The Spine (Part 2 of 7)

Pride Comes Before A DNF: Edale to Hebden Bridge CP1

This post follows Part 1: My Legendary Triad

A million glistening stars bespeckled the night sky. I rotated my head, only to see a million more. The scale was incomprehensible. It reminded me of a childhood visit to Bayfordbury Observatory, where I’d gazed, awestruck, at resplendent images of distant galaxies. Each tiny dot of light represented something unimaginable, an unfathomably long way away.

Beneath the stars, I could just about make out the silhouette of Kinder plateau. That too towered over me, imposing, indomitable in the darkness.

I was but a star in the universe. An ant, contemplating a preposterously long journey. 268 miles. The full Pennine Way. Across Kinder, Bleaklow, Pen-y-Ghent, Cross Fell, the Cheviots.

I sniggered at myself. What did I know about it, anyway? I’d only recce’d a tenth of the route, if that. It was one vast universe of mystery, just like the stars in the sky…

The night was calm, but very cold. I balled up my hands, and hunkered down beneath my Inov8 Thermoshell. With my brother taking care of the driving, I was free to let my mind wander the extent of the universe, as we floated through Hope Valley to the race start at Edale.

When I stepped out of the heated car, the freezing cold hit me once more. I’m a sun-seeking, capsaicin-loving kind of a guy. I’m practically allergic to the cold. What on earth was I thinking, entering a winter ultra all the way up here in northern England?

In light of the conditions, and my impending hypothermia, I made a last-minute decision to start running in 4 upper layers rather than 3. I also added another Montane Fireball jacket to my pack. I’d be carrying more clothes than an arctic explorer.

I lugged my massive drop bag over to the village hall, and hauled it up onto the table. Drop bags were piled up behind, waiting to be transported to CP1. I furrowed my brow. My massive drop bag stood out: it was the smallest of the lot. Was that good or bad? There’d be less kit to search through for that elusive spare pair of socks, I guess? It was best to stay positive.

It wasn’t long before I was back in my brother’s car, with the engine running and heating on. Never mind the carbon emissions; it was sodding arctic, and my Thermoshell jacket wasn’t cutting it. This is one of those occasions where my unusually low body fat percentage does me absolutely no favours. One needs a healthy layer of blubber to survive out here.

15 minutes before race start, I braved the cold again to put on my pack and shoes, and positioned myself in the starting pen just behind the first couple of rows of runners. The furthest I’d run before was 170ish km, under my preferred continental-style temperatures. I certainly wasn’t going to be troubling the frontrunners here.

The sun was rising now, and already it was growing perceptibly warmer. I knew I was starting in far too many layers for what was forecast to be a balmy day once we got underway. Should I take some off now? Shouldn’t I start with my poles out? There were only a couple of minutes to go. I resolved to quit worrying and sort it all when I got underway. The race was 268 miles & measured in days, I could afford a few pit stops.

I was glad to cross the start line, get going and get warm. The run up to the Old Nag’s Head already felt like hard work, with well over 15% of my body weight hanging from my shoulders. I figured I’d get used to the feeling soon enough.

At the base of Jacob’s Ladder, I paused to retrieve my poles from the back of my pack. This took a little while, given the pack’s heft and bulk, and the need to ensure nothing fell out of its open side pockets. I could see this was going to become more of an issue as the race drew on.

Climbing up Kinder Scout in the early morning sun, I quickly worked up a sweat. The arctic temperatures just an hour prior were a now a distant memory. I stopped at Kinder summit to stow my poles, and remove my extra fleece. I probably should have removed more layers than that.

Running conditions up here were pretty excellent for the time of year, the odd patch of ice aside. Having run up on Kinder plateau many times, I was quite familiar with the terrain, and so I skipped along quite happily. I was eating well, soaking in the fabulous views, and generally feeling very fortunate. Barring the cold start, so far, this didn’t feel very ‘Spiney’.

The rocky plateau transitioned to frosted-over heather, grass and peat, whose reds, browns, greens and ambers imparted a lovely feeling of warmth and cosiness. A meandering line of flagstones disappeared off into the distance. Periodically, they were covered by patches of ice, and the safest way to deal with these, I found, was to veer off onto the frozen bog.

Given it was all frozen, there wasn’t any need for my waterproof sock & Goretex boot combo. It was complete overkill for the conditions. A nimbler shoe would have been preferable, and looking around at some of the other runners, I could see the Hoka Mafate was a popular choice.

It wasn’t long before I entered the twisting peat channels of Bleaklow. Even these were mostly frozen over today, making for fairly rapid progress through this usually tedious section. That said, the ice and slippery rocks seemed to be multiplying. After just a few minutes, a momentary loss of concentration sent me slipping off an iced rock and crashing to the ground. Both my foot and hip took a bash, but it was my wrist that absorbed the bulk of the force. It hurt, but it wasn’t broken. I got the impression there might be a lot of that coming my way over the course of the race.

The singletrack descent down to Torside was far less muddy than I’d encountered last year in my overnight Sheffield to Manchester excursion. Again, it made for pretty good going. Runners participating in a fell race called the Trigger passed in the opposite direction. They looked rather more nimble than I, being unencumbered by a bulging 7+ kilogram pack.

To my surprise, there was an unpublicised water point at Torside reservoir (actually the second of the race thus far). Grateful for a little top-up in these unseasonably warm conditions, I quietly hoped these little oases continued all the way through to the finish. At this rate, between the glorious weather, and the frequent water points, the Spine could turn out to be a piece of cake. Injuries notwithstanding.

