I stood on the small rock formation atop The Schil, the final peak before the long and gentle descent to Kirk Yetholm where the finish of the Spine Race waited. It’s a peculiar set of boulders, as if they had been intentionally dropped there amongst the gently rolling bogs of the Cheviot Hills. The strong winds had ceased entirely as I climbed it, adding to the sense that I was in a bubble separate from the time and place surrounding me.
In over a thousand miles on the Pennine Way I had rarely stopped to appreciate a single spot. Not intentionally anyway. And while fully coherent. Kim Collison had likely finished hours earlier to claim victory in the race, and all I could do was claim the rest of my own time in those lovely desolate hills. Before leaving my bubble, I savored one last sip of the Irn Bru I had carried from Byrness. Only miles to go before I sleep.
The first time I did the Spine Race in 2020, I had the outcome I wanted, but thanks to Storm Brendan hitting us mid race the experience was outright miserable. This time I didn’t get the outcome, but I had a bit of all the experiences.
It felt like we ended the race in summer, after starting in winter bounding across perfectly packed snow. We had a day of spring in between, as rain unevenly accelerated melting to create a roll of the dice for every step: slush, ice, actually still good snow, or an unstable crust covering a bog.
There were amazing clear views I hadn’t seen in any of my time on the Pennine Way. And there were the same endless seas of sheep poop defrosting in the moonlight.
I had unshakable confidence. And overwhelming doubt.
I was thrilled to get through the most technical section of the Pennine Way. Then I learned I had missed a diversion (detour) around that section.
The voices to quit were loud in my head, all the way from about 20 hours in until 80. But the moments of calm and clarity came too, like my stop on The Schil.
The constant in the experience was the people – volunteers, race staff, friends, competitors, and people coming out along the course at odd hours to offer runners food, water, and encouragement. Thank you so much to all those people, and my own family and personal support, for making this type of experience possible. In particular thank you to Allie Bailey and Damian Hall for so much help with transporation and accommodations before the race. It was also great to see Kim Collison get his outcome this year – the well-deserved culmination of four years of effort from one of the nicest guys in the sport.
If you’d like the visual tl;dr summary, just refer to the illustration below (click here for the full size image). For the details, read on.
Day 1 – Winter Wonderland
In 2019, when I first signed up for Spine and had never encountered a real bog, I envisioned adventuring through a snowy landscape. My first trip up the Pennine Way the following January instead had more mud than I had collectively seen in my life and also my first encounter with a named British wind storm. Then last year when beautiful winter conditions arrived I sat on the sidelines with a sprained ankle.
Finally, this was my year! Setting out from Edale was beautiful, and the running surface was perfect, thanks to the Challenger and Sprint runners who had set off the day before and beaten down a path of compacted snow. I couldn’t imagine trying to race while breaking that path.
We floated across it, and in my excitement I was actually the one pushing the pace a bit – the year before I was hanging off the back worried we were going too fast. Approaching each road crossing I prepared snow balls in anticipation of seeing Damian, a spectator this year, but we flew past before he arrived. At one point I even turned and shouted, “it was worth it!” Now that I’m back in the US, even getting to the start of the Spine is a challenge, and the extra time away from family weighs on my mind.
I also wanted to make the best of the good conditions. It was still frozen underfoot, but it was warming up significantly overhead. I stuffed snow in my hat to stay cool on the long runnnable section around the reservoirs past The White House pub. We cruised through that 5K section in under half an hour, which seemed like flying in an eighty hour race carrying all our kit. I felt unstoppable, but it was eerily similar to the start of Tor Des Geants last year, which resulted in a DNF when I had trouble staying awake on the very first night.
Kim, Eugeni, and I arrived at the first checkpoint at Hebden Bridge just before last light at around 4:20 PM. We had covered about 45 miles, just left the Peak District, and just over eight hours had elapsed. We made a quick turnaround, took out our lights, and set out on the long 65 mile section to Hawes.
