110 miles, Tuesday afternoon)

It’s afternoon by the time I leave the checkpoint having had my first sleep since Saturday night, some food and a change of clothes.

I’m behind my own schedule; I had planned on reaching Hawes during the hours of darkness and leaving soon after first light this morning. I’m not too worried about the cut-off (which isn’t until 8pm here at Hawes) but I am a bit frustrated that I’m reaching the checkpoints during the day and having to use the precious daylight hours to sleep. There are at most eight full hours of daylight at this time of year – and realistically I’ve just used up half of that at the checkpoint. Unless I can find some preternatural speed from somewhere, it’s going to be a similar story up the course at Middleton and Alston.

The mile or so between the Hawes and tiny hamlet of Hardraw is fairly flat and straight forward and I use the opportunity I speak to my wife, Caroline, on the phone.

Looking back during the climb up Great Shunner Fell

Great Shunner Fell is the highest point on the course so far. There’s no scrambling like Pen-y-Ghent nor is it as steep or as intense as Kinder Scout but it is very long ascent. As I progress up the mountain, false summits periodically appear out of the clouds that have now engulfed the peak. The wind swirls and howls as I reach the summit cairn. There’s a cross shelter at the summit, designed to offer a little shelter whichever way the wind is blowing and I take advantage of it to stop for a moment. My snack bar has frozen in the cold conditions and biting into it is like chewing on rocks but I force myself to eat it none the less.

It’s also starting to get dark once again and I dig my head torch out before heading down the other side of Great Shunner Fell. The lights of Thwaite appear below me and soon I’ve passed through the tiny hamlet. I pick what I recall as being the right line across some farmland only to discover I’ve come off course and have to climb over some drystone walls to get back on track.

I recall from my summer races that the section between Thwaite and Keld traverses a valley beneath the peak of Kisdon to my left. Of course, it’s pitch dark and all I can see is the snowy boulder strewn snow illuminated by my headtorch.

We’ve been told that the village hall of Keld is open for Spine racers to use. However, this involves a small diversion off course and, with the Tan Hill Inn only four miles away, I decide to push on. I’m now quite warm from the exertion and decide to stop and take some layers off.

This proves to be a mistake as the temperatures soon plummet again as I climb up onto the bleak moorland above Keld. Despite the sheet icy present in places, the cold temperatures don’t appear to have completely frozen all the bogs. I do my best to avoid the icy cold knee-deep bogs. At some point, I take an incorrect turn left and find myself on the small road that cuts across the moorland. A quick check of my GPS shows that I could reach the Tan Hill Inn by following this road. However, I’m unsure of whether the organisers would deem this a short-cut and so I reluctantly retrace my footsteps back onto the Pennine Way which does eventually bring me out at the Tan Hill Inn.

This is the highest pub in England and surely one of the most remote. Apparently, William the Conqueror sent men here to survey this land in 1085 and they returned with feedback consisting of a single word; “wasteland”. I have to say, in the pitch dark in a howling gale, I have some sympathy with this perspective. The barn, next to the Inn, which the Spine race has taken over for the duration of the race is a haven of light and warmth and a welcome sanctuary from the icy cold moorlands. Inside, a log fire blazes and a small number of racers doze gently.

I think about digging my sleeping bag out and sleeping for a short while here but decide against it. It’s so welcoming and warm here, I worry that I may never leave.

After a short rest, I leave the tranquillity of the barn behind and venture back out on the moors. Before the race, we had been warned of a shoulder height sinkhole that has opened directly on the Pennine Way less than a mile on from the Tan Hill Inn. This information raises vital questions such as how tall the person who discovered it was “shoulder height” was! A Spine safety team have clearly marked the sinkhole with warning signs and I give it a wide berth.

Footprints on the ground left in the snow by racers ahead of me give me a clear path to follow across the moor. During my first summer race, I got lost on this section and ended up sludging through endless knee-deep bogs. I’d been wondering how much worse this moor would be in winter. In the event the ground is mostly frozen over and before too long I find myself back on firmer ground.

I’m into my third night and the sleepiness is starting to catch up with me. Everywhere I look, I see writing carved into the snow on the ground, though the words aren’t recognisable. English letters, what looks like Arabic or Sanskript writing, some form of ancient runes – perhaps the script belonging to the people who lived here thousands of years ago. I know the writing isn’t real, it’s just my exhausted mind trying to find patterns where there aren’t any, trying to make sense out of an incomprehensible situation.

The miles pass slowly as I head deeper into the third night. At 34 miles, the section between checkpoints 2 and 3 is the shortest of the whole race. However, it goes on for an indeterminable length of time. Boggy fields and moorlands come and go as I mentally tick off the parts of the route that I can recall from previous races. I convince myself that I must be close to the final climb before the checkpoint only to be told be another racer that Middleton is still six miles away.

There are a handful of other racers around. We don’t run together but take it in turns following each other’s headtorches through the snow.

It’s almost dawn again as I finally traverse the slopes of Harter Fell. A couple of race photographers take my photo as I pass by.

I manage a bit of a run down towards the road; my first running for quite some time. From the road, the Pennine Way turns off left to follow the river but the course goes through the town of Middleton-in-Teesdale to the checkpoint location at the Adventure centre.

Inside, the checkpoint feels calm and quiet compared to the business of the first two checkpoints. The communal room where I’m reunited with my drop bag is freezing cold and I quickly move into the dining area which is heated by a log fire and is toasty warm.

It’s around 9 in the morning and breakfast time in parts of the world where that means something. On the Spine race, the time of the day is meaningless. The only times of any importance are the various cut-offs. The cut off here isn’t for another 11 hours, so no need to panic.

I don’t think the quote on the wall has been put here specifically for the Spine race, but it’s pretty fitting none the less:

With my body suitable nourished with some Tofu Korma and my spirit with some Elliott, I go in search of the dormitories. Whichever position I lie on the bunk bed, my body aches, sleep eludes me and I only manage to doze fitfully.

I try not to think about how awful Cross Fell will be later tonight, having got very little sleep here. I’ll worry about that later.

After another portion of Tofu Korma (for breakfast, lunch, who knows what meal?), I get ready to leave the checkpoint.

The mandatory kit list for the Winter Spine, running to 30+ items is extensive, and for good reason. The race passes through remote and mountainous areas. If a racer were to have an accident in one of these areas, it could easily be several hours before mountain rescue is able to reach them; the mandatory kit could be the difference between life and death in this scenario.

Before leaving each checkpoint, every racer has several items of kit checked. Even though it is a pain to have to dig items out of my race pack having just repacked it, it does at least help me focus my mind on not leaving anything important behind at the checkpoint; easily done in a sleep-deprived state.

It’s another beautiful sunny day as I retrace my steps back through Middleton onto the Pennine Way. This is a part of the course that I enjoy; lovely firm and flat riverside running as the trail winds its way past Low Force and High Force waterfalls.

I chat to a race photographer and the German couple who I’ve been leap-frogging for some time now.

It’s dusk as I approach the boulder field which leads to Cauldron Snout. For the first time in the race, I elect to fold my hiking poles up and put them away; I’d rather have my hands free for scrambling over the icy rocks here. This section is painfully slow going and it is pitch dark by the time I arrive at the foot of the climb up Cauldron Snout.

I pick my line up the rock face to avoid the icy patches. I’m using my finely attuned mountain senses to find the route; there’s no need for my GPS which is switched off and stashed away. I think of myself a bit like a “mountain jedi” using the force to navigate. I eventually reach the top and find myself knee-deep in snow- covered heather. Hmmm, I don’t recall this from previous races. No matter, I am a mountain jedi and just need to rely on my instincts to guide me. I can see bright lights ahead of me – that must the path at the top of the falls beneath the dam. As I get closer to the lights I realise they belong to a small building that I’ve never noticed before. In the dark, I can’t see where the river starts or ends. Far off to my left, I can see two headtorches of the two German runners. Are they lost? I reluctantly turn my GPS on and realise that they’re on the correct route and I’ve come way off course. So much for my mountain jedi skills; like a moth to the flame, I’ve been mesmerised by the lights and pulled well off course. The common-sense approach now would be to retrace my steps until I’m back on course and pick up the trail from there. Naturally, that’s not what I’m going to do.

According to my GPS, I’m now beside Cow Green reservoir at the top of the dam, on the wrong side of the water. However, there should be a narrow foot bridge running across the top of the dam. I follow a track leading to the bridge – there are no danger signs and no indication I shouldn’t take it. As I run across the dam, I imagine myself as Pierce Brosnan in the opening scene of Goldeneye; hopefully without the need for a bungee jump at the end. It’s a long way across and presumably a deep drop off to my left, which I try not to think about too much. I reach the other side and follow a track that my GPS assures me will lead back to the Pennine Way. My heart misses a beat as I check my handheld GPS device hanging around my neck only to find the unit has fallen off the lanyard. Without that I’m in all kinds of trouble! Thankfully I only have to retrace my steps a few meters before I find it lying in the snow. I’d changed the batteries and not put the case back on properly. I’m hugely relieved to reach a Pennine Way finger post pointing me in the right direction. This is where I should have ended up after my climb. It’s been a comedy of errors but my only consolation is that I’m in tracking dead zone and so hopefully no-one will ever know about my navigational embarrassment.

As I reach High Cup Nick, my phone comes back into reception and I get a barrage of missed call notifications and messages from the Spine organisers and Caroline, keen to get me back on course. So much for my indiscretions going unnoticed!

High Cup Nick is ordinarily one of the highlights of the Pennine Way. In the darkness, I can’t see a thing. I know from previous races that the Pennine Way follows the northern escarpment high above the steep-sided valley. The wind whips across the High Cup Plain and I’m soon freezing cold again. The GPS appears to be leading down into the valley itself which doesn’t seem right. My confidence in my mountain jedi abilities is now in tatters but I attempt to use it once more to head to where I think the escarpment should be. I end up going around in circles twice before giving up and admitting that the GPS is probably more reliable than my sleep-deprived brain. What I’d thought was the incorrect descent down the steep-sided valley was just a small stream crossing and I’m soon back on the correct path. Tonight’s first key learning: a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Tonight’s second key learning: I probably shouldn’t be attempting to “use the force” to find my way over dangerous, rocky terrain in the dark. I’ll blame a mis-spent youth watching James Bond and Star Wars movies.

By the time I reach the country lane leading down into the village of Dufton, I’m falling asleep on my feet again. I wake up staring at a hedgerow next to the lane with no idea where I am or what I’m doing. I recall that I’m trying to reach Dufton village hall but I can’t recall why. It’s so cold and I imagine being back at home dozing gently in front of my log fire. There’s a reason why I can’t just go home (clue: my house is around 300 miles away) but in my sleep deprived state, I don’t know why. The country lane seems to go on forever and I become irrationally annoyed. In a fit of pique, I decide that I’ll go no further and will simply stand where I am instead. A few minutes of shivering in the cold convinces me that standing on a country lane in sub-zero temperatures at 1 in the morning is probably not the most robust plan in the world.

A volunteer greets me as I reach the village hall. “You were taking so long on the lane, I was about to come and look for you,” says the volunteer. “There’s a medic inside checking up on all the racers.”
I smile and decide admitting that I can barely even remember my own name is probably not the thing to do at the moment. The next few miles over Cross Fell are perhaps the most hair-raising of the whole Pennine Way; I’m not surprised that they want to check people are compus mentis before sending them up the mountain in the dark and snow.

The village hall is simply a monitoring station with a maximum stay of 30 minutes. I tell the volunteer I’d like to use that time to sleep. Lying on the floor and using my race pack as a pillow and my waterproof jacket as a duvet, I set my phone’s alarm for 25 minutes and immediately fall asleep.

Dufton – 170 miles, 1 o’clock on Thursday morning

Even after 30 minutes rest, I’m not quite ready to tackle the mountain yet. Next door Dufton’s café, the Pantry Box, is open all night long to look after the Spine runners. It’s warm inside and I decide a veggie burger, an oat cappuccino and a little more rest is a good idea. I chat to two other runners, Andrew and Haydn. My confidence is a little low after the navigational blunders on the last section and the three of us decide that we’ll tackle Cross Fell together.

Cross Fell is the highest point on the course, the highest mountain in England outside of the Lake District and is notorious for having its own uniquely terrible micro-climate. The previous three times that I’ve been up there (all in summer) have all been in awful conditions. The rumours down in the village are all of extremely challenging conditions at Cross Fell’s summit.

The air is still and calm as we begin the climb. I’m wearing five layers of clothing on my torso and quickly feel very warm from the effort. I glance up and notice aircraft lights high in the sky above me. I quickly realise that the lights aren’t from planes but are the headtorches of other runners further up the mountain. No sense worrying about that; I simply focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

The wind begins to pick up and the temperatures drop the higher we get. By the time we reach the summit of Great Dun Fell, it is a complete white-out. The flagstones marking the route across the fells are not visible and the swirling snow eradicates any trace of footprints on the ground.

The wind is howling and icy cold. There is now a small group of five of us running across the fells as fast as we possibly can. This is the most effort I’ve expended all race; my heart is pounding and I gasp for breath under my hood. My arms ache from the effort of repeatedly slamming my poles into the snow and hoisting my body up the mountain. I know that this pace is unsustainable for any long period but I also know if I slow down I will get far too cold. The wind tears across Cross Fell’s flat summit plateau and the swirling snow in the air makes it hard to see.

Our goal is now to reach Greg’s Hut, a mountain bothy situated just below the summit of Cross Fell. Although not an official checkpoint or monitoring station, Greg’s Hut has become an institution on the winter Spine race. I’ve heard many stories of “Britain’s highest noodle bar” run by Spine legend and mountain man John Bamber and I’m very keen to experience it for myself.

We enter the bothy and leave our frozen, ice snow-covered rucksacks in the outer room. There are five of us racers in the tiny inner room as well as John and a race medic. The Spine race does not have sole use of the bothy and another man, unconnected with the race, is dozing in a sleeping bag behind us. A roaring log fire keeps us warm and I’m handed a metal pan filled with the John’s famous chilli noodles.

John Bamber hard at work at “Britain’s highest noodle bar”

The noodles are amazing and just what I need. Feeling much warmer and slightly more positive, I leave the bothy alone and begin the long gradual descent down off the fells. In better conditions, I might be able to see the Cheviot hills from here, still two days away for far away to the north of where I am now.

It’s fully light by the time that I reach Garrigill, a small village at the feet of the large fells that I’ve just crossed. Here, I’m met with another amazing example of how local people wholeheartedly embrace the event. Annie, a local lady, has opened her house for all racers to use as they pass by. After the icy horrors of Cross Fell, it feels totally incongruous to be in a modern family home. I’m appalled that I might be trudging muddy icy into this lovely house, but Annie waves away my concerns. I sit in the kitchen whilst Viv, a Spine volunteer, makes me toast with peanut butter and jam and Annie chats away. This feels like a small slice of normal life unexpectedly but joyfully inserted into an event which is anything but normal.

I follow the Pennine Way through fields and alongside the river from Garrigill to Alston, the location of Checkpoint 4. Inside, the Youth Hostel is packed to the rafters with runners and volunteers. After some vegan lasagne and a few hours sleep, I’m ready to take on the next section of the course.

It’s dark once again as I leave the checkpoint and continue across snow-covered fields and farmland, the path lit just by my headtorch. “Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again”. This constant darkness is pervasive and all-consuming. I’m into my fifth night now and starting to feel the effects, like the protagonist in some Nordic noir thriller, losing their grip on reality in the near-permanence of night.

Despite this section of the trail being far from my favourite, it passes relatively quickly and uneventfully. The long traverse across Blenkinsopp common was a particular low point on my last Summer Spine race. Tonight, is feels far more benign as the cold temperatures have frozen the ground and spared us from the knee-deep bogs and mud that can plague this particular moorland. The GPS and National Trail waymarkers point me into a farmyard beside a house but I can’t find my way out and I retrace my steps assuming I‘ve made a mistake. Eventually, the kind home-owner comes out and points me in the right direction through the yard and over a stile back onto the moors.

As I approach Greenhead, I start to look forward to reaching the monitoring station; some hot water and a little human contact would be nice. I was expecting to be greeted with the hustle and bustle of Spine Volunteers and racers milling around but the car park at Greenhead is dark and deserted when I get there. I think it very unlikely that the monitoring point could be any further along the trail from here so I decide to call Spine HQ and check. The lovely lady on the other end of the phone is friendly and supportive but does confirm the sad news that there is no monitoring point here. I’m a disappointed but not surprised; this is a self-supported race after all. The checkpoints and monitoring points are really the minimum needed for safety purposes and additional handholding is not really a variable that ever features in the Spine equation.

I consider stopping to boil some water on my portable stove (which is part of the extensive mandatory kit) but decide against it. Inside the toilets several racers are bivvying in their sleeping bags. I think about joining them but also dismiss that idea. I’ve only been standing around for a few minutes and I’m already starting to shiver. Dawn isn’t far off now and a dramatic sunrise over Hadrian’s Wall awaits.

Hadrian’s Wall (200 miles from the start) – Dawn on Friday morning

Despite being undulating, I love the Hadrian’s Wall section of the Pennine Way. I try to imagine being a roman centurion stationed here at the furthest northern reaches of the roman empire – freezing cold with not a Caldarium in sight.

I stop for a moment and watch the sun rise. This race consists of near constant misery and hardship. The moments of joy and elation are few and far between but when they come, it makes it all worthwhile. I’ve fought through the darkness and snow all night but now the sun is rising and life is good again.

I pick my way carefully down the icy descent to the famous Sycamore Gap. Viv and another member of the Spine safety team have come out to say hello. I chat a little to them before continuing on my way.

The trail soon leaves Hadrian’s Wall behind and continues inexorably north towards the border with Scotland. As I pass through Wark Forest, the damage from Storm Arwen is evident. Whole swathes of trees have been uprooted leaving patches of barren land in between. Here the race follows a significant diversion due to the damage, winding its way through the Forest rather than following the true Pennine Way which cuts its way directly through the trees.

By the time I reach Horneystead farm, I’ve been joined by another two racers. The family who own Horneystead Farm have dedicated a small barn to assist weary Pennine Wayfarers. During Spine week, that definitely includes us racers! Inside the barn there is a small bed, some chairs and various snacks. I help myself to a bowl of soup which is delicious.

Horneystead farm (Photo credit:Viv Watson)

It’s only a few miles from here to Bellingham and the last official checkpoint of the race. If I push on, I can make it before nightfall.

Close to Checkpoint 5 at Bellingham (Photo credit: Drew Wilson)

Just before Bellingham, I meet up with another racer Hugh and we chat a little as we make our way down to the checkpoint.

Due to my position in the race (ie nowhere near the front), I’ve hit pretty much every single checkpoint at peak time. The communal room at Brown Rigg is busy but I sit down and find some food to eat.

The final checkpoint (Photo credit: Alan Cormack)

I’m also keen to try and get some sleep here before tackling this final section of the race.

All previous four checkpoints have had dormitories with bunk beds to sleep in. There’s no such luxury here at checkpoint 5. I enter the dark room set aside for sleeping and the temperature plummets immediately. I find some space inside a tent on the cold hard floor and crawl into my sleeping bag to try and sleep.

I fall asleep thinking over my plan for what I need to do before leaving the checkpoint. I wake up a couple of hours later still thinking about my plan but I’m now in a blind panic. “Sure,” I think to myself. “You might have remembered to change the batteries in your headtorch and GPS device but what about Frodo and Sam and ring of power? Who is going to destroy the One Ring?”

It takes a few minutes for me to work out that I’m confusing reality and High Fantasy Fiction and that the fate of Middle Earth thankfully does not lie in my hands.

I chat a little to Spine race stalwarts Alan Cormack and Drew Wilson, who both volunteering and am soon on my way again.

Leaving Bellingham for the final stretch

It’s 11pm as I leave the checkpoint; just an hour before the final cut off here. Although I’m now close to the cut off, I’m not too worried. I’ve used my time at the checkpoint to sleep, rest and eat. I now have 33 hours in which to cover the final 42 miles between here and Kirk Yetholm. Something would have to go very drastically wrong – but then this is the Spine race and I can’t afford to take anything for granted. There are other racers further behind me who are only reaching the checkpoints in the final hour before cut-off, with barely enough time to eat and have their kit checked. With no time to sleep at the checkpoints, they are having to bivvy out in the cold and manage themselves well enough to scrape the next cut-off – not an enviable position to be in.

The Pennine Way passes through the small town of Bellingham before heading back out into the wilderness. The first few miles pass relatively uneventfully as I cross farmland and then moorland. At a road crossing another Spine safety team is out checking up on us. The race leaders have long finished – those of us remaining on the course are now into our sixth night with very little sleep. If anything is going to fall apart, now is the time and I’m not surprised the organisers want to keep a close eye on us.

By the time I reach Kielder Forest, I’m falling asleep on my feet again. One runner announces that he is going to bivvy in the woods and heads off into the trees. It’s so cold and the thought of shivering in my sleeping bag in the freezing dark woods does not appeal at all. If I stop and get into my sleeping bag, I know that I won’t be getting out again. But I do need to sleep so I tell Hugh, who has caught me up, that I’m going to sleep for a minute by the side of the trail. Hugh joins me and I set my alarm for two minutes. Two minutes of power napping is just enough to stop me from falling asleep on my feet but not enough time to completely freeze to death.

The trail leads downhill through the trees towards the tiny forest village of Bryness.

The smell of pine and freshly cut wood is intoxicating in the early morning air as we head towards the final monitoring station at Forest View, a small B&B. Again, it’s a maximum stop of 30 minutes here which I use to have some food and doze a little on the comfortable sofa. Many of the runners I’m with are planning to sleep in the small church at Bryness which the vicar has left open specifically for the Spine racers. I’m torn as to whether to join them. On the one hand, I really suffered on the last section and some proper sleep could be a good idea. On the other hand, it’s very nearly dawn and I know once the sun rises, my natural circadian rhythm will kick in. In the end, I decide to leave the other runners and head up into the Cheviots alone. The sooner I get started the sooner I finish. Although it’s nice to have company at times, I signed up for this race as a solo adventure and I’m keen to tackle this final section along the Cheviots on my own terms rather than being dragged along in a big group. We leave Forest View together but I say goodbye as the others continue down to the church. It’s starting to get light again and I don’t need my headtorch as I follow the steep trail up through the trees onto the Cheviot ridge where I’m treated to one final spectacular sunrise.

The rays of the early morning sun sparkle on the snow. I am so exhausted, both mentally and physically, but I can’t help but be staggered by the beauty of my surroundings.

This is my third time in the Cheviot Hills on the Spine race. Three crossings that couldn’t possibly have been any more different from one another; the first in hot and sunny conditions, the second was a stormy hellscape and now a winter wonderland. Andrew eventually catches up with me and we stay together for a little while catching up on our race experiences since we last saw each other on Cross Fell.

I’m starting to get very warm in the sun and I stop to take my waterproof trousers off – the first time I’ve been able to do that in the race. Before too long we find ourselves at Lamb Hill Hut, the first of two mountain bothys that break up the crossing of the Cheviots. Andrew boils some snow water which he kindly offers me. He pushes on whilst I stay and enjoy a final pot noodle of the race.

If the first section over the Cheviots passed quite quickly, the next section takes forever. Although several runners have passed along the route before me, the wind is quickly removing all traces of tracks in the snow. The clear and distinct flagstone path that I remember from my previous summer races is buried under the snow and I spend most of the time knee deep either in snow or heather.

Nevertheless, the scenery is spectacular. Once or twice, I forget I’m in the Cheviots and imagine myself to be skiing in the Alps. I can almost hear the dull mechanical sound of ski chair lifts going overhead, transporting skiers up the slopes.

Windy Gyle lives up to its name and I’m almost blown off my feet as I pass over the summit, grateful for my heavy-duty goggles and jacket hood. I’m now walking along the border between England and Scotland, marked only by a fairly unremarkable farm fence. The climb up to Auchope Cairn, whilst far from being the steepest of the day let alone the race, takes just about everything I have. I stop and wait for another racer to catch up with me – mostly so I can moan at someone about how awful the lasts section was. Roderick sympathises.

At the summit of Auchope Cairn, a man is taking a photograph of a large group of people. As I get closer, I realise the large group of people are just rocks but the photographer is from the Spine media team. He interviews us both briefly and films us we make our way down the steep slope towards Hut 2. At the top of Auchope cairn, I can still see Hut 2 in the dusky gloom, tiny against the vast landscape below. By the time we reach the bottom, it’s pitch dark and Hut 2 is lost in the darkness. Volunteers come out to meet us and their headtorches guide us inside.

I’m grateful for a rest and a final cup of coffee. It’s just seven miles from here to the finish, mostly downhill. At Bellingham, I’d been reduced to putting on my oldest pair of waterproof socks which have clearly seen better days as my feet are currently soaking wet from the snow. My feet are freezing cold as I leave Hut 2 but soon warm up from the effort of the final climb of the race, over the Schill. From the summit of the Schill it’s pretty much downhill to the finish.

I can feel myself getting very sleepy again and all I can think about is that I’m now only a couple of hours away from a warm bed and a full night’s sleep. The next thing I know, Roderick is calling my name. Without even realising it, I’ve sat down beside the trail and fallen asleep! I get and up and we continue on our way. I’m back to seeing strange shapes in the snow. This time it’s small garden gnomes made out of snow; Dobby from Harry Potter, Gollum from Lord of the Rings, Yoda from Star Wars – it’s either an incredible display of workmanship from a dedicated snow sculptor or the imaginings of a severely sleep-deprived brain. My money is on the latter.

We’re now very close to Kirk Yetholm and I ask Roderick if he’d like to finish by himself or together. We both decide to cross the line together. Having left the trail for the final time, we carefully negotiate the icy lane as it leads into the village. Having travelled 268 miles, the finish of this epic race stays hidden until the very last moment. Kirk Yetholm’s village green opens up in front of us and I can see the Border Hotel looks magical lit up with lights. We walk across the snowy green, under the finish arch and touch the wall together.

Caroline is at the finish line and gives me a big hug. I’ve seen so many videos and heard so many stories of great outpourings of emotion at this famous finish line. Tears of joy, shouts of elation or even just sheer relief. Honestly, I’m too tired to feel any of those emotions and I mostly just want to get out of my cold clothes and into a warm bed. The emotions can come later.

It’s difficult, even now weeks later, to sum up how I feel about this epic race. Much of my journey was in the cold and the darkness. The summer version of this event, with its long summer days, at least allowed me to see see a lot of the incredible sites of the Pennine Way. This race felt more like an event to be survived and endured than something to be enjoyed. Nevertheless, there is something absolutely captivating and compelling about the full Winter spine race. It must be almost 10 years since I first heard of this race. I can recall completely failing to comprehend how it could be possible for anyone to run 268 miles over such awful terrain in winter, let alone someone like me of distinctly average athletic ability. That transition from “this is completely and utterly impossible” to “maybe, just maybe, it might be possible” is the most important step any of us can take. A small gap in the all-pervasive self-doubt and negativity is all that’s needed. In that gap hope, possibility and belief can flourish.

Finally touching the wall in Kirk Yetholm in January is the culmination of a journey. A journey not just of 268 miles but one from doubt to hope.

California dreamin’ Western States Endurance Run 2022

On August 18, 2022August 18, 2022 By runningchristianIn Uncategorized1 Comment

As I take my first step into the American River, the icy cold-water seeps into my shoes and soothes my hot and blistered feet. I wade in deeper, and the water reaches up to my waist. It is the middle of the night and the dry, baking heat of the day has given way to a warm, humid night.

The water feels fresh, revitalising and I immediately feel more awake. A rope laid out across the river, stretches to the far bank. Volunteers stand in the river, facing downstream, guiding the runners safely across the river.

I hold on to the rope as I resist the inexorable pull of the river downstream. A release of water from a dam further upstream earlier in the day has tempered the flow somewhat and made it passable on foot. In years of heavy snowfall, the river is not passable at all and runners are ferried across in dinghies. This year, we’re privileged to be able to cross on foot using the rope.

The American River crossing at mile 78 of the Western States Endurance Run. Perhaps the most iconic sight anywhere in world ultrarunning. I had pictured this scene so many times in my mind’s eye. Now I’m here, it feels like I’m in a dream or under a spell, perhaps cast by some elusive siren of the river. The river is simultaneously an obstacle to be overcome on the way to the finish line and my end goal. A way marker en route and the object of my journey. Wading through the water adds to the ethereal feel. Was it REM who sung that “night swimming deserves a quiet night”? The night is anything but quiet; there’s a party atmosphere amongst volunteers on both banks of the river but it somehow just adds to the dreamlike quality.

The riverbed is covered with boulders of various sizes, no doubt brought down from the mountains around us by the river on a slow journey to the sea. In my mind, I’d imagined the river to have a sandy bed and to be fairly easy to traverse. In reality, I must scramble over or around the boulders whilst holding the rope with two hands. A volunteer warns me of particularly slippery rock, covered in algae and I step around it.

Headtorches of runners in front of me create pools of light in the crystalline water. A large light illuminates the far bank, powered by a gently humming generator. As I approach the bank, the water becomes shallower and the river’s flow less intense. Volunteers help me out of the water and take the illuminous, glowing bangle that had been placed around my neck before I entered the water; no doubt a precaution to help spot any hapless runners carried downstream in the dark.

The riverbank is sandy and steep, and I make use of another rope to hoist myself up to the top where the course continues onwards for another 22 miles.

Rucky Chucky Far side bank. Photo credit – Liz Nguyen

My hands are sandy from scrambling up the steep bank. As I rinse my hands in a bucket of water, I look back at where I’ve come. A few dozen meters across the American river and before that 78 miles from Olympic Valley, which now seems like a lifetime ago. This race doesn’t permit much time for looking backwards but I allow myself a moment of introspection none the less. But there’s a race to be run and many miles still to go. Slowly, the enchantment slips away and I’m back in the heat and dust and excitement of the race. The spell might be over but the memory of a magical moment on a balmy June night remains.

Part 1 – Western Dream

It was sometime around 2005 or 2006 that a friend lent me a copy of Dean Karnazes’ book ‘Ultramarathon Man’. At that time, running for me was a way of staying in shape and keeping the post university weight from spiraling too far out of control. I was still to run my first half-marathon, let alone marathon or, even ultramarathon. But Dean’s stories of all night runs fueled by pizza and burritos somehow struck a chord with me. Enjoying running at school, losing his way somewhat in his twenties before rediscovering his passion was a story I could relate and aspire to. Somewhat less relatable was Dean’s detailed account of his participation in the 1995 Western States Endurance Run. This was a race that involved scaling a mountain in the first 4 miles of the course, wading through snow at high altitude, descending and ascending steep canyons in 40-degree Celsius heat, hallucinations, shamen-like encounters, running a gantlet of bears and mountain lions all over the course of 100 mountainous miles. I could scarcely believe that such an undertaking was possible for any human being – and certainly not for someone like me.

My immediate goal was much more modest; simply to complete the 2006 London marathon. What started out as a simple item on bucket list turned into a gateway to something else entirely. Over the next 15 years, I would complete the famous Comrades marathon in South Africa, circumnavigate Mt Blanc on UTMB, traverse the 268-mile Pennine Way on the Spine race, scale Snowdon as part of a 100-mile race, finish the Lakeland 100 as well as completing ultramarathons on National Trails the length and breadth of the country. All the while, Western States remained elusive, out of reach, unachievable for mere mortals like me.

Simply to get a place in the race is a feat in itself. With numbers capped strictly at 369 runners and a good chunk of those going to elite or sponsored athletes, this leaves a little over 200 places to be distributed via a lottery each year. A lottery in which thousands of hopeful runners participate. Whilst the odds at first might seem hopeless, they are helped by the exponential nature of the lottery system. Assuming that an athlete successfully runs a qualifying race each year, then the number of tickets for someone unsuccessful in the lottery doubles each year. One lone ticket in the first year becomes 2 in the second year, 4 in the third, 8, 16 etc.

Early each December, I would watch the draw (which takes place live from the Western States finish venue in Auburn, California) on the internet, hoping for an early Christmas present. After six years of turning off the live feed in disappointment and making alternative plans for the following June, I began to lose hope. In December 2021, my 7th year of entering the lottery, my hopes of ever starting let alone finishing the race were hanging by a thread. I’d only just managed to finish a qualifying race, the Autumn 100, limping over the finish line with an injured ankle the previous October. But the mathematics of the draw are irrefutable; 64 tickets had finally put my chances at gaining a spot at over 50%. Despite this, when my name was finally drawn, I couldn’t quite believe it and thought I must have misheard. The buzzing of my phone with social media and text alerts seconds later confirmed it – after a decade and a half of hoping, dreaming and praying, I was going to Western States!

