“After gazing at the sky for some time, I came to the conclusion that such beauty had been reserved for remote and dangerous places, and that nature has good reasons for demanding special sacrifices from those who dare to contemplate it.”
Richard E Byrd (1938)

The build up

One summer, years ago, I was backpacking with friends in the Peak District. We stopped for lunch in the dappled shade of some trees. I sat next to an elderly park volunteer taking a moment to enjoy his sandwiches from a satchel as weatherbeaten as he was.

As we chatted, he mentioned in passing that as a young boy he had taken part in the 1932 Kinder Trespass with his father. Later, as we made our way towards our wild camp, the hot afternoon sun on our backs, I reflected on how much we take for granted. Just a generation and a half ago, our rights and freedoms were far from secure.

I can’t exactly remember when the conversations about the Spine Race began. Having completed the Lakeland 100 in 2013, I was looking for another challenge. By the time I was back at the 2014 Lakeland race volunteering, the Spine deposit had already been paid. I ran the majority of the 2013 Lakeland with Steve Jefferson. We formed a strong bond that got us to the end of one of the most arduous runnings of that brutal course. We both maintain that it was the other person who had the idea to enter the Spine. That probably says more about our mental stubbornness than anything else.

Nevertheless, we found ourselves poring over massive route print outs in the sun-drenched fields of the John Ruskin school. The winter race seemed a very long way away. We also met Emiko, another Lakeland volunteer, who was taking part in the Spine Challenger (a shorter, 100 mile version of the race)

The months from July onwards passed quickly. A one year old son, demanding job and study for a postgraduate degree left little time for training. Everyone I mentioned the race to asked “how do you train for that?”. For a long period of time, I didn’t really have an answer.

I’d prepared for the Lakeland using an ultra marathon training plan of high weekly mileages with regular long, 30 mile plus runs. It was clear that the Spine would require a different approach that wasn’t immediately apparent.

In the end my training plan was mostly dictated by the limited time I had available. I tried to do whatever shorter, higher tempo runs I could during the week (a 6 mile dash up the hill behind my house was a favourite on summer evenings), but focused on trying to do a 30 mile plus run with full Spine kit at least once a fortnight.

Steve and I had also scheduled a couple of training races. We ran the OMM in October. Unfortunately I dropped a horrendous navigational clanger (pretty sure I took a bearing with the map upside down) which resulted in us having a 14 hour first day and camping short of the overnight stop.

The Tour de Helvellyn in December went more smoothly and was a final chance to stretch the legs with full Spine kit. At 42 miles it’s about the same length as some of the Spine legs, with more ascent and descent. We both came away from the TdH feeling reasonably confident.

I originally got into ultra running via “extreme backpacking”. It seemed like a natural extension. During the research of my guide book to the Cape Wrath Trail, I made a couple of mid-winter expeditions to the Northwest Scottish highlands. Both trips featured extreme weather and remote, rough country. This and my other wilderness backpacking experiences meant that I already had most of the kit required for the race. It also meant that it was tried and tested in severe winter conditions. I’ll cover the kit in a separate post, but the right choices and familiarity with your equipment play a big role in race success.

The week before the race was not relaxing. Work was hectic and unrelenting, my young son was going through a not sleeping phase. Two nights before the race, my wife appeared next to me in the early hours with a screaming child and the words “I need your help, he won’t go back to sleep”. As I tried to console him in his cot, I remember feeling an overwhelming burden of the scale of the challenge and feeling devastatingly under prepared.

Grey sheets of rain lashed the narrow country roads as we arrived in Edale. Saying goodbye to my wife Kay and my son Innes, sleeping contentedly in the back of the car, was very hard. My guilt at an ongoing absence in their lives to undertake this selfish activity sat in my gut as I listened to the safety briefing.

Friday night was mainly occupied with registration and kit check. Steve and I saw a few familiar faces (Emiko, our friend from the Lakeland and Damian Hall who had been incredibly generous with pre-race advice). We grabbed a meal at the pub which was packed with Spine racers and Challengers. The warmth and camaraderie was hard to enjoy and I was glad to get a lift to the Youth hostel for an early night.