On the climb out of Charlestown I was suddenly alone. It wasn’t intentional, but Kim and Eugeni had dropped back and the gap seemed to be growing. Unfortunately the snow was already starting to thaw in places, and in open fields where the path wasn’t quite as narrowly defined, the soft crunchy surface was slow and arduous to cross.
At one point the broken trail veered a bit to the left. I tried to follow the exact Pennine Way and found myself post-holing past my knees as Kim and Eugeni effortlessly caught up. I immediately lost whatever time and psychological advantage I might have been starting to gain. Whatever route the Challenger runners had broken was now the route.
We continued together past the 100K mark, and past the spot where I had I sprained my ankle the year before. I was grateful to again enjoy the hospitality of the Craven Energy Triathlon Club in Lothersdale, but only briefly this year. We passed through the empty fields with ease, until suddenly, one of my “sleep attacks” began. I could feel myself starting to stumble as my head bobbed back and forth and my eyelids tried to close.
It was exactly like Tor Des Geants. I was moving so incredibly well, and then suddenly I absolutely could not stay awake. I tried to fight it for a bit, but rather than risking reaching the point of no return like at Tor, I decided the best strategy would be to give in quickly and get it over with. I found a nice patch of snow and laid down without a word as Kim and Eugeni disappeared through the next gate.
Day 2 – The Thaw
After just five minutes (based on my watch’s cadence data) I rose from my bed of snow and continued. The sleep monsters had retreated, but were not done. I had a trailside snooze five times that night, for a total of 42 minutes. As I rose from one at Malham Cove, Dave, Tiaan, and Sam approached. I ran with them for awhile before yet another nap against a luxurious stone wall.
The underfoot conditions continued to get worse, a slushy slippery mess where just staying upright and out of a bog was a victory for each step. They were without a doubt the worst underfoot conditions I have seen on the Pennine Way, and probably the worst I have seen anywhere, ever. I believe 2020, with Storm Brendan, was possibly the worst overhead weather conditions the Spine has ever seen (I think Eoin Keith, who has done the race numerous times, has said the same). But as far as underfoot goes, this was worse.
Arriving in Horton, the voice telling me to quit had overpowered nearly every other thought in my head. “The fun part is over. Conditions will just keep getting more miserable. And you’re never going to catch up now. You’ve won this race before. What’s the point of carrying on just to do worse? Why are you even here?”
But I carried on. More just to stick it to that voice than because another one spoke up. Past the Cam High Road the snow drifts were waist deep and the wind was blowing my pack so far to my side that my arm was hitting it with each stride. Finally, 27 hours into the race, I descended to checkpoint two at Hawes. I was actually feeling better than in 2020, when I arrived in a bit of a delirium and then wandered off in the wrong direction three times.
Dave, Tiaan, and Sam chose to sleep at the checkpoint, but since I had already taken so many naps on the trail I got some food, changed clothes, and continued. I pushed up Great Shunner Fell, suddenly feeling strong and alert. The descent did not go as well.
My race was following that pattern: strong push, then slip and fall. I made it to Tan Hill Inn in great time, then through Sleightholme Moor I faceplanted into a bog and broke a pole. I had a great stretch of running to Middleton, then made a careless mental miscalculation on how long it would take to get to Langdon Beck.
Constantly thinking I would imminently arrive at the checkpoint, I got behind on fueling and hydration. I finally arrived weak and frustrated instead of strong and motivated. As small as it seems, it was probably my biggest mistake of the race. Rather than pushing through the checkpoint on the back of my trail naps as I had planned, I decided to attempt to sleep – twice. I spent nearly two hours there for maybe five minutes of sleep.
But still, Kim left just a few minutes before me. I hurriedly packed, went to kit check, and headed back out into the night to give chase.
Day 3 – Revenge of the Bogs
It was claggy and windy as I left the checkpoint. I put my hood up, my head down, and focused my headlight in front of my feet. The thought did occur to me, that in those conditions I was surprised we were sticking to the slippery rocks through Falcon Clints along the River Tees. Last year, after my DNF, I went to help at the Langdon Beck checkpoint and helped inform runners of the road diversion around that section.
