Written by Daniel Hendriksen
The advantage of running the Spine Challenger for the second time is that at least one knows what one is letting oneself in for. The disadvantage, of course, is that one knows just what one is letting oneself in for. After suffering prodigiously on my first outing last year, it seemed only sensible to undertake the race again having learnt all the lessons from the first time around. After all, that would surely make things easier? Wouldn’t it?
So much for the theory. I assembled, along with a couple of hundred others, for pre-race briefings and admin checks in Edale on the Friday evening. The "Challenger" is fondly known as the "Fun Run", at 108 miles up the Pennine Way being very much the baby brother of the full, 268 mile variant. Once again I found myself very grateful I had been spared the moment of lunacy and avoided ending up signing up for the full beast.
Admin done, we retired to The Ramblers for some pre-race hydration. My good friend and staunch ally Dave Carr not only supplied me with orange juice, but thoughtfully plied Ed Catmur, one of the two main contenders for the race, with several pints of beer. As a plan to hobble one of the better runners it may have had merit in theory, but his prodigious consumption in no way proved detrimental to Ed's subsequent performance.
The alarm was set for 0530 on Saturday. Here, the first hitch presented itself. The lock on my door in the Ramblers appeared to have jammed, and I couldn't get out the room. There was no way out the window; the pub's phone (unsurprisingly) went unanswered. Even the old standbys of berating, and then beating, the lock failed to budge it. I was having visions of the most improbable DNS in racing history - locked in the pub. But necessity is the mother of invention, and with some cunning work with a chair leg and the end of a spoon, the door eventually yielded (don’t ask).
Faultless in their preparations to a "T", the race organisers kindly arranged for it to start raining as 67 "Challengers" trooped to the starting line. It would never do to be going over Kinder Scout in the dry. Marcus Scotney (last year's winner) set off into the mist so fast that by 30 seconds into the race, I'd seen the last of him. And that was with heading off at the front with the chasing pack.
As we climbed up Jacob's Ladder the wind blew ever stronger, until it became a struggle to retain balance or any sort of running rhythm. "Kinder Downfall" became "Kinder Upfall", the wind blowing the water up the hill and so thoughtfully providing a nice cooling spray. Wouldn't want to over-heat on the climb. Despite a couple of falls in the wind I was very relieved to get to Snake Pass intact and still more or less with the front pack - which were now the race leaders, Marcus having retired following a fall onto the rocks in the wind.
At Snake Pass we were somewhat surprised to be coralled in a Mountain Rescue van. There were rumours the race had been stopped behind us, whilst the organisers debated the safety of crossing Kinder Scout in the conditions. Having just done so we were naturally keen to continue, and after a chilly 25 minute stop the decision was taken to delay the start of the main race by a couple of hours but allow the Challenger field to continue.
I ran the next section with Jansen Heath, with whom I had had a tussle on the "Nomad 50" earlier in the year (alas coming off second best). A gnarly runner, it was quite apparent he was moving very well indeed, and zipped off into the distance some time before Torside.
Having waved goodbye to Jansen, I only saw one other runner in the next 30 miles. I was moving at roughly the same pace as Lee Walker; he had a support crew so would overtake me, then whilst stopped with his team I would leapfrog him again; we eventually got to the finish within 6 minutes of each other! In the absence of a support crew I brewed up a hot chocolate somewhere around Wessenden, but probably got more cold whilst stopped than any benefit from the hot drink! The wind blew away all day, sometimes in my face, sometimes from the side, but always making running rather harder work than normal. My left leg began to hurt in all sorts of unaccustomed places; a puzzle which I eventually deduced to be having to use it to stabilise from the westerly wind. Alas I had forgotten to pack a mirror so couldn't trial running backwards to let the right leg share the pain. When the wind was coming into the face it saved the leg imbalance problem, but whilst fumbling with my eye protection I managed to snap the glasses at the bridge, so rendering them completely useless. A camel's transparent eyelids would have been useful, although hilly wet and cold is generally not their principal choice of habitat I understand.
As darkness was falling I approached Hebden Bridge, the one and only checkpoint on the Challenger at around 46 miles. Lee was sat on a chair by the roadside a couple of miles before the scout hut scoffing a pizza, kindly donating a slice which helped power me up the last couple of hills before the checkpoint itself. Slithering down the muddy track I met Jansen just leaving, the last time I would see him on the race. We exchanged a man-hug and he went on his gnarly way into the darkness.
Well, thank goodness for the Trackers. David Carr and Ally had seen my arrival, and bless them both, what a welcome. Coffee, bags sorted, every whim attended to, and the biggest plate of chilli imaginable. Organiser Scott did his best to put the dampener on things, warning of the deteriorating forecast (driving rain to accompany the high winds, turning to hail and snow on the Fells, of which there were plenty to come). I didn't care. What I like about a 108 mile race with only one checkpoint is that when you are at that checkpoint, the next checkpoint equals the finish. Only one leg to go? How hard could that be, whatever the weather? Plus, I was prepared. I had recced the next 40 miles the month before, carefully noting all the barns and useful spots for getting out the weather and getting the stove going. What could possibly go wrong?