The next morning we chatted to Pavel Paloncy, last year’s winner, over breakfast and generally faffed about with kit. As we were lugging our bulging drop bags down to reception, word went around that the start of race had been delayed from 0930 until 1130 because of the high winds we could hear whistling around the hostel. By this stage, I just wanted to get going, but apparently the Challengers who had set off earlier were taking a pummelling on top of Kinder Scout and being blown over.

We eventually got a lift up to the race start in the hostel minibuses. My makeshift drop bag (my wife’s massive flowery suitcase) had already been the source of much hilarity. This continued when I offered the lady packing the minibuses a hand. “It’s all right, I’m used to it”, she replied, “we get a lot of teenage girls staying here”. I hoped that Steve had missed this comment. Unfortunately he hadn’t.

There was much nervous milling at the start. As we clustered in the muddy field under the gantry, we must have resembled a strange mass of human jelly beans, the multi coloured hues of our waterproofs sticking out discordantly against the muted winter tones of the hills and the regular flurries of sleet. I didn’t much care about the weather, I was just delighted to get moving after a year of anticipation.

The race

The first few hours of the race had a  surreal feel. The sheer amount of pent up nervousness and energy released made the situation hard to comprehend. The wind buffeted us as we contoured and started to climb to Kinder Downfall. As we approached the waterfall it was apparent that the wind was blowing it back up hill and over the path. Some competitors were making fairly lengthy detours to avoid the spray. As it was so early in the race we decided to brave it. We crossed the top of the waterfall, with gusts of wind blowing freezing sheets of spray over us. My gloves got soaked through, but I resisted stopping to put on my mitts as they were stashed in the top of my rucksack. Half an hour later my hands were so cold I was struggling to open a Mars Bar. I shouted to Steve and got him to dig out my mitts. An early and important lesson to have all my gear close to hand.

As we crossed the road at Snake Pass the late afternoon sun bathed the moorland in a weak orange glow and even Bleaklow Head seemed quiet and benign. That soon changed as we descended Clough Edge towards Torside reservoir. The skies turned a foreboding slate grey and a much lengthier sleet blizzard blew in, forcing hoods up and heads down. The resevoir offered some shelter and not for the first time I felt a pang of jealousy at the supported runners that were being met there. Steve and I were running unsupported until the last couple of days when my friend Simon was joining us.

Darkness fell quickly at 5pm as we climbed towards Laddow rocks and we summited Black Hill in darkness. I’d last been here twenty years earlier on a Duke of Edinburgh expedition, and the neatly paved slabs were a welcome addition to the interminable peat bogs of yore. The next section is a bit of a blur. I remember the wind picking up and hail sweeping in with increasing regularity. This section was bleak, dark moorland punctuated by a number of road crossings. In the dark and with the weather closing in around us, I felt a real sense of isolation and foreboding. This definitely was no place to mess around. I remember looking towards the distant glow of red lights on the hill top aerials and taking some solace that we were not completely alone.

At the road crossing before the M62 we were met by one of the Mountain Safety Teams and Steve’s friend Matt who was volunteering for the week. Their smiles and words of encouragement were a godsend after the previous stretch we even got a cup of tea. It was at this point that I started to appreciate just how much we take for granted in life. That solitary cup of tea meant everything at that moment.

We grabbed some food and crossed the motorway. I remember looking down at the cars whipping by below, wondering where their drivers were going. I thought of the warm beds they’d be sleeping in and the families they’d be returning to. As we climbed Blackstone Edge, the weather intensified again. The wind was gusting up towards 80 mph and blowing intense hail directly in our faces. I found out later that several racers had to retire at checkpoint one due to eye injuries caused by the hail.

In 25 years of winter mountain experience, it was as severe as I’ve experienced. The intense hail blizzard continued as we wound around the reservoirs. It was not until Stoodley Pike Monument that we found a corner of shelter to eat some food. There were three other runners huddling at the base of the looming monument and we teamed up with them to the checkpoint.

