Saturday night and my race drop bag and zip locked bags of varying sizes covering every single eventuality and stage of the race are scattered across the spare room. Some things, you simply MUST be prepared for and you can’t just wing it or hope for the best. I spend three hours of mass panic because everything won’t fit in and it’s wayyy too heavy.
Weighing and discarding process complete and a to-the-limit, 20kg bag packed. A quick bath then bed by midnight and sleep as long as possible with no alarm set.
In MY mind – I’m quite sure Jack Scott was most likely doing a deep clean of his oven, hours before he broke the Spine record and Anna Troup was quickly applying a second coat of gloss to the radiators in her back bedroom before she set off for Edale.
I took a batch of my famous chocolate brownies to pass around the organisers and volunteers at Hardraw. It took a lot of persuasion and a good word from my friend, Sharon Dyson to convince them that with my lack of Ultra experience, i.e. Zero, that I was up to the rigours of the Challenger North. I knew I was, my friends, knew it and Sharon was utterly convinced too.
The team accepted my entry and put their faith in me. This was my little show of appreciation for that. Bundling all my gear into Gillie’s van and a tub full of stir fried chicken, veg and noodles, so big, it could feed the entire field, we set for Hardraw.
“Yes, I can vouch that this man is who he says he is” proclaims Lindley, casually flicking brownie crumbs out of his beard.
Kit check passed, registered OK and drop bag nervously cleared as good to go. Whilst awaiting bag drop I overheard a Scottish lassie say there was ice all up the track from the start…..
Herein lies the first big mistake.
Pushing hard, I picked my way through the field, the headtorches of the leading runners already disappearing over the crest of the hill. On one of the steeper sections I get chatting to Barney Burton, here at his first Challenger North, but having completed a summer spine and a challenger south. I was nothing in comparison to experienced guys like this lad.
We are barely an hour into the event and the gaps between runners are widening. The top is close. I can just about make out the summit shelter. I glance at my watch. Oh crap! When I came here to recce this section in September, it was warm, sunny and T shirt weather. The fears I’d had of the lofty heights of Great Shunner fell, standing at 719m high, had been quickly dissipated when I discovered, actually it wasn’t all that bad. And was in fact, quite runable. I’d recorded one hour and twelve minutes to cover the four and half miles that day. I double checked the watch in case I’d read it wrong. One hour twenty-one! Only nine minutes slower, across terrible ground. Bloody hell I was shifting this evening!
Oh, if only my whole race could have been encapsulated in one long chain of Great Shunner Fell ascents. Because the descent was a different story. Over the summit and down the other side of the northern aspect of the fell, where, like most north faces, things take longer to thaw out, it was deep snow. Path? Pick any one of 27! There were about half a dozen of us now ploughing our way through the deep snow, off route, back on again, follow these footprints, follow those. Barney had caught back up again and our group made for the village of Thwaite.
The lower slopes saw snow replaced with patches of ice. I fell awkwardly, thrusting my Mountain King pole into the ground and managing to only scrape along on my left shin before bouncing back up again. The lightweight aluminium pole had took the brunt of the tumble and bent into the shape of a banana. This was not gonna be much use as a walking pole any more, but could come in handy for boomerang practice if I got bored later
The descent into Thwaite and unquestionably THE most defining moment of the entire race for me. When I was a kid, I used to love reading those ‘Choose your own adventure’ books. I used to devour them, fully immersed into a fantasy world of dungeons, danger and daring. For example : You arrive at a race with two sets of spikes. Yaktrax Pro Coils and your very last minute £20 purchase of a set of Amazon specials, copies of the Kahtoola crampon style spikes. You have bought these because at the 11th hour, you’re informed your back-up spare, non-Pro version Yaktrak coils do NOT pass kit check. You have tried the coils in snow and ice and they seemed fine. The crampon spikes are noticeably heavier.
Which do you choose?
