Next year I’m running the Montane Spine twice, once in the dead of winter and again in the height of summer. The post below is from Andy Glaze, a well known American Ultra runner and fireman. It’s bloody good so I’d thought I’d put it here for all to read. It came from Substack, which I’d never heard off. ( https://substack.com/ ) So if you like this post I’m sure Andy has written many more on this platform.

Like Andy I signed up for this event because it is another level of ‘hard‘ compared to normal 200 milers. Especially the winter version where you are battling freezing conditions, probably snow and eighteen hours of darkness.  I’ve raced seven two hundred milers and the distance now doesn’t faze me anymore, but the winter spine is another one hundred kilometres in brutal conditions with no support and very few aid stations. I am scared and that’s the point I suppose, do hard shit while you still can.  

They call the Pennine Way the backbone of England. 268 miles from Edale in the Peak District to Kirk Yetholm, just over the Scottish border. Bogs that swallow legs. Wind that holds you up when you lean into it. A 156-hour time limit and five checkpoints scattered across some of the wildest country in Britain.

I signed up because it scared me. That’s the honest answer. After many races of 100 miles and a couple of races between 200 and 300 miles, I’ve learned that the races that scare you are the ones that change you. Comfort doesn’t build anything. Comfort maintains. Growth lives on the other side of the thing you’re not sure you can do.

This is the story of six days on the Spine. But really it’s a story about what happens when you deliberately choose hard. Spoiler: you find out who you are.

Getting There

I arrived into Manchester on the afternoon of June 12th, 2026, jet lagged and carrying more gear than I’d ever brought to a race. A friend picked me up and drove me through the English countryside to Rushup Hall, a stunning stone farmhouse bed and breakfast nestled near the race start in the Peak District. Ancient stone walls bordered narrow winding roads. Sheep dotted the hillsides. The building looked like it had been standing there for centuries, which it probably had.

It felt genuinely remote. Quiet in a way that California never really is.

I took an Uber into Castleton that evening. Yes, Uber works in the English countryside, which surprised me. Castleton is a small medieval market town sitting at the mouth of the Hope Valley, flanked by dramatic limestone ridges and the ruins of Peveril Castle perched impossibly high on the hill above. Stone cottages line the narrow streets. The whole place feels preserved, like time slowed down and never quite caught back up. Most things close early here. This is not a late night town. But I found a pub still serving food and ate a proper meal, trying to carbo-load without overthinking it.

The strangest thing was the light. It doesn’t get dark until nearly 11pm in June at this latitude. I sat outside and watched the sky glow golden long past when it should have been night. Beautiful and deeply disorienting at the same time.

A Trail Worth Fighting For

Before 1965, these moorlands were locked up. Private grouse-shooting estates, guarded by gamekeepers, off limits to the working people who lived in the industrial towns below. On April 24, 1932, about 400 ramblers from Manchester and Sheffield walked up onto Kinder Scout anyway. Factory workers. Mill hands. They scuffled with gamekeepers on the way up. Five of them went to prison for it, some for up to six months.

The sentences backfired. Public outrage swelled. A rally at Winnats Pass drew 10,000 supporters. Three years later a journalist named Tom Stephenson, inspired by America’s Appalachian Trail, published an article calling for a “Long Green Trail” up the spine of the country. He described it as a faint line on the maps that the feet of grateful pilgrims would engrave on the face of the land over the years.

It took 30 more years of fighting. The Pennine Way finally opened on April 24, 1965. The exact anniversary of the trespass.

I think about that a lot. Every mile of this trail was won by people who did a hard thing when it would have been easier to stay home. The trail itself is a monument to the idea that discomfort in service of something bigger is always worth it. I’d be running on ground that ordinary people went to prison to open.

That’s not lost on me. It shouldn’t be lost on you either.

Race Registration Day

Mandatory kit I was required to carry at all times:

• Backpack/running vest capable of holding all compulsory kit
• Physical baseplate magnetic compass (no electronic compasses allowed)
• Custom Harvey’s race maps (provided at registration)
• Emergency whistle
• Clear lens eye protection with rubber seal and head strap
• Headtorch (minimum 100 lumens) with spare batteries or second torch
• Waterproof jacket with hood, minimum 10,000mm hydrostatic head, fully taped seams
• Waterproof trousers, minimum 10,000mm hydrostatic head, fully taped seams
• Warm insulated hat covering ears (no thin beanies)
• Waterproof gloves with fingers
• Spare socks
• Neck warmer
• Spare base layer top (long sleeved)
• Spare base layer bottom (long legged)
• Spare insulated down jacket with zip
• Appropriate footwear
• Waterproof bivvy bag (not the emergency foil type)
• 3 liters of water carrying capacity
• Minimum 1,000 calories of food (750 must be ready to eat)
• Working mobile phone on a UK network
• Rear red LED light
• Toilet kit (trowel, tissues, poo bags)
• Metal mug (the race is cupless)
• Personal first aid kit including antiseptic wipes, hypodermic needles, kinesiology tape, safety scissors, paracetamol, rehydration salts, foil emergency blanket, waterproof plasters, and nitrile gloves

Mandatory drop bag kit transported between checkpoints:

• Lightweight sleeping bag
• CP footwear (kanes or flip flops)
• Towel
• Sun cream and a peaked sun hat

With all of that mandatory gear, plus enough food to cover up to 65 miles between some aid stations, my pack weighed approximately 25 pounds. Around 11.3 kg. I knew immediately that my back and shoulders were going to pay for this before my legs did.

Another racer staying at the hotel drove me to Edale for check-in, a quick ten minute drive into the village. The weather was sunny with scattered clouds, which was shocking after weeks of forecasts promising relentless rain. I started to feel cautiously optimistic.

The check-in process at Edale Village Hall was impressively organized. They assigned staggered time slots and the system moved efficiently. My advice for anyone doing this race: go toward the end of your time slot. Everyone floods in at the beginning and the queue gets long.

I was randomly selected for a full kit inspection. Of course the American would get the complete check, I laughed. They went through every single item methodically and thoroughly. I’d spent significant time and energy making sure everything met spec and it paid off. Everything passed. No issues.

