Summer Spine Challenger North 2024
Summer Spine Challenger North 2024
Prologue
After resoundingly failing to complete the Winter Challenger South earlier this year due to an inability to leave the Mason’s Arms in Gargrave, I quite logically entered an even harder race, the Winter Challenger North in January 2025.
I figure if it hasn’t got Gargrave in it I’ll be alright yes? With this shaky proviso in place I decided I needed a recce of the Challenger North route and rather than faff around with complicated travel logistics I thought that doing the Summer Challenger North would cover off all that recce nonsense in one go.
I have actually finished the full summer Spine twice, so what was in store wasn’t exactly all new, but I figured that seeing the northern section before January 2025 would be welcome revision nonetheless. What has changed since my last full finish in Summer 2022 is that I have leaned heavily into the strategy of not really training, and I have become rather good at it. I avoid running at all costs, but do reluctantly fit in the odd long hiking day in the Peak District hills where I live. I do also fit in a couple of sessions a week on the bike trainer, chasing online strangers in the virtual worlds of Zwift. I did actually complete a park run, but it was truly ghastly.
Hoping, as ever, that charm and a winning smile would triumph over this shoddy preparation, I headed to Hardraw for the start, chauffeured up by my daughter Meg, who I had guilted into driving. Father's Day privileges and that.
Kit check was all done without any issues and then it was back to the rather excellent Chapel Gallery Bunkhouse in Hawes for extended kit faffing and pre-race bants with my 3 room mates who were all in the same race. A couple of pints and a Yorkshire pudding supper rounded things off nicely, and it was off to bed. I don't think I snore, but I was nonetheless dubbed The Exorcist by my roommates the next morning on account of my alleged unholy night-time grunts and incantations. Sorry.
Leg 1: Hardraw to Middleton
Lucy from our bunkhouse squad has kindly arranged taxis from Hawes to Hardraw so we head off to the meeting point bright and breezy at 06.30. Also bright and breezy at this time are the midges who seem quite happy to be up and about, and getting into their daily routine of being twats. More on them later.
At the start, runners from the Challenger South are steadily coming through to finish their race, looking both exhausted and delighted, as you do. I know only too well how slowly those last couple of miles across the fields from Hawes to Hardraw seem to pass, and I'm happy for them to finish..
Unbelievably I do actually have a plan, of sorts. Having checked my times from full summer Spine finishes in 2018 and 2022 I am slightly worried about the cut offs for the Challenger North which seem to be both slightly front loaded and a bit harsh with the overall cut off coming down from 96 hours to 90. I have done some calculations based on a ridiculous home brew pace chart involving Nasimith's Rule, previous times between CPs, anticipated fatigue, DAF (Dicking About Factor), last CP exit times and other random ingredients. I carefully laminate several copies of this plan and obviously don't look at them once. Not really in keeping with the relaxed approach of the seasoned trail flaneur.
After tracker fitting and some hanging about, we are off bang on 08.00 into a slightly overcast but temperate North Yorkshire morning. I know it's a solid 4 or 5 miles to the top of Great Shunner Fell and I settle into a steady hike at the back of the pack, happy to be finally moving.
Although I am very comfortable being at the back, Great Shunner pulls no punches in pointing that fact out with mocking clarity. As the initial gravel track turns to fell, I can see miles up the rolling hills in front as a trail of runners disappear into the distance. Behind me however I can only see about 4 people, and they look to be gaining on me. Whatevs. 158 miles to go. Easy tigers.
As I top out I fondly remember a sunny evening stop for a freeze dried meal in the summit shelter a few years back and I'm tempted to revisit the experience. It's actually a bit drizzly though, and I have covered less than five miles: even for me, a committed idler, a stop now would be a little premature.
The descent is unremarkable and I spend most of the time mentally preparing myself to be affronted again about how annoying the section between Thwaite and Keld is. Indeed, as I hit the road I actually jog down the hill FFS, eager to be annoyed and swearing at the twatty stiles, rocks and branches that haunt the approach to Keld. As it happens, I take a wrong turn across the meadow leaving Thwaite and shamefully have to back track. On the sharp climb I pass a runner who has had to DNF with stomach problems already. Tough luck.