Kahtoola spikes – turn to page 99
“Well, I seen this lad on Helvellyn last weekend and he had perfect grip instead of my crappy coil things – so I got these Amazon specials for fourteen quid” Boom! Turn to Page 99 – Your wise choice of better equipment over weight savings was the best decision of the whole race, you fly across icy patches like they don’t exist and your strength and fitness moves you further up the field into the top twenty or so runners…… (is the option I DIDN’T choose for this adventure)
After the short road section, I don’t even attempt to hang on to the coat tails of Jeffrey or Ian who’d been running behind him. I pause for a few moments in Thwaite. I feel demoralised and battered. Using a wall and some brute force, I straighten out my bent pole, gratefully accept some hot chocolate in my flask from the pub staff outside the Kearton Country Hotel and push on. I know what lies ahead of me…..
This was the first of a series of tricks to make you turn back from…… The Back O’Kisden!!
Here the Pennine Way drapes itself around the 499m high mound that it Kisden hill. Hidden within the steep sided slopes of rocks and bracken lies a narrow section of the path that clings to the hillside as if tossed there like a piece of discarded string. Its also a total and complete GPS and mobile blackspot.
Spiners enter from Thwaite then simply freeze. Their tracking beacons remain stationary “What’s happened?” you begin to ponder. Someone else approaches. They too, go into limbo. Unmoving. Minutes pass, it seems like hours. Then their dots appear again, safe and well, miles away. I noticed this phenomenon last January when Lucy Gossage and Tim Broadhurst stopped dead round the Back O’Kisden – Motionless. For ages. “Something’s happened. There must be an incident of some sort” I thought. Then they mysteriously jumped miles up the track.
The Back O’Kisden
The Beast of Kisden lies waiting. Patient. It’s cold, hungry eyes, pierce into the darkness. Watching, Waiting. But Look! The Spiners are approaching,…..
There are no published statistics on this (it would be bad for business) but its of no coincidence that many of the competitors that abandon at Tan Hill, never in fact reach the pub..,..family and loved ones never report their absence from this life. They dare not in case the curse of The Beast is passed on to THEM. Locals know that The Beast has never been caught, nor seen. Tatters of clothing and discarded straps from bags are occasionally found, usually with a tracker still attached. The Beast has no use for such devices, he’s a clever fiend and knows that it doesn’t bloody work round there anyway.
One such tale speaks of a young man from down south. Visiting the area in preparation for this very race. Boldly stepping into the bar in Thwaite and ordering a half of lemonade, he haughtily enquires
“I say sir, could you please direct me to the path to Keld? The one that goes around the back of Kisden?”
The loud chatter of the busy bar falls into a deathly hush. Clearing his throat, the bartender coughs then asks “Kisden Force. I think you mean Kisden FORCE”
“No, no, I’m quite certain that its round the back of Kisden Hill that I want”
The bar was so still, you could hear a pin drop in the neighbouring field. Sitting at a small table by the door is a young farmer, visibly trembling. He’d heard the tales. His great-grandmother told him when he was just a small boy.
“Yes, around the back of Kisden! I’m practising running the Pennine Way don’t you know. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Spine Race?” the over exuberant adventurer explained. “…it’s a marvellous event and I rather fancy that I’ll do quite well in it next January”
“J-J-January!!??” the barman stammered, but the young runner continued talking “… yes and I’m a fell runner shouldn’t you know, and just this month I came 109th in the 17 km South Down Way Challenge and I raised twenty three pounds for the Rotary Club…..”
S-CREE-EEEE-CCHHH – the young farmer lad could take no more, he pushed his table away from himself with a spine tingling scrape across the wooden floor, toppling his Guinness over in the process, he flung open the door and ran as fast down the road as his legs could carry him.
A cold, heavy silence blanketed the establishment. Nobody uttered a sound. They were too scared to. Every pair of eyes in room were widened in terror. Everyone, except old Jack Davonport, 93 years old and tone deaf. Jack was a little confused as to what was happening, so he’d carefully removed his glass eye and wrapped it in his crusty handkerchief and slid into his jacket pocket for safe keeping. You know – just in case.
All that could be heard was the sound of the farmer’s spilt Guinness dropping onto the old oak floor. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife…..