Then came the navigation test. I had to demonstrate how to read true north using my physical compass, locate a six-figure grid reference on the race map, and then reverse it. Given a location, identify the grid coordinates. The Pennine Way is a National Trail and reasonably well-marked, but skilled navigators have gotten lost out here in bad weather and sleep deprivation. Navigation matters here in a way it doesn’t at most races I’ve done.

I also had to confirm my Garmin was configured for the British National Grid system rather than standard GPS coordinates. Position format set to British Grid, map datum to ORD SRVY GB. A detail that matters when you’re trying to find yourself in the dark somewhere in the North Pennines at 3am.

I got my bib, had my photo taken for the tracker system, and attended the mandatory race briefing. Well organized, thorough, no-nonsense. These people have been running this race for years and it shows.

Back at the hotel, I reassembled everything from scratch after having it all spread out for inspection. Filled all three liters of water capacity. Clipped everything into its designated pocket. Then put the pack on and went for a short shakedown run. Checked for chafing, bounce, hydration tube access, pack stability. When you’re carrying 25 pounds for potentially six or more days, every small irritation becomes a major problem. I needed to know everything worked before the gun went off.

It did. The pack was heavy but settled well.

One sleep until the start.

The Race

268 miles. Edale, Derbyshire to Kirk Yetholm, Scotland.

The Pennine Way traces the backbone of England from the Peak District north through the Yorkshire Dales, across the North Pennines and Hadrian’s Wall, through the remote Cheviot Hills, and finally over the Scottish border. It is one of the great wilderness routes of Britain. Exposed, technical, and completely unforgiving in bad weather. Summer temperatures can hit 77 degrees during the day and drop to freezing overnight.

Five mandatory checkpoints. A 156-hour time limit. No crew, no pacers. Whatever you carried was what you had.

That last part matters. In a world where we outsource everything, there’s something clarifying about a race that says: you, your pack, your decisions. Self-reliance isn’t a buzzword out here. It’s the entire format.

Day One – Edale to Hebden Bridge (CP1): 46 miles, 6,600 feet of ascent

Race start: 8:00am, Edale Village Hall. The village sits at the southern end of the Hope Valley in the Peak District, surrounded by moorland that rises sharply in every direction. Dark gritstone edges cut the skyline. The air was cool and clear with sunshine.

We arrived early and checked in. We were each assigned a GPS tracker to wear on our shoulder, which would let race staff and anyone with an internet connection follow us dot by dot across England. We also dropped off our one drop bag that would be moved from CP to CP. It could only weigh 20kg, and they were weighing them to make sure. I used a 110L Ortlieb dry bag. For 50 pounds I also had the option to drop off an international bag they would transport straight to the finish line. Basically my luggage for the trip. Clean clothes for the version of me that would exist on the other side of this thing.

A big group of people gathered to cheer us on as we started. The course wound up through Edale on the road for a bit before jumping onto the Pennine Way. The day was beautiful and the hills were impossibly green. Within the first couple miles I got my first taste of opening and closing gates. I’d been warned this would be a theme. The route crosses a lot of private farmland and every lot has a gate to keep sheep secured. I wish I had counted how many we went through, but honestly it would have been in the hundreds. By day three, opening a gate latch with wrecked hands becomes its own small skill.

The first significant challenge comes almost immediately. Jacob’s Ladder at mile 3 is a steep, rocky staircase of a climb rising brutally out of the valley floor onto the high moors of Kinder Scout, the highest point in the Peak District at 2,087 feet. The stone steps were actually built to repair the erosion caused by decades of boots, a reminder that this trail gets loved hard. At the foot of the climb sits a simple wooden bench with a poem carved into it: “Office bustle for leaves rustle. Mobiles ringing for birds singing.” I get it. That’s exactly why we were all there.

Kinder Scout is also holy ground if you care about how this trail came to exist. This is the plateau where those 400 ramblers trespassed in 1932. Climbing Jacob’s Ladder with 25 pounds on my back, I thought about mill workers climbing the same slopes in work boots, risking prison just to stand up here. Perspective is free if you’re willing to look for it.

The race sets its tone immediately. This is not a course that eases you in. The slabs and boulders demand attention from the very start, and with 25 pounds on your back, each step requires real effort. Once at the top we followed rocky ridgelines. Not small rocks. Very large stone slabs. It’s not technical but it requires concentration. The difficulty is that you want to look around at the beauty but also not trip.

I did trip. On a buffed out non-technical section, naturally. Cut my knee deep, blood running down into my sock. Rookie juice, I like to call it. A 268 mile race and I donate blood in the first ten. Forward is a pace, even when you’re bleeding.

I was introduced to the flagstone trails through boggy fields for the first time. Large flagstones around 3 feet by 2 feet form a path that keeps you somewhat dry through the wet fields. Many of these stones were recycled from the floors of demolished textile mills in the valleys below, flown in by helicopter and laid across the peat. The bones of the industrial north, repurposed to carry runners across the moors. Occasionally a stone would be loose and a step would rock it back and forth, creating a wet hazard. Occasionally they were fully submerged. A good system, but not a perfect system.

Then we entered our first truly boggy area. Deep mud and water that threatened to steal a shoe. I slowed down and used my poles to find the shallowest line, methodically working my way through. I did not yet have the confidence of the UK runners, who charged right through like it was nothing. I learned fast that sometimes there is no dry option. The only question is ankle deep wet feet or knee deep wet feet. That’s the whole menu.

There’s a lesson in the bogs, and I kept coming back to it all week. You cannot avoid the hard section. You can only choose how you move through it. Fight it and you exhaust yourself. Accept it and you keep moving. That’s true of peat bogs and it’s true of most things in life.

Around mile 20 we came upon a little food stand on the side of the road selling bacon sandwiches. I got 2 cokes and 2 waters. Refilled my bottles and drank the cokes. They hit the spot.

After this we had easy dirt road for a while before climbing again onto more flagstone, crossing Blackstone Edge with its medieval guidepost, the Aiggin Stone, that has been pointing travelers across this ridge for roughly 600 years. Everything out here is old. The trail doesn’t let you forget it.