In my mind after Keld it's basically rolling hills to Tan Hill but I have forgotten the punchy climb out of the valley that comes first. Once up though, it does indeed roll nicely and I put some music on, happily marching along the track as the day starts to warm up. I say happily, but that's relative. Despite the comparatively benign weather over course of the race, heavy rain over the past few weeks has made unexpected parts of the route a total bog fest. Randomly swearing at mud for extended periods of time becomes part of the rhythm of the race.
Tan Hill is a welcome site although once again I'm disappointed not to see Ted Moult. There is however sunshine, tables at which to sit and faff and a general atmosphere of cheery reverie. It's now just gone 1pm, definitely lunch time, and I down a pint of full fat Coke, a Ginsters pasty and some chocolate. Lunch of champions. I also meet power duo Siobhan and Justine for the first time amongst a gaggle of runners coming and going.
Heading off, Sleightholme Moor aka King of Bogs weirdly doesn't actually feel too bad, although I do obviously plunge in up to my knees on occasion. Occupational hazard of this section I guess. I'm moving reasonably well and actually pass a couple of people on the approach to God's Bridge and the A66.
The next sections roll on and I honestly can't remember much about them apart from ignoring the walkers barn after the A66, and instead stopping at the very welcome informal tuck shop at Clove Lodge, which for some reason I have never noticed before. It's great though, and I tuck into some snacks from the impressively orderly Tupperware boxes, make a donation, and get a mug of tea to go. I forget the name of the couple running it but they are super-lovely. Thank you.
Rolling down the hill, cup of tea in hand I am passed by eventual full spine winner Chris Cope and we have a chat. He is disarmingly pleasant and after a while he is off up the tarmac climb from Hannah's Meadow like a machine and into the distance. Well done.
I realise that we are now about 30 miles in and it's actually going OK. I'm a bit fed up with the mud but nothing is feeling too broken and chatting shit with Justine and Siobhan has whiled away a few hours. I wasn't expecting to learn about doctoring in Didsbury or the dynamics of the traybake business during lockdown, but our meandering conversations are all the more enjoyable for it. We drop down the long hill into Middleton, briefly hit the road and then it's just the tedious trudge along the river Tees towards the CP at Low Way, eventually clocking in at just after 8pm. Happy enough with that. A solid 6 hours inside the cut off, a margin which I was eventually able to carry through to the finish. Happy days.
I slip into a familiar checkpoint routine, which in my mind is a finely crafted list of tasks, executed with military precision and laser focus. In reality of course it's actually a sweating man staring into a big drop bag in a state of bewildered confusion, hoping for divine guidance. Eventually I get my shit together and head in from the midge infested tent to the indoor kitchen area for some very restorative curry and rice, and an absent minded prod at my feet. As usual the CP team are all wonderful and I take advantage of one of the wipe down bunks upstairs for a 10 minute micro nap and then prepare for exit. Kit check done, midge net on and I'm back out on the trail after no more than 2 hours. Jolly good.
Leg 2: Middleton to Alston
I always think that the section of the Pennine Way from Middleton to Dufton delivers the most sustained topographical drama of the whole route, and despite it being nearly dark, I'm looking forward to it. As it happens, apart from Kielder forest later I can't actually remember it ever being properly dark during the whole race. Nonetheless, head torch on and best foot forward, it's on with gradual climb along the Tees, taking in Low Force, High Force and eventually Cauldron Snout.
"Eventually" is doing a lot of heavy lifting here. Before Cauldron Snout there is of course the hellish boulderfield that skirts the river beneath Falcon Clints. It's probably not even a mile long but it is a concentrated bucket of toss, with no obvious route and I flail across it like a drunken baby giraffe, poles waving everywhere, cursing geology. The duckboard sections deliver brief sweet relief but then more boulders appear, indolently hanging out in clusters at the water's edge, just getting in the way and being annoying.