Even in good conditions I always feel I’m losing time on that stretch, and after picking my way along the rocks and finally up to the top of the Cauldron Snout waterfall I was thrilled just to have it behind me. And wait, there’s Kim! For a brief moment I thought I had caught him, until realizing he had come from the other direction. He immediately mentioned the diversion, and my heart sank from a high to the lowest of lows. The normal adrenaline from seeing a competitor was instantly sapped.
We ran together briefly, both knowing we wouldn’t learn my fate until at least Dufton. Heading out to High Cup Nick I was again struggling to keep my eyes open. But it was windy, rainy, cold, and the ground was saturated. Napping was even more impossible than staying awake. So I stumbled along, struggling to stay on the good track through the bogs knowing that just to my left lurked one of the few places on the route that could result in a deadly fall.
By the time I arrived at Dufton, Kim was leaving. I spent the full allowable half hour there, unable to sleep while waiting to learn my penalty. The decision was made just as I was leaving: 26 minutes. I felt it was harsh, and my frustration fueled a strong charge up towards Cross Fell – a strong charge right up the wrong hill. I was so distracted that I had mindlessly followed the wrong path.
By the time I realized my error I had to work my way back down, cross a raging creek, and scramble up a rocky slope to rejoin the correct route. The adrenaline boost once again disappeared and turned to despondency. Someone near the top asked if I wanted to know what time Kim summited. “No thanks.” I was mentally done.
Mental strength has a way of masking physical weakness. With the former waning the latter started showing. I had significant pain at the bottom of my left shin. I stopped to make adjustments, but the long descent down the Corpse Road aggravated it further. By the time I made it to checkpoint four at Alston I was hobbling.
My biggest fear was that it could be the start of tendonitis, the kind that nearly reduced me to a crawl coming down Ben Nevis at the end of my Grand Round in 2020. Fortunately the medic found the pain was on the bone rather than the tendon. Motion itself didn’t hurt, just any external pressure on that spot. I switched shoes and loosened the one on that foot to where the tongue wouldn’t press at all on my shin. I was basically wearing it like a slipper. Problem solved-ish.
I was also given the welcome news that my penalty had been reduced to 13 minutes once it was confirmed that no one had informed me of the diversion. It seemed like a much more fair number that accurately reflected the extra time the diversion would have taken. Unfortunately by that point it felt inconsequential.
I set off through what many consider the least exciting part of the route, but one that I actually enjoy. It reminds me of Somerset, where I lived for over three years. As night arrived I marveled at how alert I actually felt – no uncontrollable sleep attacks. What was I doing differently?!
But the fun ended at Blenkinsopp. A seemingly never-ending series of undulating hills of muck. There was no path. No runnable terrain. Just shoe and soul sucking muck. Why does the route pass through this? It occurred to me that slogging through it was possibly the dumbest, most pointless thing I had ever done. Despite some unexpected aid stations and moral support from people who had come out in the middle of the night to see us through, I slid back to a major low by the time I reached Greenhead.
I always look forward to Hadrian’s Wall. Running along something constructed by the Roman Empire thousands of years ago will never not fascinate me. Unfortunately I never seem to be able to really enjoy that stretch. I napped alongside the ghosts of legionnaires six times for a total of 45 minutes, gave my respects to what remains of the Sycamore Gap tree, and continued fighting the sleep monster as I headed north. At one point I startled myself with a snore mid stride.
Day 4 – “Fun” in the Sun
I woke up as Tiaan arrived at Horneystead Farm. It felt inevitable that he and Dave would catch me, and at that point I honestly didn’t really mind. I had given up on 1st, and the difference between 2nd and 4th didn’t feel as significant to me as trying to enjoy the remainder of the route.
At Bellingham I slept another 30 minutes and set off with one last burst of determination. If I was going to finish, I was going to finish strong! But soon I was in the final stretch of bad bogs and every part of my left leg was complaining *except* my bruised shin – likely a result of an altered gait and wearing my shoe so loose.
At Byrness, with just ~10% of the route remaining, quitting was still on my mind. “What’s the point? You have nothing to gain. It’s all sunk costs.”