Eventually we dropped down to a large parking lot where we found Nicki’s burgers. A shipping container converted into a restaurant for travelers. I got a burger and chips. It was heaven. I should have gotten two. I needed the calories and it would have been worth it. Write that down: at the Spine, when food appears, order double.

Continuing on, we crossed over the M62, the massive motorway cutting east to west across England, runners on a footbridge suspended over six lanes of traffic. In the distance we could see Manchester, its multistory buildings towering. The last bit of real civilization for a while. A lot of gates in our future.

On the final moors before Hebden Bridge we passed below Stoodley Pike, a 121 foot stone obelisk on the ridgeline that was originally built to celebrate the defeat of Napoleon. The first tower collapsed in 1854, on the exact day the Russian ambassador left London before the Crimean War. Local legend says if it ever falls again, war with Russia follows. It was still standing when I went by. Good news for everyone.

We started going through more private farmland and the trail became narrow and overgrown. Eventually we made our way into town. I ran down the road, excited to be there, but wait. One last technical descent to the CP. Down, down, down through singletrack. And the midges were coming out. I ducked into the CP building right as they started biting.

Hebden Bridge is an old textile mill town nestled in a steep wooded valley where two streams meet. The River Calder runs through its center, flanked by Victorian stone buildings that once housed the workers of the industrial north. It’s a striking arrival point after the raw exposure of the moors above.

Checkpoint 1: Hebden Hey Scout Centre. 46 miles in. Cut-off: 24 hours.

It was still light when I got there, which isn’t saying much since it stays light until 11pm. This was my first introduction to how they do checkpoints at the Spine, and it’s quite different than the US. We were given our drop bag and a chair. Food was in a totally separate building and if we wanted it, we had to go get it.

I decided to take care of myself before getting food. Cleaned my feet, retaped, relubed, put on new socks. Plugged in all my devices, then headed to eat. Several hot options were available. I got pasta with red sauce. It was delicious and I had 3 bowls.

I noticed everyone was wearing their sandals and realized I had made a rookie mistake. I should have taken my shoes off immediately and let my feet dry out in my sandals, only putting the wet shoes back on at the very end. Next checkpoint I wouldn’t make that mistake. Six days of racing is really just a long series of small lessons, learned fast, applied faster.

I decided not to sleep. I wasn’t tired and I knew the night would be short. I figured I would push through and morning sunlight would carry me through day two.

I restocked my pack with calories. I had 5 food sources: Precision 90g carb gels, Precision 30g chews, Phun bars, Skittles (guilty pleasure), and cold soaked ramen noodles. It should be noted that before leaving all CPs you have to do a gear check. They make you seal and hand over your drop bag first, then you go through all your mandatory gear. So no reason to pack up properly until after that’s done. I waited to fill my water reservoir until after the check since all my gear would be out of the pack anyway.

I had 65 miles until the next checkpoint, so I needed to carry a lot of food. I put my midge net on and stepped into the cold dark night.

Time to navigate in the dark.

Day Two – Hebden Bridge to Hardraw (CP2): 64 miles, 8,900 feet of ascent

The longest and arguably hardest section of the race. 64 miles between checkpoints, with a monitoring point at Malham Tarn in between. No drop bag access there, 30 minute maximum stay. This is the stretch I had been mentally preparing for since the day I signed up.

Leaving Hebden Bridge, the route climbs back onto the moors and traverses into the Yorkshire Dales, one of the most beautiful and exposed landscapes in England. The terrain shifts from dark gritstone moorland to the pale limestone country of the Dales, and the views open up dramatically. Navigating wasn’t challenging at first. The trail is pretty defined.

Top Withens sits high on the moors above Haworth. A ruined farmhouse, exposed and solitary against the sky, with nothing but heather and wind in every direction. This is the place said to have inspired the Earnshaw home in Wuthering Heights. Emily Brontë walked these hills, and standing up there in any kind of weather, you understand exactly why her writing is what it is. The farm has its own hard history too. Built in the 1500s, farmed by families who supplemented thin sheep income with handloom weaving, its last resident was a war veteran named Ernest Roddy who left in 1926. Now it stands as a stabilized ruin, and the trail signs nearby are printed in English and Japanese for the literary pilgrims who come from around the world.

I ran past it in the dark and the cold and just kept moving. That’s the strange privilege of this race. You pass world-famous landmarks at 2am, nod at them, and grind on.

Before reaching a small village we hit a downhill boggy section that was not crossable without a lot of wet feet action. It went on for around a mile, surrounded by tall grasses. The trail was hard to find in the darkness, but we could occasionally see the Pennine Way signposts sticking out of the ground and knew to aim for them.

Eventually we made it to the village and were treated to a beautiful pink sunrise. A huge mood boost. I had survived the first night of cold and navigation. In hindsight I should have grabbed my long sleeved base layer and been a bit warmer. Lesson filed.

I was hallucinating at this point. Early for an ultra, but the combination of poor sleep before the race and the jet lag had me seeing all kinds of animals and weird objects in the half light. My brain was in California. My body was in Yorkshire. Neither was fully committed to the project.

Around 20 miles in we came upon our first honesty box. A small building with a refrigerator in it, plus a hot pot for making hot water. Tons of food and drinks available. There was a little card machine and you just added up what you bought and charged yourself. Nobody watching. Nobody checking. The whole system runs on trust, and it works. I got some crisps, a coke, and a dense high calorie bar. I sat and ate them, then realized my morning bowel movement was arriving on schedule. I left in a hurry, found a section of tall grass, dug a hole and filled it. Glamorous sport, ultrarunning.

We then made our way along a canal, man made and dotted with long flat narrowboats. This is the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, part of the network that once moved coal and cloth through the industrial north. We passed under beautiful stone bridges and eventually reached Gargrave, a town with a small grocery store. I bought a bunch of candy and bread. Ate the bread, shoved the candy into my pack, and headed down the trail toward Malham.

This is when I first started getting sleepy, and I couldn’t understand it. It was morning, the sun was shining, and normally I feel great on day two in sunshine. But I wasn’t accounting for the jet lag. 8am in England is midnight in California. My body wanted to sleep. So eventually I gave in and took a 10 minute nap.