Part 2 – The High Country

Down at the start line in Olympic Valley, it is cool with little evidence of the heat of the day to come. I sip a hot, steaming cup of coffee as I wait nervously for the start of the race with my wife, Caroline.

Olympic Valley is an upmarket ski resort nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains just above Lake Tahoe and the start point of our 100-mile journey.

It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of the occasion. A decade and a half of ultrarunning, thousands of miles in training, countless blisters, tears, hope and despair has finally come down to this.

The great Western States champion, Ann Trason, once described running 100 miles as “a lifetime in a day”. Here I am, about to take my first tentative steps on that journey.

The resort itself is largely in darkness; all the lights are focussed on the start area. Floodlights light up the first few hundred metres of the course as it snakes its way up into the mountains.

I hug Caroline and say goodbye. I won’t see here again until Foresthill at mile 62. The Race Director is standing by the Start line and giving a speech, but I struggle to focus on what he’s saying. Energy and anticipation reverberate around the amassed runners and I’m immediately caught up in the moment, intoxicated by the atmosphere.

The countdown clock finally reaches zero and time seems to stand still. The hopes and expectations of the gathered runners stand on a precipice. For a single moment in time, anything is possible.

The sound of a shotgun marking the start of the race rings out through the clear mountain air, echoing through the valley. The moment has finally arrived and the group surges forward.

The first 3 and a half miles of the Western States course are straight up a mountain. The trail leads up to Emigrant Pass which sits at the top of Granite Chief, a mountain which towers over Olympic Valley.

As I cross the start line, I hear someone call my name. It’s my friend and fellow Brit, Richard. We immediately settle into a solid hiking pace.

Whilst the ascent is steep, the trail is wide and relatively smooth underfoot. On fresh, well rested legs, it doesn’t pose too many problems. No doubt, this would be an enjoyable descent down into the village on skis in the winter. The pre-dawn gloom soon gives way to early morning light, allowing us to see a little more of what the course has in store for us.

As we turn a corner on the ascent, I look up to my left and see the front runners surging up the mountain, already a few hundred meters ahead of us; no doubt the last I will see of them all day.

As near the top of the climb, the terrain becomes a bit more challenging with loose scree making for an uneven scramble to the top. We reach Emigrant Pass to the sounds of clapping and cheering from dozens of amassed supporters who have hiked up here before the race began. It’s not even 6 o’clock in the morning but that doesn’t seem to matter; the party is already in full swing. As I look back on where we’ve come, the sun has just risen above the distant mountains, illuminating the valley below.

Further afield, the sun’s rays glimmer off the waters of Lake Tahoe. There are large patches of winter snow still around up here but so far, nothing on the trail itself. In some years, heavy snow can make these early miles treacherous sometimes even requiring diversions to the route itself.

Richard and I stop to take a few photos but there’s little time to spare and we’re soon on our way again. I’ve hiked every step of the first four miles up the mountain but soon settle into a run as the trail dips downhill from the pass.

The next section quickly sets the tone for what’s to come; undulating, narrow single track, back-country forest trails. The pace is a little slower than I’d like at this stage, but with few opportunities to overtake on the narrow trail and the runners bunched up close together, I relax and just follow the runners in front of me. These early miles of running through the high country are a mix of hiking up short inclines and running the rest. There are tiny patches of snow remaining on the course itself; really little more than a novelty and certainly not enough to cause any issues.

Eventually the runners begin to thin out and I’m able to pick up a bit of speed on a long scenic downhill section through the trees. A short uphill section follows and before I know, it I’ve arrived at the first Aid Station; Lyon Ridge (10.3 miles). A small boy with a jug of water fills my water bottle for me. Even early in the race, the Aid Station is well stocked with all kinds of fruit, crisps, nuts, energy gels and a variety of drinks.

A runner sits in a camping chair whilst a volunteer applies ice to his swollen ankle. That’s awful luck, especially so early in the race and I hope that he’s able to continue.

The Western States Endurance Run has 20 aid stations over the course of its 100 miles; far more than I’m typically used to back home in the UK. Whilst this is helpful as it helps to break the distance up into manageable chunks, that’s also 20 opportunities to waste precious time. There is a strict 30-hour cut-off to complete the 100 hot and mountainous miles. Just six minutes spent at each aid station would equate to a whole two hours over the course of the race! I’m going to have to manage my time very carefully. With all this in mind, I quickly pick up a couple of GU jells for the next section and am quickly on my way again.

It’s now almost 8 o’clock in the morning and the heat of the day is just beginning to pick up. I’m back to hiking again as the exposed trail snakes its way uphill again.

The High Country is more technical underfoot than I was expecting, with a seemingly unending supply of treacherously placed rocks and roots. I’ve already kicked several small rocks with my left foot and can feel my big toe starting to swell already. No doubt I’ll be saying goodbye to my toenail, just another sacrifice required in pursuit of a Western States finisher’s buckle.

Having left the woods, I am now afforded excellent views of the landscape that I’m running through. The ridge snakes its way above pine tree covered valleys and past snow-capped peaks. These early miles of the course are often described as “alpine”, and I can see why. A short but steep scramble brings me out by Cougar rock, where a photographer is waiting to capture the moment for posterity. I make an effort to smile; hopefully that’ll work for the post-race blog!

Before too long, I’m descending through woods again and I arrive at Red Star ridge (mile 15.8). Dave Stuart, another British runner who I’d met a few days earlier, is just leaving the aid station and I wish him well.

I sit down for a few minutes to empty my shoes of small stones and sand from the trail. I think ruefully about my gaiters, sitting in a shoebox in my cupboard in my bedroom 5,000 miles away. I’d fully intended to bring them for these early miles exactly for this reason. I resign myself to the fact that I’ll be stopping every few miles to empty the trail detritus from my shoes.

I chat a little to some other runners as I leave the aid station. The rising temperatures and endless technical terrain are starting to take its toll. My pace is also far slower than I’d anticipated; any pre-race thoughts I might have had about a “fast time” quickly evaporate in the heat of day. Whilst I certainly don’t want to be chasing cut-offs, realistically I will be happy with any finishing time under the official 30-hour limit.

According to the GPS on my watch, the mileage at the last checkpoint was about a mile further than as advertised by the race organisers. When you think you must be close to an aid station based on your watch’s mileage but said aid station stubbornly refuses to materialise on the ground, it can play with your mind a little. Just as soon as I’ve put all thoughts of the next aid station firmly out of mind, I pass a volunteer who says we’re only 0.15 of a mile away from the next one. As I jog into Duncan Canyon (24.4 miles), I’m greeted by another volunteer. At many of these Western States aid stations, you’re assigned a specific volunteer on entry whose job it is to guide you through, get you whatever you need and then see you on your way before you can waste too much time.

I’ve had very little appetite so far in the race and again pick at the fruit which is about all I can stomach from the food on offer. A bottle of Fireball whiskey stands on a table next to me. I’d heard rumours about Fireball being available at American ultramarathons but had always dismissed that as an urban myth. Here, I’m confronted with the incontrovertible proof. To be fair, there is not a long queue of runners looking to partake and given my stomach is already feeling a little queasy, it’s a “hard pass” for me, as they say here in the States.

Temperatures are predicted to be up over 100 Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius) later. It’s warming up but we’re not quite there yet. At the race briefing the previous day, the race director had told us that huge quantities of ice would be available out on the course, spread across the 20 aid stations to help keep us cool. Before leaving the aid station, a volunteer douses me with icy cold water. My pre-race strategy for dealing with the heat was to take as much ice with me as possible. I have arm sleeves and a cap which can be filled with ice in my pack – but I decide it’s not quite hot enough for that just yet.

A short uphill followed by long descent on single-track takes my down into Duncan Canyon itself. In addition to the famous American river crossing at mile 78, there are many creeks to be negotiated over the course of the 100 miles. I approach the first of these at the bottom of Duncan Canyon. The water isn’t too deep; only reaching part way up my shin but several runners stop and dose themselves none the less.

It’s a long, slow climb up the other side of the Canyon wall over more toe-smashing terrain and my feet are starting to take a battering already. A combination of the heat, the water, the grit and the uneven trail causing my feet to move around in my shoes has led to several hotspots on my feet.

As I emerge from the shelter of the shaded woodland, I find myself on a fire road leading up the Robinson Flat aid station (30.3 miles). This is the first major aid station of the course. Crews are allowed here, and spectators line the fire road leading up to the checkpoint. A DJ is playing loud high-tempo music from a makeshift booth and the whole place feels like a music festival. Spectators cheer and clap as I make my way up to the aid station. Normally, I would jog this triumphantly buoyed on by the music and the crowd, but I suddenly feel awful. The heat of the day is starting to affect me. Not wearing a cap to protect my head over the last section was a mistake and I can already feel the first signs of heat exhaustion. I don’t usually enjoy wearing headgear whilst running but it really is essential in the direct sunlight as a volunteer points out to me as I approach the aid station.

Sitting in the shade for a few minutes helps as I rifle through my drop bag that the organisers have brought here for me from Olympic Valley. I transfer a few items from my race pack to my drop bag and vice versa. I’d brought a vegan pain au chocolat in plastic wrapping all the way from England. The pain au chocolat has effectively cooked itself in my drop bag which has been sitting in direct sunlight. I manage to eat about half of it and discard the rest.

Part 3 – The Canyons: “Burnin’ daylight”

I get another cold soaking with ice water before leaving the checkpoint. I also now have ice in my arm sleeves directly on my skin and in my cap. The trail has now changed from narrow woodland single-track to wide open, exposed fire road. Without any tree cover, it is really hot in the direct sun but and the heat radiates off the ground and the canyon walls. I have to take my cap off every few minutes as the ice in my cap is painful sitting directly on my head. Every step I take send plumes of dust up into the air and my mouth feels dry regardless of how much water I drink.

The infamous heat of Western States was the hardest aspect for me to prepare for in the UK. The average temperatures recorded in the Canyons section of the course on race day are in fact higher than has ever been recorded in the UK. With this in mind, I went out on several training runs on warm days wearing four layers of winter clothing (including hat, gloves and waterproof jacket) …. and got some very strange looks from passers-by in the process! As horrible as peeling off four layers of sodden clothing after those training runs was, I’m now grateful that I did put the effort in as so far my body is holding up in the heat.

I pass through Miller’s Defeat aid station without stopping for long. It’s scorching hot now but the running is fairly straight forward, mostly downhill on open trails and largely free of the obstacles underfoot that plagued me in the High Country.

I arrive at Dusty Corner’s to cheers and claps from various crews who are waiting for their runners to arrive. I find a place to sit in the shade and take a minute to gather myself. My quiet moment is dramatically interrupted by a blood curdling scream! A runner next to me has just had a bucket of ice-cold water poured over his head by one of the volunteers.

The volunteer asks him if he would like some more. “WHAT! ARE YOU CRAZY?” roars the runner, “YES!!!” The small crowd of crew members laugh and cheer, fully enjoying the show as the runner gets another soaking.

As I get my own drenching on the leaving the checkpoint, I make an effort to supress screaming like the last runner and just quietly whimper to myself instead. As sobering as these icy soakings are, they really are essential in this heat for maintaining core body temperatures in between the checkpoints.

A few hundred metres after Dusty Corners, the course turns off the wide-open trail and back onto narrow single track. A volunteer sits on a camping chair making sure runners don’t miss this important junction.

This section of the trail is absolutely stunning. I’m back on single-track downhill trail, shielded from the heat of the day by the towering pine trees overhead. I’m completely alone now and feel totally at peace. As the great mountaineer, John Muir, who so loved the High Sierra, famously said “into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul”. The scent of pine is intoxicating and giant pinecones litter the ground.

The magical forest section comes to end and I find myself at Last Chance, an old mountain mining town, long since abandoned. A local running club has taken over the management of the checkpoint here and motivational signs line both sides of the trail as I leave the checkpoint. As I discover, the motivational signs have been placed there for good reason.

I’m inching ever closer to the infamous “Canyons” section of the race; three consecutive river canyons consisting of quad crushing descents followed immediately by lung searing ascents up the canyon wall, all during the hottest part of the day.

The initial descent from Last Chance is gentle and lulls me into a false sense of security. Perhaps these canyons won’t be so tough after all? This illusion soon evaporates in the heat of the day as I pass a sign warning in no uncertain terms of the descent ahead. This is the first of the three canyons; the ominously named Deadwood.

The start of the descent into Deadwood canyon

I enjoy technical descents and I know I’ve lost time earlier in the day in the High Country; this is my opportunity to play to my strengths and make a little time back. I allow myself to pick up a little speed down the steep switch backs, avoiding the constant braking motion that would destroy my quads, instead trying to relax and find my flow.

I think this is the part of the course where my friend, Tim, saw a bear cub in the 2019 race. I scan the hillside around me but there’s no sign of any wildlife. Just at that very moment, a snake darts out from in front of me and disappears into the undergrowth to my right. I almost pull my calf muscle braking in shock. I have no idea whether that was a rattlesnake or not but decide not to stick around to find out. In such a remote area far from help, a rattlesnake bite would be race ending at the very least and lethal at worst.

I’m now in gold mining country following trails travelled by gold prospectors in the 1800s. Somewhere on this descent there’s an old cemetery where many of the old prospectors are buried, victims of dehydration or simply having fallen down the steep canyon wall. Like those hardy adventurers at the frontier of the gold rush, I too am single minded in pursuit of a shimmering metallic goal. In my case a Western States finisher’s buckle rather than gold nuggets.

I reach the bottom of the canyon and cross a short bridge over the river below. The water looks enticing in the heat of the day. I consider clambering down to soak myself but soon dismiss the scramble down to the water’s edge as too much effort.

A few meters further along, a waterfall plummets down the canyon wall plunging into a small pool. Another runner is just clambering out and encourages me to get in. The water is icy cold but feels fantastic as I submerge myself entirely in the small plunge pool.

I climb out of the pool, water dripping from my clothes onto the dusty ground and stare up at the Canyon wall. Somewhere above me is Devil’s Thumb, my next objective. The canyon wall is far too steep to permit a direct path to the top and so instead the trail follows a zig-zag pattern of 36 switchbacks to the top. I decide that counting the switch backs could be a good way of occupying my mind, as I begin the climb. 1,2, so far so good. The trail begins to steepen, and my hands are on my knees pushing away at the ground. I try to avoid looking at my Garmin as I have no desire to know how slow I’m going. 11,12. Some of the switch backs are quite short and pass quickly whilst others seem to traverse the entire mountainside for what seems like miles before doubling back on themselves. This is absolutely horrific; I think to myself with the sinking realisation that this is only the first of three of these ascents. 23, 24, 25. I’m making slow progress. I look down to my left and can’t see the bottom of the valley where I started. That’s a good sign! I look up to my right but still can’t see the top of the canyon wall. That’s not such a good sign! I’d read before the race that you can hear the Devil’s Thumb aid station from about a half mile away on this climb. I stop for a moment and listen intently but all I can hear is the river below me – no music or chatter from the checkpoint. I carry on. 33, 34, 35 and finally 36…that’s it, that’s 36 switch backs! Sadly, I’m still nowhere near the top and the switch backs continue onwards and upwards into the sky. Damn!! Why did I ever think counting the bloody things was a good idea? I’ve obviously been somewhat optimistic in deciding what counts as a “switch back”. Just as I resign myself to the fact that the top will never come and I will grow old and grey on this climb and perhaps end up in Deadwood cemetery with the gold prospectors, I see a young girl standing by the side of the trail. “75 feet to the top”, she calls out encouragingly. “That’s good news”, I mumble in reply, though in all honesty, I’m not sure my reply could really be recognisable as the English language at this point in time.

I arrive at the checkpoint and collapse into a camping chair. Several runners sit around me. Some have vacant thousand-yard stares, clearly still trying to process that last climb out of the canyon. Others look like they’re trying to find the courage from somewhere to go and do the same thing again in the next canyon. A makeshift massage table has been set up and a runner is having his legs pulverised using techniques that would make even the Spanish Inquisition think twice.

I’m sitting enjoying an ice lolly (note: these are known as “popsicles” in the US – Americans have no idea what you mean if you ask for an “ice lolly” as I learnt a few days previously in San Francisco) when the grizzled aid station captain appears and addresses the seated runners.

“You’re burnin’ daylight and feedin’ mosquitos now”, announces the captain. He’s right, of course, the afternoon is drawing on and sitting here is only delaying the inevitable.

I leave Devil’s Thumb behind, only having been able to eat the ice lolly and a bit of watermelon. Sugar and water but precious few of the calories that I’ll need to finish this race. Whilst I feel like I’ve prepared as well as I could for the heat of this race, one aspect I never considered was how the temperature might affect my stomach.

All the aid stations have had a vast array of delectable looking treats and snacks, with plenty of vegan options too, but I haven’t been able to stomach anything apart from melon, strawberries and the occasional grape. It’s horribly ironic that on the one occasion that I have a genuine reason to stuff myself with junk food, the thought turns my stomach. I certainly don’t have this problem in day-to-day life,

It’s not long before the trail begins descending again, this time into the second of the canyons, El Dorado. This descent is longer than Deadwood but not quite as steep and passes by in a haze. I’ve been carrying two water bottles with me all day that I keep stored in the pockets at the front of my race vest. At Devil’s Thumb, I’d filled one bottle with water and the other with a red electrolyte drink. The electrolyte stuff is awful and makes my stomach churn. I pour the vile red liquid away leaving me with just one water bottle to last me on the hot descent.

I can hear the sounds of the checkpoint at the bottom of El Dorado canyon from some way off. Although it’s only a small aid station with a few tables and chairs, it’s impressive that the organisers have managed to set up anything at all down here. Like much of the course, this location is incredibly remote, and the supplies must have been brought in by helicopter. The lady next to me at the aid station is sobbing her eyes out but there is a team of volunteers encouraging her to stand up and carry on. One volunteer is wearing her elusive finisher’s buckle. “I arrived at this checkpoint last year at almost exactly the same time as you and I made it to the finish”, she says. The runner makes it to her feet and slowly begins the climb. I know how she feels. The reality is that there’s no possibility of dropping from the race here in any case. With no road access, the only option is to carry on up the course and make the climb up the canyon face to Michigan Bluff. In the event of a real medical emergency, it would likely be a case of an expensive extraction by rescue helicopter.

The climb up El Dorado canyon is longer but not as steep as Deadwood canyon. We’re also now in the shade and the heat of the day has dissipated slightly. I’ve got some water trapped in my ear, probably from the drenching at the last aid station, and it’s affecting my hearing and balance. After a moment of feeling sorry for myself, I just add it to my long list of ailments and carry on.

Michigan Bluff is a small settlement consisting of little more than a few houses but is nevertheless the closest thing to civilisation that I’ve encountered so far. After the remote wilderness of the last few sections, the party atmosphere here seems slightly incongruous.

54 miles of creek crossings, extreme heat, uneven surfaces, trail debris and toe-mashing descents has left me with blisters on both feet. There is a full medical tent here and I decide to see to get my feet looked at.

I slide onto a sun lounger set up in the medical area and one of the medical volunteers takes my shoes and socks off. Both of my expensive injinji toe socks have gaping holes in them and Tonya, the medic, looks at me in abject horror. I try to explain that I have spare socks waiting for me in Foresthill six miles away but she is having none of it and insists on fetching a spare pair from her car for me. Just one of random acts of kindness from volunteers today.

Tonya begins to vigorously clean the tender blister on the side of my right heel. A little too vigorously as the blister bursts. Tonya shrugs: “it’s ok, we were going to have to drain it anyway.” After having had my feet, lanced, prodded, hacked at, drained and taped back together at various Spine races over the years, I’ve become desensitised to the graphic acts of violence that my feet get subjected to at these events. Tonya is clearly one of the more experienced medics here and is frequently called away to opine on the ailments of other runners. Most of these runners look in a much worse state than me, so it seems reasonable to triage us based on severity, but I am suddenly aware of time ticking away.

I thank Tonya effusively as I slide off the sun lounger with as much grace and poise as I can muster. I’ve spent about 45 minutes at this checkpoint; far longer than I would have liked. Whilst that’s 45 minutes out of the precious buffer that I’d built up, I need to view it as a time investment – fixing my feet will make me faster over the remaining 44 miles – or so I hope. I’ve also discovered another food that I can stomach, a thick salty vegetable broth. Hopefully a source of a few more calories than the watermelon and strawberries that I’ve been surviving on so far. As I leave the checkpoint, I hear a familiar voice. On the Thursday night before the race, a few of the UK runners and their spouses had had dinner together. Here, I’d met Simon and his wife and supporter, Gill. Gill has braved the precipitous mountain drive to come and meet Simon here in Michigan Bluff. Gill gives me the lowdown on how the other Brits are getting on in the race before I continue on my way.

Looking slightly deranged at Michigan Bluff. Photo credit: Gill Bennett

I begin the descent into Volcano canyon in the fast-fading light of the evening. I never imagined that I would need to use my headtorch this early in the race; I always thought that I would at least reach Foresthill in the light – but here I am anyway. At least in the dark, I can’t see how far I have to go, I think to myself, as I chase the small patch of light in front of me.

The baking temperatures of the day have started to dissipate a little. Of the trifecta of river canyons that I’ve passed through, Volcano canyon is definitely the most manageable. I pass by Gill’s husband, Simon, and his pacer on this climb, and we chat a little about our race experiences so far. The trail eventually ends, and I find myself on road. Despite the “Foresthill” signs, I know I’m still some way from the Aid Station.

I’m some way behind my schedule and I know Caroline will be worried about me. In the darkness of the last few miles, I’ve opened my mind to negative thoughts. I take a minute try and reframe the current situation; for Caroline’s sake as much as my own. I don’t want her to see me in a negative frame of mind and worry unnecessarily. It’s around 10.20pm as I arrive at the checkpoint. Yes, this is much later than I’d hoped but the final cut-off here isn’t until 11.45pm; my Western States dream is still very much alive.

Foresthill is also where I’ve arranged to meet my pacer, Liz. The race offers an online portal for matching runners with pacers. Liz and I had exchanged a few emails in the weeks leading up to the race and had met up a few days previously in San Francisco.

I arrive at the checkpoint where Caroline and Liz are waiting for me along with Liz’s husband, Adam and son, Grayson. I feel terrible having made them all wait for so long and certainly well past Grayson’s bedtime. I immediately launch into an apology which Adam shakes “Don’t worry about it, this is about you – you’re doing great!”

I sit in a camping chair and sort through my gear trying to be as efficient as possible. “You’ve missed all the fun parts”, I say to Liz as I regale her well the horrors of the climb up to Devil’s Thumb. Liz just laughs. The last time I saw Liz and Adam, we were sipping coffees in the sunshine in San Francisco’s trendy Marina district. Covered in dirt and sweat sat in a camping chair next to a dusty road through a small mountain town – my current setting couldn’t really be any more different. Caroline tells me that she and Kat, Richard’s wife, will try and make it down to Rucky Chucky river crossing to see us there.

Liz and I start off down the road from the checkpoint. On our left we pass a honky-tonk bar where there’s quite the party going on. “Shall we forget about the race and go drinking instead?” I say. Liz laughs that one off – I don’t think she knows whether I’m joking or not. I’m not sure whether I do either.
Soon after the bar, we turn left off the road and back onto the trail. Between here and the American river crossing at Rucky Chucky is the “California Street” trail.

In theory, this section is 16 miles of gentle downhills all the way to the river; perfect for picking up the pace and clawing a bit of time back against the cut offs. In practice, there’s a lot of short but sharp uphill sections along this section which slows us down and makes it difficult to get any real rhythm going.

Liz is the perfect pacer. Rather than pressuring me to go faster, she lets me take the lead and go at my own natural pace, leaving me to decide when to walk and when to run. Sadly, it’s more of the former and less of the latter along most of this section and we frequently have to stop to yield the trail to faster runners coming up behind us.

The trail is very narrow with steep drop offs in places. I lose focus for a moment and the trail seems to give way beneath my feet, sending me crashing to the ground, my legs managing to stop my body careering all the way down the dusty slope to the river at the bottom. Liz grabs hold of me and helps me to my feet. Thankfully the only injury is to my pride. I dust myself off and continue.

There’s poison oak all along this section of trail. I’d googled pictures of the plant before the race in the hope of avoiding it, but the stuff encroaches the trail in places making it very hard to avoid. Liz suggests that the best way to deal with it it to wash it off our legs at the end. Something else we don’t need to worry about on the trails back home in the UK.

Fairy lights on the ground guide us into the first of three aid stations which break up this remote section of trail. Bruce Labelle is the captain at this aid station. Bruce has 10+ Western States finishes to his name and is the owner of the coveted “1000 miles – 24 days” buckle. I’d met Bruce a few days earlier at a picnic for international runners that was held in Auburn. It’s great to see another familiar face and Bruce advises me to try and keep the time at the remaining aid stations to a minimum. We take his advice and are on our way again in a minute or two.

The next few miles pass in a similar fashion, a mix of hiking and slow running. Liz and I chat away. The conversation ranges from current affairs (Trump, Roe vs Wade, gun control and the challenges of parenthood) to the slightly less serious (I tell Liz about the cowboy hat that I’d bought in Auburn a few days earlier and that I just need the pickup truck, cowboy boots and shotgun to go fully native!).

The undulating terrain continues. I’d read beforehand that a series of 15 small hills follows the Cal 1 aid station. After my disastrous attempt to count the switch backs on the climb out of Deadwood canyon, I decide against counting these and just go with the flow instead. These hills end with a decsent so steep; it’s known as the “elevator shaft”.

We’ve been able to hear the river below us on our left for some time now, though the famous River crossing at Rucky Chucky has stubbornly refused to materialise so far. The river crossing is the lowest point on the course -as such it seems strange that we should have to do so much climbing to reach it. Liz laughs off my argument that “climbing to reach the lowest point on the course must break the laws of physics”. Out here in the heat and dust and darkness of the mountains, not everything is quite as it seems, particularly after almost 80 miles.

Eventually, we arrive at Rucky Chucky (mile 78).

Team Maleedy at Rucky Chucky. Photo credit: Katherine Goulder

Caroline is waiting for me here with Gill and Katherine, and I spend a few minutes sitting in a camping chair. “You’ve got just over 7 hours to do 22 miles,” Caroline tells me as she sees me anxiously looking at my watch. Whilst this suggests a very manageable pace, the margins are very fine, and it wouldn’t take much to go wrong for me to be right up against the cut-offs. With this in mind, I say goodbye to Caroline and make my way down to the river.

The river crossing. Photo credit: Liz Nguyen

On the far side of the river, my drop bag is waiting for me. I change out of my t shirt, now wet from the crossing and pull on my Vegan Runners vest. My plan all along has been to cross the finish line of this iconic race wearing club colours.

The next two miles to Green Gate are all uphill. I think even the elites power hike this section and certainly no one around me shows any inclination of running up that hill (if I only could, I’d make a deal with God)….

Part 4 – “Like a marble in a groove”

Someway past Green Gate, I notice that the inky black sky is not quite as dark as it was. The sky seems to shimmer as if trying to escape night’s failing embrace. Encouraged by the thought of dawn, I start to run again, slowly at first, our pace gradually increasing. We’re now running the downhill and flat sections and aggressively hiking the inclines. As the darkness starts to lift, so does the funk that I’ve been in. My feet and legs still hurt but I can feel my enthusiasm and optimism returning with the rising sun.

For the first time in many miles, I feel fully present in the moment, like I’ve my finally living my purpose in this race. The Western States winner Doug Latimer described this state as “like a marble in a groove”. Beforehand, I’d settled on these words as my mantra for the race. In this moment, having felt somewhat off my game for most of the day, I finally understand what the words mean.

Sunrise over the Sierra. Phot credit: Liz Nguyen

I’m momentarily distracted by the sound of a runner falling over behind me. I take my eyes off the trail in front of me and quickly find myself lying in the undergrowth beside the trail. Liz shakes her head and encourages me to stand up. I find the whole situation inexplicably hilarious and simply lie back in the dirt laughing. Liz just looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. After a whole day of running in the hot sun and a night without sleep, perhaps she’s right.

We pass through the next Aid Station, Auburn Lake Trails (mile 85.2), where we catch up with Richard and his pacer. The presence of the name “Auburn” encouragingly suggests we’re gradually getting closer to our destination.

We have been steadily passing other runners for a few miles, making back some time and places that we lost through the long night. By the time we arrive at Quarry Road (mile 90.2) the increased effort over the last few miles is starting to take its toll and I collapse into a camping chair.

Liz asks me for my water bottle so she can go and get it refilled. The bottle has only about half an inch of water missing. Liz looks at me with incredulity and I feel a bit embarrassed for having forgotten to drink very much during the night.

Whilst Liz is away filling my bottle and fetching me more of the salty vegetable soup, a volunteer asks me if I need anything. I mumble a response without looking up from the ground and only catch a glimpse as he walks away. Recognition gradually dawns on me. “Was that Scott Jurek?” I ask Liz as she returns, childlike wonder creeping into my voice. I can’t quite believe that 7 time Western States champion and vegan Ultrarunning legend Scott Jurek has just asked me if I need anything!

Scott returns and having recognised my Vegan Runners vest, asks if I’m from the UK. We chat a little bit and Scott very graciously agrees to a selfie (I daresay it wasn’t his first of the race).

Liz drags me away from Scott just as I’m telling him how much I love his vegan Chilli recipe in his Eat and Run book and before I can embarrass myself with any further fanboy behaviour. They say you should never meet your heroes but I’m glad to report that the old adage doesn’t apply in this case; Scott was incredibly charming and modest.

Before we leave the checkpoint, Scott checks with Liz that she knows about the “left-hand turn” coming up shortly. This left-hand turn off is the trail junction famously missed by Jim Walmsley in the 2016 race. At the time, Jim had a massive lead and was on track for a course record. The missed turning meant he finished in 20^th place (still not a bad result given the many extra miles he covered before getting back on course).

We reach the left-hand turn and find it very heavily marked with arrows and tape – it would be quite difficult to miss now. The heat of the day is starting to build again and provides a good incentive to try and reach the finish as soon as possible. After a long rocky ascent, we reach the famous crossing of Highway 49. I am not American and this isn’t my country, but it is somehow moving to see the Stars and Stripes that line the highway crossing fluttering gently in the breeze. I recall from one of the videos I’d watched that there used to be an aid station here just after the crossing. No such luck for us as we have another mile or so before we reach the final major Aid Station of the course at Pointed Rocks (94.3 miles). I have almost two and a half hours to complete the final six miles of the course. It sounds easy but I know there’s one last big climb to come before the finish. I take refuge from the sun for a few minutes under the aid station canopy and slurp down some of the vegetable broth for the final time. Liz fills her bandana with ice and ties it around my neck. As we make our way down the trail leading away from the aid station, the ice slowly melts dripping cold water down my spine. After the bustle of the last checkpoint, Liz and I are on our own as we cross a meadow and descend down towards No Hands Bridge.

Leaving Pointed Rocks behind and heading towards Auburn

I’ve pictured myself crossing this famous bridge so many times and always wondered what I would be feeling with just over three miles to the finish. Excitement? Joy? Happiness? I’m so focused on just reaching the finish line from here that I’m not really sure what I’m feeling anymore. For now and after everything – all I feel is steely determination – the emotion can come later.

We run through the base of another river canyon, baking under the furious sun. This canyon, cut out by the confluence of the American river, feels incredibly remote. It’s hard to believe that we’re so close to the town of Auburn. I look up at the top of the canyon wall. Somewhere up there are the Auburn city limits and beyond that the finish line. A few trees along the route afford a small amount of shade and we run quickly from tree to tree to minimise the amount of time spent directly under the sun.

Having recced this section previously, Liz advises me that we are approaching the final creek crossing of the course and with it one final opportunity for a soaking. As I clamber into the creek, the cold water once again feels incredible on my feet. There’s a small waterfall plunging down the canyon wall into the small creek. I wade through the water to the canyon wall and let the cold-water rinse over my head and neck.

Refreshed by the water, Liz and I begin the final climb of the race up to Robie point. The switchback from earlier in the race are thankfully absent; instead the trail takes a direct route up to the top. Another runner and her pacer catch up to us and we chat a little – mostly about how glad we are that the finish is so close. As the trail gives way to a fire road, a man with a dog offers us his congratulations and encourages us on our way. We near the top and Robie point comes into view. This is the terminus of the trail – from here it’s road all the way to the finish.