“Now Look here, sonny….” barked the barman, having plucked up the courage to speak again “…we don’t talk about the Back O’Kisden around these parts thar knars” his eyes shifting from side to side as he said ‘Kisden’, almost checking to see who had heard him.
“And if tha knars whats good for you, you’ll be on your way, back where tha bade from”
Looking somewhat puzzled, the young fellow, left to a wall of whispers as he closed the door and made for Kisden hill. He was never, ever seen again. Mind you the Rotary Club never got their sponsor money neither, so draw your own conclusions. Later that cloudless evening a loud, blood curdling howl cried out from somewhere near Keld. The young farmer decided that yes, he WOULD spend the rest of the night hiding in his wardrobe.
The back of Kisden – Pennine Way travellers are faced with challenges, three.
The first of which, already fooled the dozen runners ahead of me as they took the easy, obvious, well trodden path with its beautifully made, new gates, along the riverside to Muker.
But the brave push on, only the brave. The brave and the foolish. A narrow, precarious path, picks its way steadily upwards. It looks fit only for goats, or at least SOMETHING with hooves….
Before continuing onwards, the second challenge thou must overcome. The Kisden Slit! Here a drystone wall is to be overcome. To do so, you must squeeze through a gap in the wall SO narrow that even the lean, long-legged, sveltness of Eilish McColgan might struggle to get through. Its at this stage you think “Something’s not quite right here”
You make your way up a steep grassy bank where the final hurdle is a gate that’s deliberately difficult to open, making you question if you should even continue.
When I did this part of the course In the summer this pasture was littered with the carcasses of rabbits and birds, strewn about the grassy banks in gay abandon. Either mere titbits of food for The Beast O’Kisden or sacrificed in order to save Pennine Way walkers from their beastly fate. Nobody knows.
Oh, how different it was this evening. Bitter cold and utterly lethal. Every rock was iced over, every patch of water frozen, even the safehaven of a patch of grass to step on, was rock hard and slippy. A couple more slips and falls and I’m totally hating this. I allow more people to pass and took the time to reposition my coils on my trainers better. They were as lopsided as hell. Hmmm,… perhaps there lies the answer? I’d either put them on too hurriedly at the start or the twenty seven slips and mishaps had dislodged them. I set off alone, but with more confidence, ever watchful for the eyes of the Beast, peeking out of the undergrowth.
Treading gingerly down the stone steps that lead down to Kisden Force, then up the long steep haul onto the moors. Its stopped raining and I pause at a stream to fill my bottles up with cold, peaty water. Stream water always invigorates me and makes me feel alive again. As gulp down a few mouthful’s, I glance back across the night sky. The race has blown to pieces, huge, huge gaps between runners, both behind and ahead. We’ve only done eleven miles!!! I’d dotwatched the Challenger South earlier in the day and there’d been groups of 20 or 30 runners all clumped together in tight procession over the route, with only the front runners creating big gaps. Great Shunner Fell and its treacherous descent had exploded the field into tiny pockets of every man and woman for themself. Unbelievable.
The loud flapping noises behind me, suddenly went quiet. No, I’d not lost my wings, my number finally ripped off and launched itself across the wilderness. It miraculously clung one of its pins to a branch of heather and I quickly retrieved it.
I’d no intention of stopping at Tan Hill. My race plan was to kick on to Clove Lodge farm and get a proper coffee there, pop it into my flask, stretch the legs and push on for Langdon Beck. But plans are there to be broken. Or is that records?!
And we’re ONLY at Tan Hill!!!! 15 Miles
I felt battered and shell shocked. I wanted a few minutes. Once inside I started my stopwatch, grabbed a flask of tea and more water, stretched out the hamstrings and glutes and headed for the door. The wind was SO damn strong that every time the door was opened it was like a scene from a naval war movie. Where they open the heavy door to deck and a monsoon is blowing outside, instantly muffled as soon as the door closes again. Its takes the volunteer on entrance duty all his might to close the door each time, such was the strength of the wind.
