The Spine (Part 7 of 7)

My Race is Irrelevant: Bellingham CP5 to Kirk Yetholm

This follows Part 6: Sound the Alarm

Arriving into the last checkpoint, well ahead of cutoffs and in decent shape, is a huge milestone in any race. Whether you’re climbing up the leaderboard, or clinging on for the finish line, you’re almost certainly going to finish. Congratulations, that medal is as good as yours!

The rule of finishing once you reach the last CP in good shape is generally universal. It’s been true for me in all my races, up to and including the Arc of Attrition and Dragon’s Back.

The same cannot be said for the Spine.

I don’t just say this because I’d travelled 370km. Or because I’d run for days, battled weather and temperature extremes, injured myself, and endured sleep deprivation and hallucinations.

Nor do I say this because of the distance yet to run. While 70km isn’t small beer in any race; let’s face it, if I can run 370k, I can probably run, walk or crawl another 70.

I say this because of what was still to come. The Cheviot hills, in winter.

I’d never visited the Cheviots. I just knew they were steep, rugged, very remote, totally exposed to the Scottish weather, and not to be trifled with in the middle of January. The mitigating factor was the two mountain safety huts. Members of the Spine Safety Team would be held up in each of them, ready to render assistance, should it be needed.

The Cheviots were playing on my mind precisely because of the weather I’d already endured. If it was particularly bad, as it was forecast to be going into Friday and Saturday, then things might get quite hairy up there.

So when I arrived into Bellingham checkpoint, I was in an odd, melancholy frame of mind. I was pleased to have made it this far in the face of my various challenges, but wary of what still lay ahead of me. I had to make the right decisions here. For example, leaving tired would not help my chances of crossing the Cheviots safely. Nor would leaving without enough warm clothing, or high calorie food.

Bellingham checkpoint was a modest lodge room, with a simple raised floor made of wooden boards. You could actually see through the gaps to the ground below. While it was a sunny day outside, it was a bit chilly inside. The lodge’s water pipes had frozen, so volunteers had to carry water in by hand.

I took a seat near the door, put my devices on charge, and grazed on some vegan sausage stew, a banana, and some crisps. The weather whiteboard was propped up opposite, warning of strong winds with some pretty low feels-like temperatures, -18C or something of that ilk. Pretty cold, anyway.

There was one further monitoring point before the Cheviot hills, 27k away in Byrness. There would be hot food, and a church where we could sleep if needed. So if I didn’t sleep here at Bellingham, I’d have another chance at Byrness (albeit a sleeping-bag-on-church-pews sort of affair).

I didn’t feel particularly tired right now, and it was still light outside. I reckoned I’d be better off using the remaining hour or so of daylight to make progress toward Byrness, rather than trying to force myself to sleep here.

What I felt I needed here, though, was just some time to myself. My melancholy state of mind had to be entertained, and then steeled into the warrior mindset I’d need to battle through this fearsome section to the finish. So I spent some time reflecting on my journey thus far, and then I caught up on my messages. I had to laugh at one of my running club’s posts – I recognised the photo of me from earlier in the day at Hadrian’s Wall. I had no idea how they’d gotten hold of the photo so quickly, and yet they’d already integrated it into a dotwatching meme. Pretty cool, I thought!

A kindly volunteer popped over to talk to me, tactfully hinting that I ought to get a move on. Bellingham is where participants have a tendency to laze around, ostensibly sorting out kit, while in practice doing sod all. I could see it across the room. Faces like mine, reluctantly contemplating what was still to come, questioning their life choices. This was where you decided whether to quietly retire, or to go for it.

I settled on a simple strategy for clothing: pack everything. I had to factor in that it was quite a nice day at that precise moment, still and sunny down in the valley. I’d start wearing just three layers, therefore I had to cram even more into my Montane 20L pack and my Nakd band. By the time I was done, my pack in particular was bursting at the seams. Even so, I wasn’t convinced it’d be enough.

After kit check, I made a complete hash of actually departing. First off, I lost my electrolytes, and had to ask for my drop bag to be returned so I could retrieve some more. Then I dropped a mitt, for the thousandth time, and had to search all over the grounds to find it. Finally, I couldn’t find the electrolytes I’d literally just picked up, and lost another 5 minutes searching for them. I eventually found them stuffed into one of my side pockets, beneath two pairs of mitts (perhaps keep that to yourself, I don’t want everyone thinking I’m some sort of bumbling idiot!)