On the descent, I realised to my horror that I had dropped my GPS somewhere further up the trail. I stopped for a moment in the driving hail, unable to believe my stupidity. I knew straight away there was no point in going back, I’d last used it about half an hour before and it could be anywhere. I got the impression from one or two other competitors that they were slightly sniffy about the use of GPS (despite it being a required kit item). Clearly, you shouldn’t enter the race without being a very competent and experienced navigator. If your GPS packs up or you drop it and you can’t read a map properly, you could easily get into a life threatening situation . That said, when you’re tired and the weather is horrendous, being able to have a piece of technology that cuts down the amount of time spent standing around looking at flapping maps, is a huge benefit.

I pressed on down the hill into Hebden Bridge. One of the two guys we were with had recce’d the route and led the way. With time at a premium before the race, I hadn’t been able to run any of the route. I’d spent hours poring over the maps, but I knew from previous races that there’s no substitute for experience on the ground, especially when you’re cold and tired as we now were. In my head I’d remembered the section beyond the motorway looking relatively short, but it was a good five hours. Even at the monument the first checkpoint felt within reach. Fortunately our better prepared companion warned that it was still well over an hour away.

As it turned out, it took nearer two. The descent to the A6033 was relatively easy and the fierce weather started to subside. Reaching the road, deserted and bathed in the cold orange glow of the street lamps, we took a moment to adjust to the sudden incongruousness of the urban environment. A car full of teenagers sped by hooting and jeering. We climbed a painfully steep road before descending across sodden, slippery fields to a river before another log slog up through dark muddy farmland to a road that took us most of the way to the checkpoint. We passed a couple of well appointed camper vans and I looked enviously at their their windscreens imagining cosy runners tucked up asleep having enjoyed a home cooked dinner.

The descent to checkpoint was the crowning turd on what had been an exceptionally hard first day. A narrow, hideously muddy track descended steeply making staying upright almost impossible. We all fell at least once, muttered curses ringing out through the pitch black woods. Eventually we came out at Hebden Hey, a scout centre. It was 03:30 on Sunday morning and we had covered more than 40 miles in 16 hours.

We were welcomed in the porch by a remarkably cheery bloke who took our details and arranged for our drop bags to be brought over. The porch was an explosion of wet, muddy footwear and moving inside it was even more chaotic. Every spare inch of space was taken up with kit or tired runners. Even moving along the corridors was a challenge. Eventually Steve and I shoe horned ourselves into a space in the toilets and started to sort our gear out.

Our pre-race strategy was to use the checkpoints to sleep and re-group, trying to get at least four hours sleep every time we stopped (the logic being that any less has very little recuperative effect). Many pressed on through the night, but we stuck to our plan. I grabbed a quick shower, deciding to make use of comfort as and when it was available and we scarfed a baked potato with chilli before hunting down a bed. There was very little room at the inn.

The idea of trying to get a decent amount of sleep each night was sound. But even with earplugs and an eye mask I struggled. CP1 & 2 are always going to be the busiest, but I found it difficult to sleep all the way through as the stoppages caused congestion at the normally quieter checkpoints 4 & 5. The options for sleeping are perhaps the biggest race strategy call. Bivvying (tough in bad weather) or camping (extra weight) have their disadvantages too. There’s definitely a psychological benefit of having somewhere warm and dry to sleep.

After trying a few packed dorms, I eventually found a spare bed. It was probably spare for a reason. Light from the corridor shone directly in and the door seemed to open every five minutes as other bed hunters sought a place to rest. I slept fitfully, dark thoughts flowing through my mind. After such a hard day the prospect of going on seemed ridiculous. I can understand why so many people decided to stop. I pushed the thoughts away and repeated my race mantra “I’m only stopping if I physically can’t go a step further or a medical professional advises me not to continue”. It helped, but the prospect of another 228 miles after the day we’d had felt terrifying.