There is a cacophony of noise as we approach Robie point (mile 98.9). It seems like most of the town on Auburn have come out onto the streets to cheer the weary runners home.

The final mile through Auburn. Photo credit: Liz Nguyen

Permanent blue footprints on the road mark the route along this final mile. My goal is so very close now.

High fives, whoops, hollas, shouts of “good job” ring out. If I’m feeling low on reserves, the energy of the crowd more than makes up for it.

The final hour of the race (i.e., from 10am until the 30-hour cut off at 11am) is known as the “Golden Hour”. The Golden Hour is without exception one of the highlights of the race every year. Whilst the elites may have finished many hours previously, the Golden Hour is when the raw emotion of the race can really be seen. Ordinary runners battling the heat, extreme fatigue and their own demons to reach the finish line in time to receive one of the famous finisher’s buckles. My assumption before the race was always that I would be finished well before the Golden Hour and would be sitting in the stands watching the race’s gripping finale unfold as a spectator. A glance at my watch confirms what I’ve known for some time now, I’m going to be finishing right in the middle of the Golden Hour.

As we cross the white bridge in Auburn, I know we’re only a few hundred meters from the stadium and the finish.

Running through Auburn. Photo credit: Katherine Goulder

“Did you ever doubt that we would make it here?” I ask Liz. “No,” replies Liz smoothly and without pause. “Did you?”

I think about the question for a moment. Whilst I don’t have a huge buffer of time, at no point in time did I ever feel like we were chasing cut offs or in any real danger. I feel within myself that had we got any closer to the cut offs, I could probably have found an extra gear. Had my dream of a WSER finish ever been in any real danger of slipping out of my grasp, I think that the fear and panic would have spurred me on. Thankfully, I haven’t found myself in that position today. “No,” I finally reply to Liz.

Earlier in the race, Liz asked me if she wanted her to run around the track to the finish with me or if I’d rather finish alone. She’s asks me again and I tell her the same thing – “we’ve come this far together and we’re going to finish together.”

Ahead of me, I can see the side gate leading from the road directly onto the running track at Placer High School. I’ve pictured this side gate so many times in my mind and I can’t believe that we’re finally here. “This is really happening,” I murmur to myself.

As I enter the track, I catch a glimpse of Caroline and Gill directly on my left stood by the entrance, waiting anxiously for me and Simon to arrive. The tension has got too much for Katherine and she has gone out onto the streets of Auburn to find Richard and make sure he gets home inside of the 30 hours.

The “anxious wives of Golden Hour”. Photo credit: Katherine Goulder

Inside the stadium, the Golden Hour party is now in full swing. The noise, emotion and raw energy inside the stadium are unbelievable and I receive high fives and fist bumps from spectators the whole way around the track. Before the race, we had all been asked to submit a brief summary of our running CVs and any words for the stadium announcer to say over the PA system. However, the noise of the crowd has completely drowns out the words of the commentator.

These final few meters around the running track pass by in a blur of excitement and emotion. I cross the finish line exactly 29 hours and 24 minutes after leaving Olympic Valley. In reality, this journey has been over a decade and a half in the making.

A volunteer puts a medal around my neck. The medal is great but the famous finisher’s buckle will be awarded at the prize giving ceremony in a couple of hours’ time. I also receive a t-shirt confirming my membership of the “29ers” – finishers in the Golden Hour at States.

Liz and I hug. Earlier in the race Liz had described herself as not so much a traditional pacer but a “lull lifter”. I couldn’t think of a better description myself or indeed a better person to have shared the last 28 miles with. One of the unexpected highlights of this race has been making a new friend for life and getting to know her lovely family too.

After so many years dreaming about this race, my expectations were sky high. So high, that conventional wisdom might suggest that no event could ever possibly live up to them. However, there is nothing conventional about Western States or indeed running 100 miles. This event has exceeded my expectations in every area. I wasn’t expecting it to be easy but it was also much harder than I was expecting. A combination of the heat and the technical terrain early on meant that it’s taken me much longer than I thought it would. That, however, takes nothing away from my experience of the event which has been exceptional from start to finish. Running through the streets of Chamonix at the start and then the finish of UTMB in 2017 was incredible. I think the final mile here through Auburn tops even that. These are the life experiences that occupy the highest rarefied spots alongside my wedding day and the birth of my children.

States has been my number one goal for such a long time. The obvious question is “what comes next?”. These thoughts are far from my mind however, as I leave the finish area and search for a patch of shade out of the baking hot California sun. For now, I’m content to enjoy the moment. Given the expense and the ever-increasing difficulty of obtaining a lottery spot, I may well never be back here again. Indeed, the experience has been so perfect I’m not sure I want to return and risk ruining the memory. Wherever I go and whatever happens next, I will always be a finisher at States and these memories of a couple of hot, dusty, life-affirming days on the trails of North California will last forever.

A prized possession; my finisher’s buckle at Western States

The Summer Spine race – 2021

On September 15, 2021September 16, 2021 By runningchristianIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

The sleep demons have me firmly in their grip. Once again, I find myself careering into the side of the forest track, having fallen asleep on my feet.

After a tough section underfoot earlier in the night, this track through Kielder Forest is downhill and, in theory, runnable, though I can currently manage nothing more than a painful trot.

It is the very early hours of Friday morning and I am around 240 miles into the Summer Spine race. I’d left Bellingham, the final full checkpoint in the race, early the previous evening and am now close to the scenic forestry village of Byrness.

Byrness is a “monitoring station” on the Spine race meaning that there be some volunteers, a safety team and the chance to fill water bottles. I begin to fantasise about what sort of welcome awaits us at Byrness. I think back to my second night running through the Alps at UTMB where a giant bonfire greeted the runners on the descent into Trient. What I wouldn’t give for a few minutes dozing by a warm fire now.

It is approximately one standard marathon (26 miles or so) between where I am now and the finish at Kirk Yetholm. These 26 miles are through the Cheviot Hills, which represent the wildest, most remote and arguably most challenging section of the entire Pennine Way.

I can see a small group of runners are just ahead of me, their headlights occasionally lighting up the tall trees above us. More headtorches appear ahead and it’s clear that we’ve reached the monitoring point. There is no bonfire or even tents to rest in from what I can see. Instead, we are shown into a toilet block for a briefing from the safety team.

Here, the safety team break the news to us. Since we left Bellingham, the weather has worsened significantly and a storm has now moved in engulfing the Cheviot Hills far above us. As if to prove the point, we are shown messages from the safety teams holed up in the two mountain refuges far above us in the Cheviots – they are suitably grim. The organisers have decided not to pause the race and prevent racers from going up into the Cheviots, but we are told in no uncertain terms that the decision to climb up into hills would be ours alone. From my perspective, the key message, however, remains completely unspoken – no finisher medals will be handed out here in Byrness. Anyone choosing not to continue will be recorded as a DNF. I’ve not come this far in this race or suffered this much to give up now. Whatever weather conditions are waiting for me up in the Cheviots, I am determined to finish this race.

I’d last had access to my drop bag at the checkpoint at Bellingham and I wasn’t expecting to see it again until the finish. However, Given the deteriorating weather conditions, the safety team have retrieved our drop bags and brought them here to Byrness. We are strongly advised to take whatever spare clothes we see fit for this final section over the Cheviots. I dig out the last remaining dry base and mid layers from the drop bag and put them in my race pack. The safety team also carry out one final kit check to ensure we have the minimum safety equipment we need to traverse the Cheviots safely.

Outside, the air is cool but still. It seems incongruous that a storm is raging in the hills above. It’s now about three o’clock in the morning and it will begin to get light in an hour or two. Heading directly into the storm in the pitch dark doesn’t seem like the most prudent idea and I, along with a couple of other runners, head into Byrness itself where there is a church that racers have taken refuge in during the winter race. When we reach the church, we find it locked due to covid restrictions.

In the absence of any other suitable bivvying options (the forest undergrowth around us looks cold, wet and uninviting), we decide to head up directly into the hills. Most likely it will be light by the time we reach the ridge.

The Cheviot Hills loom high above us, hidden in the all-encompassing darkness. The Pennine Way signs point the way upwards and, with the way ahead illuminated by our headtorches, we start to climb.

The start line – Edale, Peak District (five days earlier)

The world has changed unrecognisably since the last time I completed this race in 2019. The Spine race has been impacted in various ways by the global pandemic and today I’ll be setting off at 4pm as opposed to the usual 8am start that I’m used to. This also means I’m likely to be hitting the checkpoints at different times of the day than in 2019, when I last did this race.

Having travelled up from Hertfordshire earlier this morning, I’ve spent the day milling around Sheffield train station and then Edale waiting for the race to start. Catching up with my friend (and fellow actuary) Andrew makes the time pass a bit quicker.

In addition to the full Spine race, competitors in the (109 mile) Summer Challenger race and the (44 mile) Sprint race have already set off earlier today. The Sprint race is new and follows the same route as the Spine and Challenger but finishes at the first checkpoint at Hebden Bridge. The very fact that the name “Sprint” has been chosen for a 44 mile tough trail race gives some indication of the mentality of the people who organise and participate in these events!

Eventually, it’s time to begin and we set off. It’s a mild, sunny summer evening and, having chosen to start the race in a lightweight wind-breaker, I stop after a couple of miles to take it off. The Pennine Way doesn’t offer a gentle introduction and I’m soon into one of the more significant climbs of the trail; Jacob’s Ladder which leads up to Kinder Scout. Up on the Kinder plateau, there are trail runners and walkers around enjoying the balmy, early evening conditions.

I know this first section of the course very well and the miles pass quickly. The flagstones over Featherbed Moss are good for making up time and I wave at the safety team as I cross the Snake Pass. Over this next section, I begin to pass a few Sprint runners; it’s always a privilege to offer encouragement to other runners in these events. Coming down off the hills to Torside Reservoir, I pass another runner with a broken finger and bloodied legs, being looked at by some volunteers. He’s determined to continue and looks strong despite the injuries and I wish him well. It’s also great to catch up with Raj passing the reservoir. Raj is a summer Spine legend having completed all three of the previous summer races. I leave Raj as he does one of his famous Facebook live broadcasts.

The warm weather has taken its toll and I’m glad to be able to fill my water bottles from a stream below Black Tor. This water has come straight down from the hills above me and, having drunk from this stream many times before, I’ve no concerns about drinking from it. The water is cold and sweet.

I can feel the effort of the climb up Laddow Rocks and I’m glad to have my hiking poles with me. Up on top, the air feels heavier somehow as if the sunny summer evening is on the cusp of turning. I’m around 20 miles into the race now and everything has gone reasonably well so far. Despite that, I can’t help a growing sense of unease. Totally unbidden and for no rationale reason, the doubts and insecurities in my mind have made their presence known. Like a tiny crack that appears in a wall and spreads over time, I know this is something I need to address now. I’ve left the door in my mind ajar when it should have been closed and locked. I take my headphones out from my pack and am soon gliding along the heather moorland to the upbeat sounds of Chicago house DJ, Mike Dunn. The little voice in my head has gone, for the time being at least.

I enjoy the descent down from Black Hill and allow myself to pick up some speed. My confidence has returned and for the first time in this race, I feel fully present in the moment. I reach the reservoir at Wessenden Head in the failing light; just as the balmy summer evening is giving way to dusk. The air feels heavy with expectation. The day is over, but what will this first night on the Pennine Way bring?

A Sprint racer ahead of me as the first night falls on the race

As I reach the turn off down a steep valley, my headtorch illuminates a fireman stood alone out here in this remote place. Surely it’s a little early for the hallucinations! The fireman is very much real and explains that he and his team are responding to reports of wild campers lighting fires – clearly a hazard given the dry moors.

The next few miles pass fairly uneventfully. The air has cooled and the wind is beginning to pick up. At the M62 crossing, an enterprising burger van has positioned itself to benefit from the (by this stage hungry) racers passing by. There are some chairs set up for runners to sit but the location is very exposed and I start to get cold. I am really grateful for the vegan burger but I eat it quickly, put my waterproof jacket and gloves on and am on my way.

As I head towards the White House pub, the rain begins to fall, lightly at first but I’m soon being lashed horizontally. I’ve chosen to start the race carrying my lightweight waterproof jacket (keeping my heavy duty waterproofs in my drop bag) and it is really not coping with this deluge. The dark and wet moorlands seem to continue on indefinitely until finally Stoodley Pike appears out of the darkness. On a clear day, I would be able to see this monument from miles away but in the darkness and the cloud, I couldn’t see it until I was a few metres away. Stoodley Pike does, however, mark the start of the long descent towards Checkpoint 1 at Hebden Bridge. I’ve caught up with Raj and we make our way together in silence down the trail that leads us off the Pennine Way towards the town centre. I’m now soaked to the skin. My legs are wet and cold. I should have stopped to put my waterproof trousers on but the heavy rain came on so quickly and it hardly seems worth it now, so close to the checkpoint.

The negative thoughts have returned and this time no amount of music is going to help. “No-one would blame you if you dropped out of the race here.” The voice in my head is so convincing, so very rationale. “You’re 44 miles into a 268 mile and you’re soaked to the skin, you already have blisters on both feet and your right knee is playing up. What exactly are you hoping to prove here? Drop out at the Checkpoint, get a couple of hours sleep and you can be back on the first train from Hebden Bridge to London in the morning.”

I’m shocked and appalled at how quickly and easily my mind has gone to this place, desperately searching for the easy way out. I’ve signed up for an adventure, to be pushed to my limits but at the first sign of discomfort, my mind is already lining up the excuses. I feel a wave of anger surge through me and it’s enough to dissipate the negative thoughts.

Pain shoots through my right knee with every step on the steep descent. I have no idea how I can manage over 200 more miles like this, but I’m still moving forward and that’s enough for now.

The location of checkpoint 1 is new for this edition of the Spine. Instead of Hebden Hey Scout hut north of Hebden Bridge, we now visit the town itself. As we approach the Checkpoint, volunteers ask us if we are Sprint runners (as this is the finish line for the Sprint race). Having confirmed that sadly we are not, we are directed around the back.

The scene inside the checkpoint reminds me of a First World War field medical centre. Runners in various states of undress are hobbling around and lying on pews, moaning to themselves. Soaking wet clothes are hanging from any surface available in an attempt to dry them out. Volunteers rush back and forth with plates of steaming hot food and drinks.

Dry clothes, some hot food and a 45 minute nap help restore my spirits somewhat. I had not reckoned on either the wet weather slowing me down or sleeping at the first checkpoint and so am well behind on my pre-race schedule. In fact, all aspects of my carefully constructed plan are now in tatters. Mentally, I force myself to abandon the schedule and come up with a new plan; reach the finish line within the overall cut-off of 4am on Saturday morning.

Checkpoint 1 (44 miles in) – Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire

It’s around 7 o’clock on Sunday morning as I step out of the door of the checkpoint. The cut-off time for leaving this checkpoint is 4 o’clock this afternoon so I have a decent buffer. At this point, it’s all about the small wins.

The bad news is that it’s over 60 miles to the next checkpoint in Hawes. I retrace my steps out of the checkpoint through the quiet streets of Hebden Bridge. I get slightly lost but manage to find my way back to the canal which I follow for a mile or so until it intercepts the Pennine Way again. The steep climb up the valley feels a bit more manageable on rested feet; the old location of checkpoint 1 means that this climb used to be one of the last challenges that tired racers face before reaching the sanctuary of the first checkpoint.

The climb up to Top Withins passes surprisingly quickly. At the top, the air feels cool and fresh after the previous night’s storm. The handful of tourists milling around taking pictures of the ruined buildings said to have inspired the Bronte sisters remind me that there is still a world outside of this race.

One of the significant challenges with the Spine races (of any distance, winter or summer) is the self-supported nature. Whilst UTMB is a massively challenging event over mountainous terrain, regular checkpoints at every 5-10 miles mean that it can be broken up into smaller more manageable chunks. One of my most important strategies during the Spine race is to break the long sections between checkpoints into smaller sections; the tougher I’m finding it, the smaller the section. In particular, this second leg of the Spine race is the longest between full checkpoints, going over several different types of terrain.

There is a monitoring point at Malham Tarn (where racers can rest for a maximum of half an hour), but even that is a long way away. In recent years, a local Triathlon club has set up an unofficial checkpoint on the moors close to Cowling and I decide to make that my next mental target.

The undulating moorland continues for what seems like forever before the tents of the small checkpoint appear. The volunteers at this checkpoint are legendary for their hospitality and bacon sandwiches. I’m delighted to discover that they are also well-stocked in vegan bacon too. As I sit with my vegan bacon sandwich, a coffee and a coke, the horrors of the previous night on the moors suddenly seem like a long time ago. As amazing as this checkpoint is, I can’t stay forever and I set off to the sounds of the Proclaimers very aptly declaring their intention to walk 500 miles. Thankfully, I don’t need to walk 500 miles (or indeed 500 more) – another 200+ miles is more than far enough even if no-one will ever write a song about it.

As I come down off the moors and cross the road leading to Cowling, I stop for a moment in a small stone bus shelter. I recall stopping for a doze in this shelter in the middle of the night on a previous raced. Was that a Summer Spine or a Winter Challenger? I really don’t know. The memory is hazy around the edges, lost in a sleep-deprived blur.

A member of one of the Spine safety teams has come to meet me and we chat a little. It seems the previous night has taken its toll and several people ended their race at Checkpoint 1. I grimace as I recall how close I came to doing the same myself. The first night was an unexpected horror show but I survived it and today the sun is shining. Sterner tests lie ahead, I have no doubt, but I will cross that bridge when I come to it.

So far, I have not needed to look at my maps or GPS at all. Over this next section, the trail winds its way through villages, houses, fields and farms requiring close attention to navigation. I decide to dig my map out of my backpack and run with that in my hand for the next few miles. Nothing would undermine my fragile high spirits faster than getting lost and running “bonus miles”.

The only navigational mistake I make on this section is thankfully small and one that I’ve stupidly made before; leaving a country lane and crossing a field, I hug too closely to the edge of the field and descend a steep overgrown dell ending up in a small stream fenced in on all sides by thick vegetation and farm fencing. Following the stream back to the trail, I bump into Andrew and we do the next few miles together.

Just to prove that the sun does occasionally shine on the Spine race

At Gargrave, we stop at the Co-op supermarket for some food. Gradually, the mild afternoon gives way to a cool evening. By the time we reach Malham cove, it is dark and we are totally alone. High above us, the limestone cliffs are silhouetted against the night sky. After a steep climb we are soon up on top of the cliffs picking our way amongst the rocks above the famous limestone pavement.

Malham Tarn monitoring station consists of a tent and a few camping chairs. I’m struggling to stay awake and fully intend to use my 30 minutes maximum stay here to doze. The combination of the clear night sky and being next to the water of the Tarn mean it’s very cold sitting still but I’m tired enough not to care.

As we leave, I hear a voice I recognise. Raj emerges from the tent. His race has ended here and he’s hobbling to a volunteer’s car that will take him on to Checkpoint 2 where he can be looked after. It’s difficult and upsetting to see such a stalwart of the summer Spine races suffering and having to withdraw. Andrew and I wish him all the best as we leave the monitoring station.

Night has fully fallen and we’re both struggling with sleep deprivation now. Given the hour and the remoteness of the location, I’m surprised to see a family of six sitting out on some rocks enjoying a picnic. I know it’s a hallucination but the late-night picnickers stubbornly refuse to disappear from my field of vision. I’m about to ask Andrew if he can see them too but as I move on, the family eventually turn back to rocks again.

I’m falling asleep on my feet again and Andrew and I decide to doze for a few minutes on the cold ground beneath Fountains Fell before starting the ascent. We are days away from the Summer Equinox meaning that the night is mercifully short and by the time we make our descent down Fountains Fell, it is getting light again. Other than the weather, the short summer nights are the big advantage that the summer Spine race has over its winter cousin.

At the bottom, Andrew decides to try and sleep for an hour or so. With the dawn light, I feel slightly more awake and so push on for Pen-y-Ghent. As the sun rises above the Yorkshire Dales, the mountain seems to explode with colour. It’s now very early on Monday morning and there is absolutely no-one else around. I feel very privileged to be here alone to witness the majesty of this light display.

Close to the summit, I use my hands as the climb becomes steep and rocky. Through my hands on the cold rock, I experience a connection with the mountain and feel present again here and now. In that moment, the miles behind me are forgotten and the struggles before me unimportant. The mountain was here long before me and will remain long after I’m gone. But for now, I am here and willing to listen to what it has to teach me about resilience. As I leave the summit cairn and begin the descent, the moment passes but I know deep inside that this memory of dawn alone on the mountain will remain.

Pennine Waymarkers point the way up Pen-y-Ghent

I plan to stop for a few minutes down in Horton-in-Ribblesdale. However, I’m soon swarmed by midges and so move quickly on. Any further plans for quiet reflection will have to wait.

The climb up towards Cam fell is long and the sleepiness catches up with me once again forcing me to stop for another five minute power nap. I’ve now done this section twice in daylight and twice in the dark. I can’t decide which I prefer. At least in the dark, you can’t see how far you still have to go. These miles pass painfully slowly and in my mind I seem to have a false memory of it being a short descent from Ten End down from the hills into Hawes and then over to the checkpoint at Hardraw. The reality fails to live up to this memory and the section down from the hills seems to have grown since I was last here. By the time I reach the market town of Hawes, it’s mid-morning and people are busy getting on with their lives. Another reminder that there is a world outside of this race. I pass a parked car where a Challenger racer is resting with her finisher’s medal. She waves encouragingly as I hobble by.

The Checkpoint is at Hardraw, little more than a hamlet around a mile further on from busy, bustling Hardraw. Although it’s the same location as the previous summer races, there is no access to the bunkhouse buildings this time. Instead the checkpoint consists of a large outdoor marquee with dozens of individual one-man tents set up outside for racers to rest in.

Checkpoint 2 (108 miles) Hardraw, Yorkshire Dales

Inside the checkpoint, I’m initially surprised to see Andrew again. He must have overtaken me when I was snoozing on the hillside on the Cam Road section. I’ve now been through two nights with little more than a few minutes of snatched sleep here and there. It’s the middle of the day, but I’m going to have to try and sleep a little here if I want to hang onto my ever-loosening grip on reality.

Trying to get some rest in a tent at Hardraw

I’m really not sure at all how much sleep I really managed in the tent. After a visit to the medics to have my blisters tended to, I’m keen to continue on with the race.

On leaving the checkpoint, the course begins to trend upwards again on the long (if not particularly steep) climb to the summit of Great Shunner Fell, the highest point on the course so far. In 2019, I did this ascent in thick fog with poor visibility and no views at all. Today, the skies are clear and I can see for miles in the late afternoon light.

The descent down to the little village of Thwaite is enjoyable and the hillside of the valley I’m about to traverse is alive with colour as afternoon begins to give way with to evening. The midges are back in force and so I don’t stop for long. Two years ago, I really didn’t enjoy this rocky traverse along the side of the steep valley towards Keld. Today it doesn’t seem so bad and before too long, I begin to recognise the track through woodland that leads down towards the river.

The steep hillside between Thwaite and Keld

In front of me a young woman dressed like a witch waits by the river. A little early for Halloween but perhaps there’s a fancy dress party on. I get closer and the witch’s body begins to contort and bend unnaturally. As I begin to wonder whether I’ve fallen under the spell of a real witch, I realise that I’m just looking at a tree twisted by its position on the steep hillside. Another hallucination to add to my collection. Or perhaps that’s just what the witch wants me to think – I guess I’ll never know for sure!

Darkness has fallen by the time I’ve climbed up on to the moorlands. I’m completely alone now – there is no sign of any other racers or indeed any late night picnicking families. Not even a witch in sight. Eventually, the lights of Tan Hill Inn become visible in the distance though. By the time I arrive at England’s highest pub, it’s past last orders and the inn is closed. There is a skeleton safety team positioned here in one of the Inn’s outdoor dining spheres. These giant bubbles have been brought in by the owners of the Inn to bring back diners when covid restrictions prevented eating inside. It’s another freezing cold night and condensation runs down the inside of the heated sphere. It is probably a Covid breeding ground but honestly I’m too tired and cold to worry about that as I rest for a few minutes inside.

I struggled with the navigation on this next section in the 2019 race so I get my GPS device out and am careful to follow the track closely this time around. The route across the moors feels different this time around; most likely because I got horrendously lost here in 2019, going round in circles stuck in the thick fog and marshy bogs.

Andrew has caught up with me and we continue on together until dawn. I wake up with a start having fallen asleep on my feet, rambling incoherently about rabbits. Either Andrew had been talking about the number of wild rabbits on this part of the course or I’d been dreaming about them. I’m not sure which. The sleep deprivation has really slowed me down and Andrew forges on ahead.

Around me, the world unfolds in discrete jumps, as if the images are paused for a few moments before moving on. It’s as if, instead of watching a smooth continuous video, I’m watching an old fashioned slide show where a fixed picture comes up, remains stationary for a few seconds before moving on to the next. The effect is more than a little unnerving.

Eventually, I stand at the top of Harter Fell and look at the route down the hillside into Middleton in Teesdale. This would no doubt be an enjoyable descent on fresh legs. In my head beforehand, I had pictured myself in this spot, charging down the hillside like Gandalf riding to battle and glory at the conclusion of the second Lord of the Rings film. In reality, all I can manage is a painful hobble, all thoughts of glory long banished from my mind.

Before too long, I realise I’ve fallen into the same mental trap as in the 2109 race, I’ve assumed that the checkpoint is much closer to Middleton-in-Teesdale than it really is. The final couple of miles along the river are painful and by the time I eventually reach the checkpoint I have a serious sense of humour failure.

Checkpoint 3 (140 miles from the start) – Middleton-in-Teesdale, Cumbria

Despite the fact that the bunkbeds at the checkpoint are certainly on upgrade from the hard ground I’ve slept on so far, I don’t manage to sleep very much at all. I’m starting to worry a bit about the effect this lack of sleep is having on me.

The Exile medics at every single checkpoint have been fantastic and once again they patch my feet up. As I leave the checkpoint in the late afternoon sunshine, I’m in an upbeat mood. I’m half-way to Kirk Yetholm and am about to start on one of my favourite sections of the race. The Pennine Way continues alongside the river for several miles and is uncharacteristically flat and runnable. The reward for 140+ tough miles over fells and moors to get me this far is the majestic sight of Low Force and High Force waterfalls. In 2019, I did this section in the dark; I certainly heard the waterfalls but didn’t see anything of them. I give up any notion of acting like a nonchalant serious trail runner and unashamedly snap away with my camera phone like the other tourists milling around.

Low Force – one of the several waterfalls along this section

Further along, the epic sights continue as I climb up and over Cauldron Snout. Just like in 2019, I have the place to myself. A short while after, I stop by the side of the trail and use a flask of hot water I filled up from the last checkpoint to make a pot noodle. Pot noodles are a brilliant “accidentally vegan” food and are perfect for mid-ultra marathon refuelling.

It’s a gorgeous evening but the light is beginning to fade and I’m desperate to reach High Cup Nick before it gets dark. As I climb towards the High Cup Plain, the sun begins to dip behind the fells and I pick up my pace.

I reach High Cup Nick at dusk and it’s a magical moment. The warm light of afternoon is now a memory and the indigo tinged evening sky promises more adventures to come this night. The most profound moments in this race have come when I’ve been alone and I feel privileged again to have this to myself with just the wild ponies for company.

As I pick up the trail leading down to the village of Dufton, I spot a Spine race number lying just off the trail on the hillside. I scramble down to retrieve it. It’s Andrews’s! I store it in my bag to give to him next time I see him.

By the time I reach Dufton, it’s pitch dark. I rest for a few minutes on a bench in the deserted village as a lady from a Spine safety team stops by to check up on me. A Spine racer or a homeless person sleeping on a bench – I’m surprised she can tell the difference!

From Dufton, the trail climbs steeply up to summit a succession of fells of increasing height before ending up on Cross Fell, the highest point on the course so far (and indeed at 893m the highest point in England outside of the Lake District). Both times I’ve been up on Cross Fell previously have been in horrific conditions and it is well known for having its own micro-climate distinct from the surrounding area. It was never my intention to be attempting this remote and hostile part of the course in the dark. But then a lot has happened over the last few days that I never intended.

On my way up Knock Fell, I meet another runner, Carolyn. Chatting about races we’ve done and our experience so far helps the steep climb pass a little more quickly. Carolyn eventually pushes on as I continue slowly over great Dun Fell towards Cross Fell.

Without realising it, the sleep takes me again. As I come to on a cold windy hillside, all notion that I’m in a race has left me. In my mind, someone has challenged me to run up to the top of Cross Fell. I’m too tired and I don’t want to, I think angrily. I’m just going to sit here on this hillside and then go back to my Airbnb instead. Very gradually the mental fog begins to clear and I realise that there is no Airbnb to retreat to. There is no turning back from here, the closest checkpoint is at Alston and Cross Fell still stands between me and any sort of rest. Cross Fell holds the record the for the worst weather anywhere in England; an exceptionally poor place for a complete mental breakdown.

On reaching the first cairn on the plateau at the top of Cross Fell, I remind myself that this isn’t the summit and that I need to choose my line from here carefully to reach the true summit. Visibility is awful as I check my GPS; the thought of heading off in the wrong direction really doesn’t bear thinking about.

From the summit cairn, the path off the mountain vanishes beneath my feet. I pick my way through bogs and streams trying to make out the series of small cairns in the pre-dawn gloom that mark the way. Eventually, I make out the shape of Greg’s Hut ahead of me. The mountain bothy is cold inside but dry. Carolyn is inside preparing to leave. She reminds me that it is six miles down to the village of Garrigill and then another four on to the checkpoint at Alston.

I leave the hut and start down the long track towards Garrigill. The numbers six and four swirl around my mind as I try to rationalise the irrational. In my hazy state, I know I need to run six and four miles but do I need to do it all today? Could I do six now and maybe come back another day to do the four? Better still, perhaps I could delegate the running to a work colleague? No, that’s really not how a race works!

I wake again at the side of the trail staring out at the hills in front of me but something isn’t right. Once again, time seems to freeze and nothing in my field of vision moves. It’s like I’m staring at a painting of the landscape in front of me rather than the actual landscape itself. I start to panic as I wave my hands in front of my face and realise I can’t see them. Eventually the picture clears and I can see again.

The adrenaline from this horrible episode keep me awake for a short while. However, the pattern is repeated several times down the mountain. Each time it’s as if someone has obscured my field of vision. Sometimes it’s with a landscape painting, other time’s it’s more like an old-fashioned canvas map. Either way, the effect is unsettling. I’ve just been through my fourth night without any proper sleep and I’m a wreck. My thoughts turn to the next checkpoint. The maximum stay that competitors can stay at a checkpoint is limited to six hours (less than the usual 12 hours due to covid restrictions). I’m going to need to use every last second of those six hours at Alston if I want to stay in this race.

A four-wheel drive vehicle pulls up in front of me and one of the Spine photographers gets out. He asks me some questions and films my answers. I have no idea if my responses are even coherent but he seems satisfied enough. At least he hasn’t called for a Safety team to cart me off to the asylum.

As, I pass through Garrigill, I check the messages on my phone. Messages from friends and family really help during the low points on a race like this. In particular I’d asked my friend Alice, a talented novelist, to send me some inspiring literary quotes. I’d been thinking of Henry V “once more unto the breech” type quotes but what she has come up with is much better and have kept me going over the last section.

The poem that she sends me, “Santiago” by the Irish poet David Whyte, is about a pilgrim travelling the Carmino de Santiago. As I pass through the village of Garrigill where life continues oblivious to the race, Whyte’s pilgrim who passes through “half-lit villages in evening light; other people’s homes glimpsed through lighted windows” speaks deeply to me.

In this race, I’m really just passing through villages, over moors, mountains, forests. Even when I reach my destination, Kirk Yetholm, it will be a brief touch of the wall at the Border Hotel, some photographs and then I’ll leave again. This is the transitory nature of my journey, any journey.

My musings on long journeys are rather apt as the next person I meet is a man who is hiking from Lands End to John O’Groats. We chat a little on the way to Alston and he tells me about his adventures so far. Suitably inspired, I continue on my way and eventually arrive at the checkpoint.

