The Spine Race 2020 Blow by Blow, by Debbie Consani

This is an account of Debbie Martin-Consani’s Spine Race 2020, in which she placed second woman and eighth overall in a strating line-up of 150 runners. The Spine Race is a 268 mile (almost 430-kilometre) ultra-run from south to north along the Pennine Way, from Edale in Derbyshire to Kirk Yetholm just across the border in Scotland. It takes place in January, when the British weather is at its least predictable, so the experience can involve snow blizzards as well as guaranteed rain, mist, floods, mud, bog, rocks and hundreds of stiles and gates. Photographs ©Jimmy Hyland Montane®Spine except where indicated.

For a race interview with Debbie, see here. See more about the Montane Spine Race, Follow Debbie at @UltraRunDMC

 Start at Edale to CP1 at Hebden Bridge – 74km, over the Peak District
We start at 9 am, in rain but happily enough: I am getting used to the rhythm and the weight of my pack. At Jacob’s Ladder mist closes in, adding to the rain. The rocks are wet, but the ground is still firm for running. My first mistake: I let my clothes get wet and my hands become cold in my gloves, so cold I can’t get my rucksack off, then I can’t get my gloves back on again. I take myself aside for a stern talking to; must do better…

I warm up again crossing some flooded peat bogs, but the river crossings are horrendous; waist deep for me – one slip would be race-ending. I go into the first night at the rocks and boulders of Blackstone Edge, but then some Landrover tracks make foro good progress. I am tired, and trip twice, cutting my hands and knees. There’s a crazy muddy descent into Hebden Bridge, I’m way tireder than I expect to be at 45 miles and 11 hours. As I arrive at the CP, Sabrina Verjee is just leaving with another couple of guys. We exchange cheers. Sabrina is an absolute power house.  Even with my A-game I couldn’t compete.  I am happy to take bridesmaid. The boys better watch their backs…

Hebden Bridge to CP2 at Hawes – 98km up into the Yorkshire Dales
I’m heading deep into night, while my body is telling me I should be heading to bed. I feel really flat, then I crash – overheating and under-eating. In a village I sit on a bench wrestling with some snack bars; half chewing, half gagging. Back out there; I make a few wrong turns and deck in at a farm gate; I try to convince myself it is mud, but I am definitely covered head to toe in cow shite. Miles and miles through manky muddy fields and farmland, but I feel much better after hot soup and sweet coffee at an aid station run by a local triathlon club on Lothersdale.

Sunrise on Day 2 comes at the stunning Malham Cove in the Yorkshire Dales: my spirits soar. It’s amazing the physical, emotional and mental effect it has. The skies are blue and this whole thing feels like an adventure. But… the wind is really picking up. Storm Brendan is on the way. A short, steep climb onto the slabs at Pen y Ghent and I am leaning into the wind to stay upright; I never knew rain could hurt so much. Cam Road is five miles of full on frontal assault. But there is no turning back. I can’t shelter from it without being in danger of hyperthermia.  I just have to focus and get to Hawes.

I arrive a wreck moments after 7pm, shaking uncontrollably and slurring my words.  Volunteers swarm all around me, removing wet clothes and muddy socks and boots and stuffing me with hot soup, bread and pasta.  My calves are cramped and I can barely walk to the shower rooms to change. The medics are watching, so I grit my teeth and walk on tiptoes, trying to hold my shit together. I’m pretty sure they don’t expect me to leave the checkpoint. The storm and the reality of such a tough first 100 miles in such hostile terrain causes a lot of runners to retire at Hawes. Some ask me if I will go on, but even now I am certainly not thinking of quitting. Still, I want to sit out some of the storm, so I take a two-hour sleep. Wake up after 1:45 feeling like a new woman! It’ll be my longest sleep for days.

Hawes to Middleton – 54km, into the North Pennines
I leave feeling great!  Knowing that from here on I have recce-ed the route makes a massive difference. It’s still fairly windy, but the rain has stopped.  I make the gradual ascent over the second highest top in the course. There’s a full moon, which is beautiful. Feeling good, I try to keep up the calorie intake. I struggle during events, the nausea.... I get a good stomping pace on all the way to Tan hill, though there’s not much running on the waterlogged, undulating paths. I keep disappearing and face planting in bogs. Then it’s onto the notorious swamplands of Sleightholme Moor.  The guidebook says: “Even fans of the bleakest, most barren moorland will find it difficult to warm to Sleightholme Moor”.  Never a truer word…

It’s a long night, but daylight eventually comes on Day 3.  And then I get lost in fields down to the A66 underpass.  I can see it, just can’t find the line to it. I want to follow the correct course because dot watchers might think I am cutting the route.  I was bang on course in the dark, but now I am all over the place in daylight.  So frustrating.  Eventually Middleton appears, in torrential rain. Arriving in daylight, my plan is to push through to Dufton, but still manage to spend a good 90 minutes faffing around…

Middleton to Alston – 63km, A zig-zag over the North Pennines
Still torrential rain. The trail becomes a river.  And the river itself is completely unpassable. The stepping stones are submerged.  I run up and down looking for a safe place to cross.  I am already soaked, so getting wet isn’t the problem.  It’s just the river deeper than my poles, which I stab in the water to gauge depth. I fear being swept away. Eventually, about 200 metres upstream, I find a relatively safe place to cross. 