The climb out of Bellingham began beautifully, in highly palatable conditions under the setting sun. The grassy hills transitioned to moorland, then the usual icy flagstones of the Pennine Way appeared, dotting a familiar line through the scrubland. I slipped and slid my way along the stones, while the last vestiges of civilisation faded behind me, and day turned to night. 

Gosh! A gust of wind chilled me to the absolute bone. That’d come out of nowhere. Definitely time to add another upper layer. I dug around my bulging pack to find my OMM Core fleece. As I was zipping it up, another gust hit me. A fleece was a bad call, I obviously needed a windproof. I dug out my Patagonia Houdini jacket, usually very effective at cutting out the wind, and pulled that on as well. 

The next gust caused me to cock an eyebrow – that windproof wasn’t going to cut the mustard at all. I dug around my pack again, and pulled out the big guns, my Montane Fireball Lite. No sooner had I put that on, there was the next big gust, and I stalled, gauging the situation. This still wasn’t going to be enough. The wind was literally arctic. I pulled out my Montane Phase Nano, and added that over the top. While I had my pack off, I also dug out my SealSkinz beanie, and a buff. It was quite a comprehensive transformation within the space of just a few minutes.

All that extra padding soon came in handy in an a completely different way. Overgrown scrub obscured many of the flagstones along here. Unaware of what lay beneath, my foot landed on a hidden ice sheet, and I slid off down the path, completely out of control, flailing my arms hopelessly. There was nothing to stop me, and I just kept going.

Finally, I managed to stumble out of it, crashing wildly through scratchy vegetation, only to career straight back onto the icy flagstone path and into yet another terrifying slide. 

With no idea what lay ahead, such as the side of the mountain, I took the decision to try to launch my body sideways into the moorland. I came crashing down onto a spiky bed of vegetation. I lay there for a minute, collecting myself, trying to work out what on earth had just happened. My headtorch was all askew, so I straightened it back up, and peered behind me to see where I’d come from. I could see my slide stretching back through the ice all the way into the distance, as far as my light could illuminate. It looked absolutely mad.

I ran some self tests on my body. Nothing seemed to be broken. My hip had taken another huge whack, but at this stage, I wasn’t even paying attention to stuff like that. I got back underway, pretty shaken from the experience.

It was pitch dark now up on the moor, and even setting the windchill aside, temperatures were plummeting. It was starting to feel extremely remote up here, without a speck of light, or a hint of anything other than this exposed, hilly moorland in any direction. A little further on, a couple of pinpricks of light materialised in the distance. What on earth were people doing out here, at this hour, I wondered?

It turned out to be a Spine Safety Team vehicle on an intersecting road. “How are you doing?” they asked. I assumed they were trying to gauge whether I was hypothermic. 

In these temperatures, I didn’t want to stop, even for a moment, so I tried to think of a short response that would put their minds at ease and allow me to run straight past. “Eh, I’m not a fan of the cold”, I quipped, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’m more of a summer guy. I’ll max out my layers when I get to Byrness”.

That seemed to do the trick. But the truth was, I only had my mandatory spare baselayers, a balaclava and a second pair of mitts left in reserve.

The route eventually broke right onto a forest road. I checked my handheld GPS, and saw it descended much of the the way to Byrness. Awesome. I flicked into autopilot, coasting down in a dreamlike state. Trees flashed past me like I was staring out of a train window.

My GPS track had other ideas though. Now it was routing me offroad, through some questionable undergrowth, which ran parallel to the road just 15 metres away. It didn’t really look like a path. Was this just an inaccuracy in the GPS track? Some folks had clearly bashed their way through here at some point, but had the tens of runners ahead of me really done this too? I was very sceptical.

Not wanting to risk taking an easier route than I ought, I took the bushwhacking route. I brushed aside branches, leapt over treetrunks, picked my way through spiky things, carved a path through shrubs, and generally destroyed my clothes. Whether I was doing the right thing, or whether I was being a complete idiot and should be on the road, I honestly couldn’t tell.

Things got worse when I reached ground level and the river Rede. On my handheld GPS, it looked like all I had to do was track the river from here to Byrness, but could I find a path? I trudged around the woodland, searching high and low, zigzagging back and forth using two separate GPS devices. I sat down on a fallen tree trunk, feeling despondent. Byrness was really close, but there was no way to get there.