Checkpoint 4 (180 miles from the start), Alston, Cumbria

After sleeping in wet fields, on hard ground and in cold tents, the checkpoint at Alston is comparative luxury. A youth hostel which the Spine race has taken over for the race, the checkpoint has proper showers and bunk beds. As I arrive in the checkpoint, Andrew is there who is pleased to be reunited with his lost race number.

Checkpoint 4 is famed for its lasagne and I’m delighted to discover that they have a vegan version too which I wolf down. Having only really managed to snatch a few minutes of sleep here and there in this race so far, I sleep deeply for four hours up in one of the bunks. By the time, I’m repacking my kit bag, one of the volunteers informs me that I have 15 minutes to leave before I reach the six hour limit for my stay at Alston. I’m glad to have made the most of my stay at “Alston – Resort & Spa”; 5 stars on Trip Advisor coming their way!

After the dramatic scenery of the last section, the next few miles of the course are low-lying and can feel a little underwhelming as the Pennine Way makes its way across farmland and through villages. The navigation can also be a little tricky in places and so I’m keen to make as much progress as I can towards Greenhead before dark. As a general rule, the parts of the Pennine Way where the navigation is most challenging tend to be the sections that pass near villages rather than the more remote areas. In the more remote areas, there tends to be one (mostly) clear path to follow as opposed to when the trail passes closer to habitations where often a multitude of paths open up. Of course, poor weather, sleep deprivation and darkness can make any part of the Pennine Way challenging and there are several remote moorland sections that are straight forward on a clear day but require very careful attention at night or in poor visibility.

By the time I reach Hartleyburn Common, it is dark and the trail has vanished beneath my feet again. A grim mist has descended and the air feels close and oppressive. Particles of water, caught in my headtorch light, hang and shimmer in the air like diamonds in the deepest mine. The long grass is wet and my feet are soon soaked again. With no sign at that I’m on any kind of trail let alone a National Trail, I’m relying on my GPS to stay on route. After a little while, I’m able to follow two other runners across Blenkinsopp Common. I don’t remember finding this part of the course particularly challenging two years ago, but in the dark and wet it’s a different proposition entirely.

Eventually, I arrive at Greenhead where a couple in a campervan are manning a Spine safety team in a car park. After the long, wet slog over the last section, I’m glad to sit down for a few minutes and chat to real people whilst I sip a hot coffee.

The darkness of night has started to give way to the gloomy light of just before dawn. Ahead of me, on the lonely hillside, Hadrian’s Wall looms. As I follow this ancient monument, I feel my spirits start to lift. Visibility is still poor but above these clouds the sun must surely have risen. It is so quiet now; almost dreamlike. The pain in my feet seems to have lessened and I feel like I’m floating along, caught up in a flowing river of greens and blues. A world between worlds. Unlike my ascent of Pen-y-Ghent days earlier, there is no beautiful sunrise or inspiring view but the enchantment is just as real. Here at the very northern edge of England, it feels like I’m the last person left in the world but instead of feeling lonely, I feel a deep sense of contentment and connection. As I continue along, the wall is periodically broken up by the remains of forts and watch towers; reminders of the people, now long-gone, who lived and died here.

When I finally reach Rapishaw Gap, where the Pennine Way turns north once again, I feel a sense of sadness to be leaving the Wall behind. This part of my journey might be over, but the memories of a Wednesday morning – wet and gloomy but also life affirming – will remain.

As I head north, through woodland and across remote farmland, the fog lifts and the sun begins to shine. With it comes a deep weariness. I stop and sit for a moment but this is not the sort of fatigue that can be cured with a few minutes rest. My best bet is just to keep going on. Through one of the woodland sections, I get disoriented by the various forestry tracks and come off the Pennine Way, but eventually find my way back on course with the help of my GPS.

My feet now feel like they have been seared in a frying pan, ultra-sensitive to every pebble, every rock, every clump of grass. I search my memory and try to mentally map out the remainder of the route from here to the checkpoint at Bellingham. I’m sure it’s close now. Unfortunately, every corner I turn results in an additional field, hill or lane that my mind has somehow conspired to forget about since the 2019 race.

Eventually the fields give way to the road that leads to the final full checkpoint of the race.

Checkpoint 5 (mile 225 miles from the start) – Bellingham, Northumberland

A friendly volunteer who I’ve seen a few times during the race comes out to meet me and we chat a little on the way into the checkpoint.

After consulting one of the medics, we decide that he should drain my blisters first to give my feet a little time to heal open to the air whilst I sleep, before he wraps my feet again. I lie back, with my roll mat as a pillow, on the grass with my feet raised up on a bench as the medic hacks away at the monstrosities on my feet. Similar to Checkpoint 2 at Hardraw, there are several tents set up for competitors to use and I try and get what sleep I can for the final time in this race. Unlike at Alston, I really struggle to sleep much at all and eventually decide my time is better served making progress by daylight. On emerging from my tent, I discover that another helpful volunteer has found a vegan quiche for me. As well as sleep, this is my last chance for a proper meal until the finish.

Gradually, as I begin to pack my kit bag, news begins to filter through of worsening weather conditions on the way. The mood in the camp at this news is more of quiet resignation with perhaps a little gallows humour thrown in, rather than real panic.

Just as I’m preparing to return my drop bag to the volunteers, the heavens open. I dive back into my tent and decide to shelter there whilst the heaviest of the rain passes. Leaving the checkpoint in the rain, the weather couldn’t be any more different from when I arrived in the blazing sunshine.

The relative bustle of the village of Bellingham is quickly left behind and soon I’m alone again crossing remote farmland and moors. I ruefully think back to the 2019 race and recall tackling this section in the early hours of the morning, beneath a clear star-filled sky with the promise of a spectacular final day in the Cheviots ahead of me. Today the contrast couldn’t be any greater. It’s a wet, grey evening with all the challenges of another night out on the moors still ahead of me. I stop as I reach a familiar point; a Pennine waymarker which in 2019, silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky, filled me with such hope and optimism for the final leg of my journey. I can’t help but smile at how different the same spot looks today as I take a photograph.

2021 vs 2019

There’s a small group of us within close proximity of each other and we leap-frog each over the next few miles. It’s dusk as I reach the climb up into Kielder Forest. The forest track through the trees down to Byrness is a little more forgiving underfoot. It’s stopped raining now, the air feels fresh and I dare to hope that perhaps the rumours at Bellingham of apocalyptic weather inbound were overstated.

The news we receive from the Safety team at Byrness soon extinguishes this faint hope.

Having failed in our attempts to find anywhere dry to bivvy in Bryness, a couple of other runners (Alan and Richard) and I head up into the Cheviots.

Bryness (240 miles from the start) – Edge of the Cheviot Hills, Northumberland

It’s still pitch dark as we start to climb, our headtorches picking out the route up the steep climb amongst the trees. About half-way up we find a relatively dry spot amongst the trees to rest and I doze for a few minutes on the soft ground, my head resting on my backpack.

Here amongst the tress, the air is still calm and still. Later, as we leave the tree-line, the wind picks up suddenly and I find myself struggling to stay on my feet.

It’s morning now but instead of getting lighter, the visibility seems to worsen step by step as we are buffeted by gale-force winds and horizontal rain. In 2019, I traversed this section in shorts and t-shirt underneath the hot sun. Today, I am wearing seven layers (including two waterproof jackets) and am incredibly grateful for all the extra clothes and the ski gloves I picked up from my drop bag at the last checkpoint. To think that when I packed for this race two weeks earlier, England was still in the midst of a heatwave and I very nearly didn’t bring my heavy-duty winter kit. My lightweight waterproof gear may be good enough to pass the requirements of kit check but if I was relying solely on that now, I would be in all kinds of trouble. My clunky, heavy-duty Montane waterproof jacket may not be the sexy, sleek and light variety that the elite runners at UTMB wear but right now it is literally keeping me alive.

Traversing the Cheviots in a storm is the definition of self-sufficiency. There’s no quitting here. If I was to twist an ankle or get an injury, the consequences could be serious. The trackers we are wearing all have a distress button for emergencies. However, there is no road access for miles and it could be hours before anyone could hike in on foot. I have no idea whether a mountain rescue helicopter could even land in this wind. I’m carrying an emergency shelter in my bag, as per the race rules, but the thought of relying on it to keep me alive here in the most remote part of the course in a storm, does not appeal.

After what seems like an eternity, the shape of Hut 1 emerges from the storm. The first of two mountain refuges on the Cheviots, the hut will certainly be used for its original purpose today. Inside, a Spine safety team is waiting for us. There is no road to park up on outside; these volunteers have had to hike in on foot for several miles carrying all their supplies with them. Inside damp clothes hang up, dripping water everywhere.

The last section was absolutely horrific but a small glimmer of hope begins to form in my mind. It’s about eight miles from here to Hut 2. From Hut 2, it’s another eight miles to the finish – mostly downhill. What seemed like an impossibility a short while ago suddenly seems within reach.

On leaving Hut 1, it seems the rain at least has eased off though the wind is still blowing a gale. The three of us have mostly stuck together for safety though at times have become separated by some distance.

After a year of lockdown and restrictions, I’d signed up for adventure. To push myself to my limits. It sounds so good on paper. Here I am at the extremities of England, traversing the border between two great nations, right at the limit of my capabilities. The fun and excitement of the adventure are long gone. Instead, all I feel is pain and despair about the number of miles still to go. Home and hearth feel a long way away. I’ll never take a soft bed or warm seat by the fire for granted ever again. As my friend Alice wisely commented to me in a message earlier in the race, “We don’t grow without pain, seems to be the deal. We have finite time and those experiences at the extremes are part of what we are here for.”

I’m falling asleep on my feet again and find myself waking up with a jolt, stumbling about like a drunk person, trying to stay on the flag stone path and not end up in one of the many bogs. Eventually I see the turn off for the Cheviot Hill. The Cheviot is strictly part of the Pennine Way but is not on the race route, though some racers chose to make a diversion to climb it. One day I will climb the Cheviot – just not today! From the top of Auchope Cain, I can see the final mountain refuge far below and in the distance. Whilst Hut 1 appeared suddenly out of the fog, Hut 2 makes its presence felt from some distance away. The descent down to it is awful, my mangled feet screaming in in agony with every step.

It’s cosy inside Hut 2. Alan and Richard are there along with another Safety team and the race photographer, who must have hiked some way to get here. There’s a fair bit of banter but I’m happy to sit quietly, eat some chocolate and gather my thoughts for the final assault on the finish. Alan and Richard are preparing to leave but I’m not ready yet and tell them that I’ll see them at the finish. One of the volunteers notices my eyes closing and encourages me to lie down for a few minutes on the bench.

Suitably refreshed, I set off from Hut 2 on this very final stage of the journey. There’s only one last obstacle between here and the finish; an ascent of The Schill. At 601m, it’s not Mt Everest but at this stage it may as well be. From the summit of The Schill, it is now pretty much downhill to the finish. The route down should be obvious, but in my sleep-deprived state it takes me a while to work out which line I should be taking down off the hill.

Looking back on Hut 2 dwarfed by the landscape

Finally I reach the stile that signifies the point where I leave England and cross over into Scotland for the last few miles. Here the Pennine Way splits into two, a high and a low route to the finish. The race follows the low route and I’m very careful not to accidentally end up on the high route. However, I soon find myself on a steep hillside desperately trying to find the right path, wondering whether faint sheep tracks in the grass are the Pennine Way. I soon realise that I’ve misread the waymarkers and I’m attempting to descend into the wrong valley! My mind is at the finish already but this is a stark reminder that the race isn’t over till my body has reached Kirk Yetholm and I’ve touched that wall.

My wife, Caroline, is waiting for me at the finish and must be wondering what on earth is taking me so long. I send a message to apologise for the slow progress but that I will get there. My feet are really suffering on these descents and I stop to see if taking my soaking wet socks off will help; it doesn’t.

Coming down from the hills, I come off route again and find myself passing through a farmyard, apologising to a slightly bemused looking lady who has just come out of a farm house. She points me back to the Pennine Way. In 2019, I had no issues with the navigation on this final section at all but today I’ve made a real mess of it. The batteries on my GPS are dead and I can’t find the energy to rummage through my bag for new ones at this late stage.

Eventually, I hit the road to Kirk Yetholm which seems to be a lot longer with a much bigger hill than I recall. I’m angry and frustrated due to my really stupid sleep-deprived navigation errors. However, as soon as I start to pass the first houses on the outskirts of Kirk Yetholm, all the negative emotions melt away and I can see Caroline and a group of Spine volunteers who have gathered at the finish waiting for me.

Finally touching the Wall at the finish!

As I touch the wall at the Border Hotel, I’m flooded with relief and joy. Almost no aspect of this race has gone to plan. The lofty ambitions that I had of running a “fast time” died early on in this race, drowned in the rainstorm on that first night. This has been a real journey in every sense of the word. The 2019 race was an amazing, life affirming experience and I came back for more of the same this year. What I got was a far more challenging experience that really did push me further than I thought I could possibly go. The effects of sleep deprivation ranged from the amusing (hallucinating witches and families picnicking at midnight) to the absolutely terrifying where I actually thought I was losing my mind. I can cope fine with one night without sleep as is the case on most 100 mile races. Two nights without sleep like at UTMB or Lakeland is ok but beyond that I may now draw the line. This race pushed me to a dark place mentally. Amongst that darkness, however, there was so much light in the form of people I met and experiences I had. Without the darkness, the light would never have been able to shine so brightly.

In conclusion; never ever again – until the next time, of course!

The Spine Fusion 2019

On August 10, 2019 By runningchristianIn Uncategorized5 Comments

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The air is cold and clear betraying little of the heat to come later in the day. It’s the very early hours of the morning but the clear sky has retained its midsummer light even though dawn is still some hours away.

I have left behind the final checkpoint on the race and there’s now only around 40 miles to go to the finish. It’s the final leg of the journey certainly, but there’s still many trials ahead. Still to come are the Cheviot hills, one of England’s most remote areas of wilderness and final obstacle before an exhilarating descent off the fells towards to the finish at Kirk Yetholm.

The trail rises inexorably upwards as the eastern sky grows steadily lighter. Dawn is drawing closer. Hopefully, before the sun sets on another day my race will be over. My thoughts turn towards the finish line and all the noise, excitement and commotion that will go with it. However, for now, it is just me in the hills with only a faraway birdsong to break the absolute silence. Perhaps for the last time in the race, I am completely alone beneath the huge Northumberland sky. The fatigue and sleepiness have gone and I soak in the stillness and the silence. The moment is just perfect.

Saturday, the Dark Peak

It is the final moments before the race start and I am waiting in a field outside Edale’s village hall. The moment beneath the Northumberland pre-dawn sky is still five days away.

The race organisers check up on a couple of the electronic trackers that all the racers wear for the duration of the race. I chat a little to my new friend, Mike, who I had just met that morning on the train to Edale from Sheffield. Mike is running the Flare, which also starts in Edale and comprises the first 108 miles of the Pennine Way.

We spoke a little about my experiences on the Flare in 2017 and the Challenger (the Winter version of the Flare) this January just past. Today I’m here for the main event, the Fusion. The Fusion follows all 268 miles of the Pennine Way national trail from here in Edale across mountains, moors, fields, forests, rivers, bogs and fells to Kirk Yetholm in the Scottish borders. This race has been on my mind since completing the Flare in 2017. Starting as a fleeting thought in my mind, I allowed the idea of running the entire Pennine Way to grow into a full-blown obsession.

The race begins and I chat to Mike as we make our way through Edale’s country lanes to the Pennine Way trailhead. I stop to take a photo of the stone marking the start of the trail and tell Mike I’ll catch him up. In actual fact, this is the last I would see of Mike this race as he speeds off to an impressive finish time on the Flare event.

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The next time I would see a sign for Kirk Yetholm would be on the England/Scotland border, 5 days and 264 miles later.

There are around 100 hundred all together across both events and I try to enjoy being bunched up with other runners. No doubt the field will spread out quite quickly and I am fully expecting to go long periods without seeing another runner, certainly in the second half of the race once all the Flare runners have finished their event.

For now, however, the sun is warm promising a hot day to come and thoughts of lightning and rain storms seem slightly incongruous.

Kinder Scout is one of the major climbs on the Pennine Way and it feels good to face it early. I’ve been on Kinder Scout many times over the years, but today is possibly the best conditions I’ve ever experienced up there. The views are fantastic and I can see Manchester far away to the west.

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Just as I’ve started relaxing into a comfortable running pace, stomach cramps force me to a walk. This is absolutely not what I need at this stage in the race. Stomach cramps plagued the early miles of the Thames Path 100 a few weeks previously but they didn’t last long. I’m hoping today’s will be similarly short-lived.

Over Kinder downfall (the first and certainly not the last waterfall on the course) and down off the Kinder plateau, the flagstones across Featherbed Moss allow for faster progress. Cheers and cowbells from a few spectators great me as I approach Snake Pass, the lonely road which cuts across the moorland.

Bleaklow Head comes and goes without incident and I share a couple of miles of trail traversing Clough Edge with Russ, who I met on the 2017 Flare and who has also returned for the full event. I enjoy a now customary fast descent from Clough Edge to Crowden reservoir where a Spine safety team is waiting with water supplies. The sound of more cowbells greets me as I emerge on the far side of the reservoir. An enthusiastic supporter who I’ve now seen at several points on the course so far rings the cowbells and I’m immediately taken back to UTMB.

Leaving Crowden reservoir and the road behind, the trail heads uphill again back into the wilderness. My stomach has settled and my thoughts turn to food. I’m carrying various snacks with me but I’m thinking ahead to the next road crossing and the snack van that has been positioned there on both the Challenger and Flare races. The trig point on the summit of Black Hill affords good views of the trail in front of me. As I pick up a bit of speed on the runnable descent, I scan the road now visible in the distance for the snack van but there’s no sign of it. This is a disappointment as I had been reminiscing about the bacon sandwich and coke that I’d enjoyed from there on the January Challenger event. This is a setback albeit a small one and I reluctantly put all pork-related thoughts out of mind.

The day has warmed up significantly and I’ve got through a fair amount of water on the last section. There might not be any snack van at this road junction, but I gratefully fill my water bottles again from some Spine volunteers with a large jerry can. I enjoy another runnable descent down towards Wessenden reservoir past hill sides decorated purple with heather.

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I have been preparing myself for a steep descent to cross a stream followed by a torturous climb up the other side. Somehow, the climb doesn’t seem nearly as bad as I remember when it actually arrives; perhaps that’s a good sign. My mind muses on the fact that I’m probably completed just over one standard marathon at this point and still have another nine more to go to the finish in Kirk Yetholm. I’m happy to take the small victories where I can get them at this stage!

One of the most important ways that I prepare for any ultramarathon is to mentally break the race course down in advance into smaller more manageable chunks. On a ‘typical’100 miler (that that such a thing really exists), the aid stations might be spaced every 8 miles or so providing a simple way for me to set myself some manageable goals. One of the challenges of the Spine is the self-sufficient nature of the event with distances of 40+ miles between checkpoints. I have therefore made a mental note of various points between checkpoints as a way of setting myself smaller sub-goals.

I really struggle to get any kind of decent pace going over the next moor and resign myself to hiking over the uneven ground. I can feel the first signs of tightness in my quads. “30 miles in; 238 to go” is the unwelcome thought that pops into my head totally uninvited. I mentally set myself the goal of reaching Stoodley Pike; from there it’s only 10km or so to Checkpoint 1. Although I’m not planning on a long stop at Checkpoint 1, it will be my first opportunity to reset my body and prepare for the first night section.

Heading up a track past Redbrook reservoir towards Standedge, I see two guys ahead packing up after enjoying a Saturday afternoon picnic. As I pass, the distinctive smell of wine fills the air as one of them expresses admiration for my efforts. A boozy Saturday afternoon picnic; perhaps they have the right idea! There’s another Spine car waiting in the car park at the next road crossing and I’m offered some fresh fruit from the boot of one of the cars which I gratefully accept.

Over the next few miles, I think back to the January Challenger race and running this section in the failing light through howling wind and rain. Today however, the sun is shining and there are many hours of daylight still ahead of me. This really is one of the biggest advantages that the summer races have over the winter equivalents; less than six hours of true darkness compared to 14 plus hours of night in January.

I pass a stone marking the most easterly point of the county of Lancashire, reminding me that I’ve now left the Peak District national park and Derbyshire behind.

Passing the White House pub, I pick up the pace past reservoirs and over the flagstone path that leads to Stoodley Pike. The monument had dominated the skyline for many miles and it feels good to eventually pass it and enjoy the descent down into Charlestown on the outskirts of Hebden Bridge. I have covered these early miles of the Pennine Way many times on recces, training runs and races. I therefore realise that a mere few metres after having completed the descent, the trail heads uphill steeply past houses on its way to Colden village. Here is the only significant detour off the Pennine Way to Checkpoint 1 at Hebden Hey. The checkpoint is located seemingly impossibly at the bottom of a steep narrow woodland track. In the winter, this track is a muddy quagmire. However, today it’s a little slippery in places but perfectly passable.

The Checkpoint is located at a scout hut. Here I’m reunited with my drop bag, which in my fatigued state I spend a long time contemplating the contents of. It’s 8.15pm and I am 5 minutes ahead of my target time for this checkpoint. I change my clothes and sit down in the dining area for a couple of helpings of rice and chicken. The checkpoint is bustling with both Flare and Fusion runners as well as medics and volunteers. The noise and activity seem strange after the solitude of the last section. I’ve allowed myself one hour here and am keen to leave and make some headway across the next moorland section before darkness falls.

Retracing my steps back up the track and through Colden Village, I pass a few racers making their way down to the checkpoint. Up on Heptonstall moor, however, I’m totally alone and it’s not long before I need to turn my headtorch on to see where I’m going.

Checkpoint 1 has bunk beds for those wishing to sleep, but my plan was always to press on through the first night and catch some sleep the following night at Checkpoint 2. Thankfully, there’s no sign of the sleep demons that plagued my winter race as I press on through Bronte country up to the ruins of Top Withins. Japanese signposts at the top leave me convinced every time that I’m hallucinating. I have no idea whether this piece of Bronte sister heritage is popular with Japanese visitors or not but I remind myself that the Japanese signposts are real and no hallucination!

Passing Ponden reservoir at the bottom, the trail heads straight back uphill. As I open the gate to Iconshaw moor, I notice a couple of motivational signs – one spells out how many parkruns it is to Kirk Yetholm. I try to put that disturbingly large number out of my head and continue on my way. Up ahead there are lights on the moor and music blares out; a local triathlon club as set up an unofficial aid station. Having missed out on my bacon sandwich earlier in the day, I gratefully accept one from the volunteers. The temperature has dropped significantly overnight and although the triathletes have laid out warm blankets for the runners, I’m soon getting cold and decide to get on my way.

Crossing Iconshaw moor, I chat to a couple of other runners; Paddy and his girlfriend Daniela who are running the Flare together. We take it in turns to share the navigation over the next few miles. This particular section is one of the least inspiring parts of the Pennine Way. Lacking the picturesque scenery or big open expanses of some of the wilder areas, these few miles pass by farms, fields and villages. In the dark, careful navigation is needed to ensure that turnings and stiles aren’t missed.

Sunday, the Aire Gap and Yorkshire Dales

I had set myself one absolute ground rule before the event; if there was ever any reasonable doubt in my mind about the correct route, I would check with my handheld GPS device. 268 miles is more than far enough without getting lost and accruing bonus miles! I turn on the GPS now to ensure that we stay on the route.

At Lotherdale village, Spine volunteers have left a large jerry can of water and a giant tub of Haribo outside a deserted pub and I enjoy a couple of minutes of rest at a wooden table.
Somewhere on the way down into Thornton in Craven, the darkness dissipates enough for me to be able to turn my headtorch off. Narrow country lanes, fields, a short section of canal and more fields lead me to Gargrave. This town marks the start of the Yorkshire Dales national park, which would be my companion for the next 24 hours.

I along with a couple of other Spine racers take the opportunity to stock up on some food supplies at the Co-op supermarket which has just opened for the day. Inside, normal people go about their shopping oblivious to us dishevelled runners who have been running through the night and are now eyeing the contents of the shelves hungrily.

After a coffee from the Co-op, I’m ready to face the next relatively benign section across some fields and alongside a river to Malham. A picturesque village sitting beneath dramatic limestone cliffs, Malham is understandably popular with tourists. As I descend off the hills into the village, I spot a large marquee and recall that there is another 100 mile race happening this same weekend; GB Ultra’s Pennine Barrier which starts and finishes here at Malham. I stop for a coffee and slice of cake in a café in Malham which is packed full of 100 mile WAGs waiting for the racers who are now in the final stages. Oh to be running “only” 100 miles.

“I mean, they’re running 100 miles,” muses one lady to her friend on the table next to me. “Where do you go from there?”. I decide not to chip into the conversation with my contribution of “268 miles?” but instead sit quietly with my coffee.

From Malham, I enjoy the approach towards the large cliff face of Malham Cove which looms ahead. Whilst day is still warm, the thought of the forecast storms quickens my pace a little and I don’t stop to admire the views. Up the steep steps of the Cove, across the limestone pavement, through a gorge and I can see Malham Tarn ahead.

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Malham Tarn also serves as the location of Checkpoint 1.5. This is not a full checkpoint, simply a monitoring station which serves to break up the 60+ mile stretch between checkpoints 1 and 2. A couple of tents have been set up on the lawns outside the impressive field centre. Having resisted any preventive taping on my feet so far in the race, I can feel hot spots developing and decide to visit the medic tent. Although they aren’t bothering me especially, I do seem to have developed a small blister on each of my small toes and addressing them now would seem prudent. I am around 80+ miles into the race. Normally at this stage in a 100 mile race, my thoughts would be turning to the finish line and I would be tempted to ignore any issues and simply try and hold things together until the finish. However, there is still almost 200 miles left to go in this race and I can’t afford to think like that today. This race is largely an exercise in constant problem-solving; finding a solution to whatever issue is thrown at you. At the moment that is my feet.

Brandishing a lance, the medic goes about draining the blisters. It’s not particularly obvious where blister ends and toe starts and from the pain, I suspect it is more toe than blister that is getting drained here. Nevertheless, my feet feel better once they are all taped up and I continue on my way.

Next comes two very contrasting climbs; the first over Fountains Fell is long but reasonably gentle. The second over Pen y Ghent is short and sharp requiring scrambling. The rocks feel cool and I enjoy having to use my hands to get to the top.

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One of Yorkshire’s famous 3 peaks, Pen y Ghent feels slightly out of place amongst the more rolling fells of the Dales. With it’s rocky summit scramble and Welsh name, it wouldn’t be out of place in Snowdonia.

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Having taken my time over the last two climbs, I pick up the pace on the descent down into Horton in Ribbledale. In my mind I’m Kilian Jornet hurtling down an alpine mountain. The reality is sadly quite far away from this but I enjoy the fantasy nonetheless.

At the pre-race briefing on Friday evening, we’d been told about a café in Horton staying open for the race. It’s now late Sunday afternoon and Checkpoint 2 and hot meal is still some hours away, so I stop at the café for some food and a chat with the owner.

Horton is around 15 miles from the next checkpoint at Hardraw. Between there and here is a remote area of fells which the Pennine Way crosses via a series of rocky trails and an old roman trading road. I’ve done this section twice before, both times in the dark. It’s still light at the moment and I have a good chance of making this crossing to Checkpoint 2 before dark.

In the dark, these fells are a baffling, confusing place with lights shining in the darkness from impossible places adding to the otherworldly feel of the place. Today in the light it’s actually not much different. I can see where I’m going and the path is reasonably clear but it’s almost impossible to get my bearings. The fact that I’m now approaching 40 hours without sleep is probably also a contributory factor!

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I look up at the trail ahead, Cam road continues up and up. I decide that I prefer doing this section in the dark; at least then you can’t see how far up the trail goes. After an interminably long time, I approach Ten End and the trail starts to head down again. By now the weather has started to turn as well and the promised rain (though thankfully no lightening) has arrived. I stop to put on my waterproof jacket and also get out my GPS. On both the previous races, I’ve struggled to find exactly the right line down off the hills into Hawes. This time, I’m taking no chances and follow the GPS track exactly.

In Hawes, I bump into Jesper, a Swedish runner doing the Flare race. He’s expecting the race to finish at Hawes and in understandably a bit miffed to learn that the finish is actually a mile or two further away at Hardraw. Together, we run the last couple of miles across fields to Hardraw. It’s now about 10 o’clock on Sunday evening. At the Checkpoint, Flare finishers get their medals and congratulations outside. I ignore this and head straight into the checkpoint; my finish line is still at least 4 days away. I had wondered whether I would feel envious of the Flare runners finishing their race at this point. The race organisers don’t offer Fusion runners the option of dropping down to the Flare distance at Hardraw and walking away with a finishers medal. Even if they did, I would have no interest. My goal is Kirk Yetholm and anything less than that would be an abject failure, medal or not.

Inside, I’m reunited with my drop bag and given some Cottage Pie. After a quick shower, I head upstairs to the dormitories to try and get a few hours’ sleep.

Monday, the Yorkshire Dales

As the storm rages outside, I sleep very fitfully. After 108 miles, my body is aching and every position I try to lie in is uncomfortable. I finally give up on sleep just before 4am and get up. My plan is to leave the Checkpoint at dawn to make the most of Monday’s daylight hours. It’s around an hour till dawn so this gives me time to have some porridge from the kitchen and have a medic redo the taping on my feet.

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All through my mental preparation for this race, reaching Hardraw was a big psychological milestone. The Flare and Challenger races (which both finish here) are the longest that I’ve ever done. As soon as I take the first step out of the door, it will be a Personal Best in terms of distance for me and into unchartered territory too (as I have not had the chance to recce this part of the course).

I am a melting pot of emotions. Relief at having reached the first real milestone in the race, trepidation at the distance still remaining and excitement at the unexplored trail to come. All brought into focus by the lack of any meaningful sleep since Friday night. Before leaving home for Edale, my wife, Caroline, had given me a little green envelope with some motivational messages from her and my two sons for me to read during the race. I read a couple of them now but put the rest away for later; I’m an emotional wreck and need to stay strong for next section of trail.

My Hoka trail shoes are still soaked from the last section and so I switch into my Hoka Tors (which are a sort of trail running shoe/hiking boot hybrid).

Outside in the village, the air is very still and warm. Almost immediately, the trail begins to trend upwards again in a long gradual climb up Great Shunner Fell. I’d started out from Hardraw in several layers of clothes and within minutes of starting the climb, I’m sweating and I stop to take off layers.

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At the summit of Great Shunner Fell, it’s breezy with poor visibility and there is no reason to hang around. Steps and stone sabs make for a fast descent towards the tiny village of Thwaite. I fantasise about finding a quaint café in Thwaite that might be able to rustle up a full English. It is still very early when I reach the village and it’s pretty much a ghost town with no sign of life let alone an open café.

Through some farmland and it’s another steep climb on the other side as I traverse the side of another fell. As I get closer, I notice the hillside looks like honeycomb due to the number of rabbit warrens. Rabbits dart around me and I briefly wonder whether the hillside might be in danger of collapse. The next few miles are painfully slow as the National trail continues the traverse along the hillside but now over large stone boulders. I cross a stream at the bottom of the valley and stop to admire a waterfall.

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I chat a little with a Scottish runner called Andrew who has just caught up with me, before he forges on ahead.

The next few miles of moorland pass quickly although the mist has descended again, making it hard to see anything. The next milestone is Tan Hill Inn, England’s highest pub. I strain my eyes training to spot the pub in the fog around me. In the event, I’m practically at the front door before the pub appears out of the cloud.

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In the porch of the pub, two Spine volunteers are waiting. I gratefully accept some hot water which I use to make a Pot Noodle as we chat a little about the race and other long-distance events.

Tan Hill Inn marks the end of the Yorkshire Dales National Park. It’s been spectacular but I know there is even more stunning scenery to some.

However, before that lies Sleightholme moor and a strong contender for my least favourite part of the course so far. The trail crosses over wet boggy marshland which my legs sink into several times. The posts marking the correct route across the moor are not always visible in the fog and I find myself off-route and knee deep in bogs. With the help of the GPS, I find the correct line across the moors but it’s very slow and dispiriting progress.

The moors eventually give way to fields and farm tracks. It has started to rain so I stop to put on my waterproofs again. I can hear thunder in the distance but there’s no sign of lightening in the darkening sky. It’s fair to say that I’m not enjoying this section massively.

