Montane Summer Spine Race 2022
Montane Summer Spine Race 2022
August 2021. I’m lying on my back unable to move. I have just come off my motorcycle on a green lane called the Salter Fell Road. It’s the kind of low speed / high consequence tumble that can unexpectedly turn bad really quickly, and it duly does. The remote nature of my location means there is limited access by vehicle and metalled roads are miles away, something that comes sharply to mind as I painfully realise that I am not walking or riding out of here. Eventually police arrive in a 4x4, followed later by the local Bowland and Pennine Mountain Rescue and finally a helicopter arrives to take me to Preston General where my 5 broken ribs, broken collar bone and internal bleeding are dealt with. Without everyone involved in that rescue I wouldn’t have been on the start line for the Summer Spine 2022 and I’m so grateful. Take a pause now and make a donation to your local MRT, you never know when you will need them.
Aside from the near-death thing, this incident precipitates a massive rupture in my running / hiking mojo which lasts for several months and is only partly restored by the purchase of an indoor bike trainer and a subscription to Zwift. Slowly a bit of fitness returns, I walk a bit and manage a few long days out in the hills. Running is definitely off menu, but after a fashion I’m able to keep moving and bimble through the spring, navigating Covid and Man-flu and suddenly it’s June and I’m in Edale for Summer Spine number 3. I failed in 2017 at Bellingham, completed in 2018 (the heatwave year) and 2022? Who knows? I honestly think my chances of completion are low, as does my wife Carole who cheerfully refuses to book a hotel in Kirk Yetholm for the finish and says that she’ll see me after my inevitable DNF around Tuesday. You gotta have faith.
Anyway, under-gunned, over-packed and over-weight, I’m on the start line again, and grateful to be here.
Edale to Hebden Hey
Living in Glossop I know this section really well, so GPS and poles remain stowed as if in a show of confidence to myself. I start near the back with the intention of moving backwards and take it easy over the first fields and have a pleasant chat with Mike as we approach Jacob’s Ladder. Up and over Kinder plateau feels good, the Downfall is barely visible and soon it’s the right turn at Mill Hill across the slabs. Just to get it out the way I break into a jog/walk pattern across the 2.5 mile stretch to the Snake crossing and on towards Bleaklow, which passes with it’s usual sense of meh. As summits go, it’s pretty unremarkable. Unlike the descent to Crowden which is remarkable for it’s ability to make me harrumph and tut in irritation due to it’s general twatishness. I know a fell runner could run down it, but to a clumsy oaf like me it’s just a pure waste of gravity, hard defeated on the way up, squandered on the descent.
Good things happen at Torside, which is three miles from my front door. Carole is there to greet me with the dogs Jax and Monty, and in a welcome show of possibly enforced Father’s Day affection, my daughter Meg and son Daniel too. No MRT presence at Torside this year so I quickly say ta-ra to the dogs, and as an afterthought the human family, and it’s off towards Black Hill.
Which is the usual schlepp. I have a chat with Richard McGrath about the challenges of training while on oil rig (you can’t just run around the heli-pad apparently: a bit too helicoptery) and the miles chip by, the river crossing after Laddow rocks a mere hop and skip, and the climb up to Black Hill pretty easy. Somewhere after here I think I bump into Heidi. The snappy climb after Wessenden is dispatched and then it’s just the three road crossings to navigate before burgery salvation.
Nicky’s Food Bar is a metal box on a fly tipping site next to the M62 that serves basic burgers. It roundly disproves the premise that to succeed in hospitality you need a unique menu, ambience and a great location. At that moment in time it was exactly what I needed: a beautiful greasy cheeseburger, water, chocolate and other good things. Spiners have coagulated around the inside and the outside in homage, and a mood of good-humoured reverie pervades. Early days, early days.
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| Burger me |
As much as I have a plan, I want to be into CP1 before 12 midnight and back out again promptly, without sleeping, and with this in mind I head off over the M62 bridge and onto the long approach via the reservoirs and fells towards Stoodley Pike. I can’t remember much about this bit apart from maybe treating myself to some tunes (The Hold Steady) and generally feeling marginally better than expected. I think I fall into step with Jay on the descent towards Hebden Bridge and the familiar landmarks tick by with a comforting familiarity: Land Rover rotting in field, farm with near feral dogs and 100% feral farmer, stony hairpin track, road crossing, shitty cobbled climb, waterfall in wood, scary gnome behind gate, horrible descent down narrow gulley, random mown lawn area with garden furniture on left, midgey river crossing etc, etc. It’s a parade of old friends, mostly ones that you haven't seen for a while and you don’t really like. Apart from the Land Rover. I like the Land Rover.