When I woke, I found my watch had crashed. Garmin does this occasionally. The blue triangle of death. This was terrible because I use my watch as my map. I reset it around 25 times, and on the 26th it came back to life with no issues. It even resumed my activity. Dodged a bullet. Adaptability isn’t just a mindset out here. Sometimes it’s pressing a button 26 times and refusing to panic.

Malham Tarn is a glacial lake sitting impossibly in a limestone landscape at 1,230 feet, one of the highest naturally occurring lakes in England. The surrounding carboniferous limestone creates terrain that looks unlike anywhere else in Britain. The house on its shore inspired Charles Kingsley’s The Water Babies, and Malham Moor mattered so much to the founders of this trail that they held the official Pennine Way opening ceremony here in 1965. For us it was a monitoring point only. Maximum 30 minute stay, no drop bag. Fill water, check in, keep moving.

Pen-y-ghent is one of the famous Yorkshire Three Peaks, rising to 2,277 feet of dark millstone grit and limestone, its stepped profile visible for miles. The ascent involves hands-on scrambling. A bit of a class 3 scramble, honestly. Very steep rock steps, and I definitely used my hands to climb this beast. I couldn’t help but think, how do the winter Spine racers climb this in snow? It was hard enough in gusty wind. If you’re afraid of heights, this summit will test you. It was mercifully short, and the views from the top stretch across the entire Dales.

You then get on the Cam High Road and it feels like it goes on forever. I watched the sunset for the second time of the race climbing this road. It’s not that steep, but it’s steep enough that running it with 100 miles under your legs isn’t going to feel good. Eventually it turns left and you start dropping toward Hawes.

After what seemed like a while you break off the road into a steep downhill section on a trail that’s been eaten by bogs. My feet got wet, it was dark, it was hard to navigate. And of course you’re at the end of a 64 mile section, so you’re a bit tired. I was hallucinating a lot and had already decided I would be taking a real nap at the checkpoint.

Eventually I got down through the boggy descent and into the outskirts of town. I was really out of my mind at this point. I remember going through a gate into a large walled field and I could not figure out how to get out. Eventually I found a small gate in the far left corner, but I was stuck in there like a penned animal for longer than I’d like to admit. Somewhere in Yorkshire there is security camera footage of an American ultrarunner losing a chess match to a sheep field.

Coming into the village it only got worse. The Pennine Way snakes through town in the most precarious ways, through yards and between homes, and at night I could not find all the little gates and paths. I got quite lost, hit a few dead end roads, and finally found my way to the checkpoint. The last mile seemed to take forever.

Hawes is a tiny village in Wensleydale, home to England’s highest single-drop waterfall, Hardraw Force, which pours 100 feet behind the Green Dragon pub. The sound of it carries through the village. At this point in the race, it’s the sweetest sound imaginable.

Checkpoint 2: Hardraw. 64 miles from CP1, 110 miles total. Cut-off: 60 hours.

I was way ahead of cutoffs, so no worries there. I believe they were serving a chili and rice dish. Truly, I cannot fully remember. I was that far gone. I know I ate, and then went to a tent and slept for 90 minutes. This time I kept my shoes and socks off as long as possible and let my wet feet dry out. Or attempted to. I slept like a rock. Thankfully I had brought a sleeping pad, because the tents have no cots. You sleep on the ground. It wasn’t cold enough for my sleeping bag, so I used it as a pillow. Pants, two long sleeve layers, and a jacket. Warm enough.

After the nap I ate one of my ramen noodles. They had hot water, so I ate it hot, which felt like fine dining. I cleaned my feet, retaped what needed it, relubed everything, put on new socks and squeezed my feet back into wet muddy shoes. It was still dark, the midges were biting, and I started climbing another large hill out of the aid station.

Emotionally this was a huge victory. For months I had mentally prepared myself to reach this exact point. Mile 110. CP2. The two longest sections of the race were behind me, and I had arrived in one piece, feeling good. That’s the thing about breaking an impossible task into pieces. You don’t run 268 miles. You run to the next checkpoint, over and over, until there are no checkpoints left.

Onward to CP3.

Day Three – Hardraw to Middleton-in-Teesdale (CP3): 34 miles, 4,700 feet of ascent

Leaving Hawes, the route climbs Great Shunner Fell and crosses into the North Pennines, an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty that feels genuinely wild and remote. The landscape becomes broader, emptier, more severe.

I had to take a 10 minute nap halfway to Tan Hill Inn. The midges were out in force. I put my midge net over my face as I slept, but my hands were exposed and they bit me all over. The only solution was shoving my hands into my armpits while I slept in the grass. Living the dream, warriors.

A side note on naps. If our stops were longer than 30 minutes we had to call HQ and let them know. Anywhere on course. The problem I kept running into was that jet lag hammered me every morning. 8am English sunshine, midnight California body. An intense case of the sleepies, on repeat.

We had 17 miles until Tan Hill Inn, and I was told they would have hot food I could buy. I was excited. It was nice trail for the most part. Definitely some climbing out of Hawes. A lot of sheep. Eventually you reach an area that feels truly remote. Rolling green hills as far as the eye can see. And then finally, Tan Hill in the distance.

Tan Hill Inn sits at 1,732 feet above sea level. The highest pub in Britain. It has been standing up here since the 17th century, originally serving the miners who dug coal from these moors from the 12th century all the way until the last pit closed in 1929, plus the drovers pushing livestock across the lonely upland passes. Local legend says the Viking king Eric Bloodaxe was slain in battle near here in 984 AD, and that the ghost of a formidable 20th century landlady named Susan Peacock still haunts the place. She reportedly kept a revolver behind the bar for unruly patrons. My kind of establishment.

Finding it in the middle of nothing is one of those moments that feels slightly unreal, like the moorland decided to produce a pub out of sheer mercy. In a multi-day ultra with sleep deprivation and mounting fatigue, the sight of it carries an emotional weight that’s hard to describe to anyone who hasn’t been out here.

There was a large group of people gathered in the parking lot, cheering racers in. And then, the bad news. The Inn had turned off its stove.