I’ve been able to hear the busy A67 road ahead for some time and the Pennine Way passes under the road via a rather unscenic concrete underpass. As the afternoon progresses, both the weather and the trail improve significantly and before long I’m stopping to put sun cream on.

The uninspiring fields and boggy moorland have given way to rolling fells and my thoughts turn towards Checkpoint 3 which can’t be far away from here. From Harter Fell, I can see the town of Middleton-in-Teesdale below. On fresh legs, it would be a wonderful descent off the feels towards the town. After 140+ miles my feet are suffering and I’m looking forward to getting my shoes off. I’d put on waterproof socks this morning but in the deep bogs earlier, all they have served to do is retain water and prevent the water from draining properly.

I’d convinced myself that Checkpoint 3 was located on the outskirts of the town as the route descends from the fells and I’m looking forward to being only minutes away from being able to put my feet up. However, there is no sign of anything that looks like a checkpoint. I pass a campsite but there are no Checkpoint signs. I check the map and with sinking feeling, realise that the checkpoint is still two miles away, further down the trail outside of the town. In the grand scheme of things this doesn’t make much difference as that is still two miles that I would have to do at some point. However, having mentally prepared myself for being at the checkpoint, this has come as a blow and is difficult to deal with. Even though it is a flat scenic walk alongside a river, this is the longest two miles of the race so far. As I approach the checkpoint, a cheerful volunteer comes out and I have to make an effort not to seem too grumpy. Somewhere in the last few miles of trail was the halfway point in the race.

At the checkpoint, it’s relief to get my soaked socks and shoes off and enjoy the most amazing soup and curry. This checkpoint is much quieter than the last; all the Flare runners have now finished and the Fusion runners are now very spread out. I’ve not seen another runner since Andrew much earlier that morning.

It’s now about 8pm on Monday evening and I have a cushion of around 24 hours until the cut-off at this checkpoint. My plan is to try and get a few hours sleep. I’ve put a small tent in my drop bag and I’d been expecting to have to pitch it here but I’m pleased to be informed that there are some bunk beds upstairs. I set my alarm for midnight and again try and get a few fitful hours of sleep in a dormitory.

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Tuesday, the North Pennines

It had still been light when I went to sleep but it’s dark when my alarm goes off at midnight and I have to use my phone light to make my way down the stairs. This checkpoint is a very basic converted barn with stone floors and no electricity supply but is somehow fitting to the event.

A medic re-wraps my feet and I force a bit of breakfast down; I’m not hungry but know that I’ll need the calories. It’s around 40 miles from here to the next checkpoint at Alston over some of the most demanding parts of the Pennine Way. On the plus side, I will pass many of the highlights of the Pennine Way on this section.

It’s around 1am when I step back out into the night. It is pitch dark outside and I follow the sounds of the gushing river to regain the Pennine Way. The next few miles are flat, runnable riverside trail and I try to make the most of them by running.

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Along this section, lies two highlights of the Pennine Way; High Force and Low Force waterfalls. However, it’s pitch-dark and I can’t see either of them aside from a glimpse of white water illuminated by my headtorch.

I check my watch and realise that I’ve now been going for a little over 65 hours since Edale. This is around the same time that fell runner Mike Hartley took to complete the entire Pennine Way back in 1989. The fact that record has stood for 30 years and has withstood several attempts by very capable ultrarunners in recent years is a testament to how impressive it is.

Gradually the sky lightens turning from black to grey. There is no awe-inspiring sunrise but it is a relief to be able to turn my headtorch off and see a little more than a small circle of light in front of me. Fields give way to riverside cliffs and there are long sections that require scrambling and boulder hopping, slowing my progress.

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A dead lamb lies on the path in front of me, its head twisted at an unnatural angle. It obviously met its demise having fallen from the cliffs above. It’s a sad, downbeat sight but also reminder that this is a harsh, unforgiving terrain, even for the animals that live out here.
I follow the river as it twists and turns on its course through the land, before arriving at Cauldron Snout which looms ahead.

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Another highlight of the Pennine Way, this is a rocky gorge over which outflow from a reservoir high above flows before plunging dramatically into the River Tees below. This requires scrambling and I carefully choose a line over the wet slippery rocks heading for a bridge over the reservoir above.

A grassy ascent soon leads me to High Cup plain. Wild ponies appear like ghosts out of the fog which shrouds the plain. A staple photograph of post cards and guide books, I’ve been particularly looking forward to seeing High Cup Nick with my own eyes. Sometimes known as “England’s Grand Canyon”, High Cup Nick is a dramatic chasm cut into the mountain side guarding over the glacial valley below.

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Sadly, today the chasm is shrouded in fog and the perfect photo that I’d planned in my mind is not to be. The wind is howling up here and I decide to be on my way. However, the Pennine Trail has disappeared under my feet and in the fog, I can’t see where to go. I look down the steep sides of the escarpment. The Pennine Way is regarded as England’s hardest national trail but a near vertical free climb down a cliff face seems unlikely. My GPS seems to be indicating a route through the cleft. Again, this seems unlikely, but I tentatively make my way. Eventually, the GPS “course corrects” showing the correct trail on the cliff above me. I scramble up the rocks and soon regain the trail.

From here the trail heads downhill initially on clear paths and then on a road into the village of Dufton. Some ladies walking their dogs are the first people that I have seen since the checkpoint at Middleton. It’s only 10am but already feels like a long day and my stomach reminds me that breakfast was many hours ago. On the road through Dufton, I spot the Post Box Pantry and it looks open. This is an institution in the winter Spine race staying open at all hours to feed hungry and freezing cold runners. There are no other runners around today but inside, the owner is quick to recognise me as a Spine competitor. Two bacon baps and coffee soon have me feeling slightly more human. I feel like a hobbit enjoying “second breakfast” and look forward to elvenies, luncheon, tea, supper etc later.

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It’s been a lonely stretch and I enjoy chatting to the café owner, a race volunteer (who has been tracking competitors online through Dufton) and another runner who has caught me up since I’ve been in the café.

Setting off from Dufton, I have the confidence of knowing that I am on familiar ground for the next 30 miles or so of the course having recced it a couple of weeks previously. Soon after leaving Dufton, comes perhaps the most significant climb of the route; a long ascent into the fells of the northern Pennines. I had made a mistake here on my recce, missing a turning low down on the fells meaning that I ended up on the wrong line heading up the mountain and off-route on the high moorlands to the east of the cairns that mark the route across the summits.

Today I use my GPS to ensure that I stay on the correct route; which, whilst still gut-busting, is significantly easier underfoot than the line that I’d taken uphill a couple of weeks previously. The weather at the top is fairly similar to what it was on my recce; wet with low cloud obscuring any views.

Having done the long climb, I pick up the pace a little as the trail snakes across multiple summits; Knock Fell (794m), Great Dun Fell (848m), Little Dun Fell (842m) before finally arriving at Cross Fell (893m). Cross Fell is the highest point on the Pennine Way and the highest point in England outside of the Lake District. Cross Fell is notorious for having its own micro-climate and holds all kinds of records for the worst UK weather. True to form, the weather is atrocious up here with howling wind and horizontal rain. The runner from the Café has caught me up and we make our way carefully down the other side of Cross Fell. The mist makes it difficult to spot the series of cairns which mark the descent and I struggle to find the path alongside a small stream…. until I realise that the stream is the path!

Before too long, we arrive at Greg’s Hut, a mountain shelter and refuge for many hikers caught in bad weather over Cross Fell. My companion decides to continue on but I would like to stop for a few minutes to get out of the rain and have something to eat. Expecting the hut to be empty, it’s a pleasant surprise to find a Spine Safety Team warming themselves by the fire in the inside room. They kindly offer me some hot water from their stoves and I enjoy a pot noodle and a few minutes respite from the storm.

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It’s a long fairly gentle descent down an old mining track from Greg’s Hut to the village of Garrigill and then an uneventful four further miles alongside a river to Alston, location of checkpoint 4.

I have heard good things about Checkpoint 4 which is based at a Youth Hostel that the race has taken over, right on the Pennine Way just before it enters the town of Alston. As I approach the checkpoint, Rebecca, one of the volunteers comes out to meet me and walk me into the checkpoint. I’d met Rebecca on Day 1 on the train over from Sheffield with Mike, which now seems a very long time ago. It’s now around 6.30pm and after a long lonely day with relatively little human interaction, it’s nice to see a friendly face.

Inside, Checkpoint 4 lives up to its billing and is relatively luxurious compared to the more basic checkpoint 3. I enjoy some lasagne for dinner before heading up to one of the dormitories to get some sleep.

Upstairs, the bunk beds come with their own duvets, which is an untold luxury. The room is very hot however and as before, it’s difficult to get to sleep.

Wednesday, the North Pennines and Northumberland

Once again, I set my alarm for around midnight and set off in the very early hours of the morning.

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After the mountains of the last section, the next few miles are relatively benign, staying low across farmland and fields. I had no trouble route-finding on this section during my recce two weeks earlier. However, that had been in the light. Now it is pitch dark and with my headtorch, I struggle to find the correct path a few times. Eventually, I resign myself to simply following the GPS. Ahead of me on the next hillside, I can see the tell-tale patch of circular head torchlight signifying another runner. A few minutes later, I catch up with Andrew, the Scottish runner, who I’d last seen just before Tan Hill on Monday.

The next few miles pass relatively quickly as night turns to day and we chat away. It turns out that Andrew is a fellow actuary. The actuarial profession is relatively small and it’s unusual to meet another actuary outside of a work or a professional context. We muse over the coincidence (though stop short of calculating the probability of that happening)!

Passing through some fields filled with cattle on the way to Greenhead, a bull, a nervous looking cow and a calf block our path. The cow begins to act quite erratically taking us as a threat to her calf. So we take a very wide detour through long grass to avoid the cows. The bull just glares at us as we pass. Hopefully, he doesn’t know about the beef lasagne I enjoyed for dinner at the last checkpoint. Andrew is a vegetarian, so perhaps that counts for something if they decide to charge! Free of our bovine related obstacles, we return to the path and continue to Greenhead.

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Greenhead marks the start of Hadrian’s Wall, which the Pennine way follows for several miles. This is another section that I have been looking forward to very much, having never seen the wall before.

I stop for a little rest as Andrew pushes on. I check what food I have with me. I’d deliberately chosen the highest calorie food that I could find to take with me before checkpoints. However, my selection of dried sausage, sweets and peanut M&Ms is now turning my stomach. Putting the food back in my pack, I continue along the way. I catch up with a hiker who is walking the Pennine Way over two weeks and we power hike the next couple of miles together. Having seen, very few non-race related people on the trail since Malham, there is now a fairly constant stream of walkers, runners and tourists all enjoying this scenic if very undulating section alongside Hadrian’s Wall.

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I enjoy passing the ruins of the Roman milecastles every Roman mile or so (which is less than a standard modern mile). This is another part of the Pennine Way that I vow to return to when I have more time. For now, however, I am in a race, though it’s easy to forget that at the pedestrian pace that I’m going.

Eventually, the Pennine Way turns away from the wall heading back in a northerly direction. After crossing some moorlands and small forests, I catch up with Andrew again and we continue together across fields and moors towards Bellingham. After a grey start earlier, the day has brightened up and the sun is now beating down on us.

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Along the way we pass a farm that has set aside a small barn with chairs, a fridge, a kettle, food and drink for Pennine way walkers to enjoy. We stop and make ourselves a coffee before adding some money to the honesty box and continuing on our way. Sensing that the final Checkpoint is close, I pick up the pace and continue alone towards Bellingham.

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The checkpoint is located at a camping and caravan site called Brown Rigg just before the village itself. The race has its own separate area where several tents have been set up as well as a basic building being used as a communal area for runners.

It’s around 42 miles from this final checkpoint to the finish at Kirk Yetholm. On fresh legs, I could be at the finish in a few short hours. However, as tempting as it is to push on, I am going to stick to my race strategy which has worked well so far and stop here for a few hours’ sleep.

It’s about 7pm. I take my soaked shoes off and leave them out to dry in the midsummer sun which is still baking down. Having not really eaten a proper meal since the very early hours of the morning, I wolf down some pasta and Bolognese and chicken stew.

The checkpoint facilities are fairly basic again and accommodation is in tents. As there are few runners here at the checkpoint, I have one of the tents to myself and don’t need to pitch my own tent (which has remained untouched in my drop bag for the duration of the race). I also enjoy a warm shower before sleeping. The shower block looks as if someone gave up building it half-way through but the showers themselves are clearly brand new and work well.

Thursday, Northumberland to the Scottish borders

I haven’t managed to sleep particularly well at any of the checkpoints and my sleep here is the most fitful. Having gone to bed boiling hot in a tent being baked by the sun, when I wake up a couple of hours later it is freezing cold. My sleeping bag has gotten damp from being pressed up against the side of the tent. The freezing temperatures make it very difficult to leave my sleeping bag but I force myself up. Two medics fix up my feet for the final time as I have some breakfast. The support from Exile medics during this race has been amazing and makes this race unique amongst all the ultramarathons that I’ve done.

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A volunteer walks me down the driveway of the campsite to the main road which leads into Bellingham. It’s around 1am and unsurprisingly, the town itself is deserted. I navigate my way through the streets before finding the track out of town uphill past a farm and through fields.

It is a crystal-clear night and incredibly there is still light in the sky.

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Above me, I can see cattle silhouetted in the fields ahead of me against the light in the sky.

My headtorch is attracting unwanted attention from the slumbering cows as I progress through the field. I try switching the headtorch off but almost collide with a dozing cow. I decide to descend down the hill to my left and avoid the cattle.

Gradually, the sky becomes lighter and lighter and I can see more of my surroundings. I’ve left the farmland behind and now it’s miles and miles of heather moorland. There hasn’t been a sunrise to speak of so far on the race but today on the final morning, I’m rewarded with a spectacular sight as the sun starts to peek out from above the hills in the distance.

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A rough and stony track leads uphill to the edge of Kielder forest and soon I am following a track through the trees. I recall seeing breath taking photographs of this section of the route covered in snow from the winter race and I’ve longed to see the forest for myself. It’s June, so there’s no snow today, but it is beautiful none the less.

The track eventually heads down hill towards the tiny habitation of Bryness. John Bamber, a Spine race legend, has set his tent up here and I’m grateful to be able to sit down for a few minutes and use some of his hot water for a pot noodle. It’s shaping up to be a warm day and so I fill my water bottles and head off on my way.

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It’s a steep climb out of Bryness and when I finally reach the grassy ridge above, I find a rock to sit down on. The day is starting to heat up now and I take the opportunity to put some sun cream on. A group of American hikers who I overtook on the climb up from Bryness have caught me up at the top and we chat a little bit before I continue on my way.

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My feet, which have for the most part, held up well all race, are starting to really suffer. They feel as though they have been deep fried, grated and thrown in the kitchen blender for good measure. My socks got soaked whilst fording a stream earlier which is also definitely not helping. The heat from my feet is causing the water in my socks to evaporate but with nowhere to go, my feet are getting boiled.

I’m now into the Cheviot Hills, another part of the route that I’ve heard so much about and have been keen to see for myself. These hills live up to their reputation for being lonely and remote but there is a definite beauty in the starkness of the surroundings. I am thankful that it is a warm day and the conditions are nothing like when I went Cross Fell two days previously.

Prior to the race, my biggest concern had been sleep deprivation and what effect this might have on me. I have to say, for the most part, the sleep deprivation has been nowhere near as bad as I thought it might be, with my 2-3 hours sleep a night seemingly enough to stave off the worst of the sleep demons. Having gone through five nights, which probably not much more than 10 hours of sleep in total, it is starting to catch up with me. I stop for a moment to sit and take in the view but within seconds am dozing away in the sunshine. One of the American hikers has caught me up and seems very concerned for my wellbeing. I try and allay her concerns as best as I can and continue.

After what seems like an eternity, I arrive at the first of two mountain refuge huts on route in the cheviots. Known as “lamb hill hut”, “yearning saddle hut” or simply “Hut 1”, the mountain refuge is occupied by a Spine volunteer. I take the opportunity to stop and take my shoes off for a moment. Steam wafts out from my shoes but it feels wonderful to have some fresh air on my feet, if only for a minute or two.

I am now following a fence which marks the border between England and Scotland. I glance over the other side into Scotland. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it looks identical to the English side. It is an effort to remind myself that this land has been passed back and forth and fought over countless times by the two countries.

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This final section over the Cheviots is no formality at the end of the Pennine Way, but one of the most demanding sections of the entire route. Hill after hill, the Cheviots seem to stretch on indeterminably. I peer optimistically into the far distance wondering whether I can see Kirk Yetholm but there is little chance of that yet.

I can feel a blister has developed on my left ankle as some tape came loose earlier and began to rub my foot. I sit down on the hill side to see what I can do about it. The medic at Malham Tarn had given me a lance which I now put to good use by draining the blister and dressing the area with some tape as I’ve seen the Exile medics do so many times.

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After a long rocky descent, I finally arrive at Hut 2. I have been running low on water for some time and I am relieved to be able to fill up my bottles again here; the Spine volunteers have a ready water supply from a nearby waterfall.

It’s just seven miles from here to the finish and I pick up my pace determined to finish strong. It’s just before 7pm and if I get a move on, I can still finish the race in daylight. There is just one more significant climb between here and the finish line; the Pennine Way passes over the summit of The Schill (601m). It’s far from the longest climb of the race but now right at the end after 260+ miles, it’s still demanding.

I trot downhill from the summit following the border fence before spotting the stile that will take me from England into Scotland and finally towards the finish. I finally have seen my first signpost for “Kirk Yetholm” since the very beginning of the race 264 miles earlier.

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It’s farm tracks all the way down which eventually gives way to country lane. A car stops and the driver encourages me that there really isn’t far to go now. I have to use my arm to shield my eyes from the sun which now hangs low in the sky and is blinding me. It must only be a few hundred metres down this lane though with the sun in my eyes, I can’t actually see.

I am melting pot of emotions now; excitement, fatigue but mostly relief. In front of me, I can see a figure approaching me, silhouetted against the sun. It is Dave Wood, one of the volunteers who I have seen at several of checkpoints during the race. He pulls his phone out and tells me that my finish will be on Facebook live. This was one additional challenge that I hadn’t anticipated as I try and think of some vaguely coherent responses to his questions.

Ahead of me I can see Caroline waiting for me besides the finish gantry and beyond that the wall of the Border Hotel. Dave asks me if I’m up to running the last few meters and we run together through the arch. 133 hours and 27 minutes after setting off from Edale in Derbyshire, I have arrived at Kirk Yetholm in Scotland. As I touch the wall of the Border hotel which signifies the end of the Pennine Way, I share in the emotions of the many Pennine Wayfarers whose journeys have also ended in this very spot over the years. Joy, elation, relief and perhaps a touch of sadness that the journey is at an end.

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The question I get asked most often about these races is “why”? It’s a simple question but one without an easy answer. The sport of ultrarunning has grown exponentially and each year more races are added to the calendar. However, it takes a special race and special route to get under my skin in the way that the Spine races have. I came looking for an adventure in some of the wildest, most remote, most scenic parts of our country. Areas that many people never see or are even aware exist. Whilst I certainly experienced those things, I have also left with so much more.

I get into the passenger seat of the car that Caroline has hired to drive us to our accommodation in nearby Coldstream. Before passing out from the sleep deprivation and exhaustion that has finally caught up with me, I think back over the last few days. The lashing rain of Cross Fell. The deep bogs past Tan Hill Inn. The wind across the Cumbrian high fells. The sound of plunging waterfalls hidden by the darkness. The spectacular sunrise over Northumberland. The wilderness of the Cheviots. The clear views from Kinder Scout. The stark beauty of the dark peak moorland. Thin places.

I am sorry to be leaving but, in many ways, I am not leaving at all. A part of all those places will stay with me. It’s easy to look back and believe it was all wonderful. The reality is that a lot of the time it was painful, frustrating, exhausting. Many times, I wondered what on earth I was doing there. But just like life, those difficult times made the good times all the more special.

In one sense, the journey is over and I’ve reached my destination. However, it was never really ever about the destination. Whilst I still experience awe and wonder in the surroundings I’m privileged enough to run through in these events, the journey won’t ever be over either.

The Spine Challenger 2019

On January 20, 2019 By runningchristianIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

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Obsession is a strong word to use about a race. However, once this race has you in its grip, its pull is inexorable.

My first experience of this race was at the 2017 Challenger. That was a race that ended in abject failure; a crushing DNF amongst the mud, ice and rapidly thawing snow at Ponden reservoir just below Oakworth moor. I was left to rue a series of mistakes on my part that had contributed to the outcome but was more determined than ever to come back and compete the race. I got my opportunity just five months later at the inaugural Spine Flare (which is essentially an identical race to the Challenger just run in the summer rather than winter). You can read about my experiences at that race here too.

Having completed the Flare, I believed for a long-time that I now had closure on my 2017 DNF. However, dot watching the 2018 race online at home was enough to convince me that I still had unfinished business with the more brutal winter version of this race.

The Spine Challenger/Flare follows the first 108 miles of the Pennine Way from Edale in the Peak District to Hardraw in Yorkshire. It’s the “baby” sister of the Spine/Spine Fusion which follows the full Pennine way for its 268 mile length to Kirk Yetholm in Scotland.

That was how I found myself on the start line of the Challenger race on a gloomy Saturday morning in Edale. Having caught up with some friends (Helen who I ran the majority of the 2017 Flare with and Rob who I’d met the previous autumn in Wales at the Snowdon 100) and said good bye to my wife, Caroline, telling her that I would see her in North Yorkshire at the finish.

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Start to Checkpoint 1

The first mile or so was fast as racers snaked through Edale to the Pennine Way trailhead by the Old Nags Head pub. The course goes over and down through some fields and past the tiny outpost of Upper Booth. Running through the valley towards Kinder Scout, the tops of the hills on my left were shrouded in cloud. Whilst conditions in Edale were relatively mild, I could see it was going to be a different story up on Kinder Scout.

The climb up Kinder Scout via Jacob’s Ladder was relatively uneventful on fresh legs. As I’d anticipated, the weather got worse the higher we went. Up on top, I put my hood up to protect my head from the howling winds. There’s little sign of the valley of Edale below, hidden by the fog and cloud.

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The plateau is a mixture of terrain; runnable in places but with enough rocks to negotiate to drop the pace. Kinder’s famous waterfall, Kinder Downfall was in full “Kinder Upfall” mode of operation today as I got soaked from the water being blown up the waterfall. Fortunately, as there hadn’t been huge amounts of rain the preceding weeks, the stream feeding the waterfall was negotiated with a simple jump and didn’t require fording. My feet were still dry and warm, and I was keen to keep them that way for a little longer!

A little further along, we began our descent from Kinder. I whooped and yelled with joy at a lovely runnable grass section. It did occur to me that I couldn’t remember such a runnable decent from Kinder. There was good reason I couldn’t remember this section as it dawned on me that I’d come off the Pennine Way and was now heading down towards Kinder reservoir and Hayfield beyond. I’d been blindly following some runners in front. We traversed the steep slope and climbed back up onto the Pennine Way. That was my first (though by no means last) mistake of the day but I’d learnt my lesson.

The Pennine Way is a waymarked for its 268 mile length. However, some of the finger posts are sporadic at best in places; Kinder Scout being a good example of a blackspot in markings where runners need to be mindful of navigation.

A Scottish lady stops to tell me that my race number (pinned to my pack) is about to be blown off by the howling wind. I stop to put my race number under the mesh of my pack; I’d later discover that many racers last their race numbers to the winds.

Down off Kinder, the wind has dropped a little and I decide to pick up the pace on the paving slabs over the moors. As I crossed Snake Pass, there isno sign of the snow that so often closes this road each winter.

The climb up towards Bleaklow Head is steady on a broad path at first and later through a narrow chasm cut out from the surrounding peat. It’s muddy and uneven underfoot slowing my pace. The weather has also picked up as I stop to put on my waterproof trousers – little did I realise these would now stay on for the duration of the race. The navigation here is straight forward, in contrast to two years ago where the path became lost under the snow.

After running across Kinder bunched up close to other runners, the field has begun to spread, and I found myself alone traversing the top of a steep valley above Torside clough.

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Having dropped down to Torside reservoir, a mountain rescue team as set up an impromptu gazebo. It’s around midday, so I decided to take advantage of the access to hot water and have the pot noddle that I’ve been carrying in my backpack. I chat a little to Jon, who’d I met at the Flare in 2017 and who is now volunteering on one of the Spine Safety teams.

Leaving Torside behind, the weather steadily got worse; the howling wind and driving rain would now be a constant companion until Sunday morning. The navigational here was again relatively straight forward. In an attempt to keep my feet dry, I hopped and jumped over the first couple of streams. However, the streams get progressively wider and deeper and eventually I resign myself to wet feet as I wade through the icy cold water.

The moors feel lonely and desolate at times and I shiver as I remember Saddleworth moor was the resting place for the moors murders victims.

From the top of Black Hill, it is a lovely runnable descent down before a short pull to reach the road at Wessenden Head. Along this section, I’d been reminiscing about my 2017 Flare race and how I was able to stop here for a bacon sandwich and a coke. I’m delighted to see the snack van is here again as I stop for a repeat order. Even stopping for two minutes in the icy wind as made me start to shiver uncontrollably so I take my bacon sarnie with me on the next section. Two years ago on the Challenger, it has begun to get dark at this point in the race. I look at my watch and am heartened to see that I have another two hours or so of daylight left.

The trail descends steeply to cross a stream before ascending equally steeply on the other say and continue across moorland, crossing a few roads. As I pick my way along Standedge in the failing light, I eventually give in and turn my headtorch on. I’m reminded of dusk during the UTMB race, where my headtorch did little to light my path, simply picking out the water particles in the air. As the remaining light disappears from the sky and darkness falls more completely, my vision improves as my headtorch now more effectively provides a contrast against the night.

Conditions got steadily worse as I crossed the M62, and I hope a gust of wind wouldn’t blow me of the bridge onto the motorway far below. Visibility dropped to a metre or so as I picked my way amongst the rocks at Blackstone edge. The path disappears amongst the rocks and so I team up with another competitor as we follow the GPS to ensure we stay on course. As we headed down of the hill towards the White House pub, the fog clears a little. There is another mountain rescue stop in the pub car park and I gratefully accepted a cup of coffee whilst helping myself from an absolutely giant sack of flap jacks that the mountain rescue team has brought along.

The trail next snakes past several reservoirs along mostly flat paths. On a clear day, Stoodley Pike would by visible from some distance away. However, I realised that in this weather and darkness, I wouldn’t see the famous monument until I was right on top of it.

A small group of us are now running close together, bunched up for safety. The wind is too loud to allow any real conversation beyond yelling at anyone who looks like they are heading off course (including me at one point). The lady in front of me gets blown off her feet on the approach to Stoodley Pike. We drop down again from the hills into the valley to reach Charle Town. At the bottom of the valley, the air is relatively still, protected from the winds by the steep sides of the valley.

My gloves are soaked through and my hands are beginning to get very cold. I peel the sodden gloves off my hands and replace them with my dry waterproof gloves from my pack. My thoughts now turn to Checkpoint 1 which is only a couple of miles away.

A stiff climb up the other side of the valley and a slog across some more fields brings me out at the village of Colden. This is the only real diversion off the Pennine Way as I head down the road initially and then down a steep muddy track to Hebden Hey Scout centre which serves as our first (and in fact only) Checkpoint on the race.

It’s around 9pm as I reach the checkpoint, safe in the knowledge that the cut off is 8am the following morning. Two years ago, I’d got here at 4am so I know I’m well ahead of where I was in that disastrous race. I’m shown to the kit room which is a giant stone room with a large wood fire burning away in the corner. I’m reunited with my drop bag and I gratefully take my wet cloths off and replace them with dry fresh clothes from my bag. The fire has become an impromptu glove drying appliance as lots of people have left their soaked gloves in front of it in the hope of drying them a little. One runner does, howver, find his glove has been melted by flying sparks from the fire.

There’s plenty of banter and chat in the dining room, but I’m happy to sit quietly, tuck into the rice and chicken and think about the next stage of the race. I realise that temperatures are likely to drop further overnight and that my pace will also fall. I decide to wear three layers on my legs (base layer, hiking trousers and waterproofs) and four on my upper body. I also decide to change my shoes. My Hoka Speedgoat 2s (my go-to mountain ultra shoes) have served me very well for the first 45 miles but are now soaked through. I elect to tackle the next portion of the course in Hoka Tors, which are a hiking boot/trail shoe hybrid. These still provide the cushioning synonymous with Hoka products but also give a bit more support and stability like a hiking boot. I’d tackled 25 miles of the Pennine Way on a recce run before Christmas in the Hoka Tors and so knew that I could also run in them. There are, however, 65 miles remaining and I’ve never done that distance in them before. It’s a bit of a risk given that there’s no further opportunities to change shoes before the finish, but I decide to take it.

There is also the possibility of sleeping here at Hebden Hey as they have bunk beds. I’d decided in advance that unless I arrived here in a terrible state, I would not stop to sleep and instead push on. As there are no real opportunities for sleep later on in the course (aside from a wild bivvy if you get desperate), this would undoubtedly mean two consecutive nights without sleep. I have done this before (at UTMB) though now in winter the nights are much longer.

Checkpoint 1 to Checkpoint 1.5

Retracing my steps up the muddy track to the road, I soon get hot in my multiple layers. However, once I’m back on the wind-swept moorlands, I’m grateful for the extra layers. Heading up towards Top Withins, I start feeling the first effects of sleepiness. I wonder if I’m suffering from hallucinations already as I see footpath signs in Japanese – until I remember that there are actual Japanese signs here (presumably on account of Japanese visitors to Top Withins, which has slightly dubious connection with the Bronte sisters).

I pass Ponden reservoir, the site of my DNF two years ago. Whilst I’m tired, I’m nowhere close to the state I was in then. Next is a steep climb up to Oakworth moor. I recced this section in November 2016 at night when it was covered in knee deep snow. With the path covered by snow, I got hopelessly lost. Today, the path is reasonably clear, even in the dark. After a while I see the lights of the road at Cowling below me. I feel heartened at I must only be about 10 minutes away from Cowling. However, 10 minutes later, the road is no closer. Neither does another 10 minutes bring the road any closer. The path zig zags along, at one moment seemingly heading straight for the road and at other times turning away. Eventually the road comes closer before revealing a valley tin the way that must be descended and then ascended before I finally arrive at Cowling. I find a deserted bus shelter and rest for a couple of minutes.

Between here and Gargrave, the Pennine Way passes several villages. It’s not difficult or remote terrain but the navigation is fiddly in places and it’s not the most inspiring section of the trail. My plan is to try and reach Gargrave around dawn. I’d run the Gargrave to Horton section a few weeks previously and so felt that on arriving at Gargrave, I would be back on home turf.

The weather again takes a turn for the worse and a couple of other runners catch up with me as we head into Lothersdale. Here, there is another mountain rescue gazebo. They usher us in, close the flap and precede to ply us with hot drinks, soups and chocolates. This is an unexpected treat and I resist the temptation to overstay my welcome. The others surge on ahead and somewhere between Lothersdale and Thornton in Craven, I find myself on my own again. After a while, the path disappears below my feet and a quick check of my GPS shows that I’ve come off course again. The first light of morning appears in the sky and it’s dawn by the time I reach Thornton. I stop for a few minutes to chat to two Spine volunteers, who tell me I’m doing fantastically. I feel anything but fantastic but am thankful for the sentiment.

There’s a short section along the Leeds and Liverpool Canal as I pass the woods where I bivvied out on a recce in 2016. From here, it’s a series of fields to Garsdale. In the final field before Garsdale Jon, who had been stationed with the Spine Safety Team in the village centre, came out to meet me and we chat as we walk together into the village. Pyschologically, this is a turning point in the race. It’s around 25 miles from here to Horton in Ribblesdale, over terrain that I know well and enjoy. From Horton it’s then another 15 to the finish. Whilst 40 miles hardly classifies as “almost there”, this is the point where my mind slowly becomes to fathom how a finish might actually be possible.

I gratefully accept a few Haribo before continuing on my way. I’d ideally have liked to have arrived here when it was still dark; I’ve missed that deadline by a couple of hours but on the plus side I’m able to stop for some snacks at the local Co-op which is now open. I had a huge amount of spare batteries in my drop bag at Checkpoint 1 and I’d picked some up for my race pack but now have no idea where I’d put them. Back into the co-op I go to buy yet more batteries; I can’t afford to get caught out with lights or nav on Cam fell later tonight!