I may have been guilty of a slightly lazy climb out of the valley, lapping up the scenery, when my friend Rob Moore caught up with me. This warranted a selfie, and was followed by some animated banter as we coasted down a very runnable descent.

The realisation that we’d missed a turning snapped us back to reality. Retracing our steps the quarter kilometre back up the hill wasn’t as fun as the chatty descent had been. Feeling like I probably needed to give my full attention to the basics of nutrition, hydration and nav, it wasn’t long before I wished Rob a strong race, and pushed on.

I noticed I was starting to feel quite tired. As in, sleepy tired. My chronic lack of sleep the past few nights must be catching up with me, I reasoned. Also, my quads were growing a bit sore. It was a reminder of how little hill work I’d done in preparation for the race. I got my poles back out to help stave off further deterioration.

I was fine right now, ticking off the k’s over this rolling moorland, but I was very conscious of these little issues, quietly brewing in the background. It was not a good feeling, so close to the start of the race, with many hundreds of miles to go.

On a long flagstone incline, I caught up with Nikki Sommers, who was sporting some pretty ace stripy pink socks. She was super upbeat, and a joy to talk to. She told me about her role as medical director at Dragon’s Back, and her “why” for returning to the Spine.

To an external observer, though, our conversation would have looked farcical. Nikki was comfortably strolling over the flagstones. To keep up with her ludicrous walking pace, I had to run alongside her, at a fairly decent clip.

Feeling uplifted by our chat, but discouraged by the stark difference in our abilities, I decided I’d better push on and focus my mind on something else. I knew I was going to have to hike lengthy sections of this course, and if there are runners who can do so twice as quickly as me, with half the effort… just focus, Adrian. Just focus.

But something she’d said was playing on my mind. She expected to be “properly, properly broken” by the race. As a Spine veteran, she clearly knew what she was talking about. I, on the other hand, definitely did not want to be “properly, properly broken”. I didn’t fancy being “properly broken”, or even plain “broken” for that matter. What on earth was I letting myself in for? And I was already bizarrely sleepy, with sore quads, sporting an injured wrist…

I sighed. I hate when my mood first dips in an ultra. Later dips are easier to deal with, it’s the first one that’s a real pain in the proverbial. Maybe it was good to get it out the way early.

I kept trotting around Wessenden Reservoir, climbed up to skirt around the side of a sweeping fell, and passed under a waterfall. I was engaged in a mental battle to focus on the stunning geographic features, rather than my prematurely deteriorating physical state.

Approaching 50km, I hit a lovely sandy track, with a stunning backdrop of the late afternoon sun peeking through distant clouds. I was shortly joined by a Spine Safety Team (SST) member, who ran alongside me for a few hundred metres, discussing how things were going. Presumably trying to gauge whether I was compos mentis and fit to continue. His little chat did me the world of good, reminding me that there was indeed a checkpoint ahead, with a hot meal waiting for me. 

After this mental boost, I was a man reborn. I flew over the flagstones, straight past Nicky’s food bar (without so much as a second’s thought of stopping), and over the M62’s bowing footbridge. Darkness was setting in as I crossed some beautiful moorland, passed the White Horse pub, and went on to run a really unnecessarily fast split along the Warhead Reservoir, overtaking countless runners in the process. I was already licking my lips, ready for that hot meal at Hebden. This was more like it.

From the heights of the eerie Stoodley Pike Monument, the descent down to Charlestown was a little circuitous, but good going nonetheless. Once down in the valley and out of the windchill, my numerous layers started to feel suffocating.

I took a sitrep. I’d been pushing pretty hard for a while. I was overheating, out of water and rapidly becoming dehydrated. But with just 5km remaining to Hebden, it didn’t seem worth the faff to stop and remove midlayers, and I couldn’t do anything about the lack of water anyway. I’d sort everything out at Hebden.

The climb out of Charlestown was unique. The super narrow cobbled path was tightly hemmed in by residences and woods, and climbed up a seriously steep gradient. This was followed by more slow, ponderous trails up fiddly little overgrown footpaths, and over some pretty ugly rock-hard frozen fields. This ‘last little 5km’ was taking forever.

After what seemed like several decades, the trail broke out onto the road leading into Hebden. A couple of faster runners were running the other way, retracing their steps back out of the first checkpoint to continue the race. I found myself pitying them. I still had a hot dinner waiting for me around the corner!

The route turned off the road, down a steep, muddy trail. It descended rapidly, snaking its way down into an enchanted wooded valley. I could see the enticing, warm glow of a secret cabin begin to emerge through the tree branches. Its light drew me in like a moth to a bulb.

A volunteer called out my number as I approached, signalling for my drop bag to be fetched. I, meanwhile, breathed a sigh of relief. I’d made it to the first checkpoint!

Sure, there’d been plenty of room for improvement, I reflected. I’d started in the wrong shoes, and worn too many clothes. I should have managed my hydration a little better. I could still feel that wrist injury. And then there was the worrying question of whether I’d gotten enough sleep in the days leading up to the race, because if I was feeling this sleepy this early…

But that was all small beer, I countered. I’d run a pretty fast final 15k, and I was hours ahead of schedule, admittedly in part due to the favourable weather and trail conditions. And now, I had my laminated checkpoint plan to guide me through my turnaround, within which I’d surely condensed all the wisdom of my years of ultrarunning experience.

Stepping into the cosy cocoon of CP1, I felt upbeat. The Spine, Britain’s “most brutal”… yeah, okay. From hereon in, I’d show the young whippersnappers how to run it.

Continue reading: Part 3: Razor Fields

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