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| One careful owner. Low miles. |
The CP brings the usual burst of good things. Heat, light, food, friendly faces and respite. I don’t remember much but I do give in to a tidy sleep of just under an hour, made effective by ear plugs and an eye mask. I eat a good portion of lentil cottage pie and send thoughts and prayers to the vegans and vegetarians that have to eat this sort of thing every day. I have a nice chat with Checkpoint Queen Anne-Marie Lord and I eat more stuff, pack stuff and leave. In at 11.30 out at 02.40. Happy enough with that.
Hebden Hey to Hawes
The next stretch to Top Withens is again pretty familiar and I make decent progress, spurred by the new incentive of the unofficial Craven Tri food stop at Cowling which is announced on the trail with suitably encouraging messages. The stop is amazing – thank you folks. Comfy seats, expansive en-suite facilities in a hollow over the hill and bacon sandwiches followed by rice pudding. We arrive about 8 in the morning and as breakfast stops go it really couldn’t be better. It’s the perfect set up for the next big objective of the day – Gargrave.
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| True. But she doesn't have 59 years of poor life choices behind her |
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| Gimme Shelter. And bacon. |
There is a long road diversion into Gargrave that threatens to break the spirit. Miles of tarmac which send washes of pain up through battered feet, and a seemingly elastic road, always just one more corner, one more straight bit, one more group of houses before we finally pass the Gargrave sign, the Mason’s Arms then it’s a left, over the bridge and right to the Co-Op.
Ah yes, the Gargrave Co-Op. Never before has such a modest, slightly over priced convenience store been accorded such mythical status. Venerated in the winter race as a re-supply haven and hot pie dispensary, it is equally important in the summer. I’m now absolutely baking and dive inside to hang out by the chill cabinets, scoring a good haul of savouries and of course, the obligatory Callippo, in my mind the unofficial emblem of a hot summer Spine. Outside the store a motley crew including Tony Horne, Michael Beech, Jay and Heidi has assembled, eating, kit faffing and generally just enjoying a bit of down time. Kevin Otto arrives and does something unspeakable involving double cream. Weirdly, just like 2018 we seem to attract an itinerant old lady who quizzes us endlessly about what we are doing but seems reluctant to come with us. Spine groupies: oddly unwilling too get on the tour bus.
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| Pork Pies. The staple of any food stop. |
From Gargrave it's basically biding time until Malham. The flatlands of Airton and Hanlith drift by, remarkable for pretty much nothing and in two shakes of a lambs tail we are on the sharp road climb up to the final couple of fields into Malham. Where we find Michael eating hot chips from the pub, which he generously shares. Lovely.
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| 230 steps to heaven |
At the Cove, apropos of nothing I decide to count the steps to the top. 230. Nothing further to add on this: It's a decent number, but not a great one. We take the easy back route across the limestone pavement and over shoot slightly, tracking down the wall to find the stile into the next field. Unlike 2018 when I hated the next section, the rocky fields and slow climb up towards Malham Tarn seem to pass fairly easily, and after the dragging approach through the woods we are soon inside CP1.5 enjoying a cuppa with the checkpoint crew.
It's about 34 hours into the race when I leave and although I'm not really sleepy tired, it feels that a quick break would be prudent before Pen Y Ghent so Heidi and I bed down for a quick 30 minute bivvy bag kip by the trail about a mile out so past the checkpoint. It's a bit crap to be honest. The sun slips behind the hill and when we get up I'm a bit cold and creaky. We crack on towards Fountains Fell which is it's usual tedious self, forever veering off to the right, nothing much to see, no proper summit, a crappy descent and very light on fountains. Poor. Must try harder.
It does however make me quite a bit more tired, and thoughts turn to some kind of agricultural building that is rumoured to be on the road at the bottom which could be good for a kip. It remains a rumour: I absolutely ace not being able to find it, and trudge up the road to say hi to the Safety team stationed just before the turn off to Pen Y Ghent.