So after an hour of pampering, it was off on the final (63 mile) leg. And boy, was that night tough. It just went on and on and on. Hour after hour after hour of unremitting darkness, high wind, hail in the face. My first planned brew was in "Top Withins", the semi-ruined farmhouse said to have been the inspiration for "Wuthering Heights". It has a roofed and enclosed room with a bench and handy stream, just right for a night halt. I had been fantasising about that brew for a good hour. Naturally, it was locked. A “pepperami” sat shivering on the doorstep was not what I’d had in mind. This was followed by a fall, which broke the hooks off my chest sack. In taking off my gloves to try to secure it some other way, I dropped one in an icy puddle. Whilst changing my hat for a balaclava, I managed to dislodge the strap from the business end of my headtorch; by definition, I couldn't get the light to the strap clips and had to bodge a repair by feel alone, with barely functioning hands. Luckily, an empty but open garage I had spotted on my recce remained open and empty, so at last there was a chance to get out the wind and rain, and to get the stove on and sort myself out a bit. And so the night went on, gradually sucking the life out of me with the unrelenting wind. I began fantasising of ways of stopping; fake a sprained ankle? or sore knee? or an imaginary vomiting illness? Or anything, really, to avoid having to keep going.
Just as I was getting really low, I reached the Oakworth marshal, sat in her nice warm car. Bless her, she let me sit inside for 10 minutes, warmth, life and energy gradually returning. It's amazing what a power nap can do, especially when being plied with cookies. I left rejuvenated, seriously cold when getting out the car and setting off but now able to move a bit faster and so begin to generate my own warmth.
And so into Gargrave, the 70 mile point. I'd been looking forward to this as last year the public conveniences had been open so I knew I could again get out the weather, refill the water bottles, and get my stove going. Inevitably, locked. Five minutes in the phone box to scoff some rations and I was shivering uncontrollably, so resignedly set off for the bog trot through the fields to Malham, where the Harry Potter-esque "Checkpoint 1.5" awaited. By now my legs were increasingly leaden, and it was with an arthritic shuffle that I staggered down the track to Malham cove, laboured up the steps to the cove, and laboriously picked my way through the limestone pavement to Malham Tarn. The previous year this checkpoint had been a tent by the cove; the organisers have clearly gone soft as this time, there was a room in the Field Centre. With heating. And an urn. And a lovely bunch of volunteers who plied me with tea and coffee, whilst I stuffed as many calories as it is physically possible to consume in 10 minutes short of munching on a bar of lard.
Said lovely volunteers sent me on my way with dire imprecations of the worsening weather scheduled for that afternoon. This being more or less breakfast time (it all blurring into one at this stage), I decided to try to get over Fountains Fell and Pen-y-Ghent as quickly as possible, before the weather deteriorated from challenging to appalling. "As quickly as possible" seemed likely to mean at approximately 1.5mph on my pre-stop shuffle, but the magic of the break (or maybe simply the dawn of a new day) put new fire in my legs. Much to my astonishment they responded to the instructions to shift, and my spirits soared as I climbed the interminable drag up Fountains Fell. Perhaps the only thing that could have cooled this new-found ardour would have been a major kit failure. Of something vital and irreplaceable, such as my shoes. So it was with some chagrin that, feeling my little toe getting chilly, I looked down at my shoes and noted with some trepidation two large rips up by the little toe. Which had also rubbed away the sock, leaving the toe exposed to the elements. Whilst climbing in the snow. With 20 miles to go, and a deteriorating weather forecast.
Not so good, but when the options are (a) go back, (b) stop, or (c) go on, I figured it didn't need a great deal of deliberation to proceed. As I crossed the summit of Fountains Fell, the wind hit me in full force, and Pen-y-Ghent glowered angrily across the valley, shrouded ominously in mist. My sense of foreboding rose at the prospect of having to cross Pen-y-Ghent, then Cam Fell, in a howling gale with a failing shoe.
On the descent I bumped into photographer Mick Kenyon, of "Racing Snakes" photography. I asked him if there was an outdoor shop in Horton, hoping to buy a new pair before venturing onto Cam Fell. This lovely, lovely man immediately offered to swap his shoes for mine - "I'm half a size bigger than you but they should get you back". Feeling that donating shoes to a complete stranger was beyond the call of altruism I attempted to demur, when a further idea came to Mick. "My lad is parked up at the bottom in the van. He's the technical rep for Salomon, he'll sort you out". Well, he wasn't in the van. He was half way up Pen-y-Ghent. And so this equally lovely man jogged back to the van and drove round to Horton, where I met him in the café. This truly wonderful chap then removed my horrible gopping smelly shoes (to save me the effort of bending over), and in their place provided me with a pair identical other than the minor detail of not exposing my toes to the elements. Whilst this rather one-sided transaction was occurring, two other supporters plied me with their tea and coffee ("it's partially cooled so you can drink it straight away"), whilst another ordered me a vast vat of tea and bowl of stew. Now THAT'S the ultra-running community in action!
And thus fortified, I headed off for the final 13 miles, over Cam Fell. I am not going to write much about this, as the very memory chills the soul. Suffice to say, the promised deteriorating weather materialised with a vengeance. The wind, always heavy, grew to even greater proportions than that over Kinder Scout. And now it propelled rain, not a fine drizzle but the hosepipe sort of rain, the sort that defeats the sturdiest of rain gear. I think I covered those 13 miles quicker than any other, mainly through the joint aims of getting out the rain as quickly as possible, because only by working hard could hypothermia be avoided, and I was very keen to avoid having to get out my headtorch as this would have meant slowing down for a few seconds.
And so to the warm lights and welcoming sight of Hawes. Wet clothes off, congratulations to Lee who had arrived six minutes before (and looked a jolly sight better than anybody had the right to after that crossing of Cam Fell), and carbohydrate-based refuelling in the Fountain; always the highlight of any ultra-marathon!
What a weekend. The running was good, the camaraderie, good humour and support of the army of volunteers made it unforgettable. And there are still 363 days to recover before doing it all over again……!!!