I was back on the trail in under ten minutes. Far less than anyone else ahead of me, meaning that all the lads that had passed me during my horrendous skirting round Kisden, were now here, around me. I’d investigated the infamous Sleightholme boghole in daylight and realised its very easy to avoid. But the rest of the moor, the five miles to the A66 was one of just two sections that I’d not yet done. The other being from Hut 1 in the Cheviots, to the finish.
There was little to have feared or prepare for. Passing the bog to my left, two runners stride past. Then someone else, then another two and another. I was starting to get seriously pissed off. Now, I wouldn’t call myself a slow walker but nor do I have that marching kind of stride that some do, I’m about average I’d say. But this WAS a race after all and I was losing ground. I look up at the starlit skies and the many constellations, the strong winds were drying out my sodden clothing and I felt OK. Just get to the finish. Run your own race. Just get to Alston.
Then I did probably a race saving move. The narrow, tricky, heathery path gave way to a wider, stoney bridleway. I ignored my instincts of ‘I can’t be bothered, just go your own pace’ and I pushed it up a notch and latched onto the back of four of the lads that had passed me. Geordie Jeffrey, Barney, Ian B from Scotch Corner, Tam the Jock who lives in Whitehaven and June, whom had been a fellow lone straggler on the path to Tan Hill.
We stopped in the tunnel to de-crampon and push on for Clove Lodge. 25 miles. Kettle boiled, fine choice of tasty snacks, devoured. What a haven this place is. Proper cafetière coffee no less. Tam and Jeff pushed on ahead whilst the four of us rested a short spell.
Our crack team of 4 pushed on for Middleton, pausing occasionally to look at the stars above or the huge gaps to the nearest runners’ headtorches behind us. After Selset reservoir, an unexpected surprise of a pop up barn of delight appeared! Lit up like the stage of a nativity play, the lovely couple were dishing out hot drinks and cake. Total heroes. We paused again for 5 minutes and cracked on. The long, grassy descent to Middleton is very runable and a lot of time and ground can be made up, so I lead it out and we scooped up Tam and Jeffrey to make a solid unit of 6 again. I never knew it at the time but that twenty mile or so stretch in our little group, was probably one of my favourite periods of the whole event…..
Langdon Beck seemed to take an age to reach, but having company really helped. Ice increased as we gained height and a big slip and strong stick poke into the ground, kept me upright, but snapped my pole clean in two. Bye bye banana pole. I started to pop on the climb onto the moor and wolfed down a raspberry blondie bar which pulled me straight back up again. Man, I was tired. Physically. I needed this Check Point. My trusty Inov8 Trail Talon shoes that were going to use this event as their final curtain call had took a battering and had ripped open a big hole. Bye bye Talons. Bye Bye pole.
Check Point 1 – Langdon Beck, 43 miles
Apparently, Spine race legend, Hannah Rickman was in Langdon Beck as a volunteer. But I was so away with it, that the late, great Alan Rickman, could have been dressed up as Professor Snape and levitated my curry across the room to me, and I wouldn’t have noticed!
First ever Ultra, first ever check point. My aim was an hour stop, but realistically, two at most. Fortuitously, I managed to grab a two seated sofa for my sit down and kit bag circus show. Armed and legged, with back up walking poles, brand new Trail Talons and clean dry socks, I was ready to rock. Curry eaten, energy drink replenished, I was ready for the off. One hour forty-five. Not TOO bad. Sadly, Tam didn’t make it any further than Langdon Beck and June stayed back for sleep. Sadder again was that the other three had already left.
I ploughed up the hill alone. We were on the diverted route on the road to the reservoir, missing out Cauldron Snout. It was dry, but a ferocious headwind blasted from the west. No hiding place, no shelter and no one in sight ahead to hunt down. A soulless plight. One lad was powering up the hill behind me at a rate of knots. Catching and passing me with ease, he left me cursing once more at how slow my walking pace was in comparison to everyone in the entire world.
By Birkdale, he’s stopped and was fiddling with his bag straps. I breathe a sigh of relief – he clearly couldn’t keep that infernal pace going, Part of me hoped that Andrew would be out and cheer me on a little, his pick-up was there, but he was probably sat in front of the fire like most normal people would be on such a a bitter cold morning.