I couldn’t believe it. I went in and begged them to turn it back on. I offered 100 pounds. They sadly said no. So I bought some potato chips and walked out. Luckily there was a large box of food that locals had brought for Spine racers, and I grabbed a coke and a bagel. Sat down for a second. Ate them. Felt the disappointment fully.

And then let it go. This is the whole game. You will plan for a hot meal and get a cold bagel. You cannot control the stove. You can only control the next step. Grace over perfection, even when perfection was a hot plate of chips. Onward.

The next section I had been warned about. Around 6 miles of bog. Probably the boggiest terrain until Scotland. It did not disappoint. Several miles took 45+ minutes each. Just trying to navigate a very wet bog, mile after mile. You were going to get wet. How wet was the only question. If you weren’t careful, you’d be wet up to your nipples.

So I slowly poked and prodded my way through with my poles, stepping from grass tussock to grass tussock, the only place you don’t sink. It was exhausting, and I found myself taking another 10 minute nap. In waterproof pants and a jacket, I just laid down on the wet ground and slept deeply. There is no dignity left by day three. There is only forward.

Occasionally you’d find a little trail and dry out a bit. In the distance we started getting closer to a main road, and I could see the traffic moving. It hit me strangely. For two days I had existed in a world of bog and sheep and 17th century pubs, where progress was measured in tussocks and my biggest decision was ankle deep or knee deep. And there, half a mile away, was the other world. People doing 70 in warm dry cars, coffee in the cup holder, arriving somewhere in minutes that would take me hours. Two worlds moving at completely different speeds, fully visible to each other, and I realized I didn’t envy them at all. They were comfortable. I was alive. There’s a difference, and you only learn it out here.

Right before the tunnel under the road we crossed another intense bog. But the tunnel was mile 134, and that meant we were halfway done. I celebrated with cold ramen noodles, which tells you everything about my standards at this point.

I got lost in a giant field after that and couldn’t find the trail. A lot of jumping through bogs and getting wet trying to relocate it. Eventually I just found a road. Around mile 141 I came across another honesty box, though this one was an honesty barn. Around 10 other Spine racers were inside, in various states of repair. A giant table covered in food and drinks. I donated 10 pounds, grabbed some food and a water, sat down and ate.

Two miles down the road, a sweet elderly couple had set up a tea and coffee stand in a small hay barn. Of course I stopped and had a cup of hot tea. This is the thing about the Spine. The race is unsupported, but the Pennines themselves support you. Farmers, retirees, kids with cowbells. An entire landscape of strangers rooting for you. It rebuilds your faith in people, one honesty box at a time.

Then we climbed up and over a hill and dropped down toward Middleton-in-Teesdale. I was hallucinating badly, and at one point I saw someone waiting for me on the hill. From a distance I was convinced it was a naked man covered in tattoos. I wasn’t sure how to handle this situation, alone in the middle of a giant field. Luckily he was just a fan who wanted his book signed. Not naked. Not tattooed. I signed the book. Only at the Spine.

Middleton-in-Teesdale is a small market town on the River Tees, a stone-built settlement that served the lead mining industry for centuries. Arriving here, at the river, with solid ground and shelter ahead, is deeply welcome. But of course we got to town and then had to follow the river for what seemed like forever to find CP3. And to add insult to injury, more gates, more wall stiles, up and over, again and again. I just wanted to be there.

I arrived at dusk, hungry and tired. The food was incredible. Yellow curry, rice, and naan. I had several portions before asking for a bed. It was dark, cold, and starting to rain. Luckily this place had indoor sleeping. I did have to climb a flight of stairs to get there, but a thin mattress in a warm room beats a cold tent on the ground every time. I slept for 2 hours. Got up. Ate more curry. Retaped and relubed my feet, and continued into the dark and the rain.

Checkpoint 3: Low Way Farm, Middleton-in-Teesdale. 34 miles from CP2, 144 miles total. Cut-off: 84 hours.

Day Four – Middleton-in-Teesdale to Alston (CP4): 37 miles, 5,000 feet of ascent

The section out of Middleton follows the River Tees upstream through some of the most dramatic river scenery in England. The Tees gorge here is carved through resistant volcanic rock called the Whin Sill, a great sheet of dolerite that forced its way between rock layers 295 million years ago and now shapes everything dramatic in this part of the country. The waterfalls. The crags. Even, further north, the ridge that carries Hadrian’s Wall.

One thing about the first 20 miles: no cell service, which meant no tracking. We were told not to stop for longer than 30 minutes. Our trackers apparently rely on cell signal here, unlike in the States. Consequently, the trackers are giant orange boxes we had to wear on our shoulder, and they’re quite uncomfortable. Some people brought kitchen sponges to pad underneath and reduce the chafing. Genius level problem solving from broken people.

It was raining hard and I got sleepy again. I got out my bivy sack and took a 20 minute sleep in it. Dry and warm. Got up, kept moving. That bivy was mandatory kit I’d hoped never to use. It turned out to be one of my favorite pieces of gear. Funny how that works.

As the sun rose, the views going up the river were insanely beautiful. I felt so lucky to be there, doing this. The Tees passes High Force upstream, England’s largest waterfall by volume, and locals used to tell children about Peg Powler, a water spirit who dragged the unwary into the deep pools. The river’s foam is still called Peg Powler’s Suds. When you’re sleep deprived on the banks at dawn, you understand where legends like that come from.

Right before Cauldron Snout we had a quarter mile of large wet rocks to pick through. Not easy, but the rain had stopped.

Cauldron Snout is a roaring cascade of white water pouring 200 yards down a stepped face of basalt, more waterfall than rapid, the sound of it filling the valley long before you see it. It’s considered one of the longest waterfalls in England. After the exposed moors, the drama of the gorge feels almost theatrical. I looked at this giant waterfall and immediately thought, how am I getting up there?

The answer: climbing. Using my hands, I climbed up a rock cliff alongside the falls and followed smaller cascades upriver to a small bridge to cross over.