At a loss for a route forward, I tried to forge a path through a bamboo-like mini-forest, but just became physically entangled in the stuff. It took me a couple of minutes to extract myself. Grumbling most emphatically now, I crashed through some shrubbery, only to stumble out of the wilderness onto a perfectly manicured path. Its sandy surface glinted under my headtorch like the needle in a haystack. Opposite was a Pennine Way waymarker, standing proud. I’d found it!

Back on autopilot, I cruised along my highway to Byrness in a dreamlike daze.

As I entered the town, I was astonished to see another friend. I assumed that, like Ivan, he had come to support me. He started running alongside me, offering to run me into the checkpoint. “Sorry, pacing’s not allowed”, I blurted out, slightly panicked. He grinned and explained he was working on the Spine Safety Team. 

While I heard the words he said, it look a while for my brain to catch up. I insisted on standing still and chatting about the perils of the last section of the route. “Are you planning to sleep in the church?” he asked, probably hinting that it mightn’t be the worst idea. Probably not; I hoped more food would wake me up, I said. 

At Byrness monitoring point, I was led through the building into a sort-of conservatory at the back. It was small & cosy in its way, and when I slumped into a comfy chair, I felt a lot better. This monitoring point was unique in that it provided hot food, though it retained the 30 minute time limit. I was handed a tea, and a towering bowl of vegan mince and mash. I worked my way through it, whilst also stripping off my upper layers, so I could add my one remaining spare baselayer.

“Would you like another portion?” the chef asked, beaming at me. I was pretty full after that massive serving, but given I had the Cheviots to conquer, I figured that mightn’t be a bad idea. “Just a half portion”, I replied, miming the same with my hand. A couple of minutes later, I was handed yet another mountainous portion, even larger than the last.

I’d only just made a start when I thought to ask how much longer out of my 30 minute allowance I had remaining. “Four minutes”, the volunteer replied, seemingly unconcerned. Seeing my jaw hit the floor, he added “It’s longer than you think”.

I looked down at my huge bowl of mince, and my fresh cup of tea. My race vest was unpacked. My watch was charging. My 7 upper layers were strewn around me. My hats, gloves, headtorch and shoes were… I didn’t even know. It’s longer than you think. I was about to be bloody disqualified again!

I shovelled the mash down my throat, swallowing without chewing and using the boiling tea to wash it down. I haphazardly pulled on some of my upper layers, and then just shoved the rest in my pack. I forced my feet into my shoes, scooped up all my accessories and dashed out the door, crossing the threshold in 30 minutes on the dot. Safely outside the monitoring point, I could breathe again! I dumped everything on the ground, and started to sort myself out.

I felt a sense of relief that all the checkpoints and monitoring stations were behind me. I effectively had all the time in the world to get myself the last 40km safely over the Cheviots. ‘Safely’ being the operative word.

As I set back off toward the A68, I found myself hobbling. It seemed one of my many earlier falls had damaged my left foot more than I’d realised at the time. Was it going to improve, or worsen? I must be mad, setting off over the Cheviots in these conditions, bloody hobbling, I thought.

The Pennine Way followed the A68 for a few hundred metres before turning off to climb up the Cheviots. If I wanted to sleep, I only had to proceed 100m further along the A68 until I reached St Francis’ church, where I could have rolled out my sleeping bag and caught 40 winks. I knew it would be too exposed up on the Cheviots to rest up there. This was my last chance.

I thought back to the hallucinations, the falling asleep on my feet earlier in the race. But then I thought about the weather forecast, which predicted worsening conditions as Friday drew on. And I thought about my foot, which might seize and deteriorate if I laid down.

My bad foot swung the decision. Insofar as the tiredness was concerned, I hoped I’d be able to use sugar, dehydrated meals in the two mountain safety huts, possibly some caffeine gels (which, admittedly, I’d never used before), and my own adrenaline to get me through. So, that was it. I committed to finishing the last 40km non-stop. I hoped to hell I hadn’t made the wrong decision.

The first stage of the climb up the Cheviots warmed me up quite nicely. It transitioned into a short rocky scramble; quite exciting in its way, before it broke out onto flatter grassy ground. I passed over Windy Crag, an undulation that, ironically, shielded me from the wind that gave it its name. Here I took the opportunity to don all my remaining upper layers before continuing. I could tell I’d need everything I had from now on.