The Story So Far –
NO Twenty-foot tall, rabid attack goats were hallucinated about, no limbs lost in kissing gate accidents and approaching half distance, STILL no blisters. But hey – by all means, please read on, you never know what MIGHT happen before Alston…..
A quick stop at the toilets and I’m happy that I took two small tubs of vaseline and sudocrem. I figured that chafing and rubbing of any kind could lead to race over if not treated. The briefest of check ins at the mini-CP and there’s my three detached trail mates setting off before me. But first – to the Pantry!
As a local here, a chat with Gary and Janice brought back a little sanity, as did the Egg and Sausage sandwich and coffee. Andy was there and he pushed on before I finished eating – ‘You’ll catch me up’ – no chance I thought.
Upon returning her to her grateful owners, many people asked ‘What the hell were you doing up THERE anyway?’ – my answer of ‘I just fancied it’ always greeted by the same puzzled look and shake of the head.
Darkness had harangued its way into proceedings by the time I reached the currick on Knock Fell, forcing me to reluctantly get the headtorch out. Usually I can go for a reasonable amount of time with a natural night vision I’ve built up from all my adventures over the years. But right now, it was thick mist, blowing a hooley and lashing down with torrential, sideways sleet and rain. I pushed on. Skirting round Great Dun Fell and through the snow covered descent before hiking up the wind battered summit of Little Dun Fell, In the distance, I see a head torch coming towards me. Safety Team members. It’s got to be. I’m wandering across the fells in atrocious conditions, alone in darkness, it would make sense. It’s not. It’s Andy.
Greg’s Hut – 68 Mile
Yes I’m ok I tell Andy, after both my legs swoop up into the air and I land square on my arse. I’m doing great!
We reach the last dogleg section of path that finally reveals the lights of the village below. Andy wonders if Annie’s house is open. The Angel of Garrigill.
Stevie? You mad bastard hahaha. Its my pal from Hamsterly Forest and he’s come out to cheer me on. Here, middle of nowhere, well after ten o’clock at night, in horrible conditions and probably when I needed it most. But he’s been warned by Spine team members that supporting people isn’t allowed. They let him walk with me for a minute or two then he waves a cheerful farewell as we enter Annie’s house.
Andrea and David are my first encounter with volunteers out on the course. Its their first shift and I’m asking for a hot water bottle for my shoulders. Annie doesn’t have one. David then suggests some hand warmers in his car. Without a second’s hesitation, Andrea put them under my compression top across both shoulders and started gently massaging the heat back in again. Not only did it work but because it was a compression top, they stayed in place all the way to Alston (the handwarmers, not Andrea’s hands) continuously radiating heat and actually cured my ails!
Annie is on top form, dishing out hot chocolate with marshmallows. What an angel indeed. I explain that I’ve done pizzas in Garrigill a few times, to which she replies “Yes – I know. I’ve had them. Your friend turned up on his bike” Blimey, she has a better memory than I do! Departing with the promise of free pizzas next time for her, we hit the Pennine Way again. Just get to Alston!
Every. Single. Mile. Takes FOREVER. I’m suffering. and hating. My brain thinks its once again in Recce-mode. And then I smile. I smile because I remember that no, this ISN’T a recce its the REAL event and I NEVER have to trod along this boggy, muddy little bastard of a path EVER again. I smile to myself, but the glistening frost and frozen foliage underfoot isn’t smiling back at me. It wants me to suffer just a little bit more. Just get to Alston. Andy is way way ahead. I shout at him to leave me and go see his wife. He won’t. I was there for him atop atrocious Cross Fell, he is here for me now. He waits.
We reach Alston. It’s 2am. I think I’m dreaming. David and Andrea are there, smiling and saying ‘Hello Micky!’ – Just HOW!? Here? Already!? What sorcery is this? Is magic at play here? It MUST be! Someone helps get my muddy shoes off and as I collapse in a chair, I swear I can see Professor Snape waving his wand at a plate of lasagne. Magic!! I’d got to Alston!