Although the conditions are pretty benign, once I'm past the slabbed ascent and onto the scramble proper I am reminded that it is actually a bit blowy, I am dog tired and falling backwards off one of the crags wouldn't be great. I track a few head torches around me and take the occasional pause at the really steep bits in order to remain broadly unruffled, as opposed to dangerously ruffled.
The descent is the usual joy. A long section of painful stepped tedium followed a long section of painful stony tracked tedium. Halfway down I fall into step with Michael and we descend together, chatting about this and that and from my point of view at least, pleased to just be passing the time. I have half a mind to have a kip on the grass outside the now closed Pen Y Ghent cafe but in the end I can't be arsed. We detour briefly into the toilets then it's back up the path behind the pub and onto the long climb out of Horton towards The Cam Road.
The first section of the climb is like the previous descent: pretty stony, hard going and wearing. I stop for a couple of 5 minute micro naps and a bit later on around Ling Gill I go for a full on bivvy bag nap of 20 minutes or so. I have been trying for a lighter pack so unlike previous years I don't have a mat or a sleeping bag and the slightly stony ground by the trail painfully reminds me of this. I'm aware of someone passing me so I can't have been fully out but I guess the stop helps in some small way. Mainly as a reminder to at least bring a mat next time.
I have lost contact Michael long ago but approaching the metalled section of the Cam High Road I am aware of a few head torches so I up the pace and eventually bump into Tony and Mike and we all regroup over the road section and onto the open fells before Hawes. Over the slow descent the sun comes up and I start to bake. Layers are shed, snacks munched and a quiet realisation descends that we do now have 100 miles or so under the belt. So that's nice.
The pleasures of CP2 at Hardraw still have to be earned however. Clumpy descent, steep road down, fields to traverse, cut through the village and out again and then the interminable trudge across the three fields to the checkpoint itself. On paper, an easy walk in off the fell, in practice a tiresome grind that never seems to end. But then? It does. Hello CP2!
First order of the day? well bacon, obviously. The cheery CP team at Camp Hardraw take food orders, bring drop bags and assign tents while I sit in a chair in blank gratitude for all the good shit happening.
The day is now heating up considerably and trying to sort kit on the floor in a hot tent is actually quite hard. I have sorted all of the stuff in my drop bag into different dry bags but they are all red so that doesn't really help. I prod vaguely at them until I have roughly what I need and crash out for an hour. My Hokas have given me slight blisters on the heel which I get dealt with by the friendly medics and I limber up to leave.
Hardraw to Middleton
There's a Spine photographer taking pictures on the slow climb away from the checkpoint and I put on my best race face, or "creaky old man walking slowly and resentfully up a hill" as the pose is better known. Still, it actually feels good to be back out on the trail again in a weird kind of way, and I slip into the train of 4 as we ascend towards Great Shunner. And fairly quickly get de-coupled. I'm a little off the pace of the other three and they pull away. I'm not too bothered though: I know where I'm going and I'm feeling OK.
The descent off the top off Great Shunner Fell is way longer than I remember and Michael, Tony and Mike pull further away into the distance. At the end of every flagged section I expect the track to drop down to the left and onto the boulder track and the road into Thwaite. It never happens, just another long down and up section. I could get the GPS out to check but I can’t be arsed. Instead I make it my mission to catch the group ahead which I slowly do over the course of the next hour or so. I re-join the group as we reach the gravel track down to the road which has mercifully been resurfaced since I was last here. Blissfully it now is now manageable sized stones rather than the tennis ball sized ankle breakers of yore. Progress is swift. Astonishingly, a few strides are actually run. Crikey
In Thwaite the effervescent Sarah from the safety team is around to say hi and top up water, both being very welcome. As the Kearton Country Hotel is open it seemed rude not to drop in, and pints of orange juice and lemonade are sunk and salty crisps devoured. There is a faint whiff of “are you local?” hanging like a pall over the place, and possibly the sound of an imprisoned mutant child scratching against an upstairs door. We leave refreshed, and slightly scared.
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| Tony |
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| Michael |
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| Mike |
And on to the next bit.