I have the fear about the riverbank section.  With the river is so high and furious surely this whole stretch will be submerged. The waterfalls are a spectacular sight and deafening. I get through Cauldron Snout – it was icy on the recce and one slip would have been bad. Now it’s relentless and awkward, unnerving in places, but I find the good line ok and keep my wits about me and it is fine.

Then, as we go into night, it snows. I follow some snow-bound Landrover tracks – they might be runnable on fresh legs, but I’m resigned to a brisk hike on spine legs. I follow footprints for what seemed like eternity, heading into boggy foresty land – the line on my GPS is fine on an identifiable track, but it’s useless in muddy snow. The path to High Cup Nick is submerged in water.  Am I just walking up a stream?

I get so cold and my gloves are so wet, and then my headtorch runs out.  Why does it always run out when I’m freezing and my hands don’t work? I haven’t eaten for hours and I am so sleep-deprived I can’t hold it together. I am shaking uncontrollably and the mud is so slippy I can barely stay upright. I mutter to myself: just calm the fuck down… Eventually I find my way back onto the route curving round the stunning High Cup Nick. 

Now I know it’s just a few kilometres to go to Dufton, so I push on, but my mind is playing tricks. Why do I keep seeing buses full of people having a party? I stop at the Tea Room in Dufton, to some confusion. Eventually Spine staff arrive to collect me and take me to the village hall. It looks like a bomb site, radiators hanging with wet clothes.

I am so worried about going up Cross Fell on my own that I text my husband. He says have a sleep and think about it. I sleep for an hour on the hard floor, waking every 5-10 minutes. I get dressed and eat loads, enough to make it over Cross Fell – in the cold, snow and 80mph winds up at the summit there’s no way I’ll be eating. I still don’t want to go up there alone. The staff suggest I wait for another runner to arrive and set off in a pair. We check the tracker, but the next person is hours behind.

So four hours after arriving, at 3am, I leave, feeling way more positive but still quite edgy. I know what lies ahead; even on a crisp winter’s morning it’s a fairly hostile place. I am really lucky though. The guys ahead of me have left prints in the snow the whole way and I don’t even have to navigate. Past the weather station, the winds on the summit are crazy. I am leaning 45 degrees just to stay upright, using my poles to stab into the ground sideways to move forward. Really glad to pass the highest point - feeling quite chuffed now – Dufton was the closest I’ve ever come to quitting. 

Having Sabrina ahead is a massive motivator; she’s an amazing, strong and fearless woman. She has a big lead on me now and I am fine with that.  I am just focussing on forward motion and maintaining my second place. When I start to whine to myself about being small and weak, it’s great having her up front, going full speed into the storm.

My spirits cartwheel at the lights of Greg’s Hut in the distance. I’ve heard so much about the legendary John Bamber; he holds residence for a few days and cooks up noodles sprinkled with his own home-grown chillis - for extra warm and a big kick. Still feeling good as I head out into fluffy snow down to Garrigell and the few miles along the river to the next checkpoint in Alston. I pass and greet a few farmers, who look at me strangely. I am completely covered in dried mud, like I’ve rolled in it.  On a sunny Wednesday morning, I’m sure it looks very bizarre.

At the checkpoint at midday I am greeted by smiling faces and attention from the volunteers – there are hours between competitors at this stage. I faff too much. I seem to have sorted my kit about 100 times!  It’s just so hard to decide what you might need for another full day and night out in the winter. It is morning and I know I need to maximise daylight, but my eyes are so heavy and swollen they are starting to hurt. Even a short sleep would be hugely beneficial, so I head off to one of the dorms for a nap. Thirty minutes, waking every five. Reluctantly I drag myself up and out.  

Alston to Bellingham – 64km, Over Hadrian’s Wall through Kielder
I leave energised and feeling good. Even the miles of bogs and muddy farmland ahead cannot faze me. I spot Taro Kuchimi from Japan in the distance, and catch him before Slaggyford. He skipped sleep at Alston - even a 30 minute power nap can make a huge difference.

Pushing hard, thankful I have recce-ed this section.  When faced with the prospect of never-ending, shite-filled fields and swamp, it’s weirdly comforting having experienced it before. A farmer films me for his youtube channel: in hindsight another surreal situation. Then more, relentless bogs. On the November recce the tops were frozen and I shredded my shins: at least the bog water is warmer this time. But you just don’t go anywhere fast on the Pennine Way.  Think of a time and double it. After what seems like hours – because it is, in fact, hours - I hit the road crossing.  It has haunted me, crossing the A69 in the dark, completely exhausted, with cars flying at you doing 70mph. But in the end it is nothing to worry about.  