“If you start, don’t give up, or you will be giving up at difficulties all your life.”
Alfred Wainwright, Pennine Way Companion (1968)

I got about an hour of partial rest before giving up and going downstairs to sort out my kit for the long leg ahead. Steve slept a bit longer giving me the chance to have a couple of breakfasts and a few coffees before he appeared. The relentlessly cheery and efficient guy that had met us was still on duty. I asked him whether anyone had handed in a GPS, more in hope than expectation. I doubted anyone braving the hail storms would have noticed a GPS lying in the snow. To my amazement, someone had handed it in. This gave me a huge mental boost. It wasn’t so much that I was relying on it (I’m a reasonable map reader and navigator), it was more the psychological blow of having lost it so stupidly, so early in the race.

In the end we spent about 6 hours at checkpoint one. Given the little sleep I got, this felt like slightly wasted time. As we set off into the first light, I did feel mostly recuperated and the ascent of the hideously muddy gully leading to the checkpoint didn’t seem quite so bad in daylight. The day was blustery and fresh, the rain holding off as we wound through the unremarkable flat section towards Cowling.

Here, it started to rain in earnest. Cold grey streaks forcing up our hoods and casting our eyes down into a muddy trudge across sodden fields. We were glad to reach the pub at Lothersadale. A roaring log burner welcomed us and a jovial landlord had turned the pool room into a makeshift checkpoint for muddy Spiners. Rounds of tea and hot food were ferried in as our kit steamed gently on any available radiator.

Leaving this warm sanctuary was hard. So much so that we stopped at the next pub in East Marton too. A small Sunday evening crowd of locals looked on in bemusement as Steve, myself and Jim Tinnion who we’d teamed up with shed our kit. We explained what we were doing and the landlady made a donation to Steve’s Justgiving page on the spot. They sent us on our way with warm wishes, encouragement and crisps.

Leaving East Marton, we caught up with another runner who stayed with us until Gargrave before peeling off to bivvy at a spot he knew at the train station. Deciding that a stop at the hostelry in Gargrave would constitute a pub crawl, our plan was to press on to checkpoint 1.5 and bivvy near there. The section after Gargrave was horrendous. Field after field of sodden, cow churned bog sapped our spirits and the rain returned to torment us with squally showers. By the time we reached Malham village at around 2am, we had all reached our limits and knew we had to stop.

We scouted a few bivvy spots before deciding to use the public toilets. Jim slept with a couple of german competitors in the ladies and Steve and I bagged the gents. I drew the short straw and got the urinal end. Utterly exhausted I crawled into my bivvy bag and pretty much passed out. We’d agreed two hours sleep, but it seemed like 10 minutes later when Jim appeared at the door. Steve and I blundered blearily about pulling cold wet kit onto our tired, complaining bodies.

Setting off into the dark and rain again was one of the lowest moments of my race. More dank, boggy fields led to slippery treacherous limestone before we eventually hit a road up to the field centre and checkpoint 1.5. Dawn was starting to break as we stepped into the main room at Malham Field Centre. We were surprised to see a large group of runners trying to sleep with their heads down on the tables.

We were told that the race was being held due to bad weather. Not knowing how long we’d be stopped, I pulled on a dry top and found a fragment of space on a heaving radiator for my sodden jacket. Steve and I quaffed tea and ferreted around for food. Biscuits seemed to be the only fare on offer. Our friend Emiko was fast asleep at one of the tables. After a while she awoke and looked around sleepily. Steve had a brief chat. I think she’d taken a wrong turn at some stage and this had set her back.

In future races, Checkpoint 1.5 could potentially be opened up as a proper checkpoint with sleeping areas. It has these facilities already and Spine racers can be found sprouting out of almost every bush and barn around it. Maybe the 60 mile second “day” is just part of the challenge though.

After about an hour we were released from the checkpoint and made our way around the tarn, framed in the bleak winter dawn. As we started our ascent of Fountains Fell the wind harried us from all sides, but I enjoyed the climb. It kept me warm and the gradient never got so steep it became uncomfortable exertion. My reality for hours on end was a tiny cleft between the top of my balaclava and my hood. A small letterbox out into the world beyond.