I am excited to share with anyone in the group new to this section just how shit the stretch between Thwaite and Keld is. I hate it with a passion. It starts with a sharp climb and is then chock full of bad things right until you are over the river and back onto the fells towards Tan Hill. It features a hideous camber, jagged rocks, pointless extended boulder fields, a super narrow path, midges, no discernible view and punctuated by the unique Stilgates. Named after smug alleged humourist and piano botherer Richard Stilgoe, these structures comprise a stone stile designed to tax your quads, and atop this, a heavily spring loaded mini-gate designed to then smack you in the shins. They are a joy. And there are about 50,000 of them on this stretch.
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| Thwaite to Keld. Lifetime Achievement Award for Britain's Shittest Path |
Our squad extends over the next miles with an unspoken expectation that we will regroup around Tan Hill. Which we duly do, just after they have stopped serving food. Rats. I was really looking forward to something hot. Instead I am wholly underwhelmed by a pickled egg. It’s the very definition of re-setting expectations so I burrow into my pack for some back up. Pork pie probably, the undoubted king of emergency ultra foods. We have a nice chat with the omniscient font of good cheer that is Nige Burke, and head back out to the joyous bog that is Sleightholme Moor.
Which is not joyous, but neither is it particularly boggy. There are a couple of squelchy bits but in the main navigation is fairly straightforward in the dusk and we make steady progress. On the road section Jay joins us and we muse on a quick sit down before heading on. Sadly the flat table-like surfaces by the side of the track all turn out to be hallucinations made of grass, and sitting by the trail simply invites a horde of midges so we crack on back over the fell towards God's Bridge and the A66 tunnel.
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| It's a portal to another dimension. And that's shit too. |
I tee up the idea of a quick kip at the walkers cabin a mile or so up the trail with the rest of the group and we make this our goal. On our arrival we find that it's full. Quite how such a big room with a dozen or so chairs can be filled with just three sleeping people is a puzzle but it has clearly been assertively colonised. We thread around the few remaining spaces trying to find a rest spot but it's very uncomfortable and a bit of a shit show. After 10 minutes we decide to leave. As we are going, Heidi - who turns out to be one of the sleeping figures - bounces up and asks to come with us. I grumpily agree to hang on while she gets her stuff packed and the others head up the hill. Cold after a largely pointless stop, I'm happy to warm up by chasing up the hill to regroup.
We are now a squad again, albeit a straggling dysfunctional one. In order to try and keep everyone awake and moving, games are suggested and taken up with limited success. An A to Z of European cities quiz comes to a juddering halt when no-one can think of a city past the letter C. Tony offers some riddles to the absolute befuddlement of everyone and despite that abject failure, then proposes subjects for debate. I am handed the opportunity to comment on the nuances of gender identity politics – something for which I am woefully under-equipped, but I cis-manfully have a go regardless. We are comical in our ineptitude, dog tired, but somehow still moving. Hours, miles and reservoirs pass. Tony tells me the origin story of Hannah's Meadow and we take another quick stop in a reservoir car park. Mike decides to stay for an extended kip and we later find that he has to retire at Middleton. Tough luck.
Jay and I find ourselves on our own and we push on to Middleton eventually hitting the road at the bottom of the steep descent as the day starts to heat up again. In my self appointed role as harbinger of bad shit, I warn him of the long tedious walk into the CP through the wood by the river but in the end it's not too bad. The branches aren't too low, the roots fail to trip me up and the midges keep their distance. The banner marking the left hand turn comes into view and good things start to happen again.
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| Arriving at Middleton, 07.04 Wednesday June 22nd |
The CP crew bring lovely food - fried eggs and porridge - while I kit faff in the gazebo outside and get a change of clothes together. Although there are tents outside to crash in, there are also dormitories inside - a much cooler option. Despite the slight feeling of 1950s child abuse coming from the agricultural bunks and wipe down mattresses, I get a solid 90 minutes of restorative sleep and after some quick foot care from the lovely medic AC and I'm back out on the trail with Jay.
Middleton to Alston
The next section from Middleton to Alston packs in a lot of topographical drama and is probably one of the best on the Pennine Way. Leaving the checkpoint the benign meandering trail quite quickly reveals the sights of Low Force and High Force and Jay and I stop for pictures like a couple of tourists before heading out open country and the long approach to Cauldron Snout.