Initial progress is painfully slow across the fields immediately after Gargrave. I sit for a minute or two by a stream to try and regroup.

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The pep talk walks and I pick up the pace and soon drop down into Malham.

This is my favourite section of the race. Gone is the moorland of the Dark Peak and the fields of the Aire Gap. Malham marks the start of the Yorkshire Dales proper and the rolling green hills are replaced by dramatic limestone landscapes.

In the centre of Malham, I spy a tempting looking bench and sit down for a minute or two. As I’m sitting with my head in my hands trying to refocus, a lady approaches me. “Are you Christian?” she asks.

Initially, I think she’s another race volunteer but no, she is just a local Malham resident who’s been dot watching online and has watched my dot arrive into the village. She thought she would come and see if she could spot me in person! I imagine I’m distinguishable from the other walkers around the village being the only person who could pass for an extra from zombie apocalypse movie. I feel spurred on by this; as well as by friends and family at home, there are now random strangers watching my dot too.

I pick up the pace uphill towards Malham Cove. The weather has cleared, and I can even see the sun peeking through the sky. As a result, there are quite a few walkers and tourists out and about around the Cove.

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I must look a horrific sight with my dishevelled looks and mud splattered waterproofs charging up the hill with a slightly deranged smile on my face. Most of the visitors opt to give me a wide berth, understandably. “Not too close to the crazy man”, I can imagine the parents warning their children.

I slog my way up the steps alongside the limestone cliff. Rather than stopping at the limestone pavements itself, I opt to continue a little higher, thus avoiding having to bound across the gaps in the rock and bypassing the pavement itself.

There are three main factors that make this winter race far more challenging than the summer equivalent; the weather/ground conditions, the far more comprehensive kit list and the far more limited daylight hours. It is this last factor that is now occupying my thoughts.

It feels like it has only just got light, but I only really have another hour or two left of daylight. From my experiences on UTMB and the Snowdon 100, I know that it is the onset of the second night that is going to bring the real challenges. I pick up the pace towards Malham Tarn, location of Checkpoint 1.5.

This isn’t a full Checkpoint, just a monitoring station where you are permitted to stop for a maximum of 30 minutes. A medic comes out to me and we walk together into the checkpoint, located at the large country house which now serves as a field centre.

I opt for a coffee and some hot water for another pot noodle which I picked up at Checkpoint 1. I chat to two girls who were following a friend around in the race and a medic who I remember from the Spine Flare in 2017. Another medic asks if they can do anything for me. I ask about the availability of psychological trauma counselling. This suggestion is laughed off, which I take as a “no”.

Checkpoint 1.5 to the Finish

There is now very little light left in the day, so I start with a (relatively speaking) blistering pace, keen to at least get started on my ascent of Fountain’s Fell before nightfall.

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It is dusk as I reach the farm at the bottom which marks the start of the ascent of Fountain’s Fell. I pass a tractor with a trailer. I do a double take. In the back of the trailer, is sat a large-scale model of Danny de Vito as the Penguin from Batman Returns, compete with top hat, pale make up and a pointy nose! I stop and stare for about 30 seconds, initially unsure whether this is a hallucination or not. I’ve just concluded that as strange as it seems, it must be real, when before my eyes the image swirls, turning back into splashes of mud on the side of the trailer! I think this pips my hallucinated Stormtroopers from the Spine Flare! Little did I realise, this was only the start of the hallucinations; it was going to be a long night.

The ascent of Fountain’s Fell is long but gentle (at least compared to other climbs along the way) and so it suits the fast Nordic walking technique that I’ve now adopted with my walking poles. Although the top of Fountain’s Fell is not a classic mountain summit (unlike Pen y Ghent), it feels very exposed and there is a bracing wind all the way down the other side.

As I traverse the access road between Fountain’s Fell and Pen y Ghent, I visualise the next part of the course. I was told at Malham tarn by the volunteers that the organisers have put a diversion in place. We won’t ascend all the way to the summit of Pen y Ghent due to the high winds and danger of being blown off the mountain in the final rocky scramble. I don’t mind this, I’ve done Pen y Ghent many times and am happy to give it a miss.

We still do the bulk of the climb but just before the final scramble for the summit, we take the path off to the left dropping down into Horton in Ribblesdale. There’s now a few of us travelling together as we descend the mountainside guided by the lights of Horton in Ribblesdale below.

Horton has been the end point for many of my hikes and runs in these hills and it feels like I should be approaching the finish of my race. I try hard to shift this idea from my mind; reaching Horton does feel like the end but in reality, there are another 15 tough miles across the fells to go until the finish.

The Yorkshire stone walls catch in my headtorch and are turned by my sleep-deprived mind into hikers with backpacks staring out into the night. I know what I’m seeing isn’t real but it takes a monumental effort to turn the imaginary hikers back into stone walls.

At the bottom, it’s a fair trek along the road to Horton itself and the Pen y Ghent café that has opened for us especially. Some Spine volunteers are stationed at the café and are carrying out impromptu kit checks. I fish through my pack and show the volunteer the required items.

The Kit list for the Spine is extensive demanding that you carry a sleeping bag, roll mat, bivvy bag, stove, gas, pot, GPS, maps, goggles, ice spikes, knife as well as a host of clothing, medical kit and other assorted items. This is all needed for good reason, but my aching shoulders are testament to the fact that I’ve carried my heavy pack around for almost 100 miles and in reality, not touched 90% of the items in there. Of course, in an emergency, the kit in my pack could be the difference between life and death. Most of the people I’m with decide to stop for hot food at the café. I’m not particularly hungry having had my pot noodle at Malham Tarn. I force down a pork pie from my pack and decide to continue on with the next section of the course.

On fresh legs and in daylight, I could probably be at the finish inside of three hours. The reality is that this will probably take me twice as long, which is a bit of a depressing prospect. Nevertheless, the sooner I start, the sooner I’ll be finished.

These final 15 miles pass through remote fells and I find myself totally alone again for the next few miles. After a while, two runners power past me and I see their lights fade away into the night. In the distance, I can see them turn sharply left. As I get to the point they turned left, I realise that they have gone wrong as the correct path continues on as indicated by a PW fingerpost. For the next mile or so, I can see their headtorches attempting to course-correct across the fells rather than double back on themselves.

I am now under full assault from the sleep demons and stagger around the path like a drunk person. I sit down for a moment on a grassy verge, lean back on my rucksack and close my eyes just for a second…. I awake with a jolt. I have no idea how long I slept for, but it couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes or so. Regardless, I’m a bit shocked that I could have fallen asleep so easily and start running along the trail with a surge of adrenaline.

After a minute or so, I pass another runner coming the other way. She asks if I’m ok, which I reply yes to and continue on my way. Why would a runner be running in the opposite direction to me, I muse to myself? Until it dawned on me that perhaps I’m the one running in the wrong direction! I check my GPS and sure enough, in my sleep-deprived state, I got up from that verge and started heading back towards Horton in Ribblesdale. My senses tell me this is wrong, but the GPS can’t be lying can it? I change direction a few times to the point which I can’t even remember which direction I originally came from. I can feel the panic starting to rise up and force myself to stop and think logically. The GPS tells me to go in the opposite direction and my map and compass confirm this. Eventually, I cross the Lin Gill bridge. I’m certain I didn’t pass this way earlier and I can clearly see on the map that this is the right way to Cam End. Reassured that I’m back on track, I continue my slog upwards, eventually hitting the Cam High road. This in an old roman trading route through the fells.

Eventually the trail splinters off onto another track circumventing Dodd Fell. Apparently, the views are lovely; not that I would know given that I’ve only ever passed this way in the dead of night. This section takes an age. I resort to checking my GPS, not to check that I’m on course as the nav is now fairly easy, but more so I can see how much progress I’ve made. My dot has barely moved at all from the last time I checked. Hint: if you zoom in on the screen, it makes it look like you’ve made more progress!

Finally, the path starts to trend downhill and I can see the lights of Wensleydale Creamery far below and in the distance. I catch up to another runner and we puzzle our way through a sequence of fields together trying to find our way off the mountains and towards civilisation. I’m alone again by the time I reach the village. I assume this is Hawes and begin trying to find the road out of town towards Hardraw and the finish. I go around in circles before I realise that I’m in Gayle and not Hawes yet.

I pass a bus stop where a family is waiting with suitcases for an early morning bus to take them on holiday. Oh no, there is no family, just another stone wall and crazy hallucinations. I sit down at the bus stop trying to regather my thoughts for this last section.

I’ve made an absolute pig’s ear of this last section, but eventually find the finger post directing me through the final fields and towards Hardraw. Of course, the race wouldn’t really be complete without one final nav error on my part and I find myself stuck in the field. I can see the lights of headtorches waiting for me at the finish but I can’t reach them as there is a dairy farm in my way. I’m so frustrated I want to scream. I just want this to be over now! I clamber over a gate and eventually find my way back on the Pennine Way. A gate brings me out on the road where Caroline is waiting for me with some volunteers at the finish. They are all slightly bemused as to how it’s taken me quite so long to travel the one mile or so from Hawes to here! I was imaging the outpouring of all kinds of emotions at the finish but in the event, it’s mostly just relief I feel.

45 hours and 44 minutes (of which over 30 hours were in darkness) after having left Edale in the Peak District, my journey is over.

I’m sometimes asked what the hardest race I’ve done is. There are many factors that contribute to a race’s difficulty; distance, terrain, weather, elevation, support, cut-offs etc. Whilst the cut-offs here are relatively generous (60 hours compared to c45 for UTMB), I would say the winter conditions, the terrain, the heavy pack and the self-supported nature of the race make this the hardest race I’ve done.

Even though the last part of this course has been an ordeal, I find myself captivated by the idea of what lies beyond Hardraw on the Pennine Way; Great Shunner Fell, High Cup Nick, Cross Fell, Hadrian’s wall and the Cheviots. Crossing the finish line at Hardraw has closed a chapter of my Pennine Way story, but a small part of me feels there is still a twist or two left in this particular tale; watch this space!

Snowdon 100 2018

On September 29, 2018September 29, 2018 By runningchristianIn Uncategorized1 Comment

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It is the very early hours of Sunday morning and I’m following the woodland trails on the way to the 50 mile checkpoint at Betws-y-coed.

It’s been a tough 50 miles across the various mountain ranges of Snowdonia and my legs have taken a pounding. I always knew that if I was ever going to face the temptation of dropping from the race, it would be at the 50 mile checkpoint at Betws, which is conveniently located across the road from the Airbnb place we’re staying in. On my way through the woods, my mind begins to form possible excuses for dropping from the race. I do my best to slam the door shut on those unwanted thoughts and continue on my way.

In front of me is a small stream similar to many others that I’ve been crossing all day. In a bid to keep my feet as dry as possible, I hop across the small stones to stay out of the water. However, it’s dark and the light of my headtorch fails to illuminate the layer of slime on one of the stones. It’s like stepping on ice and my foot goes flying sending my body crashing into the stream. My left forearm smashes into a rock sending pain shooting up my arm and the left side of my body gets soaked. Initially I fear I’ve broken a bone but after a few mins the pain starts to subside. Again the little voice of negativity starts; “now should you definitely drop as you have an actual injury”. I remind myself of Kilian Jornet (the greatest mountain runner of all time) winning the Hardrock 100 in the mountains of Colorado with a dislocated shoulder, crossing the finish line in a makeshift sling fashioned at a checkpoint. I have a bruised arm (and bruised ego to go with it) but can’t let that stop me.

The start to mile 22 – Tryfan and Snowdon

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Standing on the start line, there is a brief countdown. The Lakeland 100 starts with opera singing, Comrades runners are sent of with a rendition of ‘Shosholoza’ and UTMB opens to the haunting strains of Vangelis’ ‘Conquest of paradise’. Here, we set off to relatively little fanfare, just the cheers of the few spectators who have collected in the pre-dawn gloom. This is fine by me, I’d rather save the emotional energy for later in the race rather than get misty eyed at the start line music.

We start from the pretty tourist town of Betys-y-coed at the eastern border of the national park. We’ll return here again at the half-way point (the finish line for the 50 mile race) and then again for the 100 mile finish.

I had done a recce just two weeks previously and am very familiar with the woodland trails heading west from Betwys to the village of Capel Curig, the gateway to the big peaks. This section is straight forward and I arrive at checkpoint 1 (8 miles) ahead of my schedule feeling confident.

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From here, the course turns south up and over Tryfan, one of the most distinctive mountains in Snowdonia. We don’t summit Tryfan but head over the famous Heather Terrace, passing just below the summit. I start the climb using my poles to help me up the mountainside but soon pack them away when the scrambling requires my hands to be free.

This illustrates one of the biggest differences between this race and other mountain ultras such as UTMB; this is not purely trail running but requires scrambling too. Nothing too technical that you would want ropes for but there’s enough exposure in places to focus the mind.

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I would later learn of two racers getting into difficulties on Tryfan; one requiring airlifting off by the mountain rescue helicopter after a nasty fall. Thankfully his injuries didn’t prove to be too serious.

After a little while, I realise that I’ve been following the racers in front of me blindly and it occurs to me that we are heading down the mountain towards the wrong valley. Thankfully, we’ve only gone a few metres off course and a simple correction to the left brings us back on route.

This section across Tryfan is the only part of the first 50 miles that I haven’t previously recced and it lasts much longer than I was expecting. Eventually we reach the grassy ridge at the top. To our left is Y Foel Goch (which we are due to visit towards the end of the 100 mile race) and to our right the Glyders (that we’ll be visiting much sooner). For now though, we head down the mountainside towards checkpoint 2 at Llyn pen y Gwryd. The descent is initially rocky but nearer the bottom becomes marshy and boggy underfoot. I initially try to keep my feet dry by hopping from grassy clump to grassy clump like some sort of demented mountain goat. I soon drop this strategy and simply wade through the marshes, resigned to wet feet.

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At checkpoint 2, I see my wife Carrie (who is crewing for me) for the first time and stop to refuel. I’m right on my schedule now but the last section has taken me longer than expected meaning I’ve lost the buffer from the first section. Next comes what will no doubt be the highlight of the race for many and the biggest climb of the day; Snowdon itself. I set off, initially alongside the road and then following the miners’ path towards Pen y Pass. It’s a Saturday, so the car park at Pen y Pass is busy with hikers heading up the highest mountain in England and Wales. Our route up the mountain is via the Pyg track. Neither the easiest nor the most difficult route up the mountain, the Pyg track requires some very basic scrambling but without the sheer exposure of the Crib Goch ridge (which sits above the Pyg track). I have climbed Snowdon many times using all the major routes and some of the lesser known ones too. My confidence has been shaken a little by the last section but I’m on familiar ground here and determined to enjoy the climb up Snowdon. I pass several racers and a constant stream of hikers heading up. Most of the general public are extremely polite, helpfully standing to one side to let us racers pass and offering encouragement. Around three quarters of the way up, the Pyg track meets up with the Miners track (which also begins from Pen y Pass). This makes the route even more crowded as we merge in with the hikers who have come up the Miners track.

There are two race marshals at the top who inform us of a change to the course due to the weather forecast. On summiting the mountain, instead of beginning our descent on the Watkin path and completing the very technical Snowdon horseshoe over Y lliwedd, we are simply to return to Pen y pass via the Miners track. I have to admit that this is music to my ears. The Miners track is significantly easier and dropping the horseshoe will cut time from the race for me. At the top of the Pyg track, we hit the final summit ridge which merges in with the Llanberis path and the Snowdon ranger path causing a bottleneck of people heading for the summit. A hiker asks how much further I have left in the race. The truthful answer is “83 miles or so” but that isn’t a reality I’m ready to face up to, so I mumble something about it being ” a long way still”.

I jog along the ridge, dodging hikers, check in with the marshal (‘Checkpoint 3’) and head up the steps to the trig point (1,085m). As usual there is zero view from the top due to the clouds and I start my descent. I pass lots of racers on the way up and offer encouragement before turning onto the slightly quieter Miners track. The Miners track is less of a constant slog; instead it’s a steeper scramble down followed by some long runnable flat and downhill sections. I make the most of this and run most of the whole way to Pen y Pass. From here, I return the same way I came towards Checkpoint 4 at Llyn pen y Gwryd (the same location as checkpoint 2).

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I’m starting to get hungry, I know Carrie has some pot noodles for me and my mind turns towards food. As I arrive at the checkpoint, there is no sign of Carrie, I wait a little but resign myself to no pot noddle just yet and instead have some food from the checkpoint. The rain which had started on the way down Snowdon has got heavier and I put my waterproof trousers on for the next section.

Mile 22 to mile 35 – The Glyders and the Carneddau

The biggest climb of the race might be behind me, but over the next half-marathon comes two separate mountain ranges and no fewer than six summits, each of only slightly lower height than Snowdon.

The climb back up is the same as the route we took down earlier, through the boggy fields and later on the rocky track passing lots of waterfalls. I chat to Jasper, a Dutch runner, passing the time as we slog up to the summit of Glyder Fach. The great thing about the Glyders is that you get two-for-the-price-of-one. From Glyder Fach (994m), it’s only a short drop and climb to Glyder Fawr (999m) across the Bwlch Ddwy Glyder(literally ‘the gap of the two Glyders’) and past the rather romantically named rock formation, Castell y Gwent (‘Castle of the winds’).

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Originally the plan for the race course from here was to drop down to Nant Peris and then do an ascent of Y Garn. However, this loop had been dropped from the race a couple of weeks ago due to a fell race taking place on Y Garn that same afternoon. Again, I’m not crushed to lose the extra miles! Instead, I follow the route down through the appropriately named Devil’s Kitchen towards Pont Pen y Benglog. There are some marshalls here offering chocolate energy balls, which are delicious! The decent is initially tricky over lose scree before becoming rockier and finally ending up on the shores of Llyn Idwal.

Now I’m looking forward to my pot noodle and I really hope that Carrie has made it to the next Checkpoint. My heart drops as I reach the checkpoint and realise she isn’t there. I slump in a chair but she appears after a few minutes carrying my bag of goodies. As well as the pot noodle, I take the opportunity to have a complete change of kit; shoes, socks, shorts and t-shirt as they are all drenched.

Whilst I would have coped without crew if it came to it, it’s brilliant having Caroline and I’m very thankful for her support both today on the course and just generally in indulging this crazy obsession of mine.

I feel much better after some hot food and in dry clothes again as I begin the next section; a fairly involved scramble up Pen yr Ole Wen (‘The head of the white slope’). The climb is gruelling and I stop every few minutes to catch my breath and enjoy the views back towards Pont pen y Benglog and the Glyders.

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Again, I’m on familiar ground here having recced this section only two weeks previously. From the summit of Pen yr Ole Wen (978m), there is runnable (at least in places) ridge leading to the summit of Carnedd Dafydd (1,044m) and Carnedd Llewelyn (1,064m). As I approach Carnedd Llewelyn, it is beginning to get gloomy. There is a figure stopped in front of me. It is Jasper. he explains that he would rather not attempt the next section alone in the dark.

I tell him I am reasonably happy with the route and we begin following the easterly ridge towards the final Carneddau summit of Helgi Du. In the failing light and fog it is hard to pick out anything. Our head torches only serve to illuminate the water particles shining like fireflys in the air. I know to my left is a sheer drop but I try and stay as close to this ridgeline as possible. It’s so tempting to start heading down the mountain to my right but that will not bring us out in the correct place.

We meet up with another group and form a procession of headtorches, sticking together for safety through the poor visability. Eventually, we reach Helgi Du. Here the group disagrees about where to go next. A few of the group insist on taking a lower path avoiding the summit of Helgi Du (833m). I shine my torch; although there is a path, I can’t see where it leads. On my recce, I went over the summit of Helgi Du which leads to a grassy ridge which should take us all the way down to the A5 road and Checkpoint at the bottom of the valley far below. Since this is the route I am most comfortable with, I and a few others head up towards the summit; it’s a scramble but nothing too taxing. Sure enough at the top, the grassy ridge appears and we head down the mountain, picking up speed as the fog lifts.

I hit Checkpoint 6 at around 9.30pm. The toughest mountains are behind me now and I sit down to eat some cold pizza at the checkpoint. It looks like there’s a couple of people dropping out of the race here. I feel sorry that their race is over but that is their decision; I need to keep myself mentally strong. I start shivering after only a few minutes of sitting down and so decide to leave promptly for the next section.

Mile 35 to 50 – the lakes loop

The next few miles are straight forward enough along the Slate trail going back the way we came out this morning. My headtorch illuminates the eyes of the sheep in the fields around me creating a somewhat sinister effect. The trail drops back into Capel Curig and then climbs up into the hills above. After a small bridge, the main path continues onto Betws but the course turns left snaking up and over another ridge before dropping down into a stunning valley. I say ‘stunning as I have seen it in daylight on my recce; at the moment it’s impossible to see much apart from the small beam of light in front of me. This valley feels isolated at the best of times but it is absolutely desolate now. I have no idea where the other racers I was with earlier are now; I can’t see any tell tail headtorch beams of light anywhere. The path continues alongside the western shore of Llyn Crafnant. As I reach the end of the lake, I continue along the country lane and before long I am at the checkpoint where Carrie is waiting.

I’m the only runner here and I sit in a camping chair enjoying another pot noodle whilst chatting to the volunteers about other races we’d done such as the Highland Fling and the Grand Tour of Skiddaw.

Has I signed up to the 50 mile rather than 100 mile race, I would now be on the home stretch. It’s a galling thought. The next 8 miles of the course loop back around south heading past another lake, Llyn Geirionydd , before picking up a forest track. Someone has left Haribo out on a table for racers to help themselves to and I gratefully take some. A couple of 50 mile racers catch me up at this point, spurred on by the proximity to the finish of their race. “Not too far to go” says one lady as she passes. Well not for her, I have another 50+ miles left to go. I don’t have the energy to explain.

I have my fall in the stream which leaves me feeling shaken. The pain in my arm is sharp and I have to resist the urge to vomit. Having kept the demons at bay, I’ve opened the door and let the doubts and negativity creep in. As I shuffle down the road at Betws towards the village green where the 50 mile point is located, I have to pass the flat that we have for rented for the weekend. I glance up and think longingly about the warm shower and cosy bed that would be waiting for me there.

Mile 50 to mile 64 – Trefriw and Llyn Colwyd

As I approach the finish gantry, the time keeper holds up two clipboards and asks which one he should record my name in. I tell him I have every intention of returning to the course for the second half. (I would later learn that several 100 mile runners chose to drop down to the 50 mile race and walk away with a 50 mile finisher’s medal – I am very thankful that I did not at the time realise this was an option. Had I realised, it would have been a near impossible decision to make and I honestly can’t say what I would have chosen in that moment).

Caroline is waiting for me and leads me into the checkpoint which is a marquee by the finish gantry. It is dark and cold in there. A couple of people are sleeping covered in layers of sleeping bags and blankets. Whether these are volunteers, 50 mile finishers or fallen runners, I can’t say. The place gives off waves of misery as I collapse into a camping chair. Carrie asks me several questions to which I offer only single syllable responses. I can she is very concerned about me. I would love to offer her some reassurance but I have none to give.

She asks me again if I want to continue. I think about the question. As much pain as I’m in currently, I know this will be nothing compared to the mental anguish I would experience in the coming days and weeks if I choose to drop here knowing that I could have continued. If I’m fated to crash out from this race, then it will be out there in the wilds having given absolutely everything, not shivering and cowering here in a cold tent in a field. Time to summon the most stirring Lord of the Rings battle imagery that I can think of to get moving from this chair….

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I see Jasper, the Dutch runner with whom I had shared some miles on the mountains earlier. I’m genuinely happy to see him finish his 50 mile race and congratulate him. I can see the pity in his eyes when I tell him of my plans to go back out for the second half of my race.

There is another bloke pottering around the tent, seeming far too cheerful. Seeing the state I’m in he offers me a hug. I accept as, quite frankly, I’m willing to try anything at this point.

I’m about to dig my map and GPS out to figure out where the start of the next forest trail is. The cheerful Scouse bloke has his GPS already out and suggests we run the next section together. Now I have a rule which is to run my own race and not to get involved with anyone else’s race. This is a rule, however, that has been broken many, many times, possibly more times than it has been kept. Usually with very good reason and to good effect. In fact it’s not really a rule, more a voluntary guideline, and to be honest, even that is a stretch.

Having done the last two sections mostly alone in the dark, I gratefully accept. This can only be an act of altruism or charity on his part, as collapsed in a chair barely able to string two words together, I can’t believe that I represent too attractive a prospect as a running partner currently.

Dave, as I soon discover is his name, and I set off across the field back towards the woods. I glance wistfully one last time at my airbnb as we pass by but then put it out of mind. It’s 3.30am and we set ourselves a target of reaching the next Checkpoint, 7 miles away, by 5.30am. This pace does not sound fast, but in at this stage in mountain race in the state were in, it’s a reasonable clip.

The course markings on this next section are a little sporadic and it’s a part I haven’t recced but we use a combination of map, GPS, course markings and common sense to find the way without too much trouble. At one point we see two course markings leading down to a waterfall. This is definitely not on the route and it seems as though someone has deliberately moved the markings to catch runners out.

This section trends uphill through forests and fields. Eventually we come out on a country lane and we start to see signs of habitation again as we approach the mountain village of Trefriw. Spotting our headtorches, a volunteer comes out from the checkpoint to meet us. This is the first signs of life we’ve seen since the halfway point. It’s now 5.35am and we are pretty much on our target pace. We’d learnt that of the 65 starters in the 100 mile race, there are now only 15 left in it – all others have either dropped down to the 50 mile distance or dropped out all together.

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The volunteers at these latter checkpoints are hanging around for hours in the cold and dark waiting for only 15 runners to come through. They are understandably delighted to see us and offer us the full hospitality of the checkpoint. We stop to refill bottles, I have a coffee and we take some sandwiches to eat on the way.

Walking down the completely deserted streets of Trefriw, one of the volunteers points the way and we begin the next stage of the journey. After a few minutes it becomes obvious we are going the wrong way so we backtrack and eventually find the correct route alongside a stream through a field. After a while, we meet another runner coming the opposite way. He tells us he is heading back to the checkpoint to drop. We do our best to convince him to come with us at least until the next checkpoint, but he has made his mind up. We wish him well and continue on our way.

As the darkness begins to recede, there is no soul-stirring sunrise, just the grey gloom of an overcast dawn. Nevertheless, it’s nice to be rid of the headtorch and to be able to see our surroundings again. We’re now in the north of the national park, far from the big peaks further south. Despite this, the trail heads steadily up via a series of switch backs; nowhere near the gradient of Snowdon or the Gylders, but enough to slow our pace down further. We are now up on the Cefn Cyfarwydd (don’t ask me to pronounce it), a ridge between the mountain ranges to the south west (where we are about to return) and the greener more rolling countryside of the Conwy Valley.

From the map, I know we will soon approach a reservoir that we need to go around. Sure enough, the Llyn Cowlyd comes into view and we begin our descent towards it. I recall the map saying that we pass by the near side of the lake; Dave thinks it’s the far side. We bet a pint on it before checking the map; I’m wrong naturally!

It’s been raining off and on for the last few hours through the night, causing us to constantly put waterproofs on before taking them off when we get too hot. It is very exposed up on the ridge, however, and I’m happy to hunker down in my waterproof shell.

Dave’s GPS takes exception to the idea of showing us any more of the route so I retrieve my map and take over navigation duties. Beyond the reservoir, we need to head south west back down the same mountainside that I descended the previous night, towards the A5 and the checkpoint at the campsite (a checkpoint that we’ve visited twice already and will visit another two times before the race is over). As we descend, we can see the campsite in the far distance.
“How long will it take for us to get to there, do you reckon?” asks Dave.
“45 minutes?” I reply.
“No way, that’s an hour, an hour and a half at least”, replies Dave.
Sounds like another bet – double or nothing this time. With actual beer at stake, I lead the way and pick up the pace hammering down the mountainside with the checkpoint firmly in my sights. I realise of course, that this is most likely some reverse psychology from Dave to get us moving a bit quicker, but I don’t care, a bet’s a bet.
We arrive at the checkpoint with the second bet easily won.

Mile 64 to the finish – the Slate trail and the lakes loop (again!)

On the way down the mountainside, Dave had managed to convince us both that the next checkpoint would have bacon sandwiches. As unlikely as I thought this was, I so want to believe it’s true.

Sadly, this proves to be unfounded. However, we are presented with some much better news. The original course had called for another ascent of Pen y Ole wen (this time from the east) before repeating the Carneddau, going over Foel Garch before following the ridge down to Bethseda (the high route). Due to the weather closing in on the mountain tops, we are told to not to take this route but instead follow the “low route” to Bethseda, out and back along the Slate trail. A similar mileage but a significantly easier route, avoiding the mountains.

This next section along the slate trail is fairly easy going. On fresh legs, we could gobble up these miles but in our current state, it still takes a while. Every once in a while we glance up at the mountains to our right and share our relief at not having to go over the tops. An advantage of this “out and back” stretch is that we see the rest of the racers in front of us in the race, stopping briefly to share news when we see them.

At one point early in this section, we see a lady running at a fair pace towards us – the lead woman! We applaud and offer congratulations as she passes. It’s then we realise – she wasn’t wearing a race number or a pack, she was just out for a Sunday morning run. She probably thought we were a pair of idiots; perhaps not so very far from the truth. As it turns out, there are no women left in the race and we’ll need to wait till 2019 to see a female finisher of this 100 mile race.

Eventually we pass some huge piles of slate, evidence of the slate mining heritage of this area. Past this and down a hill is checkpoint 11 at Bethseda.

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Carrie arrives just as we leave, retracing our steps down the slate trail, this time passing by the racers behind us.

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We stop to chat with Chris Davies, who Dave and I had both separately shared some mountain miles with the previous day. (I was happy to later learn that he reached the finish line soon after us.)

On arriving back at the campsite (now Checkpoint 12), we elect to push on without stopping properly. At a previous checkpoint, Dave had commented to a volunteer that Jaffa cakes would be nice. At this checkpoint, we are presented with our very own pack of Jaffas! Amazing service from GB Ultras volunteers!

Just over a half marathon to go from here. The slowest half marathon of our lives, no doubt.

Again, the original course from here included a traverse of Heather terrace similar to day 1, but we are spared that by the race organisers and take a lower lying route beneath Tryfan to Capel Curig.

I take the chance to respond to some texts enquiring how I’m getting on. My running buddy, Amy, has sent a couple and (failing to get a response from me in the night) had also texted Carrie to check I was ok. Amy and I had been up to Yorkshire a few weeks previously to do the Yorkshire 3 peaks, which turned out to be excellent training for this.

The weather has been changeable all day. From rain earlier to bright sunshine and now massive hail stones.

For the second time in the race, we plod our way up and over the ridge before dropping down to Llyn Crafnant, this time in daylight.

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The checkpoint at the end of the lake is long gone and has been replaced by Wayne’s (the Race Director) mum in a van. She looks after us admirably, offering us drinks, soup, snacks and a seat in the back of the van. We feel really bad about wanting to push on quickly. Carrie has also arrived here to meet us for the last time before the finish.

It’s going to be dark again soon. With the plummeting night time temperatures and our slowing pace, I choose to put on an extra top before continuing on.

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We’re approaching our second consecutive night without sleep and the fatigue is starting to catch up with us both.
“Are those people on that bridge over there?” I ask as we traverse the shore of Llyn Geirionydd.
“No, mate, I think it’s a digger”, Dave replies.
As we get closer, I see it was simply a rock formation. No people, no diggers.
“Mate, where’s the bridge?” asks Dave. A fair question.

No bridge either. It’s a good job we didn’t attempt to walk across it, we’d have gotten quite wet!
So far, I’d managed to keep the hallucinations (caused by sleep deprivation) at bay, but now with dusk of the second night close by, they are making their presence known. As we traverse the forest trails in the failing light, every bush beside the trail becomes a child playing or a dog leaping. A small pile of branches on the ground somehow becomes a peacock with a magnificent plumage arching high into the air.

Hallucination level: LSD! I know none of what I’m seeing is real and it’s not dangerous in the slightest so I’m content to enjoy the show.