Descending to a road there were times the wind would support our entire pack and body weight. We were met by a Mountain Safety Team who confirmed what we’d heard at the Malham checkpoint. Pen Y Ghent was off limits due to the high winds and we were diverted at lower level to Horton in Ribblesdale. I can’t honestly remember feeling disappointed. I was tired, hungry and sick of the relentless wind. I simply accepted the instructions.

The cafe in Horton was packed with Spiners and support teams. It was warm and steamy with drying kit. After doing damage to a huge mug of tea and a bacon sandwich, I chatted briefly to a producer from the BBC who was making a documentary about the race. I was quite glad she didn’t try to interview me as I was not feeling very coherent.

Setting off from Horton, Hawes felt within reach. It’s a psychologically important milestone for the Spine Race. Passing through Hawes means that you’re into the race proper. Our plan was to try to sleep at the checkpoint even though there were no beds. We knew that the majority of Challengers would have finished and the noise levels from applause and general hubbub would have subsided.

Our spirits lifted when one of Steve’s friends met us at Cam End with a flask of coffee and walked with us for a few miles. A beautiful magenta sunset picked out the rugged folds of Pen Y Ghent as we climbed over Dodd Fell. Arriving into Hawes and the checkpoint was disorientating. The bright lights of the busy hall were hard to adjust to and I sat for ten minutes on a chair drinking tea and trying to take it all in.

The volunteers at Hawes, and throughout the race, were superb. Nothing was too much trouble and my drop bag was brought over to me along with more tea and food. I fumbled around in my drop bag for ages, my brain unable to deal with the logistical task of gathering what I needed for the next leg. Another of Steve’s friends arrived with fish and chips. The hardship of the race seems to enhance your enjoyment of otherwise everyday pleasures. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a chip quite as much. Having eaten, I decided to sleep before any more kit faffing and found a cupboard off the main room and laid out my Thermarest. I was asleep almost instantly.

I slept fitfully for three hours. Stumbling back into the main hall, Steve was still sound asleep. I also noticed some fairly severe chafing in my arse region that I sheepishly had checked out and taped up by one of the medics (well above and beyond the call of duty). At this point I inexplicably started to become concerned about the cut off times for the race. We’d deliberately taken a fairly steady pace so far. I collared one of the volunteers and together we tried to work out the cut offs, factoring in the complications of the late start and enforced stop. I’m not sure I was much clearer by the end of it, both our sleep deprived brains refusing to do simple arithmetic.

The upshot was that as we prepared to leave I got Steve worried and he set off up Great Shunner Fell like a stabbed rat. It was all I could do to keep his torchlight in view in the distance and I quickly realised that we’d lost touch with Jim Tinnion who had been with us for the previous day or so. I didn’t have too much time to worry about it as I was too busy trying to stay with Steve. When we caught up with Jim later in the race he said he’d stopped to sort out a bit of kit and the next minute we were gone. Sorry, Jim.

As we topped Great Shunner and started to descend, I finally caught up with Steve. It was now snowing heavily and after a short scramble over icy slabs we put on our spikes for the first time and made the long descent to Thwaite. At Thwaite we passed a couple of the safety team checking runners through and caught up with another small group of runners. Not long after leaving Thwaite one of the runners decided to return, saying he wasn’t feeling well.

The GPS came in handy for the next section of fields before we started the long ascent over the boggy black moor towards Tan Hill Inn. Steve was off in front again, obviously having a good patch and heading for the place where, in a strange coincidence, he had got married. I dug in and slogged up the hill. Another blizzard blew in reducing visibility to almost nil as I approached the pub.

Prior to the race I’d voraciously read blogs from previous competitors, desperate to gain insight into the race. Several had mentioned The Tan Hill Inn as a warm oasis open all hours during the Spine. As I leaned into the driving snow my mind conjured images of warm fires and the possibility of hot food. When I eventually arrived at about 5am the reality was different. The pub was shut tight and we crowded into a cramped porch to get out of the snow. I tried to eat a bit, but started to get cold quickly. We set off at a real lick, stomping through the sloshy bogs that led down to a road. OS maps describe an area near here as simply “The Bog”, and they’re not wrong.