There wasn’t as much snow up top as I’d expected. There was, however, plenty of ice on the flagstones. It was very cold, very windy, and very remote. In many respects, it was quite similar to the fell I’d crossed between Bellingham and Byrness. The main difference was this was a couple hundred metres higher, and commensurately more extreme in every aspect.

Despite the remoteness, there were lots of tracks and trails up here, a mix of major and minor routes. In the pitch darkness, with only my little illuminated oval of mysterious, icy, boggy moorland, there was absolutely nothing to orient on. So it made for tricky navigation every time the path divided.

The pain in my left foot & ankle was a growing concern. The last thing I wanted was to have to stop up here with an injury. The conditions were too severe, I reckoned, to survive for very long while stationary. How much use the bivvy, airbed and sleeping bag would be was questionable. So I forced myself to slow down, limiting the impact forces that could further inflame my foot. My pathetically slow progress proved an ongoing frustration.

I spotted some fleeting dots of white light in the sky a few times, and assumed they were either stars or planes. It was quite impossible to tell. They kept coming and going. At one stage I could have sworn they looked larger and brighter than astronomical entities or airborne craft. Were they coming closer? They disappeared again. I cracked on, stuffing Veloforte chews and gels down me, in a losing battle to stay warm and awake in this extraterrestrial environment.

Something was approaching from my side. It was thrashing through the vegetation. It had to be an animal. Did they have cows up here? Deer? Antelope? Wait; there was a light. It was human. What on earth was a human doing up here? Who the fuck was this, and what did they want? I could make out an outline; there were poles, flailing wildly on both sides. The person was crashing through the undergrowth. Now I could see a face. It looked anguished, distressed, discombobulated.

“Where’s Hut 1?” the person shouted at me. An overwhelming sense of urgency reverberated from every syllable he spoke. “I need the medics in Hut 1. Where’s Hut 1?”

“Woah, slow down”, I replied, trying to calm him down. “My name’s Adrian. What’s yours?”

I established that my compatriot was alright himself, but there was another injured party up here on the fell. Apparently, he was experiencing severe abdominal pain, and struggling to move. Worryingly, we didn’t know where he was.

I turned up the power on my headtorch and scanned the surrounding darkness, trying to spot anything untoward. Seconds later, I heard a familiar sound – the sound of undergrowth being crushed. A light emerged over the brow of a fell, and I finally caught a glimpse of the injured party. We had located our casualty, and he was mobile.

As soon as I got close enough to see his outline, it was all too apparent he was struggling. He was bent double over his poles, resting from the exertion of getting this far. Then, when he raised his head, the suffering was unmistakeable.

He described the pain as the worst he’d ever experienced, and gave a brief history of its development. It had begun the previous day, and he’d already been inspected by medics at the last checkpoint. Clearly, his situation had deteriorated fast up here on the Cheviots.

While he rested, I spoke with his helper to formulate a plan. There was no phone signal here. I had the two hut locations marked on my handheld GPS, and made a rough calculation that we were some 2.5k away from Hut 1. That was our nearest target. Some of the unease of my compatriot rubbed off on me. It was too cold for our casualty to be moving as slowly as he was, and if his condition deteriorated any further, we could be in serious trouble.

I talked the helper through the route to Hut 1, and he agreed to assist the casualty, who was in no position to navigate himself, along the route. Meanwhile, I’d run on ahead, and bring back help as quickly as I could. That way, in the event he became immobile, we’d hopefully be able to get him assistance before his temperature dropped too far.

With that decided, I sprinted off along the path to Hut 1. My foot pain was long forgotten, and instead I threw caution to the wind, hurling myself down descents, leaping over rocks, skidding over flagstones. Anything to get there faster. Minor injuries were no longer relevant.

It was when I passed the fourth or fifth trail split that I stopped to question the wisdom of the plan. Of the two of them, only the helper was in a position to navigate. Given how far they’d been off-path, and without a handle on which direction the hut was, he’d obviously been struggling. It was easy to see why: he was visibly tired, and stressed by the situation. Even in the clearest of mental states, navigation along this stretch wasn’t simple. If they went off-route, while I brought medics back this way… no, this was not a good plan.

I turned around and sprinted back to the pair, who I was relived to find tracking along the right path, albeit even more slowly than before. The casualty’s pain had worsened.