As dusk turns to night, our visibility drops again to the small circles of light from our headtorches and the hallucinations subside. We are back on very familiar territory now, crossing the final forest miles back towards Betws and the finish.
At the start of the race on Saturday morning, this section passed by in a flash. Now, travelling at a fraction of my earlier pace, it is going on and on. Everytime it feels like we’re almost there, another section of trail that I’d forgotten about somehow appears. How can it possibly be taking this long? I want to scream in frustration and hurl my poles at the ground. Had I been by myself, I probably would have.

After what seems like an age, we reach the final section beside a stream and then leave the woodland for the tarmac of Betws. We walk down the street and enter the village green. In the distance, we see various lights on the finish line. Someone rings an alpine-style cow bell as Wayne runs out to meet us. Neither of us fancies attempting to run across the line and we simply walk the last few metres. It’s 9.21 on Sunday evening.

39 hours and one minute after I left Betws fresh-faced and full of anticipation, I’ve returned. I’ve faced some of the darkest moments but I’ve prevailed against all odds. Of 65 100 mile starters, 13 would go on to finish. Dave and my efforts are good enough for joint 6th overall (beating my joint 7th in the Spine Flare the prior year). I’m grateful to Dave too. Had I been alone, I think I would still have reached the finish but it would have been much later in the night or even early on Monday morning.

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Mile 101 and beyond

This race is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. In terms of difficulty, I would put it on a par with UTMB. Whilst it lacks the altitude of UTMB, here the terrain is far more technical and scrambling is required in many places. Whilst many races (UTMB, Lakeland) avoid the peaks themselves instead opting for the mountain passes, here the organisers have deliberately sent us to the summits.

This is the first year this race has been staged. Whilst there have been some teething issues (which I’m sure will be addressed by Wayne and the team next year), this race has the potential to be a classic on the UK ultra calendar. It is one of only a small handful that can call themselves true “mountain 100 milers” in the UK. I can wholeheatedly recommend this race and GB Ultras as an organisation.

Post race, there have been comments made about the course markings (or perhaps lack thereof in places) and also suggestions that both races were “too difficult”. Anyone familiar with Snowdonia, or who had studied the route in detail, would have realised in advance the difficulties of fully marking a route like this through true mountain terrain. The course markings were as good as could have been expected given the circumstances. The fact is that in the dark and the fog, you could be metres away from a piece of tape or flag and still miss it. As long as you’re willing to supplement the course markings with your map, GPS (if that’s your thing), common sense and prior knowledge gained through recces (very helpful but probably not 100% essential), you will have no issues here.

This is undoutedly one of the hardest 50/100 mile races in the UK currently. Anyone looking to push themselves to their limits on a tough mountainous course need look no further. For a first 50/100 mile race with higher chances of success, then you may wish to look elsewhere; there’s a plethora of options available now.

Crossing the finish line is in one respect the end of jouney but also just the first steps in another. I have experienced highs and lows, views of breathtaking splendour, crushing doubts, elation, anxieties, frustrations and bonds of friendship forged through a shared experience. In truth, I only ever have one requirement from a race like this; that I would finish the race a stronger and more resilient person that when I began it, knowing that I can do all things through him who gives me strength. In that respect, it has been a success.

See you on a trail soon!

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The Highland Fling 2018

On May 13, 2018 By runningchristianIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

I have been blessed enough to have run and raced in many hilly and scenic areas of the UK – the Lake District, the Peak District, Cornwall, the Yorkshire Dales, Snowdonia, the Brecon Beacons, the South Downs. However, I’d never done anything significant north of the border.

The Highland Fling follows the first 53 miles of the West Highland Way, from the official start in Milngavie (a small town just a few miles north of central Glasgow) up past Loch Lomond finishing in the mountain village of Tyndrum.

I’ve had my eye on this race for some time, but now finally have the chance to run it. It’s almost 6 o’clock on a cold Saturday morning. We are standing in the car park of Milngavie train station, waiting for the race to start. My flight up from London the previous night had been delayed and pre-race excitement meant that I hadn’t got very much sleep. Drop bags have been deposited in the relevant vehicles, a pre-race bacon roll and coffee consumed; now’s it just a case of waiting the last few minutes for the race start.

This race began in 2006 with less than 20 runners as a training run for the 96 mile West Highland Way race. Today there are 800 runners nervously awaiting the start (making it certainly one of the largest ultras in the UK). Due to the number of runners, the race begins in three waves. I pick the middle pen and wait for our turn to start.

The mournful sound of bagpipes drifts out from the speakers. “Do you want something louder?” asks the guy controlling the music. Having got a positive response, the crowd is soon swaying to Avicii’s “levels”. As tributes to the late Swedish DJ go, several hundred lycra clad ultra runners bopping up and down in a Glaswegian car park must be fairly unique!

Having watched the first wave of elites and faster runners dash off, it’s now our turn to pass under the bridge, through the pedestrianized centre of Milngavie and turn onto the official trailhead of the West Highland Way. The trailhead is narrow and it’s evidently why the organisers don’t want all 800 runners descending on it at once.

These first few miles trend gently uphill initially through woodland, before later passing holiday cottages and opening out onto a wide track alongside Craigallian Loch.

The early morning mist gently rises off the water creating an ethereal atmosphere. Here we are only a few miles north of Glasgow, yet this already feels so remote; the occasional electricity line the only real sign of civilisation.

The first checkpoint of the day is at Drymen after around 12 miles, which I hope to get to in around 2 hours. This first section is a mix of gently undulating trails and country lanes. It reminds me a little of the start of the North Downs Way back home; nothing too technical or challenging so far! It’s not long before the first mountains come into view in the distance, still capped in snow thanks to the long late finishing winter.

On the way into the village of Drymen, we’re sent through a field up a hill to a mid-race kit check. Unlike most of the races I run that have very comprehensive mandatory kit lists, this race only has two mandatory items; an emergency blanket and a mobile phone. Whilst these items could easily fit into a runner’s back pocket, all the runners have opted to carry significantly more items than this in their race vests and backpacks. As well as water and food, I’m carrying various items of clothing; enough to deal with whatever the Scottish climate decides to throw at us today!

Kit check is quickly negotiated and we descend into the first checkpoint of the day. There are five checkpoints along the way, at four of which we can access our own drop bags, which contain the food and drink (aside from water which is provided) that we might want during the race. There are no drop bags at this early check point; just water. As I get my bottles filled, one of the volunteers spots my UTMB t-shirt and we chat a little about that race.

“There isnay bag here, get oooooooout” declares the next volunteer. [Translation: “This is not a drop bag location, therefore please feel free to continue along the trail at your earliest convenience, my good sir”]. He has a point and I’m soon on my way.

This first section has been straight forward but much sterner tests lie ahead. First and foremost of which is the biggest climb of the race; Conic hill which comes in this next segment. The trail begins to trend uphill again as we approach the climb.

These ascents are difficult to judge; they don’t feel steep up enough to justify walking but an attempt at running them leaves my legs objecting strongly. I settle on a run/walk strategy until Conic hill looms immediately ahead. The climb itself is a slog and reminds me of the many climbs on UTMB last summer. Thankfully the difference here is that this climb only takes a few minutes to reach the top (compared to the 2ish hours that many of the UTMB climbs were taking me). Race photographers are snapping away at the top and the views over Loch Lomond are simply breath taking.

Having been overtaken by a few runners on the way up, I throw caution to the wind and pick up some speed for the descent, gaining a good few places. I can still feel the adrenaline coursing through my body as the descent starts to flatten out leading us directly into the next checkpoint at Balmaha.

This is the first drop bag location and as I enter the checkpoint I can see it operates like a finely tuned machine. A volunteer checks my number and shouts it along to the crew waiting by the drop bags. By the time I have progressed through, my bag is ready and waiting for me. I’ve packed the same items in each of my four bags, a can of coke plus a mix of savoury and sweet snacks. I gratefully drink the coke and although I’m not really hungry, eat a little and stash the rest in my race vest for later.

We are now on the south eastern corner of Loch Lomond, Scotland’s biggest loch. The race will follow the shore of the loch for the next 20+ miles, before heading off deep into the highlands. This next section through Rowardennan Forest is undulating again but relatively runnable. However, I’m unable to take full advantage of this as I hit a low patch. My body if feeling the effects of the South Downs Way 50 followed by a week of running in Snowdonia just two weeks before and my hips and legs object every time I try and get any kind of decent pace going. I know I’m struggling as I’m glancing at my Garmin every few moments, grumbling angrily to myself when I see only another 0.1 of a mile has passed. Again, I’m back to run/walk here and by the time I reach the next Rowardennan, I’m behind my schedule and feeling dispirited.

Retrieving my drop bag, I spend a few minutes sitting and lying on the grass by the loch as I refuel and try to refocus mentally. I’m approximately half-way through the race, with the significantly harder half still to come. I try not to think too much about that and just focus on the moment.

After a fairly disappointing last section, the next few miles are a big improvement and pass by quickly. The trail alternates between hugging the shoreline closely at times and deviating some way inland at others. I’m struck by how much this lochside running reminds me of the South West Coast Path down in Cornwall; no large climbs, but many many short sharp ascents and descents with stunning views over the water.

Above us to the right looms Ben Lomond, the most southerly of Scotland’s famous Monros (Scottish mountains over 3,000 feet). In front of me a runner gets caught by a tree root and goes sprawling, but not before executing a near perfect stuntman roll. I help him to his feet and make a mental note to myself to watch my footing too.

Another forest section brings us to CP4 at Inversnaid. Here volunteers radio ahead runners’ numbers resulting in a massively slick and professional checkpoint process. I open my drop bag and immediately turn my nose up at the savoury items I’ve packed. The only issue with this drop bag format is that it relies on you being able to work out in advance what kind of food you are likely to want at various points in the race. Savoury snacks are normally a good bet for me from past experience but today my body is craving only sweet stuff. I take the chocolate from my drop bag and also visit the table at the checkpoint. Here the leftover contents of the drop bags of faster runners are put out for the others. Half the table consists of various gels. I remark to another runner that these always seem like a great choice at the start of the race but trying to force them down your throat when you’re 30+ miles into a race is another matter entirely. I help myself to a chocolate miniroll which really hits the spot and continue onwards, feeling upbeat again.

As the saying goes “if you’re feeling good during an ultra, just wait a minute”. This next section comes as a massive shock and not an entirely pleasant one. My research of the course was limited to looking at maps and course profiles. Accordingly, I had a good idea of the climbing involved and where the big hills come during the race. What maps and course profiles can’t tell you is about the underfoot conditions. This section is massively more technical than I was expecting. A plethora of rocky scrambles, deadly tree roots, boulder hopping, stream crossings, ascents, descents and mud ensues. Any pre-race ambition I may have held with regard to a finishing time now dies a death on this brutal lochside terrain. Any attempt to get into a rhythm is hopeless as I’m invariably forced to walk. This is single track trail and I’ve now joined the back of a long procession of runners. It’s impossible to overtake anyone and, as it happens, I have no real desire to anyway. I accept that my time goals aren’t going to happen – but that’s ok. I’m nowhere near the cut offs and even a slow walk would get me to the finish within the 15 hours allowed. Having recently committed to adopting a more “mindful” approach to life, I put thoughts of finish line celebrations out of my mind and focus on the moment and the job in hand. Yes, the terrain is tough, but it’s also absolutely stunning and I do my best to take it all in.

Soon, we leave behind the loch for the last time and start heading uphill again. “Two easy miles to Beinglas Farm” declares a volunteer that we pass. I frown to myself, I’d counted on it being more like one mile….hopefully he has got it wrong as I’m now really ready for a cheeky sit down at the check point.

Turns out the volunteer was right about the two miles, but wrong about the easy part! Beinglas is the final full checkpoint with drop bag access. Red and white tape funnels us through the farm and towards the check point. For a moment I’m taken back to UTMB, and the mountainside checkpoints there. I’m really thankful that today is “only” 53 miles and not the 104 miles of UTMB.

Having retrieved my bag, I collapse into a camping chair with a groan of delight resulting in ripples of laughter from the other runners and volunteers. A volunteer confirms what I’d suspected – a slow walk would could comfortably get us into Tyndrum in time. From past experience, sitting for more than few short minutes will result in my legs stiffening up and making getting going again very difficult. I sit as long as I dare before slowly making my way down the farm track.

After a really technical few miles of single track, we are now on runnable double track again. The overall trend, however, is most certainly upwards as we head into more classic highland terrain. I run the flattish sections and walk the steeper ascents.

Soon we hit the notorious “cowpat alley”; a quagmire of mud and the afore mentioned cowpat. Here runners are frequently known to disappear to their knees in the stuff. Fortunately footprints in front of me mark a safe route taken by other runners through the danger.

Uphill slogs are met with lovely runnable downhill sections. Ordinarily I’d be pounding these downhills with joy, but today my body says otherwise. The sound of live music gently drifts from some trees; violins, bagpipes and accordions have been just some of the instruments that have encouraged us along the way during this race. It’s so lovely that people have taken the time to come out. As the afternoon has worn on, we’ve past many curious (if slightly bemused) WHW walkers who have all been encouraging and happy to stand aside as we passed by.

I pass the last minor check point at a road crossing and am immediately met by stunning views of the mountains ahead. I stop for a moment to take a picture and another runner notices my t-shirt declaring “this must be easy compared to UTMB”.

“In theory”, I reply, “though it doesn’t really feel like that at the moment”.

Jess and I get chatting and run/walk the last 3 miles of the course together. Having not run with anyone else for a more than a few minutes all race, it’s nice to have some company. Incredibly these last 3 miles of the course pass by the quickest as we chat about running in Cornwall, races we’ve done and races on our bucket lists; UTMB, Western States, the Arc of Attrition, the Goat, the Spine. I even manage to gleam a few clues for how to enter the infamous Barkley marathons though I don’t really have any ambitions in that department.

Before long, we’re met by the sound of bagpipes and, as we turn a corner, we see the finish and the famous red carpet ahead. Another runner, who I’ve been leap frogging all day, is keen to entertain the crowd with a 3 person sprint for the finish line. Jess and I both decline as he sprints off and we jog over the line.

12 hours 35 minutes definitely wasn’t the time I was envisaging at the start of the day, but I’m happy enough given this wasn’t an “A” race and it’s come hot on the heels of a PB at the SDW50. My next race in May is the North Downs Way 50 (which I’m treating largely as a training run) followed by the South Down Way 100 in June (which is an A race and I’m hoping for a good time on).

As I sit by the road in Tyndrum waiting for the bus back to Glasgow, I look up at the snow capped mountains. The West Highland way has captured my imagination and I can’t help thinking about returning. Past Tyndrum, the WHW goes through Glen Coe before finishing at the foot of Ben Nevis in Fort William. I can definitely see either the “Devil o’ the Highlands” (a race starting here at Tyndrum and finishing at Fort William, ie the second half of the trail) or the West Highland Way race (the whole 96 miles) at some point in my future. But for now, the Fling has fully lived up to all expectations and left me enchanted.

UTMB – 2017

On September 30, 2017October 4, 2017 By runningchristianIn Ultra running1 Comment

It is almost 4pm on Saturday and I have just arrived at Arnouvaz in Valle d’Aosta in the Italian Alps. This is the 95.6km checkpoint in the UTMB. The last few muddy miles of descent have left me reeling. I know what is coming next – the ascent to the highest point on the course, Grand Col Ferrett at 2,529 meters. I have no idea how on earth I am going to manage it. As I walk into the Checkpoint, there is a desk marked as “abandonment”. I want more than anything to walk over to that desk, hand over my race number and declare “Oui, oui, oui, abandonment, s’il vous plait”. Within minutes I would be sitting, dozing on a warm minibus waiting to taken back to Chamonix. But something inside won’t let me do that. I may be cold, fatigued and achy but I’m not injured and I still have a reasonable margin on the cut offs. My family and I have sacrificed so much to put me on the start line of this race and to give me the opportunity to achieve my dream of completing the UTMB. Would I really throw that away now because I’m a bit cold and a bit sleepy?

Part one – France to Italy

A little over 22 hours earlier and I’m standing on the start line of the Ultra Trail Du Mont Blanc in Chamonix. This race has been joint top of my bucket list (along with Western States 100) for several years. Standing alongside 2,500 runners, I reflect back on the last few years of running and how each of my successes and failures has led me here to this. Every successful race has boosted my confidence enough to make me believe that I am good enough to be on the start line of the UTMB, and every failure has taught me a valuable lesson that I would need to reach the finish line.

Above us, the flags from the dozens of nations competing flutter gently in the alpine breeze like prayer flags on Everest. A massive sense of excitement and expectation sits over the crowd; runners and spectators alike. My mouth is dry from the nerves and I take a swig of water from bottle. It doesn’t help in the slightest.

As has become tradition, the race always begins with Vangelis’ “Conquest of Paradise”. A hush falls over the waiting runners as the first few eerie bars of the piece drift from the speakers. Soon, the air is filled with the sound of Gregorian chanting. Just as Vangelis’ trademark synthesizers kick in and the track reaches its soaring crescendo, someone shouts “Go!” and we are off.

Running through the streets of Chamonix, I high-five as many of the cheering spectators as I can. The inspiring music and the cheers from the crowd form a heady mix and I know this moment will be one that I won’t ever forget. I wave to Caroline and the boys who are waiting in the crowd a few hundred metres from the start. All being well, I will see them the following day in Courmayeur.

The pace in these early couple of miles is frantic – probably close to 7 min/miles. For me this is suicide pace for anything other than a Saturday morning parkrun, let along a 100+ mile mountain race. However, I’m not too concerned for now.

I’d thought a lot about strategy prior to this race. The UTMB is 104 or so miles long, beginning in Chamonix and traversing the French, Italian and Swiss alps before returning to France and finishing in Chamonix.

I knew that (apart from injuries or something unforseen) there was only one thing that could realistically prevent me finishing this race and that was the cut-offs. There is an overall 46 hour limit to compete the 104 miles and there are many points along the way that have intermediate cut-off times. Miss these, even by a few seconds, and my race would be over. Being familiar with my own strengths and weaknesses as a runner, I knew my best bet would be to go out hard, try to build as much of a buffer against the early cut-offs as possible and then just hope that buffer is enough later on to get me to the finish when things get tough. The strategy is not without risk as, of course, there is the possibility of blow-ups late on, but it is the strategy that I have chosen and it’s what I’m going with.

The air is cool and at present, fairly ideal for running. Over the past week, there has been all kinds of speculation about the weather and whether any amendments to the “normal” route would be needed. The forecast is for snow and -9 degree temperatures above 2,000 metres. Eventually the organisers confirmed it would be the normal route but with two small amendments. I believe the difference is negligible in terms of actual distance but it is a little less climbing. The quid pro quo is that we have 30 minutes less in which to complete the route.

As we leave the paved streets of Chamonix behind, the advice of me good friend, Tim, rings in my ears “push up as far as you can until you see runners who are well out of your league”. I take a look around me; mission accomplished as far as that goes. The first few miles of the race are the only significant flat part of the course and I intend to make the most of them. I know that I will be hemorraging time later on the climbs. I may have a chance to make some time back on the descents depending on how technical they are – but that means that anything approximating “flat” needs to be run and run at a good pace, or I will be timed out of the race for sure.

Of course, this section is only “flat” by alpine standards and would be “undulating” in the UK. We are now on green woody trails and I’m surprised by how far spectators have come out from town to cheer us on. Below to my left, L’Arve continues its tumultuous flow through the Chamonix valley completely oblivious to the runners alongside it. For some reason the sound of the river reminds me of Enya’s “Orinoco Flow”, her great tribute to travelling and adventure. But I’m in an adventure of my own here. I look up, surprised by the deep sound of an Alphorn being played by a spectator in traditional alpine dress. It is in stark contrast to the tinkling sound of the cowbells that would be our almost constant companion throughout the race.

The course continues along narrow wooded trails before opening out onto a wide road into Les Houches. For a moment, the running on the wide roads with so many runners around takes me back to Comrades in South Africa. Comrades is an amazing experience but this race is something else again. Running through the centre of Les Houches, we pass our first drinks station. The fast start meant that I’d got through one of my water bottles which I refill here and sip some coke before continuing on my way. Before long, we leave the road and began the first real climb of the course.

In my mind, UTMB is characterised by ten big climbs, with a cumulative elevation gain/loss of 10,000 metres. This is more than going from sea-level to the summit of Everest and back down again, whilst running four back to back marathons. I decide this analogy isn’t helping me. Instead I think of the race as 10 ascents of Snowdon. A few weeks previously I’d spent a weekend training on Snowdon, ascending and descending via the six main routes. Everest feels out of my league, but 10 Snowdons somehow feels more attainable!

This first climb up to Le Delevret is 820 metres of ascent, but on fresh legs feels reasonable. There is a crowd of us and the air is filed with the clickety sounds of hiking poles on the rocky terrain. My poles are still firmly attached to my back as I’d decided in advance to attempt the first climb without them. Instead, I lean forward, put my hands on my knees and push up the mountain.

This is a ski resort in winter and we climb beneath the chair lifts that would transport the skiers up the mountain in the winter. Before long, the incline begins to flatten. Could we be at the top? I round a corner and the bottom of another chair lift comes into view – nowhere near the top yet! As we ascend higher the fog and darkness begin to envelop us. On finally reaching the top, visibility is severely reduced. I get my headtorch out. However, in the thick fog, the beam of light only serves to light up the air particles and I can see very little beyond a metre or two.

The descent is initially on steep, wet grassy banks which I tackle tentatively at first. My fellow runners are flying past me on both sides and I decide to throw caution to the wind and pick up my pace. Before long, the steep grassy section ends and we are on much more runnable switch backs leading down into St Gervais. We are out of the clouds now and the lights of the town sparkle below us. We can hear the sounds of a street party in full swing below us, still a good couple of miles away.

Running into St Gervais, the roads are thronged with people who have come out to cheers us on. Cries of “allez, allez, allez” echo all along. Here is my first experience of a UTMB checkpoint. My usual experience of an ultra marathon aid station in the UK is a picnic table with a few sandwiches and cups of coke lined up. This is more like a food festival or farmers’ market with dozens of stalls set up offering all kinds of food and drink. I feel the first hunger pangs so I take some bread, cheese, salami and chocolate to eat as I walk out of St Gervais. A key part of successfully completing this race will be to continually eat throughout, ensuring there is a steady stream of calories going in.

The next section is undulating but reasonably runnable. I therefore stick to my strategy and run as much as I possibly can, only slowing to a hike for significant climbs. The food I ate at the last checkpoint isn’t sitting well and I start to feel slightly queasy. The thought of more cheese and salami during the race makes me feel ill – I will have a look what else is on offer at the next checkpoint. Some runners seem to be really suffering as I pass a few people throwing up by the side of the trail. Just another Friday night like back home in London town!

Les Contamines is the first major checkpoint where runners can have access to their crews. It’s also the first cut-off point along the race. The time is now 22.41 and the cut-off here is 00.30 – so far , so good. The Aid Station is set up as a massive marquee. Inside, it is absolutely rammed with runners and supporters. I find a spot on a bench to sit for a few minutes, before continuing on my way.

It has begun to rain and I put my jacket on, not wanting to get wet and cold so soon. Next is the first real test of the race; a climb of 1,342m up to Croix Du Bonhomme. As I begin the climb, I’m surprised again by the number of spectators who have also hiked up to watch. Bonfires, candles and oil lamps light the early section of this climb giving it a magical atmosphere, like something from Hans Christian Anderson. The flames hiss and splutter in the rain. Somewhere here out in the darkness is the baroque chapel of Notre Dame de la Gorge. However, it’s pitch dark and I can’t see it. Sightseeing will have to wait for another day.

We continue up the mountain. Far above me I can see the lights of the next checkpoint, La Balme. It doesn’t look very far but takes a while to get there. The main checkpoint is in a barn. My appetite for any more cheese and salami has completely gone but I gratefully slurp down two bowls of salty noodle soup. This would turn out to be a staple of every checkpoint and is probably the best thing I’ve ever had during a race. I take some chocolate to eat on the mountain and leave the checkpoint. “Ca va?” esquires one of the mountain rescue men who are ever present at the mountain checkpoints. I recall enough schoolboy French to be able to respond adequately and then continue on my way. Having a checkpoint half-way up the mountain really helps break the climb up.

However, whilst the first half passed quickly, the second half goes on and on. Several times, the trail begins to flatten and descend making me think that I’d reached the top, only for it to begin ascending again. I eventually forget about actually ever reaching the top and think of other things. At the top of the mountain, it is misty and cold and there is snow in the air. As we begin the descent, there is a volunteer checking our numbers and performing random checks of our compulsory kit. Thankfully (since it’s so cold) I’m not stopped and I continue along my way. The first part of the descent is on rutted, slippery grassy slopes. Try as I might, I can’t get any momentum going here which is frustrating as other runners are flying past. However, like the last descent, the track soon turns to runnable switch backs opening up the valley below us. I can see and hear the next checkpoint at Les Chapieux from a long way away.

On entering the checkpoint, the race officials are checking we all have a phone with us (part of the mandatory kit). I show them my phone and am ushered into the checkpoint.

I’m now 50km into the race, one marathon done and three more to go. I sit and enjoy some more of the noodle soup. Just as I’m about to leave, I hear someone call my name. It’s Sam Robson. I’d met Sam a couple of days previously as he has been staying in Les Contamines with my friend Tim. Sam is a far better runner than me and the fact that we are together definitely confirms the idea in my mind that I’ve gone out fast and probably a little beyond my abilities. We pass the next few miles together and it’s nice to have some company. We chat about people we know and races we’ve done and the first part of the climb passes quickly. After a while, Sam pushes on ahead and I continue up. I glance back and see a long stream of head torches proceeding in single file from Les Chapieux up the mountain side.

It is cold and snowy at the Col de la Seigne and I stop to put my gloves on. We have climbed another “Snowdon” since the last checkpoint and I am beginning to feel the effort in my legs. It’s almost 6am and I can see the first hint of morning light appear in the sky.

Ahead of me is the Col des Pyramides Calcaires. The first of the two route amendments for safety purposes means that we won’t be ascending this. I can’t say that I’m too devastated at the moment.

Italy to Switzerland

Somewhere on this dark mountain, I’ve crossed from France into Italy. As I begin my descent, the first rays of morning light illuminate the most incredible sight in front of me. A valley cut out of the mountains by glaciers many millions of years previously. Mountains that have been my companion for the last few hours in darkness, now revealed in all their splendour. Below me is Lac Combal the next checkpoint. This must be one of the most remote checkpoints in the race and I’m left wondering how they managed to transport all the supplies here. I sit and admire the views. Low lying clouds cover the nearby peaks – I’m reminded of the “tablecloth” that often covers Table Mountain in Cape Town.

As I’m sitting there, a volunteer holds up a pair of gloves – oh dear some poor runner has dropped their gloves. I touch my pocket where I’ve stashed mine only to realise they are gone. I gratefully retrieve them from the volunteer, it’s still cold and I’d be in trouble without them.

The course continues initially on a flat trail besides the remains of the lake before heading up towards the summit of Mt Favre. This climb is long and it is here that I start to feel the first real signs of fatigue. On eventually reaching the summit, I stop and lie on the grass for a few minutes, dozing a little and let the sun warm my face. We are now at an altitude of 2,434m. It is less than 10k to Courmayeur, the most significant checkpoint and the psychological “half-way” point in the race. However, it is also a descent of almost 1,500 metres to get there. The scenery here is stunning but I’m keen not to linger and enjoy it for too long. Around halfway between the Arrete Du Mont Fevre and Courmayeur is another checkpoint – a mountain refuge at Col Checrouit. It is marked on my course guide as simply a drinks point, but I’m delighted to see a lady outside serving pasta and tomato sauce from a giant pot – this is Italy after all!

After a brief stop here I continue down towards Courmayeur. The switch backs become steep and technical and snake through woods, teasing us with glimpses of the town below before we eventually arrive on the outskirts. I run through the streets, remembering to smile for the official photographer and arrive at the sports centre which serves as the checkpoint here. Carrie and the boys are waiting outside and I stop to talk to them briefly before continuing inside. It is one huge hall with an area for food, for sleeping, for changing clothes. After the solitude and quiet of the mountains, I feel a little overwhelmed by the noise and bustle. I take some more pasta and find a place to sit. Here we also get access to our drop bag, which I’d packed in advance with spare shoes, all kinds of clothes and food. In the end, I only change my t-shirt but leave all the other items in my drop bag untouched. It’s now 10.48am and time I was on my way.

I say goodbye to Carrie and the boys and find my way through the street of Courmayeur. The course goes upwards, first along busy roads, then a quiet country lane and eventually returning to the trails. We would now have to regain all the elevation we lost descending into Courmayeur. The climb is long and arduous and I’m thankful to eventually reach Refuge Bertone. The checkpoints on UTMB broadly fall into two categories – the large marquee style checkpoints with rows and rows of tables, benches and crew access and the smaller more intimate mountain refuges. These are mountain huts and are still open to the public during the race. The next section again constitutes a slightly “flatter” section of the course and I try to gain a little time on the runnable grassy ledge between Refuge Berone and Refuge Bonatti. By the time I reach Bonatti, the weather has turned and the warm sunshine has been replaced with a cold wind. After sitting for a few minutes outside Refuge Bonatti, it begins to rain. A cold icy rain. I rush into the Refuge itself in the hope of perhaps finding a quiet corner to sleep for a few minutes. I soon give up on that idea and instead change into my waterproofs.

The descent into Arnouvaz is long and muddy and I’m moving painfully slowly. Other runners are flying down here and ending up on their rear ends in the mud every few metres. Content to stay on my feet, I continue tentatively down. I can see the checkpoint from some way away and I can also see the minibuses behind ready to whisk away any runners who want to call it a day or who are timed out of the race. For the first time, my mind lingers on the idea of dropping from the race. We are well into the afternoon and fast approaching the Saturday night – my second night without sleep. In terms of the big climbs – I have done five but still have another five remaining. The next is the climb to the highest point on the course. It doesn’t seem possible that I can manage that let along another four after that. Surely I should just cut my losses now and save myself the pain? These were the thoughts occupying my mind as I approached the Arnouvaz checkpoint. My mind cannot fathom how I could possibly make it to the finish. But it occurs to me – I don’t need to worry about the finish, I only need to focus on reaching the next checkpoint. Then the one after that. And so on. Eventually the finish will take care of itself.

It takes a massive effort, but I walk past the “abandonment” desk and into the checkpoint proper. I look at the food on offer but nothing appeals so I sit on a bench, with my head on the table hoping for perhaps a few minutes of sleep. However the checkpoint is cold, my clothes are damp and I’m soon shivering. Fortunately, I know just the thing to warm me up, a 738m climb up to Grand Col Ferret! I pull out a packet of Harribo to eat on the way up; it’s about the only thing I can stomach at the moment.

This climb is tough, right from the start and the effort forces me to take regular breaks all the way up. The higher I get the more frequent the breaks. My training for this race has left me in the best shape of my life so I’m initially a little perplexed by how this climb can be taking so much out of me. Then I realise – the vast majority of my training has taken place well below 500m. I had one weekend on Snowdon which goes to a little over 1,000m. Here I am at 2,500 meters and, whilst this isn’t much higher than a high altitude ski-run, my body is simply not prepared for exerting this sort of effort at this altitude. I feel slightly better that my frequent breaks (now practically after every switch back) are down to the altitude and not a lack of fitness.

Soon, we are in the clouds again and there is snow on the ground. The icy wind makes it feel very unpleasant. On the final approach to the pass, I sit down in the snow, completely out of breath. A woman passes by and encourages me to keep moving. She’s right, it’s not sensible to linger here in the cold. We were warned at the start not to rest on top of the mountains but instead to get down to lower altitudes as soon as possible.

On reaching the top, I peer down the other side and my mood lifts slightly. Against all odds, I’ve reached Switzerland.

Switzerland to France

The descent is less demanding than the previous one and I shuffle along listening to some music.

For a long time, I think I can hear the sounds of cow bells at the next checkpoint. I eventually decide that these are cowbells from actual cows grazing nearby as the next checkpoint takes a very long time to materialise. It is situated in the pretty little Swiss mountain town of La Foully. After a steep descent, I chat to another English runner as we approach the checkpoint in the failing light. On leaving, it’s now dark and raining. I put my head torch on which lights up the rain drops like millions of miniature shooting stars in the night sky.