The skies cleared and a cold, sharp dawn broke over the blue brown moors as we crossed the busy A67 road. Continuing over Cotherstone Moor to Balderhead reservoir the sun came out and bathed us in a milky winter glow for the first time since the start of the race. The next section to Middleton in Teasdale is a bit of a blur, my mind was already thinking of the beds and food there.

We arrived at the checkpoint in the early afternoon. We got a warm welcome from Matt, Steve’s mate from the Mountain Safety Team and goofed around in the car park posing for photos. It felt great to be at the first “proper” Spine checkpoint, about half way through the race. There was lots of space in the checkpoint and we lounged about chatting to Matt. Steve was starving and frustrated that the only food he could get hold of was scrambled eggs. Clearly we’d timed our arrival badly. Matt offered us his room which had an en suite shower. I dived in and spent ages luxuriating in the hot flow of water. Having slept much less well than Steve during the race to date, I was spark out for five hours and generating some serious snores (apparently). Although we stayed at the checkpoint for nearly seven hours in total, it didn’t feel like time wasted.

As we were leaving the checkpoint we were told by the Mountain Safety Team that we had missed the cut off for the route via High Cup Nick, Dufton and Cross Fell. Retrospectively, part of me regrets the fact that we didn’t go via these beautiful and rugged parts. At the time I can honestly say that a shorter and easier alternative didn’t bother me in the slightest.

We set off in darkness across the fields that apron the River Tees, the path obscured by ankle deep snow. During the preceding days we’d often talked about how strange it was having the GPS tracker taped to our shoulders. We knew that there were a bunch of people at home staring at the orange dots on the screen as they progressed across the map. At that moment we must have hit an area of cellular coverage because my phone started pinging with texts. One was from a work colleague with a screenshot of the tracker telling me off for going wrong! I looked at the GPS and realised she was right. It was a surreal moment in the middle of the night, alone, but at the same time connected with the outside world. There will be those who would see this as a negative, but I drew solace from knowing that people were thinking about me as I went through this journey.

We passed Low and High Force, the river in spate because of the recent rainfall, before crossing and beginning the detour via Cow Green reservoir. It was here that things started to unravel. Looking back, I put it down to the fact that I was mentally prepared for the tougher route and let my guard down when I looked at the alternative route. It felt straightforward with good tracks most of the way. As we passed another Mountain Safety Team in their bus at the reservoir, the wind whipped up and it started to blizzard again. The climb around Herdship Fell was cold and monotonous. I stopped eating enough and at one stage experimented with trying to sleep whilst walking.

The descent to Garrigill was long, icy and unenjoyable. As we passed through Garrigill there were lots of rabbits hopping about on the village green. Neither Steve nor I mentioned them at the time for fear that we were hallucinating. It was only much later we admitted we’d both seen them. The remainder of the path to Alston is a tired, hungry, exhausted blur. We arrived at the checkpoint in “rag order” as Steve put it. Our drop bags had been held up by the weather, so we sat down to a plate of tuna pasta at 4am. Our bags soon turned up, and as we were faffing with kit the checkpoint staff told us the race was likely to be paused because of an incoming weather system that would bring 100mph winds. I found a bed in one of the dorms and flaked out.

I was woken a few hours later by someone talking loudly on a mobile phone from the adjoining bunk. She was complaining that she’d been forced to withdraw from the race because she’d called out mountain rescue (I later found out that she’d got into difficulty on Cross Fell in the night). I stared at her in exhausted disbelief. All around me tired runners were trying to sleep and she was ranting on the phone obliviously. Everyone else I met on the race was amazingly kind and gracious. There is always an exception.

Heading downstairs for breakfast, the wind was rattling the lintels of the windows. Outside, I could see a bleak brown and white landscape. It made me feel cold just looking at it. The checkpoint was now a very different place. It had become a marshalling point for most runners still in the race. Every available space was crammed with a person or their kit. It was claustrophobic after the days of solitude we’d had so far.

