Back on top in June.
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Malham to Horton
I had been clever enough to ask the Malham crew where I’d find the bird hide in which I was planning to sleep, at the same time learning that what I thought was the hide was actually the boat house. Still, me being me, I eventually went down to examine that boat house up close and personal, for the sheer pleasure of adding an extra hill to the journey.
After I righted myself, it seemed I walked an absolute age down the path looking for that elusive structure. I was sure I’d missed the turn off when I spotted a group of people standing just off the side of the path, in deep and animated conversation.
I’ll just ask them.
It was only when I reached this group, fully prepared to wish them a cheery good morning, that I found little more than a stand of twigs and brush blowing in the breeze. I chuckled and shook my head, realising that I was definitely not in Kansas anymore. Fortunately, it didn’t frighten me – I was well aware I was hallucinating and only more eager to shut my eyes with every step.
I eventually spotted another structure down below the path and headed towards it. I expected this ‘bird hide’ would resemble all those I’d seen before in Waltham Abbey’s Lee Valley Park (shaped more like a bus shelter than an actual building) so my already screwy head had its own idea about what I was going to see when I reached it.
I plodded along, inspecting what looked like an a-frame awning over open walls. There seemed to be quite a rowdy bunch within, clearly having some kind of party if the strobe effect lighting and noise had anything to do with it. Someone was sat inside, leaning against the wall nearest me, and had casually draped an oddly-shaped arm through the gap in the wall. I reached the door and turned the handle, feeling frustrated that I was probably not going to catch a wink.
Jeez, what the hell’s going on in he–
I stepped into a fully enclosed building, lined with windows. A sleeping blob in a bivvy lay in front of me.
Oh?!
OH!
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh.
These hallucinations were getting interesting. It was definitely time to shut my eyes for a while.
It didn’t take long for me to get situated along the far wall, and bundled into my Alpkit Hunka bivvy. Once again I set the alarm for an hour, and attempted to find a way to nod off as daybreak did its best to prevent it. Once again, my faculties were only half present so a solid 20 minutes passed before I jigged I could just roll over to get the light out of my eyes. Unfortunately when I did roll over, my hip screamed blue Jesus and sent me straight back the other way.
The alarm didn’t have a chance to go off before I was awakened by the sound of an almost violent shaking and crunching of fabric to my left. The other runner was clearly getting ready to make a move. I didn’t open my eyes, but quietly hoped it’d eventually stop which it did. I never heard the door go, nor do I remember hearing my alarm go off.
What actually did wake me was a desperate need for the loo. Despite everything that makes a life ‘normal’ being entirely off piste for the past 46 hours, my digestive system was fully operational. I made short news of getting myself packed up and decided that I’d rather use a real toilet than test out my poo kit in broad daylight so made my way back to the building to do my business before I got stuck into day 3.
Day 3! Yippppeeeeeeeeeeee!
I did a quick bit of pacing maths and joyfully executed the ‘Usain thigh slap’ once more before pointing myself towards the two finish lines waiting in my heart – my century and the Spine Challenger South. I’d been trying to complete that mythical 100 miles for so long, that every time I’d begin a race or self-planned unsupported attempt, I’d ask myself ‘will this be the time it happens? Is today the day it’s finally going down?’
The question came again and I answered it aloud, to no one.
To everyone.
To the hallucinatory twig-and-brush conference. To that weird arm hanging out the false bird hide wall.
It’s going to happen today because I’ve DECIDED it’s going to happen today.
And THAT, my friends, was THAT.
Had it always been that simple? I can’t remember it ever being so clear, so obvious, so certain.
Day 3. Wow.
It was the strangest feeling ever. There I’d been in such pain I couldn’t roll over when I tried to sleep, yet here, stood up, slightly rested, there was no doubt in my mind that it was going down once and for all, and the pain was merely a whisper. It seemed that I’d finally found a way to manage it and it wasn’t going to win on this occasion. Stuffed in the tightest of compression bags and shunted into the boot, it could scream and holler til the cows came home, it would lose. I was still in control.
There was no other option.
Interestingly, I even started to realise that the more fatigued and hallucinatory I became, the more it seemed to stifle the chimp. It was like the world’s greatest forcefield against the negative, to be in this mental space of numbness and imagination, that place where the only thing that is humanly possible if you mean to stay awake is to force yourself to remain positive and keep moving. For a mind like mine that lacks the capacity to stop processing thoughts to the point of total overwhelm, it was a complete revelation. Of all the learnings I have taken from this race, I have come to appreciate the value of a cleverly distracted mind. I was aware that I was totally on autopilot, just like my life has been for the past few years. It came from fatigue on this occasion, but I will let my busy mind ponder this one for a long time to come as I think it may be useful out here in that place of Real Life Adulting and such.
I reached the turn off the path and began ascending that joyful green rise which welcomes you before dropping down to the unassuming farm at the foot of Fountains Fell. I’d left Malham an hour before that monitoring point would have been shut to me, for good, ready to take on the final hurdle that stood between me and seven years of this story finally reaching a conclusion I approved of.