Eventually it is indeed done, and having re-grouped with Justine and Siobhan we are at the foot of Cauldron Snout, which we scamper up with little drama and some satisfaction.
I know that the section from Cow Green reservoir to High Cup Nick is a solid 5 miles or so with some rolling climbs on the path up towards the firing ranges. The comfort of CP1 is now well behind me and I'm starting to feel a bit jaded. I settle into brisk march regardless, focussing on keeping what pace I can just to keep my mind active. I talk to myself a bit, but I have to concede that I'm terrible company.
We spread out over the course of half a mile or so and pass High Cup Nick as a liminal night turns almost imperceptibly into dawn. The dramatic valley is half shrouded in mist but still spectacular. Dufton beckons, 4 miles down the track. I faff with some food and crack on, hopeful for some proper breakfast at the bottom of the hill.
As we descend, Siobhan points out two men engaged in a fashion shoot on the edge of the cliff above the valley. This seems improbable, but she is resolute until we realise that it is actually two Spiners who have bivvied out here and are standing up putting their kit away. Easy mistake to make I guess, but I preferred the first explanation. I'm now quite excited to be in Dufton with the promise of the Post Box Pantry and a hot breakfast. After the tedious rocky descent into the village it's of course closed, and I have to make do with a sit down by the public toilet instead. Not quite as good. I throw together a freeze dried chilli as a consolation breakfast, fill my bottles and head out on my own towards Cross Fell.
I've been across Cross Fell a few times, but more often in the dark rather than during the day. It's a mixed blessing. Last time I remember just following the footsteps of the man in front, simply feeling the hills rather than seeing them. Now though, I can see the hills too, and they look properly lumpy. Before the hills proper there is the road up to the farm and the ascent through the Boulevard of Bollocks, an uphill canopy of trees, fallen branches, midges and glutinous mud. It's a slippery prologue to the steeper climbs ahead. Which arrive in short order. An arrow straight climb up a long track before a quad busting grassy slope to the first top, gaining 600m in a mile or two. I award myself a little morale stop every 10 minutes or so, leaning on my poles and huffing. I figure that I could still sprint the next 100 miles or so if I do change my race plan and decide to target a podium finish.
The next couple of hours pass in something of a blur: Knock Old Man, Great Dun Fell, Cross Fell... I'm lucid, slightly detached, but mostly happy to be trudging along on my own, even if I am getting a bit irritated with losing height, only to have to go back up again. Stupid hills. And bogs, I seem to find some bogs as well. I mean, it's 800m up, why isn't the water just rolling down instead of hanging around? Stupid gravity not pulling its weight again. Yeah OK: I was maybe a bit grumpy.
After some more chuntering to myself I'm approaching Cross Fell summit clambering over the boulders just before the dome like top. I swear that some of the boulders have been painted red, marking an optimal route, which I follow with some success. Genuinely not sure if this was a hallucination or not.
I don't particularly need to, but I call into Greg's Hut just because. It's actually quite cold inside and I'm soggy from a fall so I just have a quick chomp on some random snacks from my front pouch and get going again. I hate the long track down to Garrigill and I'm keen to get it out of the way.
As I start the descent I remember that I have downloaded one of the Lord of the Rings books on Audible, figuring that a long walk with nothing to do might be a good time to listen to a book about a long walk and some dragons. I have no particular interest in Tolkien and I like to think that I'm open minded, but Jesus H.Baggins within minutes I want to rip off my own head. The stony track is battering my feet while narrator Andy Serkis batters my ears with endless scene setting waffle about hobbits, where they came from, where they now live and what they eat. 30 minutes in and he's now banging on about Tolkien's various revisions of the book and how it's not an allegory for WWII. I DON"T CARE, GIVE ME SOME WIZARDS OR SOMETHING! After 40 minutes I consider hiding behind a wall in case a hobbit comes past and I can kill it and wear its skin. I turn Serkis off and put all my energy back into being annoyed with the path.