And then the wind started. Strong. A farmer’s windmill was spinning so fast I couldn’t see the blades. Straight into my face. We were on a road for a bit, then dropped back onto trail. A little wet and foggy. As we approached a large valley, the sun broke through for around 20 minutes. The fog and clouds lifted, and I was treated to one of the great sights of my running life.

High Cup Nick. A colossal U-shaped glacial valley, carved by ice and edged with cliffs of that same Whin Sill dolerite, forming a near perfect geometric horseshoe that drops away from your feet toward the Eden Valley. It looks engineered. It looks impossible. Ice sheets spent tens of thousands of years sculpting it, and the hard dolerite rim held its crisp edge while everything softer wore away. Geologists come from all over the world to see it. I got 20 minutes of sunshine and had it to myself.

I stood at the edge and soaked it in. Moments like this are the wages of hard things. You cannot drive to this view. You cannot shortcut your way to how it feels at mile 160 with a pack on your back and four days of weather on your skin. The mountain charges full price, and then it pays you back double. The clouds and fog rolled back in, and I followed the ridgeline down into Dufton.

Dufton is a small estate village arranged around a traditional green, a moment of civilization before the race’s highest and most exposed section. I was told there was a little café that opened at 10am, and I had timed my arrival for the doors opening. I got there at 10am to find it already full. They had opened at 7am for Spine racers. Tons of pastries and breakfast items. I got a burger and fries and sparkling water. I should have gotten two. Some lessons take a few repetitions. The Spine had another little check-in down the road with hot water, cold water, and real bathrooms. And then we started out of town, toward the roof of the race.

Cross Fell, at 2,930 feet, is the highest point in the Pennines and on the entire Pennine Way. For centuries it was known as Fiend’s Fell, because locals believed evil spirits lived on the summit. Supposedly it took a saint planting a cross up there to change the name. Having climbed it in a headwind, I’d suggest the fiends never fully left. The mountain is also home to the Helm Wind, the only named wind in the United Kingdom, a violent blast that pours down the western escarpment with a howl you can hear coming. In clear weather the summit is extraordinary, with views to the Lake District fells. In bad weather it is brutal.

I wouldn’t say my weather was bad. But the wind was pretty insane and it rained a bit. I had to take my hat off and pack it because the wind kept trying to steal it. Heading uphill in wet grass and rock with a strong headwind was next level. It was breathtaking though. You climb up and over a couple of smaller fells first, past the Knock Old Man cairn and the white radar dome on Great Dun Fell, and the overall theme is the same everywhere here: climb to the top, cross a plateau that goes on longer than seems fair, drop back down. Also, a public service announcement: bogs occur on steep uphills and downhills too. Not just flats. Gravity, it turns out, does not drain a peat bog.

At the top of Cross Fell there’s a large stone shelter with seats built to block the wind. I sat down and enjoyed some ramen at the highest point of the race before descending. The descent was very wet, boggy, and steep. I fell twice, sliding my body into weird contortions. Luckily nothing broke. No real trail at first, then eventually a wide road. And on that road you find Greg’s Hut.

Greg’s Hut is a remote mountain bothy sitting just below the Cross Fell summit plateau at over 2,300 feet, the highest bothy in England. It started life as a blacksmith’s shop and bunkhouse for the lead mine here, where miners lived all week before walking home on weekends. When a climber named John Gregory died in the Alps in 1968, his friends rebuilt the ruin in his memory and dedicated it as a free shelter for anyone who needs it. During the winter Spine it famously operates as a noodle bar for frozen racers. A tiny stone building with a fire, offering exactly what you need at exactly the right moment. That’s the spirit of these hills in one room.

I didn’t use it. The sun was out, the wind had eased, no rain. Instead I found a patch of grass and took a quick nap outside the highest shelter in England.

The road went on for quite a while after, and then through the fields and lanes above Alston. Back onto singletrack, doing the fun gate-and-wall climb every 100 yards until CP4.

Alston claims to be the highest market town in England, sitting at over 1,000 feet in the South Tyne Valley, its cobbled main street descending steeply to the river. The checkpoint is at the Alston YHA, one of the checkpoints with showers. A rare luxury at this stage.

I arrived and they took my poles and shoes at the door. They led me to a table with charging ports. I took off my socks, plugged in my equipment, and started eating the best lasagna of my life. After 4 servings I asked for a bed. They took me upstairs to a dark room with 4 bunk beds. I got a top bunk. Let me tell you, the logistics of climbing not just stairs but a ladder to a top bunk 181 miles into an ultra is its own event. They should hand out a second medal.

I slept for 2 hours. I didn’t shower. I ate 2 more servings of lasagna instead, did my feet, and at dusk headed back out on the course. Priorities.

Checkpoint 4: Alston YHA. 37 miles from CP3, 181 miles total. Cut-off: 110 hours.

Day Five – Alston to Bellingham (CP5): 40 miles, 4,800 feet of ascent

I left Alston at dusk. Crossing the river, I entered some giant fields and everything seemed fine at first. But in the darkness I got quite lost in this section. Lost the trail multiple times. Ended up in some very boggy areas.

Then I came across a local man standing in the darkness. He was ushering racers through a technical section with a steep drop to our right. He wasn’t part of the race. He just didn’t want anyone falling to their death, so he walked each of us through the section and then turned around for the next runner. Hours of his night, given to strangers. I’ve thought about him a lot since. Nobody asked him to be there. That’s exactly why it mattered.

We went through another small village and I got lost again as the trail threaded through people’s yards and between homes. At night it was hard for me to follow. Eventually I decided to bivy again for a 20 minute nap. It was a long night.

As the sun rose I found myself in more boggy fields. Not terrible, but not dry feet either. Then we met a road that took us to the visitor center for Hadrian’s Wall. Someone from the Spine had water and a couple of snacks waiting. I checked in and kept moving.

Hadrian’s Wall. Started by the Roman Emperor Hadrian in 122 AD, stretching 73 miles coast to coast across northern England to mark the northern edge of the Roman Empire. The most powerful civilization on Earth got to these hills, looked north into the wind and the moor, and said: this is far enough. Then they built a wall to make it official.