Thoughts of my heavenly Pop entered my head, and the hills were soon alive with the sound of Sinatra.
I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet
A pawn and a QUEEN
I’ve been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing –
Each time I find myself
Flat on my face
I pick myself up and get back in the race
That’s life! *
I sang and sang, to every blade of grass, to the fence beside me, and to the kissing gates.
I serenaded the sheep and the heavens – feeling it in the very centre of my heart, that my recently lost Uncle and my Pop were up there watching me together, and proud, so proud. They put this song in my head weeks ago when I was thinking of them both and out of the blue I remembered my Pop’s old favourite optimistic saying:
‘…back on top in June…’*
And I would be. I was. Day 3.
I looked ahead at the arduous climb to come.
Another runner approached from my left who looked puzzled at my presence. Maybe it was my vigour. Maybe it was the heavy warm kit I still had on, total overkill for this sunny morning. Maybe it was the sound of me belting out Old Blue Eyes at arse o’clock on a Monday, just like I did on that 2017 Yorkshire Three Peaks when my IT band blew and I’d have log rolled to the bloody finish just to get it done. That day I had to descend Whernside in agony and rather than whimper my way down I decided to channel my Heavenly Pops and we belted out ‘I did it siiiiiiiiidewaaaaaaaays!’ together.
Those poor sheep! Ah, but didn’t I laugh my way down that hill rather than cry?! Just like I’d sing my way up this one.
This long journey we’ve been on together, my Daddy Angel and me. The only reason I started running and here we were, capturing that dream together. And he’d been here. Every step, every minute –
That’s life
And I can’t deny it
Many times I thought of quitting babe
But my heart won’t buy it*
The quitting had long ceased when the hallucinations took over, that numb head giving me a long-needed ability to actually deliver that true relentless forward progress I’d been trying to manifest all these years.
Now I’m heading up, and there are more full Spiners coming past with lovely encouragement. As eventual winner of the women’s race, Jenny Hartley, passed, she gave me such positive motivation. Knowing full well she’s an entire day ahead of me, I’m hearing her say something along the lines of ‘you’ve got this far, you’ve got it now, just keep moving…’ It was as if she was actually inside my head and knew precisely what I needed to hear.
It worked. Oh my days, how it worked. Thank you.
I tell you what, I’ve ascended Fountains Fell many times and none have ever felt so effortless.
I’ll let you sit with that, because it’s bloody mental. How? Genuinely?
I honestly cannot comprehend any of what happened from this point onward, because there was literally only one single moment somehwere just before the Cam Road where I desperately needed a sit down and barring that, it was full pelt, grit bin loaded up, I got this, watch me, all the superlatives.
Just. Nuts.
So there I was having the absolute time of my LIFE, while everyone watching my blob spent the next few hours having kittens as my tracker gave up the ghost directly beside a mine shaft. I’m so glad the only way I was watching myself that day was via hallucination because my overthinking brain would have absolutely had a field day.
Up and up I went, never actually falling into any mine shafts and not even feeling too rough as it happens. I just kept moving forward with great burning purpose. I was bemused watching the full Spine front runners getting away from me not merely as if I was stood still, but almost as if I was actually walking backwards. Still, I grew more confident as each check of the watch confirmed I’d be fine – enough to retain my two planned breaks between now and the finish.
As you begin to descend Fountains Fell there is a corner you come around where you get the most spectacular view of Pen-y-ghent if the conditions are right. And they were pretty bloody right that morning. So right, in fact, that the minute I took in that view I burst into tears. I had stood in that spot so many times, imagining all those miles and two solid days behind me, with nothing left to do but wend my way across hill and dale, and past one Green Dragon, to victory.
The previous year after I'd failed to finish, I'd driven down a road that gave me a long distant view of Pen-y-ghent, lamenting 'what if?' I would have been on that hill the moment I was looking at it.
And here it was a year later. Here it was day 3, and I was descending Fountains Fell, looking across at that view of Pen-y-ghent I'd long dreamt of. It was really happening. I appreciate I keep banging on about it, but when you fail as many times to achieve something as I’ve done, when it finally happens you want to examine every breath you took, every rock you stepped on, or rolled over, or kicked, or skinned yourself on, to see how you did it.
This is really happening. How is this happening?
And to this day I cannot pinpoint the reason, other than the sheer will to finally draw a line under it and return home triumphant. To look in the mirror and grin at the reflection I’d promised would next appear victorious.
I turned left off the hill onto the road, its gentle undulations adding colour to a bland section of the route, made more bland still by fatigue. Before I knew it I was passing through the gate towards that final climb. I had always known exactly where I’d be stopping, having rehearsed in my head every bit of the remainder of this race for the past two years. That lovely green space, those rocks at the perfect angle for one more elevation of my feet before I’d head up. I lay my foil poncho on the grass to prevent dampness and had a little recline, and a lot of revival.
Another full Spiner passed, checking if I was ok. Everyone had consistently been so kind, so generous, so thoughtful and concerned. This was the Spine Family at its very best. I finished a snack and got myself moving again up that seemingly endless climb to the point of no return – you either turn left to pass through a gate that leads straight down to Horton or you go up and over that almighty hill before you.
