And there it was — the Border Hotel wall. Right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss. So I did… because after dreaming about this moment for years, why pretend to be normal now?
For seven years I followed the Spine Race like some people follow royal drama — obsessively, emotionally, and with absolutely no chill. The sheer scale of it never made sense to me. How do humans move for that long, that fast, through that much misery? Every January I’d watch the dots crawl north and think, one day that’ll be me. I tried to enter a few times, but the waiting list treated me like an unwanted Tinder match. One year I finally got in… and had to decline. That one hurt. Proper heartbreak. The kind you feel in your shins.
But I kept testing myself. Different distances, different routes, different versions of suffering. And somehow, all those miles led me here.
Edale — The Night Before the Madness
I rolled into Edale on Friday night and slept in the van, which was basically a fridge with wheels. I went to registration nervous as hell, wondering if my bag had everything. I’d packed it four times. Obviously perfect. Except I forgot my waterproof jacket. Classic. I walked in, panicked, walked out, grabbed it, walked back in pretending nothing happened.
Drop bag time. The 20kg limit was laughing at me — mine was 19.5kg and praying the scale was in a good mood. I even ditched my spare poles to save weight. Spoiler: terrible idea. When Dariusz and I carried the bag in like two men delivering a sofa, the volunteers immediately re‑weighed it. 19.6kg. Safe. Barely.
I planned to freeze in the van again, but Grzegorz had a spare bed in the Youth Hostel. Warmth. A mattress. A roof. I felt like a king. A very nervous king who booked breakfast and went to bed early because tomorrow was the day.
Start Line — The Last Warm Moment
Darek drove us to the start. Trackers on. Bags ready. We sat in the warm car knowing this was the last heat we’d feel for… well… ages. The start area buzzed with nerves and excitement. People chatting, taking photos, pretending they weren’t terrified. I pulled my hood down, stared at the ground, then ahead. That view would be my life for days.
Countdown.
10… 9… 8…
And boom — we were off like we actually knew what we were doing.
Leg 1 — Snow, Wind, and Questionable Life Choices
Jacob’s Ladder hit immediately. Snow thickening. Pace not slowing. Groups forming. Front pack disappearing like they had a train to catch. I kept it steady. No hero moves. The snow was deep enough to swallow a small child. The wind was strong enough to push me sideways into ditches — which it did. Twice. Armpit‑deep snowdrifts. Lovely.
I teamed up with Sebastien (who later won the whole thing). He didn’t talk much. I didn’t mind. We shared snacks like two silent mountain gremlins.
As the day warmed, everything melted into a slushy, icy, ankle‑twisting soup. I regretted not putting spikes on. I regretted many things.
The descent to Gorside Reservoir was chaos — ice, slush, a local hill race flying past, and me trying not to die. I made a few nav mistakes, nothing dramatic, but enough to annoy me. At Wessenden I missed a turn, waited for Sebastien, corrected it, and then he disappeared forever. Probably for the best — he was flying.
By Blackstone Edge darkness hit. My brain fogged. My balance was questionable. My dignity was optional.
At Stoodley Pike I took my first proper fall — bag saved my tailbone. Later I hit ice, slid 15m, smashed my shin, rolled twice, grabbed grass like a desperate goat, and finally stopped. Shin screaming. Ego bruised. Race still on.
Checkpoint 1 — Glue, Food, and Forward
I arrived as John Kelly was leaving. Medic checked my shin — deep cut, no break. Glue didn’t hold, so I got temporary stitches and a big plaster. Food inhaled. Socks changed. Feet pampered like royalty. Then off into the longest 102km of my life.
Hebden Bridge → Hawes — The Long, Cold Blur
Night. Darkness. Mist. Wind. Hood up. Head down. I ate well, drank warm sugary water (highly recommend), and kept moving. My savoury snacks were great early on, but later the liquid calories saved me.
We were “lucky” this year — tailwind most of the time. Lucky meaning: cold, icy, snowy, but at least the wind bullied us from behind.
