Alex Morales writes:
Anyone who’s dabbled in ultras in the UK at some point will hear about the country’s most daunting non-stop race, The Spine, which covers 268 miles of the Pennine Way from Edale in Derbyshire to Kirk Yetholm in the Scottish Borders.
With winter and summer editions, the distance alone would put most people off, let alone the 10,700 metres of ascent, the endless bogs and the prospect of running in either freezing or boiling conditions on little-to-no sleep while carrying several kilos of mandatory gear.
The Spine organisers have cottoned on to that and the full Spine has spawned several what I would call “gateway” races to lure the suffering-curious runners among us.
And that’s how I found myself running the 108-mile Spine Challenger South last weekend. (Also on offer: the 160-mile Challenger North, and 43-mile and 46-mile “sprints” north and south.)
The build-up was dominated by ensuring I had all the required items in my pack — and that they met the race organiser’s standards. Waterproofs need to meet a certain rating; footwear has to be in decent condition, and you need items ranging from a whistle and first aid kit to poo bags (which I hoped never to have to use). You also need basic map reading skills (although in practice, I did not use my map or compass once, because any decent GPS watch fitted with maps and loaded with the route will get you around.)
On the start line, there was a clear favourite, Christopher Cope. Others looked like they were chomping at the bit to stride out, but the bulk of us were in it to finish it, rather than to contest the podium.
It’s very hard to judge what pace to move at when attempting a race quite so long, especially if you’ve never attempted one before. But I knew that sprinting from the get-go was a passport to a DNF, not to mention exacerbating all the nutrition problems I’ve struggled with in recent ultras.
For a mid-pack runner like me, these events are not run even remotely close to marathon pace, and I resolved to run only the flats and the downhills that weren’t too steep, with a steady walk for the rest of the terrain. Soon enough, I settled into a comfortable rhythm, interrupted periodically by gradient changes, kit adjustments and snacks.
I had an alarm to remind me to eat small amounts every half hour, having been told that my nausea and digestion problems from races past probably stemmed from not doing so frequently enough. (I won’t pretend to be an expert in the science, but my understanding is that you basically need to remind your body to keep the blood flowing to the digestive system when it would otherwise divert it to your main current activity — running.)
It’s possible to spend a lot of the time in ultras running alone because relatively small fields get strung out pretty quickly. But I ran much of the first half with an NHS psychiatrist, and our conversation spanned the origins of the red and white spinning barbers’ pole to the history of the reservoirs we were running alongside, which had been built by his ancestors. Eventually I left him behind and entered the race’s sole checkpoint alongside a Yorkshirewoman who lived nearby and begrudged having to run a short stretch on asphalt.
The checkpoint at the scout centre in Hebden Hey was a chance to have a hot shower, change kit and eat a welcome meal of chicken and rice. The psychiatrist came in soon after me and we resolved to have a 90-minute lie-down on the camp beds provided, before setting off together again in darkness, just after midnight, without really having slept. Another 62 miles to go.
The night-running was surreal, dominated by the sound of a thumping rave we could hear coming from a house across the valley, which we passed later on just as revellers were leaving and the beats had subsided. The psychiatrist dropped back and told me he’d catch me on the next climb (This made sense: he’d been stronger than me on all the climbs, while I favoured the downhills). But I didn’t see him again and spent most of the rest of the race alone.
My morning was dominated by thoughts of sleep as I assessed and discarded various locations for a bivvy. At Gargrave, I met my husband in a pub for breakfast (the race rules say you’re not allowed to accept anything from a supporter, but you are allowed to stop at restaurants and cafes, as they’re forms of assistance available to all runners).
Then it was onwards for the final third of the race, taking in some beautiful scenery and the limestone pavement at Malham Cove. I ran for a bit with the Yorkshirewoman, until she stopped to attend to her feet and I tried —unsuccessfully — to grab some sleep in my bivvy on what turned out to be a patch of grass rich in hidden thistles. At Malham Tarn, the race’s wonderful volunteers plied me with biscuits and melon and refilled my water. Then it was onwards to the final major obstacle of the day, Pen y Ghent, featuring what I knew from my recces to be a fairly hairy climb. I was grateful to get there before dark, as I would not have fancied a nigh-time ascent.
Seeing that a finish before midnight was (very) vaguely attainable, I tried to make some good time on the descent — by which I mean stringing together a few sub 10-minute kilometres (this isn’t marathon pace, remember?). I stopped at a pub in Horton for some soup, before heading out on the final 24-kilometre stretch taking in the interminable Cam High Road in the dark. I didn’t see another soul until 2 kilometres from the finish.
It was on this stretch that I paid for my lack of sleep, and I did much of it in a trance-like state, closing my eyes for several steps at a time, staggering occasionally and giving myself repeated talkings to to be mindful of the potentially fatal drop to my left. I also had hallucinations, though they felt more like stills from dreams, and I surprised myself every now and then by speaking words out aloud that I hadn’t expected to utter. A frog rebuffed my attempts at a conversation (and I later discovered a dozen photos of the poor amphibian on my phone).
Finally I ran into Hawes and then through some fields to Hardraw for the finish at just past 1:30 a.m. I was greeted by some ever-cheerful volunteers and given a medal, a certificate and some refreshments before a kind member of the team drove me back to my hotel in Hawes. Over breakfast later that morning, I idly checked the race-tracker and saw that my doctor friend was soon to pass through Hawes. I hobbled down the road to greet him and walked with him for a few hundred metres. His foot had swollen up with tendonitis, and he’d pushed on through the pain. He’d also had to guide another contestant down Pen y Ghent in a state of apparent delirium. We hugged and I left him to hobble the final 2 kilometres to be greeted at the finish by his wife and four kids.
My final time was just over 41 1/2 hours — almost twice as long as it took the winner, Chris Cope. He’d set a course record, beaten second place by more than five hours and third place by almost 10. But for the bulk of us, it wasn’t about the time, it was about the setting, the people, the camaraderie.