We had another chat, where I gave the casualty a binary choice. 1) Bivvy down here, activate your SOS beacon, and I’ll take a grid reference and bring back help to this location. 2) We continue as a group of three, to make sure we get safely to Hut 1.

The casualty chose the second option, which I quietly agreed with. If you’re still mobile, no matter the pain, then keep moving. That’s the option with the best chances in this weather.

We continued as a group, with my running part-way ahead and shining my torch back along the path, to try to avoid any routing mistakes. When I reached a vantage point a few hundred metres from the hut, I sprinted off to rouse the Safety Team. I was surprised by how unperturbed they appeared by the news of a casualty out on the fells. They tried to encourage me inside to get a cup of tea, but I was having none of it, and sprinted back off to locate my party. They followed shortly behind me. In retrospect, the news that he was close by and mobile was probably not cause for significant alarm.

Nonetheless, it was a huge relief to us all when the two SST members joined us to walk our casualty down the final stretch to Hut 1, performing medical triage as they went. Our casualty visibly and audibly perked up upon sight of them, which was massively reassuring to the helper and I.

Hut 1 was a very simple construction, not unlike a heavy duty garden shed. It was dark inside, but I could just about make out a little wooden bench wrapping around all sides. The second the casualty sat down, I could see all the pain drain from his face, to be replaced with a beaming smile. The pain only came when he stood up, he explained.

One member of the SST roused a medic from the tents outside, and returned to continue questioning the casualty. The other SST member started brewing us some tea on a little JetBoil, and asked me to recount the full story.

I started to run through the series of events that’d occurred since the helper first barrelled through the undergrowth to demand the location of Hut 1. As I spoke, he started messaging HQ, relaying the outline of what’d occurred. He stopped me to ask for our race numbers for the report.

The other two went first, then he did a double-task when I told him mine. The other two runners were running the Spine Challenger North race, he pointed out to me. It’s the same route as the Spine, but starting somewhere near CP2 – so, 100ish miles shorter. Realising I’d been going for much longer than the other two, he suddenly seemed quite concerned about understanding my condition, and getting me any help I might need.

But I was still distracted, listening in to the casualty’s conversation. It was only when the medic stepped into the hut, introduced herself and started assessing him that I finally relaxed. For the first time in almost an hour, I felt I could refocus on myself. I was surprised to find I was holding a cup of tea. I even had to remind myself what I was doing here, up in this dark, chilly mountain hut.

I finished telling our story, and the SST explained he had asked HQ to consider a time bonus for me. He showed me the text, which mentioned I had “seemed very concerned”. That’s one way of putting it, I thought.

Only when I finished my tea did I remember the helper sitting in the darkness to my right. He’d hardly said anything since we entered the hut. He was clasping his cup of tea, looking deep in thought. I should move position to make it easier for the SST to speak to him, I thought. Was I done here? I was supposed to be having one of my dehydrated meals. But that’d take a while, and my muscles had already cooled right down as it was. I looked back at the helper, and figured I should really go, and make space for them both to be attended to properly. After all, I was alright.

I thanked the SSTs and medic. I wished the casualty a speedy recovery, who was about to be retired and evacuated. Finally I gave the helper a friendly punch on the shoulder and wished him a strong finish. I desperately hoped he’d be able to pull himself back together from this stressful experience and finish his race. With the help of the SSTs, I felt confident he would.

For the time being, I was still pumped with adrenaline. I got back underway at a significant pace. It wasn’t just the adrenaline causing that though. All the sprinting back and forth, throwing caution to the wind over the ice, had fundamentally changed me. It had engendered a new energy and confidence. There would be no return to my cautious approach from before the incident.

While I welcomed my new, more confident attitude, it wasn’t without its risks, I reflected. Also, the pummelling my left foot was taking couldn’t be doing it any good. And I hadn’t eaten at the hut as I’d planned. Once the adrenaline wore off, would that come back to bite me?

The adrenaline did wear off, and when it did, I crashed hard. Tiredness hit me, and I felt awful. But I still had the momentum from earlier. I kept forcing down gels and chews, trying not to lose that momentum, in spite of how I was feeling.

The terrain grew tougher as I headed further north into the Cheviots. The snow multiplied, the terrain grew much hillier, and the wind absolutely howled. At one point, approaching the top of a climb, the wind caught me from behind and physically blew me up the climb. I felt like I was flying.