Poles were lifesavers. Mud, rivers, ice — they kept me upright more times than I want to admit.
Pen‑Y‑Ghent was diverted, which was disappointing because I love climbing. But rules are rules. Arriving in Hawes felt amazing… until I accidentally walked into the wrong checkpoint and they gave me a finisher’s medal. I told them I was doing the full Spine. They laughed. I laughed. I left without the medal.
Feet sorted. Food eaten. 25‑minute nap. Reset.
Hawes → Middleton — The Weather Turns Savage
Every checkpoint is up a hill. Every. Single. One. You think you’re done, then boom — climb.
Leaving Hawes, I thought the ice was gone for good. Nature said “hold my beer”.
Wind picked up. Rain hammered. Climbing Shunner was brutal — exposed, freezing, and absolutely relentless. Spikes on. Hands cold. Wind like a freight train. It felt like -15°C. I sheltered behind a wall at the top, layered up, and pushed on.
Descending was terrifying. One wrong step and the race was over. I overtook a few exhausted runners in Thwaite, but position didn’t matter — survival did.
By Middleton I was shattered. I stopped under a road tunnel to eat, then pushed on along the river forever. Eventually reached the CP, ate everything, fixed my feet, and slept 35 minutes. Woke up a new man.
Middleton → Greg’s Hut — The Beast Awakens
Powered up the river, climbed the waterfall (yes, actually climbed a waterfall), and headed into Cauldron Snout. Cold. Snow coming. Hands tingling.
Dropped into Dufton where James Nobles suggested teaming up for Cross Fell. Smart move. That place has its own weather system and none of it is friendly.
We climbed into darkness again. Fake summit after fake summit. Snow deepening. Visibility dropping. We followed stud marks in the snow like detectives tracking a very cold criminal.
Cross Fell felt endless. My body was struggling. My mind was fading. We kept descending, thinking we’d dropped hundreds of meters — it was only 50. Absurd.
Then finally — James spotted Greg’s Hut. I slipped again, smashed my thigh, swore loudly, got up, and headed straight for warmth.
Inside Greg’s Hut we were greeted like half‑frozen royalty. Hot coffee. Spicy noodles. Steam rising like a holy blessing. And I swear to you — those noodles were the best noodles ever cooked on planet Earth. Michelin‑starred, soul‑restoring, life‑saving noodles. If Gordon Ramsay had walked in, he’d have cried.
After about twenty minutes I felt human again and told James I was heading out. He said he needed five more minutes. Later I learned he was hypothermic, wrapped in sleeping bags and hot water bottles like a human burrito. The safety team pulled him from the race. It broke my heart. He’s a warrior, and warriors deserve better weather.
The Descent to Alston — A Comedy of Ice and Suffering
The downhill from Greg’s Hut to Alston took approximately… forever. The path was a long, icy slip‑n‑slide. I was dancing, wobbling, sliding, praying, and occasionally inventing new swear words. And the road kept going uphill. Uphill! On a downhill! My brain was not prepared for this witchcraft.
By the time I reached Garrigill, I was cooked. Some race supporters invited me in for coffee and toast — absolute angels. After a quick warm‑up I pushed on for the final 7km to Alston, where one of the Jameses caught up with me. We slogged through bogs, rivers, and approximately one million gates. I’m convinced the Pennine Way is 40% gates.
Checkpoint Alston — Lasagne, Broken Poles, and a Four‑Hour Resurrection
Feet dried. Lasagne inhaled. Feet pampered like they were VIP guests. Then I remembered: I’d snapped my running pole earlier when a gate attacked me. Rookie mistake — I’d removed my spare to save weight. But the CP manager had a spare pole and handed it to me like Excalibur. Legend.
I slept four hours. Ate three lasagnes. Drank enough coffee to wake a small village. My body shook, shivered, and felt sick — pure Cross Fell exhaustion. Was my race over? Absolutely not. I woke up a new man. Maintenance mode complete. Systems rebooted.