A couple of hours later and everything is immeasurably better. It is early afternoon, it's pleasantly sunny and I am sat outside Annie's in Garigill with a cup of tea and some biscuits. It's here that I encounter for the first time the group that I refer to in my mind as the MRT posse : Cleo, Emma, Jon and Gabby. We aren't formally introduced but briefly swop stories before the final push to Alston CP and the promise of lasagne.
I know that it's only 4 or 5 miles to go, but general fatigue and a diversion up and to the right of the usual route conspire to make it a bit of a schlep. The new route features some cruel transverse mud slides and loads of stiles, obvs. Entering the CP though, it's quickly forgotten and things start to improve. 31 hours in, and I feel comfortable awarding myself a 4 hour stop.
Over the course of my stop I have a shower, a Smidge glow up, 5 portions of lasagne, a lot of tea and two of hours of sleep / horizontal resting, my only real downtime of the whole race. I do a whole lot of kit faffing and ask the medics for some foot advice. The feet aren't too bad but I do have hot spots and some blisters so I break out the hypodermic and lance them so enthusiastically that I not only drain the blister but stab the skin underneath. Twice. Some moleskin and K tape hides the bloody evidence and all is good again.
I'm now vaguely mindful of other folks around me in the race but not really in a group as such so I just get going again when I'm ready, without too much reference to anyone else. For this next leg I treat myself to a box fresh pair of Hoka Speedgoat Mids and get back at it, my 6 hour buffer still roughly in place.
Leg 3: Alston to Bellingham
This leg of any iteration of the Spine race unofficially starts at the garage over the road from the CP where I stock up with a banana milk and some assorted savouries, and for once I don't leave my poles by the till.
Although I am warm, fed and rested as I leave, I do nonetheless have a slight sense of foreboding about the next section, and the first 5 or 6 miles to Slaggyford duly turn out to be a bit of a ball ache. The terrain isn't too challenging but I'm annoyed by everything: stupid giant flowers, painful road into Slaggyford etc. In the village I have a little sit down on a bench for a pasty but the midges are out to play again so I don't hang around. After Slaggyford I miss a turn and spend a painful twenty minutes going up and down a fence on the wrong side of the stream as darkness falls. After several failed attempts to teleport over it, I end up doing the obvious thing and retrace my steps to the missed turn.
I know that it's about 10 miles or so to Greenead and Hadrian's Wall but I also remember that it's not much fun. My memory doesn't disappoint. A motley crew has reformed and we traverse miles of bogs, flirt with railways and tip toe through farms with variable agility and good humour through the group. Rastaman Ralph's yard is the usual mix of old cars, livestock and a slight whiff of slasher movie. There are some very cute ducklings which brighten the moment, but I have the distinct feeling that some of their siblings may be on a barbecue around the corner so I leave, marching with renewed purpose up the next hill.
As the day warms I start to regret my clothing choices, and indeed, my wider life choices. Although the worst roller coaster sections of Hadrian’s Wall are now behind me, even this relatively easy rolling section of wall is causing me to heat up uncomfortably.
With some sort of leg/midge protection in mind I left Alston in full length hiking trousers and I’m consequently starting to feel slightly moist in various folds and crevices. No fear I think, I had the foresight to throw a pair of shorts into my pack so I bid a temporary adieu to Siobhan and Justine and plonk down on a nearby rock to change. I pull down my trousers, loosen my boots and open my pack to pull out… nothing. It's chock full of bivvy bags, spare layers and chocolate raisins, but definitely no shorts. Damn, must have left them in my drop bag after all.
The disappointment fades as I sit back on the rock, laconically letting the breeze ruffle through my undercroft for a bit. It’s quite agreeable, albeit not great for onwards progress up the trail. As I sit, a large Australian gentleman walks past, seemingly unfazed by the sweaty oaf sat on a rock with his trousers round his ankles. Being shamed by a civilian, I begrudgingly pack up and walk with him for a while, chatting about his UK trip and something involving his family and Newcastle. He’s clearly a strong hiker and I struggle to keep pace with him up the next rolling hills.