The race was paused until 6am the following morning giving me almost 24 hours of rest. This had positives and negatives. Having bagged a bunk I was able to catch up on some sleep. However, the break made the damage to my body more apparent. My feet swelled up and my arse chaffing hadn’t got any better. By the end of the enforced stop cabin fever was setting in and I couldn’t face another conversation about race strategy or equipment choice. Food was running short and runners were roaming the checkpoint like hungry jackals.

It was with great relief that we set off again, heading for Greenhead. Another psychological boost was that for the rest of the race we would be supported. Being unsupported definitely adds an extra level of challenge. You can only fit so much in a drop bag and having a friendly face and a warm drink along the way makes a big difference.

The trail started out innocuously enough over rolling fields and was unremarkable all the way to Greenhead. Here we caught up with Simon, our support, and stopped briefly at the Youth Hostel mini checkpoint which was large and well equipped. Simon grabbed some teas from the nearby cafe (doing a roaring trade in January with racers and support crews – these guys must love the race). After a short stop we climbed up and onto Hadrian’s Wall.

I’d been particularly looking forward to this section. The ancient green sward of turf that stretched out in front of us belied the history of the place. There was a special feeling looking down over jutting stone abutments, sharing the same view as those here thousands of year before. The Spine Race induced its own sense of timelessness. Day merged into night into day. The only constants were moving forward and surviving the landscape and weather. Here, the huge span of history made the experience even more other worldly.

We didn’t have long to ruminate. Half way along the wall, the next weather front swept in and driving rain and wind chased us along the remainder of the wall and down into the horrendous bogs between Greenly and Broomlee Lough. We made the mistake of pressing on and not eating enough, knowing that we had a warm car waiting for us at the next road junction.

When we arrived there, I was again in “rag order” and starting to border on hypothermia. Si had the heating on full blast and had raided a local shop of all of its pork products. Gorging on scratchings and Pepperami, I warmed up. I’d have been in real trouble if he hadn’t been there. The rest of the trail to Bellingham was a dark, boggy soul destroying mess and we arrived at the checkpoint in low spirits just after midnight. I didn’t want to go a step further. Finishing seemed an impossibility.

“When we walk to the edge of all the light we have and take the step into the darkness of the unknown, we must believe that one of two things will happen. There will be something solid for us to stand on, or we will be taught to fly.”
Patrick Overton

Normally, the race is strung out by Bellingham, but the enforced stop had bunched everyone up and it felt like the checkpoint staff were struggling to cope. By this stage they were probably as exhausted as we were. The sleeping hall was cold and I crammed a few cereal bars down rather than walking out and over the car park to the food area. I hunkered down under a table and tried to get some sleep. This was the last checkpoint before the long push to the finish.

When I woke up a few short hours later, I didn’t feel any better. Everything hurt and it seemed to take double the time to assemble my kit. Fortunately the day outside was a beautiful; cold, but with bright, dazzling sunshine. The first section was extensively flag stoned. Although this made the route obvious, a thick rime of ice made the slabs treacherous.

Simon met us with tea at a road crossing and before long we hit the forested section to Byrness. Apart from a few boggy sections, the paths here were mainly wide clear forest trails. We walked for a while with a couple (I’m really sorry, I can’t recall your names). I do remember talking about particle physics and the Large Hadron Collider, about which I know surprisingly little. We were met outside Byrness by another of Steve’s entourage, and again it gave us a real lift to see a friendly face. The hostel at Byrness had been transformed into a mini checkpoint and was serving hot food. I arrived feeling shoddy but left with a spring in my step and sausages and mash in my stomach.

From Byrness it’s 27 miles to the finish. It feels within your grasp, but as several racers have found out it’s far from in the bag. The sun was almost hot on our backs as we slogged up to Windy Crag and the ridge that we would follow home. On the ridge, the ground under foot was frozen hard saving us from the bogs and allowing fast progress. We delayed putting on head torches for as long as possible to enjoy every last gasp of the wispy pink sunset. As soon as the sun dropped below the horizon, the temperature plummeted and the wind picked up. Any thoughts of an easy stretch to the finish were gone.