Onward to Hadrian’s Wall — The Joy Returns
Leaving Alston, patched up and buzzing, I headed toward Hadrian’s Wall. I was excited for this part — proper history, proper views, proper adventure.
At the Walltown Centre they told me I was around 6th place. I nearly laughed. I thought I was somewhere between 10th and “lost in a ditch”. But no — I was moving well. Surviving. Thriving. Enjoying the journey.
Hadrian’s Wall was magic. Steep climbs, steep drops, sunshine, views for miles. Through Sycamore Gap — I paused, thinking about the tree that once stood there. A sad moment in a wild place.
Then villages, Roman ruins, farms, rivers, and fields full of grouse screaming like they owned the place. Boggy, wet, but no ice — a miracle.
Bellingham — More Foot Care, More Food, More Lessons
The CP team welcomed me like family. Feet dried again. Socks changed. Sausage casserole demolished. I slept two hours — maybe one hour too long, but hey, we learn.
As I lay down, Anna and Johanna were leaving. Were they sleeping? Probably not. Did I need sleep? Absolutely yes.
Later I learned I was closing the gap on them. Without the naps I might’ve placed higher — but that’s racing. And trench foot was not invited to this party. I’d learned that lesson the hard way in Scotland.
The Final Push — All or Nothing
Leaving Bellingham, I knew this was it. The last big push. Feet in good shape. Body tired. Mind determined.
Sleep deprivation hit hard. On a long forestry climb I kept micro‑napping while walking — probably 50 times. Poles kept me upright like two loyal bodyguards.
At Byrness I grabbed a coffee and sandwich, then launched myself into the Cheviots.
The climb was steep and glorious. I felt strong again. Cold summits. Good pace. Found a spare torch on the trail — left it in Hut 1 later like a good citizen.
In the distance: rumbling explosions. Thought it was RAF jets breaking the sound barrier. Turns out it was the army doing artillery drills. Smoke rising from turrets. Wild scenes.
I passed more runners. Mountain Rescue teams were out. Hut 1 gave me a quick coffee. Then over Windy Gyle and toward the Cheviot.
Halfway up, two RAF jets did a 360 corkscrew above my head. I waved my poles like a madman. They probably didn’t see me, but I felt like the main character.
Cheviot Summit — Drama, Confusion, and Focus
I reached the Cheviot before sunset — mission accomplished. Two men stopped me, asking if I’d seen Johanna. They were carrying a dry bag for her. I hadn’t seen her.Later I learned she’d left Anna to meet her husband for a kit drop. Fair enough. I carried on.
Through Hut 2 and onto the final bumpy descent to Kirk Yetholm.
The Final Miles — Pure Heart
Cold air. Final energy surge. Every headtorch ahead of me felt like a target. Maybe Anna. Maybe James. I pushed hard — up, down, running, eating, shouting encouragement to everyone.
The final downhill felt like flying. Knees screaming. Feet crying. Heart roaring.
Near the road I bumped into the Fort William Mountain Rescue team — Anna, Hannah, James. Familiar faces, huge smiles. They’d raised an incredible amount for charity. Heroes.
One last icy slip. No drama. Into the village. People shouting. Through the arch. And suddenly — I was there.
Tears. Relief. Joy. Everything at once.
“Touch the wall! Kiss the wall!” So I did. A gentle kiss. Forehead resting on the stone. A moment I’ll never forget.
I had conquered the Pennine Way on foot.
Medal received. Warmth. Food. Friends. A shower that felt like rebirth.
Later, thanks to Tadeusz and Anna, I got a lift all the way back to Edale to collect my van. Legends.
Home — Recovery and Reflection
Now I’m home. Legs good. Sleep normal again after four days. Feet in great shape — maintenance paid off.
Could I go faster? Yes. In these conditions? No chance. Could I sleep less? Probably. But I don’t regret staying fresh and strong.
What would I change? More savoury food. Was it good? Absolutely. Was it brutal? Completely. Am I coming back?…wait and see.
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