The Stag Inn pub in Dufton is fantastic. Jay and I are a little off the pace so we don’t quite make last food orders but Sarah, from the Spine Diplomatic Service (Dufton Embassy Division) and enters trade negotiations with the pub’s landlady. After tense scenes at the bar, she returns beaming, with bowls of chips secured. They arrive and they are amazing. Baking hot, fat fluffy, salty chips which get covered in sauce and mayo and absolutely eviscerated. This is just what was needed. We assemble outside. Mission: Cross Fell.
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| Just resting the eyes |
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| Cross Fell sir? It was absolutely livid... |
The long approach to Cross Fell is a bit of a drag punctuated by weird conversational meanders. There have been occasionally bursts of an odd taka-taka-taka sound and Michael is forcefully confident that the noise is coming from badgers in the distance. I’m not a military man but it sounds like gunfire to me. Tony, who is an ex-military man, agrees that it sounds like a GPMG coming from the range near Cauldron Snout. We don’t explore whether it was badgers firing the guns.
At the climb proper up to Knock Old Man Michael sets a good pace and I basically hang on as we climb into the darkening and cooling evening. I’m pleased to simply just be following at this point. Even though I have comfortably done this section in the dark before, concentrating on only the next step has an almost nihilistic simplicity that is very welcome.
We hit a bit of a cairn which we mistake for the top before hitting the summit proper, where, in the deepening darkness we find Bea who has admirably navigated here using just a map and a compass bearing. She does however look really cold and we encourage and assist her to warm up a bit. She later confirms that she was absolutely fine so maybe a bit of mansplaining went on there… As a team of 5 we then head off to join the dots between Lower Dun Fell, Great Dun Fell and Cross Fell itself, picking across the slabs and occasional bogs as the wind picks up.
Although it is summer and the weather has been benign, at 800m+ of altitude everything gets a little bit cooler, a bit more blowy and potentially more dangerous as we discover when we approach Cross Fell. The summit itself is a wide domed circle, ringed by a rocky escarpment which signals that the climb is about to top out. As we clamber over the boulders and into the clag I occasionally glimpse a light in the far distance and I’m sure I can here a voice carried on the wind. We head towards the light, taking us slightly off course and hear the odd shout again, clearly someone trying to get our attention. We shout back in reassurance and a few minutes later we find Heidi on the floor in her bivvy bag, wearing all her layers but still cold and in a state of some distress. Having reached the summit she has been circling around but failed to find the shelter (actually only 100m away or so) and the subsequent route down off the summit.
Jay immediately snaps into MRT mode and takes control of the situation, finding Heidi another layer and getting her up and moving. At the shelter we regroup in the section out of the wind and I whip out the Jetboil to make her a cup of tea. It’s a salutary moment and I’m simply glad that there were enough level and capable heads around to ensure that things concluded safely. If you ever have cause to question the mandatory kit list for this race, remember this. Enough said.
Now in a group of six we head to Greg’s Hut, which contrary to some rumours, is fully open for business. It’s dry, tidy, warmish and a wonderful refuge after our mini adventure. I make a freeze dried meal and a cuppa and enjoy a bit of a sit down. Bea goes for a quick kip and wakes with a plan to finish the race on Friday so that she can complete some complex logistical plan involving her daughter, a an old Mini, some cousins and driving straight to North Wales. Using my advanced training as a demotivational speaker, I explain that there is cock all chance that we will be finished on Friday and she needs to sack off the plan. You’re welcome.
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| Is Greg about please? |
The descent to Garrigil is a chore. The group disperses, the track is a rollercoaster of rocky crap and that eventually turns to tarmac crap. My feet ache and I’m frankly ready for a proper sit down and some breakfast. I catch up with Jay, we go the wrong way over the bridge and something happens with chickens but I cant remember what. At least the approach to Alston is largely grassy and more comfortable underfoot even if the last section through the woods is interminable.
Once again the CP is a delight. During my stay I have three portions of the famous lasagne and lots of other good things including foot care from medic AC, a shower, a sleep and a change of pants. It is indeed the little things that count. Despite his best intentions for a rapid turnaround Jay manages to oversleep and once again without much planning Jay, myself, Tony and Michael head out together: Bellingham or Bust.
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| AC and Shannon doing miracles with needles and tape. I'm not sure that all these feet are mine. |
Alston to Bellingham
Everyone knows that this leg unofficially starts at the petrol station over the road from the CP and I bob in to hoover up a pair of Callipos and a selection of savoury treats to set me up for the travails ahead. Fairly quickly the group disperses again and I find myself on my own for what turns out to unexpectedly be one of the hardest parts of the race.