Running alongside and sometimes directly on the wall itself, this section of the Pennine Way is something else entirely. The wall undulates dramatically across the volcanic Whin Sill crags, the same rock formation that created Cauldron Snout and High Cup Nick, rising and falling over exposed ridgeline in a way that is simultaneously breathtaking and punishing on legs that have already covered 180+ miles. Two thousand years ago, Roman soldiers from Italy, Spain, and North Africa stood on these same stones, staring at the same view, probably just as cold. History isn’t in a book out here. You run on top of it.

The section was beautiful but rugged. The wall goes dramatically up, then down. Steep steps in both directions. At one point the wall seems to fade and you think, was that it? No. That was the warm up. Another parking lot appeared with a small food cart serving tourists. Crisps, candy, sparkling water. And then the real wall section started.

This stretch includes Steel Rigg, Housesteads Fort, and Sycamore Gap, the famous dip in the ridge where a lone sycamore stood for generations until it was cut down a few years ago by drunk locals. The stump remains, and new shoots are growing back. There’s something fitting about that. Even the most senseless damage doesn’t get the last word. Things regrow. Standing there, you can look north across the Northumbrian moors toward Scotland and understand exactly why the Romans stopped here. The landscape beyond the wall is vast and empty.

You will be getting some vert in this section. Very steep pitches, over and over. Then you take a left and head into an expansive field on a small farm road for quite a while. I took another nap and was awoken by some hikers who thought I was dead. I think I scared them worse by waking up. Sorry, friends. Just a Spine racer, recharging.

I knew we had another honesty box coming at Horneystead Farm, mile 222, but first came some very deep bog. I made a tactical error on a jump and went knee deep on my right leg. Didn’t lose a shoe though. In this sport, that counts as a win. The honesty box had a ton of food and cold refrigerated soda. It had turned warm that day and the cold Dr Pepper hit different. They had meat sandwiches. I had my standard crisps and candy. The owners were incredibly kind.

Then on to CP5. The last checkpoint. I couldn’t believe I had made it this far. I knew I needed to be truly put together before leaving, because ahead lay a long 47 miles with no shops, cafés, or honesty boxes. Just the Cheviots and me.

Bellingham is a small market town in the North Tyne Valley, the last significant settlement before the Cheviots. The checkpoint at Brown Rigg Lodges has showers, the last real comfort before the final wilderness section.

CP5 had bangers and mash, and they were so damn good. I ate many servings and then took a nap in a tent. I tried for 90 minutes but was restless and only got 60. Unfortunate, but I wasn’t going to force it. There would be naps on the final section regardless. I did the usual. Charged my electronics. Fixed my feet. Chatted with other Spine racers and volunteers. Passed my last gear check, packed up, and got out of there.

Checkpoint 5: Brown Rigg Lodges, Bellingham. 40 miles from CP4, 221 miles total. Cut-off: 130 hours.

The Final Push – Bellingham to Kirk Yetholm: 41 miles, 5,000 feet of ascent

The hardest section to finish. The Cheviots are a different landscape again. Ancient rounded hills of volcanic rock, the eroded roots of a 400 million year old volcano, covered in vast open moorland and some of the deepest, most leg-swallowing peat bog on the entire route. After 220+ miles, this is where the race finds out what you’re made of.

And honestly? That’s why I came. Anyone can be disciplined on day one. Day six is where the truth lives.

We left Bellingham, snaked through town and several farms, and got out into the wilderness. I was with a couple of other Spine racers for a while and we navigated together. It was challenging, especially in the dark, through wet boggy ground. Eventually I broke off and took a nap. I wish I could have stayed with them, since navigating at night is easier with company, but I was tired and needed a brain reset. Sometimes the best move forward is stopping for ten minutes. Discipline isn’t always grinding. Sometimes it’s knowing when to close your eyes in a bog.

I continued through boggy fields for what seemed like forever. The trail got so overgrown it was hard to move. A steep downhill came, with a steep climb waiting on the other side. I could see headlamps strung up the hillside ahead, which told me everything. The climb was very boggy, and at the top the sun started to rise. I found a small flat patch of grass and took another nap. When I woke, several other racers were scattered around me doing the same thing. A hillside of sleeping runners at dawn, halfway between England and Scotland. You had to laugh.

We then followed a broken stone road for several miles, then a wide dirt road through the edge of Kielder Forest, one of the largest man-made forests in Europe. If you had legs, you could crush this section. Rolling hills, easy surface, no bogs. CP 5.5 was coming and of course it’s all I could focus on. Not because I needed anything. Emotionally, it was a checkmark that meant the finish was getting real. I had a rough morning through here, taking 3 naps along the road and trail before Byrness. That early morning jet lag hit hard on day five, right on schedule. But eventually I got there. Made hot ramen. Ate more crisps.

Byrness is a tiny village at the edge of Kielder Forest. Monitoring point only, 30 minute maximum, no drop bag. A check-in and the road ahead.

Beyond Byrness, the route enters the Cheviot Hills proper and doesn’t come back down until Kirk Yetholm. This is the most remote section of the entire Pennine Way. Miles of exposed ridge walking, limited shelter, and navigation that demands your full attention even when your brain has been running on fumes for five days.

You leave CP 5.5 with a very steep climb straight out of the gate. Once on top, it’s rolling hills as far as you can see. Some climbs remain, but they’re gradual. I took my last nap at the top. Lots of hikers out on this section, doing the Pennine Way the sensible way, in three weeks instead of six days.

Much of the journey between Byrness and Kirk Yetholm follows a border fence, the actual line between England and Scotland. The path spends most of its time on the English side but occasionally decides it wants a change and hops over into Scotland. This ridge has been a frontier for a very long time. During the era of the Border Reivers, raiding families ruled these hills, and the wardens of England and Scotland would meet at passes like Hexpethgate to negotiate fragile truces. In 1585, an English warden named Lord Francis Russell was shot dead at one of those truce meetings. A Bronze Age burial mound on the summit of Windy Gyle now carries his name: Russell’s Cairn. People have been doing hard things on this ridge, and dying on it, for three thousand years. We were just the latest ones passing through, and the luckiest.