Into Walltown Quarry carpark at the foot of Hadrian’s Wall. I go to the public toilets to wash my hands.  I know, I look like I have rolled in cow shit for days, but washing my hands seems very important for some reason. Then I lie down and take a quick nap.  I’m not even tired, but sleeping on a cold stone floor in a public toilet seems a suitably perverse part of an authentic Spine experience. As I set off, I find Spine staff have come out to cover some distance with me: I assume they’re being friendly; on reflection they’re concerned for my welfare.

I’m making stupid navigation errors – I even get lost on a golf course at one point... And I feel exhausted. I take my rucksack off to sit down for a moment because my shoulders are killing me, but I can’t stay for long; my temperature plummets when I stop moving. I want to push on through the deep of the night to Bellingham, but I just can’t stay on my feet any longer.  I am stumbling, mumbling, so I put on my Airpods and start singing really loudly to keep myself awake. In the end I doss down on the side of the path. Not something I factored into my race plan… in temperatures a few degrees above freezing, but I simply can’t take another step.  I pull out my emergency bivvy, which it surprisingly warm – and set an alarm. Fifteen minutes. I hardly feel reborn, but at least I can keep going,

The sun comes up as I trot along the road to the checkpoint at Bellingham.  Damn. More wasted daylight. Inside, the hall is set up like a camping site, with individual tents. When you’ve been outside on your own for so long, the indoors and the comfort of human interaction is so hard to leave.

Bellingham to Kirk Yetholm – 67.5km, Northumberland National Park and across the border to Scotland
The sun is shining. My spirts are high. There’s great comfort in knowing that finishing is turning from dream to reality. I stomp over the hills, forcing myself to stay calm and embrace the beautiful morning and the whole experience. I put my poles away and get a good jogging pace on.  Up and over Whitley Pike and Padon Hill. The section to Byrness is fairly solid underfoot through forestry tracks, but then there’s a downhill section I just can’t run.  My shins are on fire. Later I learn that shin tendonitis is a problem for most competitors, caused by pulling our feet out of mud for days on end! Something you don’t really think to train for… Just before I get into Byrness more torrential rain starts.

The race uses the conservatory of the local B&B, with a 30 minute time limit to stop runners from overstaying their welcome. The rain on the glass roof sounds a million times worse, so the thought of the Cheviots in another storm is not appealing.  But when my time is up I have no other option. Weirdly it turns out warmer and muggier than I expect, so soon I am taking off layers. Up on Ravens Knowe I manage to face plant – twice – in water, so I am soaked again from head to toe again. I am so cold and so miserable.  I just keep pushing on.  My eyes are playing tricks on me and I settle on some in-depth conversations with my dead Gran.

In the darkness a few hours later mountain rescue appears. Colin Greene has come out to greet me. At first I’m not sure he is real, so I am wary about talking to him. He leads me into the next shelter, where of course I stay way longer than I should - the warmth of the hut is amazing and the people are a good laugh. I am freezing when I leave, just can’t heat up, shivering so violently I give myself a head ache. I decide to stop for another sleep and wake up startled - I’ve fallen asleep with my feet in a puddle. My feet are like ice.

Taro didn’t stop in the hut, or he stepped over me on the path: I can see the light of his torch up ahead. I make it my target to catch him again, which gives me good focus and new energy, though I am acutely aware I could be chasing something that isn’t actually there. Up and over Windy Gyle I gain on him, and eventually I catch him before the climb up to Cheviot.  He is lovely, so gracious; we stay pretty close for the next few miles. One of his film crew (making a film for Japanese TV) comes out before Hut 2 asking loads of questions. I guess he was assessing my wellbeing to relay back to Taro.

I skip the option of warm food in Hut 2 in favour of pushing on to the end – Taro doesn’t stop either. He and his fixer run off together.  I am pretty annoyed that he has a pacer, but only because he’s now in front of me. I can’t get down The Schil; my shins hurt so bad. Every slip in the mud causes a jarring pain: I wince and yelp all the way. Then I get to the THE stile.  The most significant stile I’ll ever cross.  I am back in Scotland.  

It feels the longest 4-5 mile stretch to the end. I shamble and stumble the whole way. I can’t run because of my shins.  I am hallucinating so badly that I’ve convinced myself am not actually in the race, and people will think I’ve cheated when I get to the end. This is a whole new level; I’ve never been this far over the edge in any race I’ve done in my life.  My brain is so far gone I don’t even have the cognitive and motor skills to deal with the motion of running. 

But then… finally, at last… I am in Kirk Yetholm. I touch the wall of the Borders Hotel, a small tradition; it marks the end of the most amazing experience.

On the Spine I have had so many lows, and I have reached depths I’ve never been to before, but later I see that the highs outweigh the lows.  I only have positive thoughts about the event. ‘Britain’s most brutal’… – it is indeed.  But as a test, a challenge and the chance to push right up against your limits… well, it’s the best for that too.