On paper this next section up to Greenhead isn't particularly challenging but in practice it was something of a desperate slog. Isaac's Tea Trail and Blenkinsopp Common are largely featureless swathes of nothing, punctuated by odd little incidents. I'm menaced by aggressive cows and have to scramble through a wood, I manage to let my Garmin power off and nearly have a little cry, I note that Rastaman Ralph and I both share an interest in old cars and chickens, it starts to absolutely piss down and my feet get soaked. Something involving railways and tunnels. Boxes of treats left my nice people. In recollection it's an oddly disconnected narrative, devoid of any through line. Helen, the Angel of Slaggyford, is however a wonderfully crisp memory. Famous for supporting Spine racers from her house on the corner in Slaggyford, she welcomes me into her front garden with cold drinks and a plate of home made tray bakes which I gratefully hoover up. Thank you.
Somewhere I have a chat with Carole on the phone while she is on her way home from work, so it must have been early evening. It's both welcoming and disorientating to know that somewhere else normal life is going on regardless, oblivious to the race bubble around me. I feel a little bit guilty.
I come across a golf course which I had forgotten all about. It's now starting to get dark and I'm in a bit of a mood. My feet are soaked from long wet grass, the earlier rain and poor footwear choice. Despite the heat I shouldn't have abandoned the waterproof socks after day one and I am now paying the price. As I skirt the green I notice a little golf shed of some kind, and go to investigate.
I know absolutely nothing about golf apart from the appalling clothes, so I have no idea what this little open sided hutch is meant be for, but I immediately co-opt it as a spot for a bit of a re-set. It's perfect: I put on another layer, have a cuppa, a samosa and some chocolate and things start to improve considerably, at least for a while. I tidy up and crack on.
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| That's better... |
A steep descent down a grassy hill reintroduces me to the trail. I think there may have been a railway crossing and some houses involved too but it's honestly blurry until I find myself at Greenhead and a welcome from the safety team. I make a frankly half arsed attempt to dry my socks in the hand dryer in the toilets but concede that was mainly a procrastination tactic to avoid getting going again.
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| FYI: This doesn't work |
Having gone the wrong way down Hadrian's Wall in 2017 in an exhausted funk, I'm keen not to make that mistake again. I do however have a genuine foggy moment when I can't decide whether I should be walking to the left of the wall, on the wall, or to the right, so I try all three. to the left is a precipitous drop and maybe a bit fatal, the top is simply uncomfortable so I settle for the right. Once I have sorted my basic approach to it, the wall is very much as I remember it, and I remember it with a deep loathing. It is immediately full of switchbacks comprising deep dips followed by steep climbs that repeat joylessly. Romans: shit hot at roads and orgies, not so good at building a flat wall.
After a few switchbacks the wall does level out a bit and I forgive it's opening aggression and settle into a purposeful march in the darkness, spurred on by the hint of a headtorch or two in the distance. Near a farm I see a dead dog on the ground, lying on it's side, tongue lolling out of it's snarling jaw and still wearing it's harness. I'm absolutely convinced that it is real but I'm scared to poke it with my pole in case it re-animates and chases me down the trail like they do. I move on and don't look back.
In my mind I imagine that the wall just kinda runs out and you turn left into the forest, with a smile and a spring in your step. Obviously that isn't what happens. The switchbacks start again, and even the possibility of being chased by an angry zombie dog doesn't stop my pace from dwindling. But then, an unexpected dose of good stuff: I top out one of the switchbacks to see three head torches resting on the wall in dip below. Amazingly it's Tony, Jay and Michael: excellent, some company for a bit.
Eventually the track does of course veer northwards from the wall around Crag Lough and we head towards Bellingham, the group falling in and out of contact as we traverse the fells and forests into the warming day. A painfully steep short climb is the price to pay for the delights of Horneystead Farm up ahead, and unexpectedly a photographer pops up. I'm probably not looking my best but I grimace heroically.
Horneystead is of course great. This refuge is free to use for anyone on the the Pennine Way and offers drinks, snacks, water, a toilet and comfy seats. I regroup with Jay and Bea and enjoy a 20 minute break, happy - in my mind at least - to be just a short bimble away from the next checkpoint at Bellingham.