In disbelief that I needed to convince myself to enjoy the Cheviots on a perfect day, I grabbed an Irn Bru left by Nicky Spinks and pushed on. It was beautiful at the top – the nicest, most clear day I had ever been in those hills. I could see straight across them. My mind drew an imaginary line along the Pennine Way all the way to the start of its descent to the finish in Kirk Yetholm.
I took one last ten minute nap at the first of two refuge huts and emerged just behind Lucy Gossage. She welcomed some company and requested some of my craziest running stories to keep her alert. I was low on everything else… but crazy, stupid running stories? Got those in spades.
We made steady progress, my energy returning and her encouraging me a few times to go after Tiaan and Dave. But with my time penalty it felt impossible – all they would have to do is keep my headlamp in sight in order to finish ahead of me. My energy was also partially thanks to her company – she was crushing it and it gave me new purpose. If it can’t be your day, the next best thing is to be a part of someone else’s, however small that part might be.
We pushed up The Schil, and I took my diversion to the summit. I stood atop it triumphantly. I might not have been victorious, but I was unbroken. It was a stark contrast to my hobbled finish in my 2020 win, and reminded me of stopping to enjoy the sunset on my second Barkley finish.
I turned as Lucy went past, and climbed down to rejoin her. We descended to the Border Hotel where she had her hard-fought, well-earned moment, for her and for so many others, before I joined her on the finish line plant pot.
The Rebound
It’s always important, in those key decisions in any race, to have future me involved in the decision process. How will I feel about this a week, a month, years from now? Will I regret it, be glad I did it, or will I really not care about it at all? It’s the classic delayed gratification test – if I resist the temptation to make the easy choice now, will it be worth it?
Sometimes the answer is no. I’ve had DNFs that I certainly don’t regret. The cost of continuing could not have possibly justified any potential reward. Other times I’ve grasped on to the tiniest remaining thread of hope and pulled myself to things that have altered the course of my life (not just referring to races here).
But one of the biggest things I’ve learned is that it’s not so black and white. Sometimes the answer is just, meh, sort of. It’s not always a decision of continuing in misery or quitting entirely. I shared some thoughts on this in the Instagram post below.
The only thing I can really add to that are the pictures below. In the first one, from 2020, I’ve just won the race. I pushed myself to the absolute brink, to places that I did not know I could go. Acute injuries aside, I think it’s still the most broken I’ve ever been. On the final few miles into Kirk Yetholm, I’m not sure how I would have answered if a genie had popped out of a bottle and said, “Tell ya what, you can either have a million bucks, or I can move the finish line to right here.” It still amazes me that I’ve come back to start the Spine Race twice since then – I was so absolutely sure I would never do it again.
This next picture is from later that same year, when I broke Mike Hartley’s longstanding record on the Pennine Way by just 34 minutes (only for my pal Damian to smash my record a week later, and then for me to return and break his record in 2021). The diagnosis after the fact was that I likely ran most of that with an ulcer – an actual internal bleed somewhere in my GI system. I hardly got any calories at all down from Middleton to the Cheviots – a stretch of around 30 hours.
Then below is after my finish this year. A two year old could point out which of the three pictures I look happier in. Were the first two worth it? Absolutely, 100% without a doubt. Would it personally have been worth it to me this year to show up at the Border Hotel looking like that, absolutely smashed into a million pieces well after my main performance goal was out of reach? Nope. Sorry, but just no.
I also already know that if I really need to, whether in a race or in actual consequential life difficulties, I can push myself to the brink. I don’t need to prove that to myself again. The only real remaining goal was to enjoy my experience and make the most of the opportunity to be out there again. Another chance is never guaranteed. On that, mission accomplished. I’m glad I didn’t completely wreck myself, but current / future me would be incredibly disappointed if I had quit.
I hesitated to make that Instagram post, or to mention that here, because I know how easily it could come across wrong. I’m not saying we should give up on goals while hope remains, or that I could’ve won the race if I had tried harder, or that anyone else’s finishes or even attempts at this race are less than the incredible achievements that they are. This is 100% about my own personal goals and my performance relative to myself and my own unique circumstances – the only way any of us can truly measure any result accurately.