Eventually the wall is behind me and turning north, the forest is in front. This always feels good, knowing that Stonehaugh, Horneystead and eventually, Bellingham, are all in spitting distance. If you are really good at spitting.
I cross the rolling open land and enter the forest track in pretty good spirits, on my own, but happy to be, and generally moving ok even if I’m now pretty sleepy. Something I realise when I fail to spot the right hand turn off the main trail and across the section of felled trees. When I realise, I’m a good few hundred metres up the track. Still, just turn round and retrace steps right? No, obviously. I consult the GPS and plot a new route involving two sides of a triangle and what turn out to be several long and deep puddles straddling the track. Luckily I manage to fuck that up too, missing another turn and achieving absolutely nothing. Reluctantly I do a 180 and retrace my steps, half an hour wasted and my navigational shame recorded for ever on Strava. Again.
I can’t quite remember, but it is somewhere around here that I bump into Griffin, the young American who helpfully clarifies that he is named after the mythical creature, rather than Peter Griffin from Family Guy. Either’s good though, and it’s nice to have someone new to chat to for a bit. For a 24 year old he really has his shit together and he’s good company. We trudge on and I titillate him with tales of Horneystead Farm and the delights that await. Which, after that nasty gnarly little climb up to the open fields, eventually appears.
The lovely Helen is hovering around chatting and offering the full range of joy from her tuck shop. A cup of tea, an ice cold can of lemonade and a cheese barm. Bloody magic. There are lovely dogs to be petted, and every reason to stay. But we don’t. Bellingham CP is cooing its siren song over the hills, and we saddle up and head out into the evening sun.
It’s only a few miles to the CP, but increasing fatigue, Shitlington Crags and general trail twattery extract maximum misery. As we finally hit the road ahead of the CP, a minibus of jolly whooping Americans appears, Griffin’s GF and family, by happy coincidence, passing by. They inject a welcome burst of energy.
In summer Spine 2018 I arrived at Bellingham in such a mental fog that I thought I was a whole day later than I actually was. No such surprise bonus this time but I know that I am still carrying my time win from day one pretty much intact, so all good.
The last few miles have been quite warm, and I’m looking forward to a sit down somewhere cool. Which obviously doesn’t happen: the arrival tent is welcoming, and bowls of water are proferred for some biblical style foot washing but it’s still some way off the cool stone temple, handmaidens fanning palm leaves and baths of asses milk type of deal that I was hoping for. The CP staff are all lovely of course, even after me asking them multiple times what, where and when I should be doing stuff. In the end I overheat in a tent, completely fail to sleep and decant things between my pack and drop bag in a slightly half assed way. Despite my relatively poor productivity in this CP I do however keep my stay to inside 4 hours which is what I had planned.
What I am certain of is that it usually takes me 24 hours from Bellingham to the finish in Kirk Yetholm. I end up leaving at around 8pm with 30 hours in hand. Game on.
Leg 4: Bellingham to Kirk Yetholm
I leave with Griffin and bimble up the road through the park and into the village of Bellingham where I am eager to waste some of my banked time in the Co-Op. With some uncharacteristic foresight I grab a bottle of full fat Coke backed up with a quartet of pork pies and reluctantly leave. I do get a nice surprise when I see my friend Tamsin and partner Tim who have been stalking me on the tracker and come over from Sunderland to say hello. It was great to see them both, even if my head torch/ midge net combo may have given them the impression that I was trying something radically new with my hair.
The road climb out of the village gave me a moment to reflect on what was ahead, and its coefficient of twattiness. Hmm. As I remembered it, it wasn’t too bad: roady bit, fields, farm, fields, er something else, some forests, long bit by a campsite, Byrness, forest climb, gate with sign saying 24 miles to KY, Hut 1, Windy Gyle, Hut 2, The Schill, frolick down the hill to the finish.
Well, it happened in roughly in that order, but the reality was quite a bit more unpleasant. There is a dramatic sunset as we leave the road and Griffin and I head up through the farmyard, have a nervous cow encounter (we were nervous, the cows were more just passive-aggressive) which resulted in a brief off course meander, and then we settle in to trudging across the fields as it gradually darkens. My detailed recall of the next 12 or so miles up to Byrness is pretty sketchy but it’s basically half grassy boggy climby bollocks with some midges, and half hard foresty track bollocks with lots of midges.