Which to choose? The lady or the tiger?
I remembered all the times I wondered what it would feel like to head up this hill with all that water under the bridge. More than 90 miles in the legs. Two days gone. Fatigue settled in like an appendage.
I looked up and started walking. As you do.
On reaching the final scramble, I moved out to the far corner and turned to reveal the line, as I’d done many times before.
Someone’s moved these rocks around.
I was convinced.
It was impossible, but my head wasn’t having it. Not only could I not see the line, but I didn’t recognise a thing. I decided this wouldn’t do. I sat down and took a long look out in the direction from which I’d come.
All that way. I got myself here under my own power.
I have felt proud of myself in the past, but this was next level. A few hikers came up and asked where I’d walked from and when I started. I told them I left Edale at 8 am on Saturday. I wish I could type that cartoon sound effect when someone is very surprised and their eyes pop out. We all wished each other well and I watched them go up, immediately spotting the line I’d not been able to see.
Angels, angels everywhere.
And then I reached the final huge block where you put the poles down to get a stable three point hold and safely maneuver yourself. I don’t think I’ll ever not be relieved that I remembered to be sensible up there. It was a massive fear despite how many times I’ve rehearsed it, and I survived it, too.
As I’m beaming and trudging my way up to the trig, I see a man in a purple jacket come bounding over the wall and begin digging things out of a bag. It was photographer Jamie Rutherford, there to catch the front runners and gifting me with some incredible memories as a result. We were chatting as I made my way across and he bid me farewell as I actually bounded down the steps.
Those steps I’d been too frightened to face the previous year, when I couldn’t get out of Hebden Hey. The ones I was sure I’d never be able to get down because my knees were knackered.
Today, my knees were also knackered. Still, I was bounding down them.
Adrenaline sure does funny things to a girl.
And suddenly I was in the moment I had originally imagined being the one in which I'd be ‘dead cert’ I’d finish. Up and over Pen-y-ghent, nothing between me and Horton but that shitty rocky path…
…and those two people waving at me.
No idea who they were, but I waved back. I mean, you sort of have to.
Who’s waving at me?
I was banging my head trying to identify who it was, before I spotted a whizzy camera and jigged it was Clorroe Cam and a colleague. We had a bit of chat, and I remember telling them both how unbelievably happy I was. I left grinning, throwing my arms joyfully in the air and made my way along those rocks, cursing them all but knowing just what it meant to be passing over them on this day, at this hour.
As I’m approaching Horton, my phone rings. No time for phone calls. I decline it.
Rings again. Decline.
Again. Decline.
I get to the SST team at the car park who are telling me HQ is trying to reach me.
Shit, I’ve been hanging up on HQ!!!
The phone rings again. I apologise profusely and they tell me my tracker is dead (I found out later it had been dead for 4 hours. Better the tracker than me, but still!) Meanwhile my friends have finally discovered I’m not currently down a mine shaft, much to their great relief I’m sure.
I’m told by the team to sit tight until they give me a functioning tracker. I’ve no idea the ins and outs of how it works but they just needed to add another tracker to my other shoulder. I joke that I should get a time credit for the extra weight I’m being asked to carry.
It is the most pleasant and surreal of breaks. I lie down once more and put my feet up, asking what mile we’re at. I’m told 94. I’m just 14 miles from the finish line. I’ve been moving at roughly 35+ minute miles and have no idea what the race algorithm is showing on my tracker, but learned in the aftermath that to onlookers I was already ETA over time and it was beginning to look a bit desperate.
Little did they know that I’d long planned to move at a minimum 26-minute mile pace through the rest of the race and I knew this was perfectly achievable. They didn’t realise that my self-belief had been growing for three days, with every step, and I knew beyond a doubt that I had both the physical and mental strength to get it done, with a few hours to spare.
They didn’t know the depth of my optimism.
They couldn’t feel the blaze in my heart.
They had nothing to rely on but an algorithm – a rigid-thinking machine that could only guess what I was capable of, based upon what it thought I could do.
But no one has a crystal ball, and certainly not some algorithm that doesn’t know my pace is about to increase by 25%. I sent another photo to my friends, absolutely beaming.
Leaving shortly let's finish this.
It’s 11:25. I have 8.5 hours to go 14 miles.
I am six miles from my dream.
I am not worried.
__
Put a mark on these mountains
Keep climbing on up
While everybody’s doubting
I’m getting it done.
Took some fire and I’ll take some more
Redefining what’s possible
And I’m not stopping til I get what I came here for
I’m gonna make it happen.
__
All blogs in this race report:
Prologue:
Here we go. (Pre-race)
Let the
Games Begin. (Edale to Torside)
Keeping
the Faith. (Torside to Hebden Hey)
Just
a matter of time. (Hebden Hey to Lothersdale)
All
hail the underdogs. (Lothersdale to Malham Tarn)
Back on
top in June. (Malham Tarn to Horton)
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