The Diversion Diversion
I also made an Instagram post (below) about the missed diversion, and don’t really have much else to add to that. Mistakes happen, and I’m sorry for everyone involved that it was a distraction in a great race. I’ve spoken with race staff about ways to improve both diversion notifications and penalty applications. I still wish I could have “served my time” somehow rather than just having a time penalty added along with the huge psychological penalty of no longer being able to race head to head. I trust that they’ll take the feedback and integrate it with their own knowledge and considerations, which I might be blissfully unaware of, in order to improve the processes for everyone.
I was told afterwards that one of the staff or volunteers at Langdon Beck felt so bad about it that they didn’t want to join a few of us for a meal at the Border Hotel afterwards. I have no idea who that was, but if you’re reading this, please know that I have absolutely zero bad feelings towards anyone who was working there. The only thing I would feel bad about is if you continue to feel bad. From both the perspective of a runner and a volunteer, I know how chaotic that checkpoint is. I was also incredibly rushed getting out of there once I heard Kim wasn’t far ahead, and people were probably entirely focused on helping me do that. I had honestly been planning on asking about the diversion to be 100% sure I didn’t miss something, but I got in such a hurry that I forgot.
Dear Lindley
Just before the race, in another Instagram post (below), I made a flippant comment about the “pointless & wasteful stuff we have to carry.” I made that post while incredibly frustrated at trying to sort through and pack everything into my luggage for the race, and I probably shouldn’t have made that comment in that way on that platform. I can easily see how it could have been taken the wrong way, and it also became another distraction for me leading into the race.
That doesn’t mean I think the comment itself wasn’t true. Over the years I’ve shared my objections with specific items numerous times with race staff, including Lindley – master of the kit list. Some of that is best left to private conversations, but I do believe it’s also important to have some of these discussions openly so that:
- A diverse set of perspectives and experiences can be heard
- The race has opportunities to make its own perspectives clear (e.g. my post became a platform for Lindley to provide info and rebuttals)
- Entrants who are already making an enormous commitment of time and finances fully know up front what they’re getting into
- I can show that it’s not (or maybe actually is) just my own thoughts or anecdotes
On that last point, I want to make it clear that my objections to some items on the kit list are not just whining about me wanting to carry less stuff. I genuinely care about the race, its people, and its participants, and want everyone to have the best possible experience while also staying safe. I have great respect and appreciation for everything involved in creating and managing this complex and demanding event. If I didn’t, honestly I would just keep my mouth shut and do a different race or stick to solo efforts where I can make my own rules. I know it’s a crazy concept these days, that people can disagree on things while also having respect for one another. I promise it is actually possible.
But I also believe in continual improvement (I have a long list of things I need to improve myself!). Having unnecessary items is counter-productive to safety. They:
- Take up space that could be used by situationally critical items
- Add weight that could cause injuries or additional time in dangerous conditions
- Add cost that creates an unnecessary barrier to entry or that could cause someone to be more “budget conscious” on critical items
- Consume extra resources
- Give a false sense of security that if someone has all the required stuff they don’t need to think about other kit or know how to use things properly
- Increase complexity, distracting from actual critical items and harming the credibility of the list as a whole
An invariable kit list isn’t going to keep people safe from variable conditions, especially if they don’t know how to use things properly. The goal needs to be safety rather than the appearance of safety, and at some point grown adults have to take responsibility for themselves (and feel the sense of achievement from doing it!). An anecdote of someone finding an item useful doesn’t mean it should be required kit. Things that should be required are only those things that someone might need to stay safe – not to possibly be more comfortable under certain conditions.
I’m not going to share my thoughts on every individual item here. I have heard that there will be some changes for next year, some of which will be very welcome. There will likely be some items on there that I disagree with, and that’s fine. I’m not, and should not be, and don’t want to be, the one making any of these decisions. Any feedback I provide is my own thoughts and no one has to listen to any of them or even read them. But no matter what, I will continue to poke fun at a spork being required.