I was getting very tired. This seemed to correlate with a weird property of these flagstone climbs. Atop each ice or snow-covered slab was a crude artwork. They were intriguing little things, in black, crafted in a similar style to Banksy. They came in themes. I’d get 30 odd stairs with different faces from popular movies. Then phrases. Then some really intriguing, original creative artworks. Who’d been out here, drawing all these things? And why hadn’t I heard they existed?

The weirdest thing was how they weren’t simply painted. On the snow covered stones, the snow itself had formed into these shapes. It was as though the snow had been attracted to the material used to draw the artwork, or conversely had been repelled or melted. It didn’t make any sense to me.

I got down on my knees to observe the artwork at close quarters. I brushed the snow away. It sure seemed real, I could physically interact with it. I felt really confused.

The artworks got stranger, and darker. They lost their amusement factor. Golly; it was getting weird up here, wherever on earth ‘here’ was. I’d never run through a landscape quite like this before.

After such a successful period of running, I was probably overdue a fall. At the base of another flagstone climb, after passing through a rare style alongside a wire fence, I slipped on the ice. I tried to break my fall with my hand, which caught in the wire fence. My thumb got twisted right behind by hand, then I crashed down hard onto my hip.

I lay on the ice, writhing in pain, staring up at this dark climb to oblivion as the wind gusted over and light snow landed atop me. I’d really buggered my hand.

It took me a minute or two to stand up, being stuck in the middle of a large patch of slippery ice, with a heavy pack on my back, and unable to use my left hand. I’d removed my mitts to eat, so my hands were now very cold. Putting my left mitt on was extremely painful, as I tried not to move my thumb more than absolutely necessary. To pull my right mitt back on, I tried to use my smaller fingers, but eventually resorted to using my teeth.

The Pennine Way climbs most of the way up the big hill called The Cheviot, up to about 750m altitude. From here, it wraps back around and descends down to Hut 2. The climb up the Cheviot featured some of the weirdest maybe-hallucinatory snow artwork I’d seen yet. As I climbed, the weather deteriorated, with wind and snow building.

As I summited and ran along the top toward the descent, I started to get an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. I seemed to know what was coming around each corner. Had I been here before?

I stood at the top of the descent, shielding my eyes as I faced into the ferocious wind. I pulled out my goggles, but as I did the strap ripped off. With my mitts on, my left hand injured, and snow in my eyes, I couldn’t re-affix it. I tried just putting the goggles on over all my hats and hoods, but I couldn’t get them to stay on without the strap. I’d have to manage without them, and shoved them unceremoniously into a side pocket.

I started barrelling down this steep snowy, rocky descent, and felt I knew exactly what was coming. I knew the terrain, the turns, the direction the footprints would go. I knew every inch of this descent. This was strange, because I’d never been to the Cheviots in my life. I rationalised it by reasoning that I must have watched a Youtube video long ago.

A member of the SST was waiting for me a short distance outside Hut 2. As he walked me in, he explained that I’d been awarded 35 minutes of ‘good Samaritan’ time. “It must have been quite something. What did you do?” he asked.

Having just experienced a thousand Banksy artworks in the snow, and a descent that I knew every metre of without ever having seen before, I wasn’t in the mood to go into every detail. “Just what I could”, I replied.

Inside the hut, two other runners were in the process of departing. They looked like they meant business for the final section to Kirk Yetholm. I was offered a tea, and accepted, though not really fancying one. As I saw the pair departing, I immediately regretted it. I wanted to finish ahead of them, whoever they were.

It took quite a while to boil the water on the JetBoil. I drummed my fingers obsessively, completely forgetting to use the time I had here to prepare for the final descent. After all, dawn would soon break, and I’d surely get hot sprinting down the descent wrapped up in every single piece of clothing I had. Anyway, I downed my tea as quickly as I could and set back off.

My left foot was really hurting at this point, but I pushed that to the very back of my mind. Race mode had been reawakened in me. I had to catch the two runners ahead of me for a start, followed by anyone and everyone else I possibly could.

In my haste, I neglected my navigation, just as I was passing the photographer. At full speed, I hurtled down a descent, then back up it; then into deep snow, then back out again. Goodness knows what the photographer must have thought of me. Most likely something along the lines of “that poor sod, he’s completely lost it”.

I may have temporarily lost my sense of direction, but I was only sharpening my focus and determination. I really wasn’t going to mess around on this run to the finish.