Obviously I'm not. I leave with Bea and we travel roughly together down and towards the long approach to Shitlington Crags and the radio tower. I'm grateful for the company but I'm getting really hot and very tired, something that I share with Bea about every 30 seconds. At the road past the Crags, Bea pulls ahead, probably to escape, and I descend into a deep mental pit as I cross the last couple of hills. The heat has crept up on me, I can feel my wet feet skooshing around in my boots, my blisters hurt, I'm dog tired and I'm feeling very woozy. Progress, even over the easy terrain is painfully slow and I really feel done in. Although it's not yet mid morning the sun feels unbearable and I start talking myself into a bit of dark place.
At the checkpoint I find a medic and explain how I feel. I am conflicted. I am experienced enough to know when things aren't right but I'm also self aware enough to know that I'm a bit of a wuss and sometimes just need a word with myself. I do genuinely wonder if I have heat stroke or something, but I probably just need an hour in the shade and plenty to drink. Turning to an expert for an objective opinion seems sensible. We have a chat, vital stats are monitored, a blood test is taken and I'm pronounced to be OK. Having talked myself onto the ledge, medicine has calmly talked me off again. Damn. Best go sort my kit then. Pippa does lovely things with my feet, I sleep a little bit and dry some kit in the late morning sun.
And, just before noon, it's off again for the home run.
Bellingham to Kirk Yetholm
After the inevitable check in at the Co-Op for savoury snacks and over-priced batteries it's time to get out of time, my super-heated trauma as I approached the checkpoint now thankfully just a memory. As the trail peels away from the road I remember that there is now actually quite a long climbing section that gradually ascends 200m or so. What I don't remember is that a lot of this is desperately miserable, in particular the section of narrow track that skirts a section of forest clearance that is truly bleak. Respite briefly comes again from SST star Sarah who is playing tunes from her car and taking requests. I opt for Guns of Navarone by The Skatalites and continue up the hill at a light skank before it all goes a bit grumpy again.
I lose track of time and maybe bump into Bea again and somehow it's already getting dark again. I continue down the darkening forest trails, the surface good but painful on the feet regardless. I long for a spongy grass carpet. I’m aware of Thomas and Christopher up ahead tightly wrapped from the midges and moving at a similar speed to me. My gait has become wildly erratic, my right hand side collapsing on itself as if there is a spring between my shoulder and the outside of my knee. My naturally inclination is to curve rightwards at the hip, by body forming a crude letter C. It is only by actively pushing hard on my right hand pole that I am able to remain approximately vertical. I occasionally careen off to the ditch to my right, cursing and muttering to the indifferent forest.
It is clear by now that I am desperately tired. The hour or so of sleep in the tent at Bellingham was great, but has simply not put enough back into the tank. At another point in the race I would simply stop by the trail, but there is no way that I am surrendering to the midges. If they want a piece of me they need to keep up and eat me on the move. Which when travelling at less than 2mph isn’t actually that hard. I trudge on, they feast.
I don’t have great recall of what to expect at the monitoring station at Byrness, simply that it will be outside rather than the very pleasant indoor B&B location that has been used in previous years. The lure of a break from this interminable forest shit lures me on, albeit with muted expectations of what is ahead. After an eternity, some lights blink in the distance and I’m soon to find out.
It’s fucking ace.
The CP staff hover around cooing welcoming entreaties, wrapped in midge nets and dispensing good cheer. John Bamber approaches me like an avuncular cosmic beekeeper and thrusts a Snickers into my hand. It appears that I am on some kind of a watch list due to my crisis check in at Bellingham and the chief medic commands that I will not be able to leave until I have had a sleep, a cup of tea and half a Victoria Sponge. I panic slightly, not remembering Victoria Sponge being on the mandatory kit list. Thankfully one appears and I am scrutinised while I eat a quarter of it, with the other quarter wrapped to go.
“To go” is the nearby toilets, a location I know to be near the edge of the forest, and therefore close to my longed for ascent onto the Cheviot, and the home run. The toilets are fine, and midge free, but the floor is made from concrete reinforced with ultra-hardium, a compound specially formulated to make any contact with it, particularly via the hip-bone, as unpleasant as possible. Some sleep happens, but mostly it’s a futile rotisserie of discomfort as I spin around trying to get comfortable. At least my feet get some respite and I leave – after devouring the second quadrant of cake – modestly refreshed.