One other thing I mentioned in the original Instagram post is that I hate the concept of “buying speed.” Do I still do it? Of course. I can compete with other people, but not with physics. Athletes can advocate for changing rules in their own sport, but when competing they have to do their best under the current rules. It takes me back to my competitive triathlon days, when the front wheel on my bike (paid for mostly by social media posts) was worth more than my car.
That’s one reason I shared this spreadsheet, with my own personal choices for kit requirements. I don’t want kit selection to be a competitive advantage. I very much recognize that many people don’t have the sponsors or financial resources for some of these items, but hopfeully sharing this information can at least help reduce the scavenger hunt for (near) optimal items.
A Staying Awake Contest
Unfortunately, this is what these races seem to have come down to for me recently. I feel physically strong, and fast, and incredibly well prepared. And then I just flat out can’t stay awake. I don’t hallucinate, I don’t lose my ability to think clearly, I just physically can’t keep my eyes open and stay on my feet. I’ve considered that maybe I should just try stage races instead – get a nice luxurious night of sleep each day. But I do enjoy the continuous events and the strategy involved. Stage races also require more time away from life.
The last Instagram post I’ll reference is the one below from my 40th birthday, where I say I’m going to focus more on the whole running thing to see if I can better realize my potential while it’s still possible. So far, a big part of trying to realize my running potential has been doing better at the non-running things. I’ve started doing some of my coach’s (David Roche) favorite things: spending time on my bike again, doing heat exposure, and making some actual efforts at some minimal strength training (although honestly, I’m still failing pretty hard on that one).
The biggest thing I’ve been looking at, though, particularly since Spine, is sleep. I’ve been working with Vic Johnson to see if there are nutritional issues I can address (both day-to-day and in race), I’ve had some great conversations with Nickademus de la Rosa to see if there’s anything I can address psychologically, and I’ve visited a nearby sleep medicine center. I’m enrolled in an overnight study there soon, where they’ll hook me up to all the things and monitor me to see if I have any signs of sleep apnea (runs in my family) or other issues that could be affecting the quality of my sleep.
I’ve also had a hard look at my own smart watch and Whoop data going back to 2016, and found some interesting patterns. Major life events jump out clearly – some big peaks just before big races (I averaged nearly 9 hours in the month before my first Barkley finish), but many big dips around things like the birth of our kids and some rough stretches starting our company (in two 40 day periods my average night was less than 5 hours of sleep and in bed after 4 AM). It’s very possible there are some longer term consequences from those stretches.
Fortunately I do seem to have been doing much better the last few years. The only huge dip was recently in the weeks after Hurricane Helene, when I was usually out the door at first light and not home till near midnight. The trends in the months since then look pretty great (Whoop data below). Whatever is in the past is done, and all I can do now is try to continue improving from where I am, both in life and in these ridiculous runs that so often parallel it.
As usual, it’s such a treat to read about your experiences and more importantly about your reflection on them. I hope I’ll get to share a bunch of miles with you in this decade, in the Aosta Valley or anywhere else for that matter!
(…but mostly there 😜)
Thanks very much Martin. I’m planning on being out there a bit early this year – if you’re around it would be great to share some slightly more relaxed miles!
Great post John. I really liked this: “If it can’t be your day, the next best thing is to be a part of someone else’s, however small that part might be.” It brought to light where the enjoyment came in my last big race. It wasn’t my day, but I had a lot of fun, and in hindsight it was from running the last 8 hours with someone else who was crushing it. Looking forward to a series of (hopefully) more regular posts of yours.
Thank you Sean, and hope you’re the one out there crushing it on your next race!
As always, I enjoy reading your posts. I also enjoyed and cheered you and the others on by ‘dot watching’. As a “runner” hitting their mid-50’s I’m sorry to say but Coach Roche is correct about the strength training, don’t over look it. Keep moving forward, you can’t hold the plow straight if your looking behind you!
Thanks very much Chad, and I hope you have many great adventures still ahead of you!
Superb write up as always John. It’s thanks to insights like this that I find ultra running so fascinating.
As i read you’ve just completed your Fun Run – I cannot wait to read about that one!
Thank you Ali