The Cheviot itself sits at 2,674 feet, a vast dome of peat and grass that feels endless in the dark or in poor visibility. Two refuge huts sit along this final ridge, and the race allows a maximum of two hours in each. Tiny wooden shelters in the middle of nowhere, the only real protection from the elements in the final wilderness.

I got to the first hut in good weather, warm even. I took off my wind pants and jacket. Only stayed about 5 minutes, then continued up the next hill. Up and down, up and down, as far as you could see. There were boggy sections, but most had flagstone, so no issues. I got off trail a few times. Pro tip: if you’re not on flagstone in a Cheviot bog, you’re probably off trail.

Then the weather shifted. The wind picked up. Then came the rain, sideways. I ducked behind some large rocks on a hilltop and put on my rain jacket. It wasn’t freezing. Not warm either. But I stayed in my jorts, because at this point the jorts and I had been through too much together.

We reached the top of a large hill that seemed like the highest point. The GPS route had us going through a boggy field, but I think it was slightly off. Right across the fence was a nice flagstone trail where we probably belonged. The wind and rain did not let up, and then we reached the section called Windy Gyle. It did not disappoint. The wind was insane. You could lean forward and it would hold you up. The Cheviots were not going to let anyone coast to the finish, and honestly, it felt right. A race like this should make you earn the last chapter.

We took a sharp left and headed up another peak. Is this where hut 2 would be? No. Steep descent first. Spoiler alert: we had about 8 miles of very, very intense wind that beat me up. I got windburn on my face. But as I descended I could see Hut 2 in the distance, always much further away than I wanted it to be. At Hut 2, I ate another ramen and tried to collect myself. At least it was a break from the wind.

One more climb after hut 2. First a ridgeline traverse, then the last hill of the race. Descended down, jumped on a dirt road. Smooth sailing. Snaking through a couple of farms. A little civilization at last. Lots of sheep again, my constant companions of the week. Then onto a road. You can taste the finish.

But wait. They throw in one last steep climb before the half mile descent into town. Of course they do.

The final miles drop from the Cheviot ridge down through the Halterburn valley into Kirk Yetholm, a small village just over the Scottish border. For 300 years this little place was the headquarters of the Romani travelers of Scotland and the north, complete with a Gypsy Palace on the green where their kings and queens were crowned, the last coronation drawing thousands in 1898. And on that same green sits the Border Hotel, the official end of the Pennine Way. The legendary guidebook author Alfred Wainwright once promised to buy a pint for every walker who finished the whole trail. So many people finished that it nearly bankrupted him, and in 1979 he downgraded the offer to a half pint. The tradition survives to this day, sponsored by a local brewery. There are worse legacies than accidentally buying beer for fifty years of finishers.

I ran through the finish line and up to the hotel. There was a finish sign. I kissed the wall.

I was done. That was hard.

What the Spine Taught Me

268 miles. Six days. Two sunrises watched from bogs, a dozen naps in fields, hundreds of gates, one deep knee cut, one broken watch resurrected on the 26th reset, one cold stove at the highest pub in Britain, and one stranger standing in the dark to make sure nobody fell off a cliff.

Most of the race, I said I’ll never do this again. One and done. Then I crossed the line, and within minutes I found myself wanting to come back. That’s not a contradiction. That’s the whole point.

Here’s what I know. The race was magical, and I learned things about myself that you cannot learn without pushing past what you think is possible. Not what is actually possible. What you think is possible. Those are two very different lines, and the entire value of a race like this is discovering how much space exists between them.

We are built for hard things. Every system in your body and mind gets stronger under load and weaker in comfort. But somewhere along the way we started organizing our whole lives around avoiding difficulty, and then wondering why we feel restless, anxious, and small. The bogs don’t care about your excuses. The Helm Wind doesn’t check your follower count. Out there, the only currency is the next step, and it turns out the next step is always available. Forward is a pace.

The Pennine Way exists because 400 working people walked up a hill they were told they couldn’t climb. Ninety-four years later, I got to run all 268 miles of what their hard thing built. Someday, somebody will benefit from your hard thing too. Probably somebody you’ll never meet.

So find your Spine. It doesn’t have to be 268 miles across England. It has to be yours, and it has to scare you a little. Sign up. Show up. Get wet to your nipples if that’s what it takes.

And when the wind hits you sideways at Windy Gyle, lean into it. It will hold you up. I promise.

Smile, or you’re doing it wrong.

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Bix hydration is just ace, a product brought to life by Vlad Ixel a professional ultra runner who knows a thing or two about hydration. ( https://www.bixvitamins.com/ )  The best thing about Bix is it tastes good with many different flavours and you never get sick of drinking it, this is a big plus as Maurten and Tailwind (both great products)  can be difficult to digest later in the event.  From the website :-

As an Australian elite multiple trail running champion, with wins in over 40 ultra-marathon races across Asia, recovery from training and races has always been my top priority. 

In searching for a solid recovery and hydration supplement, I recognized that critical vitamins and minerals – both in diversity and quantity – were missing from almost all supplements on the market. I had the feeling that in an effort to maximize their bottom-lines, companies in the hydration space, failed to deliver a product that could meaningfully assist athlete performance. 

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What can I say about HumanTecar,  ( https://athleticus.com.au/ ) it looks great, smells great and is awesome for recovery or even pre-run/workout. Read about the science behind it first and then try the products. The compression bandages are just magical after a long event. Put these on and the next day you are recovered, I have used them on a number of occasions and they never fail to astound me albeit the family poke fun at me as I look like a ‘mummy and smell funny’ !

Fractel ( https://fractel.com.au/ ) have your performance headgear covered. I love the colours and the functionality of these hats, I guarantee there is one model you’ll fall in love with.

Shokz headphones, let you keep in touch with the world around while losing yourself in quality tunes or podcasts. ( https://shokz.com.au/ )

T8 running apparel is the best you can get, second to none. Designed for the ultra humid Hong Kong conditions the owners live in.  It is light and does away with any chaffing worries. T8 is the name given to the highest typhoon warning in Honk Kong,  storms and typhoons with gusts exceeding 180kph, which explains the branding. ( https://t8.run/)

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