The next section is through the town on roads. One moment, I’m shuffling along and the next I am asleep on my feet, crashing into a barrier on a bridge across a stream. If I’m like this on the mountain, the consequences could be severe! In the slightly surreal space between waking and sleeping, I’ve completely forgotten where I am and what I’m doing. For a moment, I think I’ve been sent out by Carrie to buy pizza for the boys – I wonder what type they would like? Wait no, that’s not right, there’s runners around me. Are we all going up the mountain to see our friend who lives in a house up there? No, that’s also not right. It is a monumental effort to remind myself that I am in fact in a mountain ultramarathon. This pattern repeats a few times as I struggle to stay awake. I think about stopping for a 10 minute doze under a hedge or something but it is pouring with rain so I continue on.

A little later I catch up to an English runner. I am not feeling sociable in the slightest but realise that some light conversation might be my best bet at staying wake.

The extreme sleepiness passes as we begin the climb up to Champax Lac. Although not a steep climb, this section goes on for a long time ascending through forest trails. Mentally, I hadn’t prepared for this being a difficult section and I find myself struggling. During the day on fresh legs, I’m sure it is a stunning hike. But late on Saturday night into my second night without sleep I find my enthusiasm waning. Eventually we reach Champex Lac where there is another checkpoint. It’s now 00:30 and the cut off here is 02:00. Could be worse. The checkpoint is close to the famous lake but between my sleepiness and the darkness, I can see very little of it.

The next section contains some enjoyable downhill running and some very moderate uphill. From the profile, I know we are due a big climb very shortly. We eventually reach the foot of the mountain and I can see long trails of headtorches snaking far far above me into the inky black sky. There are some logs on the ground and a few runners have stopped to sit, fiddling with their kit, changing clothes or just mentally preparing themselves for what’s to come. I join them for a moment before beginning the ascent. Switch back after switch back, this section goes on and on. I recall talking to a few runners but I’ve no idea who or what I said. I have a vague recollection of talking to an Australian runner. Either that or I was listening to Men at Work’s “Down Under” on my ipod!

I eventually see what I have to believe is the final switch back leading to the top only to round a corner and see head torches continuing for what must be another mile above me. Eventually arriving at the actual summit, I can see lights of a town far below me, this might be Trient and our next destination. There is a small checkpoint in an old mountain barn on the way down, really just to scan numbers. There is a sign saying that Trient is only 5km away. Some volunteers have lit a bonfire out back and are warming themselves beside it. For a moment I fantasize about sitting by that bonfire myself dozing in the warmth without a care in the world. Not today! Somewhere on this descent, night begins to give way to early morning and as I emerge from a forest trail, I can see a few buildings ahead of me. It is completely silent but I have to believe that one of these is the Trient checkpoint. My spirits fall further when I realise the trail turns and continues down a farm track. Surely the checkpoint is just at the end of this track? We are directed off the track and onto another series of switch backs through some words. The checkpoint must be here somewhere just through the trees? After several switch backs, I eventually catch sight of the checkpoint, still a long way below me. That 5km sign further up the mountain was a horrible lie!

Dragging myself into the checkpoint, I study the profile of the remaining part of the course. The next mountain looks pretty much a carbon copy of the last one. I don’t have it in me to do another mountain like that last one. I decide that I need to find someone who is familiar with the course who can tell me that the profile is wrong and the next mountain is in fact much easier than the last one. There is an English UTMB official standing close by and I ask her this question. She looks at me and shakes her head sadly. However, she is keen to encourage me.

“It normally takes two hours to get from here to Vallorcine. That’s on fresh legs, However, you have four hours to do it in to make the cut-off at Vallorcine.”
Something in my mind clicks. Ok, if I can get to Vallorcine in three hours, that would give me an hour buffer against the cut-off at that point. With just one mountain left and less than 20km to the finish, I think that would be enough.

I jog out of the aid station feeling optimistic and begin the next climb. It’s now 07:15 on Sunday morning. As I start the climb up to Les Tseppes, I feel my confidence returning and I’m enjoying myself for the first time in nearly 24 hours. I start passing other runners on this climb. This makes a pleasant change as the race to date has been one long procession of people passing me. I think back to my training on Snowdon, running up and down the mountain; this is what I was preparing for though I probably didn’t even realise it at the time. For the first time the finish line, though still many hours away, becomes something tangible and attainable. I power my way to the top and rest for a moment or two, soaking in the views which are breathtaking.

I’m happy to invest a few moments resting here, but I can’t stay long. As much as I like to think of myself as a master tactician playing a game of “cut-off chess”, I realise that “cut-off Russian roulette” is a better analogy. I check my phone. Tim has sent me a message telling me that I can make the finish, but I need to keep moving. I take this advice to heart and begin the descent back down into France.

Return to Chamonix

I have made excellent time on the last ascent and I had hoped to capitalise on this with a fast descent into Vallorcine. However, this isn’t to be. The trail down hill is rutted grass and mud and, again, try as I might I just can’t get a decent pace going.

Eventually I arrive in Vallorcine, exactly on schedule three hours after having left Trient, with my one hour buffer against cut-off intact. I sit for a moment or two in the marquee as crew members rush around looking after their runners. A man announces in English over the PA system that anyone intending to continue in the race should think about leaving soon. I don’t need telling twice.

The next couple of miles are on a grassy trail beside a road. Cars pass by beeping their horns whilst the occupants yell encouragement at us. As I reach the car park at Col des Montets, top British ultra runner, Robbie Britton (who isn’t in the race but is supporting) comes up to me to offer encouragement and a few tips on tackling the next section of the course. I thank him gratefully and start the ascent up to La Flegere.

At this point, the course would ordinarily ascend Tete aux Vents directly, before dropping down into La Flegere. However, this is the second safety modification to the course and so we approach La Flegere slightly differently.

Having been very careful in treating the course with the respect that it deserves so far, at this point, I’m guilty of underestimating the next section. It’s a mistake that nearly costs me dearly. Earlier in the week, I had recce’d the final part of the course, from Chamonix to La Flegere and back down again. This had taken me around two hours and I had found very straight forward at the time. Clearly that was on fresh legs and we are now approaching the mountain from a different side, but I felt that my recce should provide a good benchmark of what to expect. I just need to nip up to La Flegere, then run back down to the finish in Chamonix and pick up my gilet and a cold beer. But the mountains aren’t done with me just yet.

We continue up and up. I recall La Flegere is a ski resort with a lift at the top. According to my calculations, it should be coming into view anytime now. A hiking sign appears for La Flegere directing hikers off to the right. But the race signage is clearly directing us to the left towards Argentiere. I don’t like this at all but there is no question that we are supposed to turn left here. The trail continues along before dropping down sharply. We lose most of the height that we have just climbed. If there’s one thing I recall about La Flegere it’s that it’s at the top of a mountain not the bottom – why are we descending? The trail continues along, traversing the side of the mountain before going up again. I chat to an Irish lady. We trade war stories about the night just passed and rue the lack of large mountains back home in Ireland and the UK for us to train on. I look at my watch and work out how much time I have until the cut-off at La Flegere. Two hours becomes 90 minutes becomes one hour becomes 45 minutes – where on earth is La Flegere?!

At this point, my high spirits have gone. I’m sorry to say that my language turns the air blue though fortunately I don’t think that the grasp of English of my fellow runners is good enough to understand what I’m saying.

Eventually the forest trail opens out onto a wide ski run. I look around desperately searching for the checkpoint – it’s nowhere to be seen. All I can see is a long line of runners continuing up to the very top of the mountain. I completely lose it at this point and start ranting and raving at the nearest runner. A very confused German lady turns and says “Bitte?”. I repeat my rant a little more slowly for her. I state how totally and absolutely unreasonable it is for the organisers to send us on a convoluted route up the mountain. Do they not realise that we have been running up and down mountains for two straight days – all we now want is to go back to Chamonix and enjoy the finish line. The German lady smiles sympathetically and continues on her way.

Of course, I realise deep down that I am the one being unreasonable. No-one has forced me to do this race, quite the opposite. And the route, even the amended one, was available for us to study in advance. I simply made an erroneous assumption about this final section. When a vast chasm emerged between the reality of this final section of the race and my expectation of it, my sleep deprived mind no longer had the tools to be able to deal with it rationally.

I finally reach the top, now only 30 minutes ahead of the cut off here. I look at the food table. This is the final checkpoint and anything I take here will need to last me to the finish. I swig some coke and take some chocolate for the descent. The initial descent on a wide piste must be a delight to ski in winter. Today it is sheer torture. The piste ends and we are on the final switch backs through woods that will lead us back to Chamonix. I’m on familiar ground now. Very rocky, uneven ground. A few days ago, the rocks had caused me no problems, as I sailed over them, laughing and jumping. Now, I can barely lift my feet a couple of inches off the ground. Each rock needs to be negotiated individually, requiring my full attention. I pass lots of hikers who congratulate and encourage me. I smile as best as I can and mumble “merci”.

A lady from Milton Keynes who is supporting other friends in the race jogs alongside me for a moment or two, offering encouragement, before disappearing up the mountain to find her friends. The trail is narrow in places and at one point leads directly across the terrace of a mountain restaurant. The terrace applauds as I pass by. The support is really touching and I can feel my bad mood from earlier melting away.

In my mind, I tick off the landmarks on this final section; the large wet rocks that need careful negotiating, the signpost directing us to Chamonix and finally the small stream crossing our path. A few hundred metres on, the trail gives way to asphalt and I am on the outskirts of Chamonix. An Italian runner is beside me and we congratulate each other in the few words we know of each others’ language before continuing on towards the finish separately. These outer streets are deserted as the whole of Chamonix has seemingly headed towards the finish. Ahead of me I see the metal barriers that will direct me home. Tim calls my name. He tells me that there is quite a reception waiting for me, just around the corner. I could hear the noise from the finish from some way away and it now gets steadily louder. I see Caroline and she thrusts a union jack into my hands. Sam, having finished earlier that day, is there too next to Tim’s family. Finishing the race with my family and friends, old and new, is very special. Putting the flag around my shoulders, the boys join me for the final few metres. Jamie, seeing the chance to beat his daddy at running, sprints directly for the finish line, leaving me in his dust. Nice! I manage to grab hold of Alex’s hand before he gets similar ideas and we jog the last few metres together beneath the famous arch and across the line together.

It’s over. 45 hours, 41 minutes and 4 seconds after leaving Chamonix, I am back. Physically this race has taken me to places of wonder and beauty. Emotionally it has taken me to some places I don’t ever want to return to. As I make me way through the crowds, I try to process everything that’s happened. A lifetime of emotions squeezed into two days.

So the question – was it all worth it? The last two days have contained some of the best moments of my life and some of the most challenging. But as I look back, I realise that without those moments of despair and pain, I would never have felt the moments of elation so keenly. This race was perfect and I wouldn’t change a thing about it.

The Spine Flare – June 2017

On July 2, 2017October 4, 2017 By runningchristianIn Ultra runningLeave a comment

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It’s the final leg of this journey. We have climbed out of Horton in Ribblesdale and are now on Cam fell. It is late evening and the June sun hangs low in the sky peering over the distant hills. Despite the blinding light in my eyes, I’m desperate for the sun to stay up a little longer. I know that as soon as the sun dips behind the Pennines, it will signal the start of a second consecutive night without sleep. I’d struggled with the sleep deprivation earlier in the day and knew that with darkness, it would return again. There’s still around 10 miles to the finish in Hardraw; it may as well be 10,000 miles at this stage.

Part 1 – Edale and the Dark Peak

The race started 37 hours earlier in the picturesque village of Edale. This is the official start of the Pennine Way (PW) and we’re now minutes away from the start of the first ever Spine Flare and Fusion races. These are the inaugural summer equivalent races of the more famous January races, the Challenger and the Spine. Like the winter races, the Flare is around 110 miles from Edale to Hardraw, whilst the Fusion consists of the entire Pennine Way, 268 miles from Edale to Kirk Yetholm.

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As I wait for the race to begin, I think back to my attempt at the Challenger this January just past. My overall memories of that race were of snow, mud, bog, ice and the crushing disappointment of not making it to the finish. Whilst the conditions were bad, it is my own mistakes before and during that race that disappoint me the most and I’m determined not to repeat them again.

The race begins. These summer races are much smaller in terms of competitors than the traditional winter ones and it doesn’t take long for the field to fragment. I haven’t run since Monday and I get caught up in the euphoria of the start. A small lead group of three runners immediately breaks away and for the first couple of miles over Upper Booth on the way to Kinder Scout, I stay close behind them. I quickly realise that there is no way I should be anywhere near the lead group and so ease my pace off. This is fairly easily achieved as I’m now at the foot of Jacob’s ladder, one of the most significant climbs in the race. The ascent seems easier than it was in January; certainly the lack of snow underfoot helps as does the specific hill training that I’ve done in preparation.

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It’s misty on Kinder Plateau as I pick may way amongst the rocks. The path of the Pennine Way isn’t always clear here, a fact compounded by a complete lack of National Trail signs on the Plateau. However, I find my way with no problems, remembering to hug the edge of the Plateau. Past Kinder downfall, I descend the other side of Kinder taking care on the slippery rocks.

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The next few miles are relatively flat and fast along moorland flagstones (the first of many along the PW). Before too long, I’m able to enjoy the ethereal sight of cars in the distance seemingly floating across the distant moors. This is not (yet!) sleep-deprivation induced hallucinations – it is just the Snake Pass road which famously cuts across the moors.

I cross the Snake Pass in good time, ahead of my schedule and feeling positive. As I traverse the next section towards Bleaklow, the path begins to trend upwards. A drone buzzs overhead filming the race. It follows me and another runner for a few hundred meters before turning around and heading back towards Snake Pass. For a moment, a thought enters my head, completely uninvited – there’s still over 100 miles to go. I quickly banish that thought. My absolute golden rule is not to think about the distance remaining until I am close to the end; instead I try and focus on breaking the race into small sections and reaching the next landmark. Somewhere along this section, I chat to Charl, a gregarious South African doing the full Fusion race. Over the course of the next two days, our paths would cross many times and we would run several miles together. Charl pushes on and I’m by myself again. At this point, I become aware of another runner behind me. This I would soon discover is Helen. Only later would I realise that our races were to be inextricably linked. For the time being, Helen, Charl and I spend the next few miles at times running along and at times in twos and threes. After Bleaklow, the PW becomes a narrow single track alongside a steep sided valley, before finally dropping down to Torside reservoir. Here we’re able to refill our water bottles from a support vehicle before beginning the climb up to Black Hill. Despite being a remote scenic section, this always feels like a slog. Somewhere along here, I feel the first hunger pangs. My plan is to keep the calories coming in as consistently as possible. I know that there is often a snack van located at the next road crossing, so I decide to push on for that rather than dipping into my food stash that I’m carrying. From Black Hill there is a perfect downhill section. I do enjoy a good runnable downhill and so attempt my best Kilian Jornet impression by hammering this part.

I reach the snack van just as the lady is beginning to pack away. I can honestly say that collapsed in a plastic chair by the side of the road, I would not have exchanged my bacon bap and coke for the finest Michelin started cuisine in Paris; it was just perfect in every way. Charl soon joins me and is quickly expounding the virtues of the pork scratchings that he is enjoying. We leave together and begin the next section.

Part 2 – Into the South Pennines

We start the descent from the road down to Wessenden Head Reservoir. This was the section in January’s race when the bad chaffing began (due to some bad clothing choices) and I got the first inkling that it really wasn’t going to be my day. Today, however, the going is good. The Pennine Way drops into a narrow valley crossing a stream before rising immediately again on the other side. I stop to fix the chest straps on my backpack(the first of a few kit malfunctions) and Charl, Helen and Raj (another Fusion runner) push on ahead. I recall running this section in the darkness completely alone in January with no sign of any other runners. Today a combination of being so close to the summer solstice and also being significantly up on my January time mean that I still have many hours of daylight left. I decide to make the most of them and push on. As I cross the new stone slabs stretching across the otherwise desolate moorland, I recall seeing these same slabs being brought in by helicopter during a run over these moors the previous October.

A light but steady rain begins to fall. I catch up with Raj and Charl who have stopped to put on their waterproofs and I join them. The three of us pass a few enjoyable moors across the moors. The wet weather makes the race feel a bit more “Spine-y”. We stop at another moorland car park where a support vehicle has left water for us. As we fill our bottles, I feel invigorated by the rain. I look across at Raj and see the look of euphoria on his face. This is living and we both realise it in that moment.

As we continue along Stanedge, I experience a vivid flash back to January. This point was one of the (precious few) highlights from that race – a huge full moon rising into the inky black night sky. It is, of course, still daylight today and there is to be no full moon when darkness does finally set in. I push on the pace along as I feel Check Point 1 (CP1), beckoning me onwards. The next few miles pass by quickly. The top of Blackstone Edge is rocky and adds some rugged beauty to the otherwise grassy moorland.

I pass the White House pub, once a regular haunt of Spine racers past. Unsure if we are still persona non grata, I continue past towards Warland reservoir. Here the PW has been rerouted to go anticlockwise around the reservoir rather than the usual clockwise direction. The alternative route feels more remote and I’m a little surprised to see a small tent that has been erected in the middle of the trail. I squeeze past trying to avoid disturbing whoever is inside.

The sight of Stoodley Pike in the distance lifts my spirits as I know it’s around 5 miles from there to the checkpoint, a hot meal and a sit down. Once again in January, this section was a low point. I’d lost the path (such as it is) beneath the snowdrifts and was forced to find my own route through thigh deep snow hiding rocks, bogs and grass. Stoodley Pike is famous for appearing in the distance, teasing PW hikers in the distance but seemingly never getting any closer no matter how much progress is made. That was my January experience (or it would have been had I been able to see the tower in the dark and the mist). But today is different; the path is dry and clear and the Pike grows steadily in size as I approach.

I eventually catch up to Helen who is resting by the side of the trail. We agree to traverse this section to CP1 together. We stop for a few minutes at the Pike and empty our shoes of bits of trail that have found its way in. From Stoodley Pike, the PW turns downhill first across fields, then past farm buildings and eventually down an access road before coming out on a bridge across the River Calder. No sooner do you reach the bottom before you have to climb back up the other side of the valley, initially along a narrow stone path between houses. With CP1 now close, I suggest to Helen that we try and leave the Check Point together. It will be dusk by the time we leave and some company during the night crossing of the moors seems appealing to us both. I also discover that Helen is an A&E doctor. She could possibly could be a good person to have around, though I hope not to have to call on her expertise!

My feet are starting to suffer and I can feel blisters developing. I look forward to having these taped up at the Check Point. before too long, the PW comes out in the village of Colden. Sadly CP1 is a non-trivial diversion off the PW, so we leave the trail for the time being to follow the road past quaintly pennine stone terraced houses. The path down to CP1 from the road is steep and narrow passing through woods. Eventually CP1 (Hebden Hey scout hut) appears as if from nowhere out of the trees. Outside, we are swarmed by midges so hurry inside. I make a beeline to the dining area and enjoy a steaming hot bowl of chicken stew. I’d planned on a complete change of clothes here and feel like a new man after a quick shower. There are bunk beds available here and many racers are planning on a short sleep. My pre-race plan was to push through and complete the race with no sleep as preparation for UTMB later in the summer. In any case, I can still feel the adrenaline coursing through me and had I tried to lie down, sleep would certainly have alluded me. Up in the medical room, the medics do a fantastic job on my feet. Helen has previously volunteered as a medic on previous winter Spine races and is treated (quite rightly) as a returning hero by the other medics. Fed, rested and patched up, we head for the door. At this point, I realise that one of my hiking poles has broken. It looks fixable but not without tools. This is a setback as the poles have been useful but I put this quickly out of mind. A positive mental attitude is my greatest asset. Setbacks like this have to be expected and I can’t let it affect me unduly. I stick the broken pole in my pack and continue out the door with the single pole.

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Part 3 – Bronte country

We step out into the cool dusk as the light begins to fail. We thank the volunteers and they wish us well as we begin the ascent back the way we came towards Colden village. The tree cover on the way up blocks out what little daylight remains and we turn on our head torches.

Helen switches on her GPS which happily beeps away marking each mile we cover from the Check Point. After a little rest, the miles pass quickly and before I know it, we have traversed Heptonstall Moor. We pick up our pace along a short road section as we head towards the Walshaw reservoirs. Darkness has fully taken hold now and there is little sign of any other racers. We begin the ascent up to Withins Height. This is Bronte country and the inspiration for literature’s most famous of sisters. We reach the ruins of Top Withins, so famously linked with Wuthering Heights and take shelter from the cool night for a few minutes in an old bothy next door. I take out my phone and show Helen where we are on the race trackers; as suspected there are no other racers anywhere near us.

I start to shiver as we get going again – even stopping for a few minutes has caused my body temperature to drop. We make our way down to the village of Ponden which is completely deserted. As we cross the road past the reservoir, I point out the spot to Helen where my January challenger race came to its ignominious end. Completely disheartened by miles of chaffing, blisters, mud, ice and snowmelt, the race had got inside my head and I’d called my wife Caroline (who had been crewing for me) to pick me up and put the race out of its misery. There are no such thoughts in my head today and I’m completely focussed on getting to the end. In any case, even if I did want to drop out, short of mountain rescue in an emergency, there is no-one for me to call and no one would be coming to rescue me!

After a steep uphill section, we reach the start of Ickornshaw Moor. My preference would have been to tackle this section in daylight but that always seemed unlikely. My only prior experience here was also in the dark the previous November when I had attempted it in the snow. Even with GPS, I had lost the path and ended up far off course waist deep in snow and unable to get back onto the PW due to the bogs hidden under the snow. Tonight the path is easier to follow though we check our maps and GPS a couple of times. At this point, we see the first runner for several hours – eventual joint winner of the longer Fusion race, Olivier passes by us. This section of moorland is rough going and takes a long time and I feel my spirits falling. After what seems like an eternity, we come out at the road crossing in Cowling where a very committed race official is waiting at a bus shelter to take our numbers. This section of the race is my least favourite of the race. Lacking the desolate beauty of the Peak District or the stunning Limestone scenery of the Yorkshire Dales, it feels very uninspiring consisting of slogging between muddy fields and small villages. Perhaps I’m being unfair in my assessment, but this is how I feel.

It’s the early hours of the morning now and I look forward to sunrise to lift our spirits. Just as the first signs of light appear in the sky, the rain clouds roll in and we have a few hours of soaking rain to dampen our spirits further. At this point, I feel the first signs of extreme fatigue and begin to fantasise about climbing into my sleeping bag (which is lovely and warm as it was bought with the Winter Spine in mind), passing out and forgetting all about the race for a few hours. I quickly realise this line of thought will quickly spiral out of control if I allow it to. Instead I turn to Helen and we have a good conversation about our favourite foods/drinks/TV/places to visit – anything to take our minds off the wet muddy trail that seems to stretch inexorably onwards before us. The conversation gives me a boost and I start to feel a bit more awake. We discuss breakfast plans – we talk about finding a pub open at 6am on a Sunday with a roaring fire, full English and hot coffees just waiting for us. Unsuprising this proves to be optimistic and ultimately we have to make do with breakfast from the Co-op in Gargrave. As we sit outside the Co-op, we are joined by a Fusion racer. We try to encourage him to come with us to the CP1.5 in Malham, but I can see from his eyes that his race is over. We wish him the best and continue towards Malham.

Part 4 – The Yorkshire Dales

Gargrave marks the start of the Yorkshire Dales. The section between Gargrave and Malham is fairly flat and gentle, running beside gentle streams and through quaint villages. At Malham, there is a dramatic step change in the scenery – gone is the gentle rolling green countryside. In its place is dramatic limestone cliffs, tarns and waterfalls.

We allow ourselves to believe that Malham represents “the beginning of the end”, though in reality it is still at least 30 miles from the finish. Having missed out on our full English, we decide to stop for coffee and cake in Malham and enjoy a good hypothetical discussion about what kind of cake we would have if we could have any. By now the weather has cleared up and it is warm and sunny. As we enter the tearooms, there is another race sitting outside at a table gently dozing in the warm June sunshine. Coffee and cake is nice but without the adrenaline of the race, I feel the fatigue returning.

My wife has promised to give me text updates on that other great event in the Ultrarunning calendar happening this weekend, Western States 100. I’m shocked to read that Jim Walmsley has imploaded for the second year in a row when all the talk was of him crushing the course record. However, I’m very happy for the eventual winner, the South African, Ryan Sandes. Ryan is one of my favourite elite runners to follow and he’s had some bad luck at Western States in the past with injuries and illnesses, so I know this will mean a lot.

It’s now a warm sunny Sunday morning and there are quite a few “normal people” completely oblivious to our race out and about enjoying Malham Cove (which is only half a mile or so from the village). We climb to the top of the cove past the hoards, over the spectacular limestone pavement and follow a narrow valley towards Malham tarn. Helen points out a couple of caves in the side of the valley that she had previously scouted out as possible spots to bivvy out. Our plan is still to push onto the finish without sleep. We are bullish about being able to survive the day without sleep. We know Sunday night will be tough but are hopeful that by that stage we will be close enough to the finish that the adrenaline will get us through.

We reach Malham Tarn, there is a lovely breeze across the water and the spray on my skin makes me feel like I’m beside the sea.

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Around the Tarn and before too long we reach Checkpoint1.5 at the old manor house. This is not a full checkpoint (meaning there’s no hot food available or access to drop bags), but there is water and medics. We sit down at a wooden table outside and chat a little with the medics and a couple of other competitors. I find some hot water for my pot noodle which I’ve been carrying in my backpack since CP1.5.

Whenever I set race goals for myself, these are usually around finishing the race or finishing the race in a particular time. I never set goals like “finish in the top x%” on the basis that I can control (to some degree) my own performance but I can’t control anyone else’s. However, Helen and I had realised quite early on that we currently in around 8th place in the Flare race. In fact Helen was the second placed lady. Although we both just wanted to finish, the thought of a top 10 finish was tantalising. We knew from the trackers that there was no other Flare runners anywhere near us. However, whenever we see another racer, this doesn’t stop us peering round at their race number to check that they were a Fusion rather than a Flare runner! I’m not sure where this competitive side has come from, but I really don’t want to give up my top 10 spot!

From CP1.5, we begin the very hilly section of the course. Fountains Fell and Pen-y-Ghent are both significant climbs and stand between us and the town of Horton-in-Ribblesdale. Fountains Fell is a long steady (if not particularly steep) climb. At some point on this climb, I fall asleep on my feet and start dreaming about work. Helen asks if I’m ok and I wake with a fright to realise that I’m halfway up a mountain and not at work at all! As we reach the top of Fountains Fell, the wind really picks up and is threatening to blow us off the mountain.

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I pick up the pace on the descent down off Fountains Fell. Down at the bottom, we stop for a few minutes out of the wind to have some more food before tackling Pen-y-Ghent. This is the highest point on the course and although it’s a steep climb, it is over relatively quickly. I enjoy using my hands on the scrabble to reach the top.

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From the top, it’s a long descent down into the town of Horton-in-Ribblesdale. The traditional start point of the Yorkshire Three Peaks, signs of the famous route are everywhere and I promise myself that I’ll be back to do the three peaks sometime soon. Horton-in-Ribblesdale is the final bit of civilisation that we’ll see before the finish so we make the most of the stop by filling up bottles and having some more food. We toy with the idea of a pub dinner here but instead opted to push on for the finish. However, as we leave Horton we bump into Charl coming out of a pub. He enthusiastically tells us all about his steak pie, chips and gravy that he has been enjoying and I wonder enviously whether we made the right choice in foregoing the pub grub!

Part 5 – Cam fell and the finish

The final 15 miles between Horton-in-Ribblesdale and Hardraw is the only section of the course that I am not familiar with. I’m grateful to Helen who has recced this very recently. It’s a long steady climb up out of Horton and the miles pass slowly.

Helen is suffering with her knees and I’m struggling with my feet. Despite that, we are still working well together.

The sun eventually dips behind the distant hills and we immediately feel colder. We stop and add several layers. The combination of hunger and extreme fatigue has contributed to me feeling the cold much more. As day turns to dusk turns to night, we eventually give in and turn on our head torches. This is a very remote section of the course and there really is no sign of anyone around.

The sleep deprivation has us both in its firm grip and the hallucinations begin. Having largely avoided them in the first night, it seems the second night will more than make up for it. My head torch catches various objects in its partial light and my sleep-deprived mind interprets them in any way it sees fit. Sheep in fields become people, trees become tents and at one point I see a Star Wars storm trooper sitting beside the side of the road! Of course I don’t believe it’s a real storm trooper (that would indeed be strange), I merely assume that an eager race volunteer has hiked the 10+ miles up from the finish to sit on a remote piece of trail in the cold and the dark dressed in fancy dress as a storm trooper! Of course this makes no sense either. As I get closer, I realise that my head torch has reflected off a small pool of water and my mind has done the rest.

We continue, past Cam End and eventually onto the old Roman road, Cam High Road. We turn onto the West Cam Road (nb this is not a “road” in any way that I understand the word, more a rocky track) and I know ether is another turning off this track coming up. This turning takes an absolute age to come and I’m convinced we must have missed it. However, the GPS confirms that we are on the right track and we still have further to go.

Around this point, Helen turns to me and says “I just a shooting star. It looked like a child was playing with it in the sky.” I frown to myself, this doesn’t sound good. I’ve been worrying about my own rationality deserting me and now I worry about Helen’s too. I look up in the sky and sure enough there are lights dancing around the night sky. We begin an enthusiastic discussion about whether these are indeed shooting stars on some crazy trajectory in defiance of all known laws of physics or perhaps some kind of UFO phenomenon. Perhaps the little green men in flying saucers have come to beam up the crazy ultrarunners! Helen eventually points out that all the stars in the sky are behaving in this way and so we conclude that sleep deprivation is causing our vision to blur the lights. We agree to put socialising to one side and to both listen to our ipods in an effort to stay awake.

Eventually the turning appears and the track starts to trend downhill towards Hawes. National trail signs have all but disappeared and the path beneath our feet is non-existent. We are stopping at regular intervals to take bearings and check against the map. Eventually lights appear in the distance – this is the Wensleydale creamery and will guide us down off the moors into Hawes. Far behind us we see headtorches but they appear to be going off on erratic impossible angles. We’ve no idea where those runners are heading but there isn’t much we can do about it. Rocky path turns to moorland, which turns to field and eventually to country lane as we approach Hawes. It still seems an impossibly long time before we hit Hawes itself. It’s now around 2am and the town is absolutely deserted. We stare longingly at the building used for the finish of the Winter Challenger race in the knowledge that we still have another or mile or two to go to our finish. I look at my phone and have texts from Caroline and also my running buddy, Amy, urging me onto the finish.

More fields and lanes appear and disappear before we eventually see race signage indicating the way to the finish. An arrow points left next to a church yard. We enter the church yard – there is no sign of any volunteers or tents. Just a lot of graves – what on earth are the race organisers trying to tell us? Realising our mistake, we leave the graveyard and instead run down the access road towards the camp site. Two volunteers wait for us by the entrance. The race is over. 110 miles. 42 hours and 47 minutes, good enough for joint 8th place. A normal 100 miler would normally take me 25 hours+, but words like “normal” don’t really have much meaning anymore.

I’m enormously grateful to Helen for the miles (specifically around 75 of them) that we shared over the last couple of days. Undoubtedly there were moments when one of us was feeling stronger than the other and could have forged on ahead alone. However, had we done that I feel certain that we would not have reached the finish as quickly as we did. We’d achieved more together than we would have done individually and that of course is practically the definition of a team.

I hobble to the communal tent where we are given some hot food and our medals. Helen’s boyfriend Jon has kindly left her a finisher’s bag consisting of beers and a hipflask. I’d meet Jon too over the course of the weekend. He’d been enormously supportive of Helen doing this and I could see from his eyes that he’d been inspired to do this event too. Helen kindly shares the hipflask with me – the smoky peaty whisky immediately warms me up from the inside. I grab my tent from the drop bag, manage somehow to set it up before crawling into my sleeping bag. Before surrendering to oblivion completely, I reflect back on the last couple of days. This race has been everything I’d hoped for and more. Wild, rugged and beautiful. Awe-inspiring and life-affirming. But for now, it’s time to sleep.

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	Roger on The Winter Spine race –…
	Roger on California dreamin’ West…
	michaelstephenfuchs on UTMB – 2017
	1000kmrunmum on The Spine Fusion 2019
	runningchristian on The Spine Fusion 2019

	Roger on The Winter Spine race –…
	Roger on California dreamin’ West…
	michaelstephenfuchs on UTMB – 2017
	1000kmrunmum on The Spine Fusion 2019
	runningchristian on The Spine Fusion 2019