As we exit the forest I find myself loosely in step with Bea and Tony and an unspoken alliance forms. There is palpable joy as we cross the road and onto the initial climb through the forest, daylight slowly appearing and the unremitting drudge of Kielder behind us. Indeed there is so much joy that we get lost, and have to re-trace our steps, losing 20 minutes or so. Whatever. We get back on track and pop out of the forest to the right, ready for the final climb up to the fence-line and the Cheviot proper. To me this is a great landmark, the point in 2018 that I knew I was going to finish. Going through the gate I’m feeling good, albeit with nagging feeling that it’s not over yet. Indeed, it’s a whole 24 miles of not-over-yet, across the bleakest and most remote part of the course. OK, time to strap in and get it done.
We break it down into the three obvious chunks: Gate to Hut 1, Hut 1 to Hut 2, and Hut 2 to finish. There you go, just 14 words of distance. can't be that bad.
After the euphoria of crossing the Rubicon onto the Cheviots proper, the rolling hills quickly remind me that I’m actually pretty tired, both mentally and physically. It has now been getting on for 24 hours since any meaningful sleep and that was only an hour or so at best. Bea, Tony and I string out, occasionally encountering Stephan the German. After a 5 minute micro nap somewhere spongy and warm we resume with Bea in the lead, followed, at increasingly stretched distances by myself and then Tony. We regroup occasionally but as we resume the same formation plays out. I make a concentrated effort to catch up Bea which I do as we approach Hut 1. Tony disappears from view but I assume that he will plod on solo or team up with Stephan. Sadly I later discover that his race ends soon after, a victim of destroyed feet. I’m gutted that he didn’t make it, he has been a great companion.
And so three become two.
I discover that Bea is a practice manager for a veterinary surgery and when be both quickly agree that our favourite fictional vet is Jakob from the Archers, I know that we will probably be ok. She suffers my near Tourettic swearing and moaning with admirable forbearance while I chip away at her urbane exterior with mindless waffle. It appears to work and we slip into a groove, driven by her impressive pace and consistency. That's my perspective though. Bea’s take may simply be “stalked by moaning wanker for 20 miles”
At hut one we are well looked after by Kendra and her hut buddy
and we have a quick cuppa and time check. I know that hat the cut off is 20.00
and we theoretically we have loads of time but that is assuming that we don’t dick
about. However dicking about is the one thing that I absolutely excel at, so I
will need to keep this in check. We head on towards Windy Gyle with a renewed focus
and I have to say, quite a determined pace. The game is now very much on, and I
feel invigorated as we march on for a few hours
Hut two is hosted by Spine friends John and Alec and it’s great
to see them for a brief stop and I pillaged their supplies of dark chocolate:
unexpectedly tasty.
It’s all 7.2 miles of downhill from here! Except it isn’t obviously,
there’s the small matter of the Schill to get over first. It’s a relentless
grind, but ultimately it’s just one more thing to be endured after nearly a week
of similar things. In the scheme of things it ain’t all that.
The “Kirk Yetholm 4.5 miles sign” is the usual tease: I’ve
been deceived by its casual dimunition of what is remaining before, and I quietly
acknowledge that the finish is still a couple of hours away at this pace. On
the final approach to the metalled road into KY we pass Clive and Helen sat by
the trail and feel slightly guilty going past them so late in the race. Only slightly
guilty mind: a scalp’s a scalp after all :)
The final road section is a proper grind and finally
confirms something that has been nagging at me all week. Everything is indeed
within walking distance, and walking is fine to complete a race like this, but
it just takes absolutely fucking ages! It’s not an earth-shaking revelation,
but boy do you need to be ready for it if you are going to take something like
this on as a back-of-packer like me.
I’m grateful for the last climb into the village and as the
finish flags come into view I am quietly chuffed that I have actually made it.
Bea and I make a concerted jog down the grassy hill and I spy Carole waiting to
cheer me in - amazing. I collapse into the wall of the Border Hotel and give it a big
smacker. No tongues, obvs, it’s only the
second time we’ve met.
Huge thanks to all my fellow travellers and the wider Spine
family of medics, CP staff, Safety team, logistics and HQ for another brilliant
experience. It really is something very special and I’m grateful to be part of
it.
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