With that in mind, and realising I was now sweating buckets with my effort level under a rising sun, I had to stop to do what I should have done in the hut, and undress. I spent a good few minutes stripping off four upper layers, and compressing them all into my pack. I was freezing when I set back off, but that was fine. I just had to run faster.

I opened up the gas over the tops, winding around The Schil and Black Hag with real purpose. I passed some runners on a hill climb who might have been the two runners from the Hut, but I didn’t really care. My goal had morphed into getting to the finish as quickly as I physically could.

I hit the mountain road, and resolved to leave absolutely nothing on the table from hereon in. While it was still quite icy in parts, I employed every technique I’d learnt over the course of the race to run even the iced sections at full speed. I was razor-focused on what I was doing now, and didn’t fall once.

The lower I got, the more speed I built. When I joined the final road into Kirk Yetholm, I saw a runner ahead walking a particularly steep incline. It wasn’t the sort of thing you’d sensibly run near the end of an ultra. But I shot past him at 400m sprint effort, driving myself up by chanting “empty the taps”. I heard an exclamation of surprise, but didn’t look back.

The last half kilometre of the road gently curves into the town, where the race finishes on the green in front of the infamous Border Hotel. I came in at 4 minute k’s, which certainly felt like a full sprint pace at the time.

I approached the finish line to a rather amusing sight. A lone photographer, pelting out of the Border Hotel looking like he’d seen a ghost, with his camera arm fully outstretched, frantically snapping photos in my general direction. More Spine staff followed, who urgently reminded me to “TOUCH THE WALL!” It’s tradition that you only finish the Pennine Way when you touch the wall of the Border Hotel. Amidst all the excitement, I’d forgotten that!

I learned I’d arrived far, far ahead of my estimated time, hence the confusion at the finish. I wasn’t surprised; that last section from Hut 2, I’d treated like a race.

Standing outside the Border Hotel, I found I felt just fine. My injured left foot, that I’d been so worried about exacerbating into a serious injury with my sprint descent, seemed instead to have been fixed by it. My left hand, with the busted thumb, was much better. My hip didn’t seem to be carrying any serious injuries. I could hardly feel my ‘non-blistered’ soles. My shoulders were fine. And I didn’t feel particularly tired. Moreover, that proper run down from Hut 2 had been great fun. I wouldn’t mind doing that again.

I was led inside, through to the runner’s area, where I received a medal, certificate and finisher’s t-shirt. There was a bit of a queue for a shower, so I was brought a bowl of warm water to soak my feet, and a delicious chilli and rice dish (on a proper plate, with proper cutlery – ace!)

Most importantly, I got to fly my Palestinian flag.

Because, in the end, that’s what this run was about. Palestinians’ lives have been run by an occupying force for decades. Now they’re running out of food, water, medicines, and shelter. Women have run out of sanitary products and toilets. Hospitals, to the extent that any remain, have run out of the most basic supplies, like anaesthetic. Gazans have been run out of their homes, and most of their homeland. They are ultimately being run to their death. 5% of Gazans have been killed, maimed or injured since October 7th.

This is called genocide, and our government is supporting it. They’re providing the political, military and logistical support that Israel needs to continue its ethnic cleansing. Internally, our government is trying to silence dissent, by stirring up religious and racial tensions, gradually unwinding the right to protest, and using Orwellian doublethink to mislead us.

I have a responsibility to demand my government respect human rights equally, no matter the race or religion.

In short; that was why I ran, and managed to finish, the Spine.

Thanks for following the journey with me, I hope you got something out of it. And a particular thank you to the hundreds of you who wrote messages of encouragement during my race, and have subsequently congratulated me and commented on my race series. You’re awesome!

I will try to follow this up with a piece to explain the kit I used during the Spine, and what I might change next time. You know, just in case I’ve inspired you to fill in the Spine entry form next year…? Don’t all jump at once!

Ultimately, my Legendary Triad conception blossomed into a truly prodigious journey of exploration, from the coastal paths of Cornwall to the Cheviot hills in Scotland. I’ve pushed harder and further than I thought possible, in both body and mind. I’ve battled around some of the most difficult coastal path in the country, conquered Crib Goch, named a region ‘the Alpennines’, tasted that legendary Chilliewack, met some truly inspiring people, made memories for life, and still don’t have a clue what it means to tape a foot.

My place in the race – 29th, but who on earth cares. It was the human experience that mattered.

Race is irrelevant. Human rights are universal. Peace out

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