The first half sees a few groups of runners in loose contact up the squelchy climbs which truly drag on and on for hours as the tail gradually gains 300m or so of height since Bellingham. I fall in step variously with the MRT posse, Richard McGrath and Siobhan and Justine who are so in step that they seem to have fused into one super-being. My head torch lights the immediate trail (bogs, obvs) but beyond that there is just a vague sense of a horizon and no other reference points. In the moment I try and frame the endless trudge as an almost votive physical mantra, but the lasts about 100m until I slip into a bog and revert to just being cross again. As we climb the really steep section by a felled forest I’m chatting to Cleo behind me but I'm making painfully slow progress. She indulges me with a little stop for a breather and eventually we top out.
It’s now a good few hours since the bosom of Bellingham and I’m starting to flag. Definitely time for a pick me up and 500ml of Coke, three pro-plus tablets and two paracetamol carry me into the forest section with a bit more pep.
It’s short lived though and the tedium of the straight forest paths quickly wears me down again. The paths are hard and the midges are legion. I’m back with Griffin and we have descended into something of a funk, dog tired and in dire need of a little trail nap. The trail however, refuses to give up a suitable spot. I’m hopeful for a picnic table to lie on but this is very much a working forest and low on recreational amenities. In the end we resort to simply lying on the gravel for five minutes. It’s horrible.
We do have the faint glimmer of hope that is the Byrness monitoring station ahead. When we get there though that’s miserable too. I’m grateful for a water top up but the midges have decided that this would be a great spot to stage the world midge conference and they are having a right royal time. I can’t believe that some of the CP team have no nets and are apparently oblivious to the bitey fuckers. Impressive stoicism.
The next few hours pass in a comparative blur. I lose Griffin and re-find Siobhan and Justine who by now appear to have physically fused into Siobhine. There's no real pact to stick together and things just take their own course: I'm feeling OK, happy bumbling along and not in too much, mental, physical or gastric distress. I'm still OK for water so I ignore the one wild refill point at the Roman fort and carry on, gooning about for the media team drone which passes overhead. I do remember that the approach to Hut 1 takes an eternity but obviously it's all kinds of good when I get there and I have a celebratory late breakfast of porridge with strawberries. Yum.
The next section brings an unexpected low point when I start to get a bit phased with the distance yet to go and one again get unwillingly locked into counting my steps and unable to stop, something that first happened on a race called T184 almost 10 years ago. It's weird - I start thinking that counting steps will break down each mile into manageable chunks but end up literally incapable of stopping counting even when I lose count. It's something of a mental cluster-shambles and I need to find a way to stop.
Luckily I come by Richard McGrath who is an affable soul with several winter and summer Spine finishes to his name. In the manner of a self help group I share that I'm feeling a bit meh and he quietly helps lift my mood as we reel in the long runs of slabbed sections adjacent to fences. We may possibly have had a complete carbon copy conversation about camper vans that we had in a previous year. Eventually I sheepishly declare that I'm feeling a bit better and keen to crack on. He gracefully waves me off as I pick the pace up a bit over the next mile or two and we eventually regroup at Hut 2, which I am reminded comes after a painfully steep descent. A relatively quick turn around and it's time for the final leg to the finish.
Which is not nice. Although the view leaving Hut 2 is of a gentle saddle before the climb up the Schill, the reality is a rocky, boggy descent and slow painful climb. I have kind of had enough. The descent of the Schill is just as bad, albeit with the slow thawing of mood that comes with the close of the race and the final confirmation that finishing won't be a problem, it's just a matter of when. The last few miles collapse under the weight of my decelerating forward motion, but collapse nonetheless. The Tunnocks container hoves into view and I'm on the last leg, slightly nonplussed but also delighted that I have made it.
Thank you to all the Spine famalam and fellow competitors that make this happen. I'm grateful x.
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