Mentally I’d divided the ridge into three sections, with the two mountain refuge huts as beacons along the way. At the first hut we found Matt and his Mountain Safety Teams. We ate a bit of food and left quickly as we got cold. I badly underestimated the time it would take us to reach the second hut. Feeling reasonably good as I left hut one, I started to feel cold and tired after an hour and had to force myself to eat. I ran out of water and everything around us was frozen.

Steve had arrived at the Alston checkpoint with his micro spikes, and left without them, despite them being securely stowed in his bag. How he negotiated the icy ridge I’ll never know. The descent to hut two was steep and hazardous. There were three other runners at the hut. One decided he needed to sleep for a few hours to recuperate. Another made hot chocolate using the only liquid he had with him, orange water. An interesting concoction worthy of the final night of the race.

As we left, I made a serious navigational error, getting disorientated and leading us in the wrong direction. Fortunately Matt and the MST were sweeping along the ridge behind us and shouted us back. We continued up the Schil, the last climb of the race. The icy descent provided no respite for Steve. For the first time in the race he started to lose his sense of humour. The amount of extra energy needed to stay upright without micro spikes must have been phenomenal. I stopped at the first unfrozen rivulet and gulped water like a desert wanderer arriving at an oasis.

In a semi-delirious state I thought I was having a heart attack on the final climb into Kirk Yetholm. I remember trying to calculate whether an aneurysm would prevent me from crawling the last mile to the Border Inn. That’s what this race does to you. As we entered the town, the incongruently bright sodium street lamps lit up the village green and we could see a small clump of figures beckoning us over to the pub. We broke into a pained lope and had our photographs taken touching the wall. We’d finished The Spine, Britain’s most brutal race.

“We had done this thing we had set out to do, and instead of becoming larger because of the experience, we became smaller, more humble, more aware of how little we know: about the world in general, about ourselves specifically.”
Richard Benyo, The Death Valley 300

Done

The aftermath

Although the physical toll on my body was less than after tough 100 milers like the Lakeland, my feet swelled massively and I had a couple of blisters. I’d developed ulcers on my tongue and sores on my fingers towards the end of the race. It seemed as though my the body had been prioritising its core over the extremities. Focusing on what was essential for survival. That’s just how far we pushed it. To finish I had to delve more deeply into my mental and physical reserves than I have ever done before.

A deep fatigue took several weeks to pass. My wife said “I’m not expecting you back until the end of January” and she was right. I felt like a shell, a hollowed out husk without life or energy. I was banished to the spare room due to heavy night time sweating as my body repaired itself. The weight fell off me and looking in the mirror I struggled to recognise the gaunt face staring back.

Going back to work, the back slaps and congratulations were welcome but somehow hollow. I felt alone with my experience. No one could understand what I’d been through, the things I’d experienced, the amount I’d endured.

Reading the blogs that emerged after the race made me feel better. The band of crazy brothers were starting to speak at last. It was good to hear from that infinitesimally small group of people that would countenance such an undertaking.

The scale of the race makes it very hard to process mentally. Breaking the race down into micro-sections avoids thinking about the vast overall scale. This can short circuit even the toughest of minds. But little by little I started to piece the race back together. Hour by hour, step by step it became a coherent whole. A body of memory that will abide with me for the rest of my life. An experience so much more precious than any material possession.

I started to write those thoughts down. Eventually they turned into this blog, a way for me to codify the experience so it doesn’t slip away. For we were there that wild week in January when the Pennine Way turned 50. And we did something that only a few others will ever do and that only we will ever fully understand.

“What they had done, what they had seen, heard, felt, feared – the places, the sounds, the colours, the cold, the darkness, the emptiness, the bleakness, the beauty. ‘Til they died, this stream of memory would set them apart, if imperceptibly to anyone but themselves, from everyone else. For they had crossed the mountains…“
Bernard DeVoto, The Course of Empire (1952)