Sunday 15th June 2025, Edale, The Start

I arrive in Edale early on Sunday morning. Early enough to be one of the first in the queue to have my tracker fitted, the small device that will accompany me all the way up the Pennine Way.

I registered, collected my race number & passed kit check the previous afternoon, so there’s very little to do this morning. Registration was smooth. Kit check too. I’d been meticulous in the days leading up to the race, checking & re-checking every single item on the list, multiple times, determined to meet the extensive requirements. I sailed through with just one tiny blip when my compass briefly decided not to find north.

Late yesterday afternoon, I made my way over to the youth hostel a couple of miles outside Edale, where I had a bunk booked for the night.

The hostel was filled almost entirely with Spinners. I felt particularly sorry for the one woman in our eight-bed dorm who wasn’t running the race, especially when a chorus of badly tuned alarms erupted around 4 am. Not that I’d slept much anyway. Despite feeling tired, nerves, excitement & apprehension won out. Instead of drifting into a peaceful sleep, I tossed & turned for hours, finally dropping into something fitful around 2 am. The experience wasn’t helped by a very loud snorer in the dorm.

Note to self: if I ever do this again (spoiler alert), book a private room the night before the race!

Now, coffee from the café in the station in hand, I sit on the ground outside the village hall, aka Spine HQ, eating my pre-race breakfast from a Tupperware box. I watch the sky nervously as the heavens open. I was hoping the threatening grey clouds would blow over without delivering on their promise. Instead, I pull on my waterproof & dash for cover beneath the small marquee on the starting field.

Thankfully, with kick-off fast approaching, the downpour is short-lived & just before 8 am, I shrug my pack onto my shoulders & wander over to the start area.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for a year. Twelve whole months. Every mile run, every hill climbed, every weight lifted has led to this. This is it. It’s time. I take a deep breath & close my eyes, trying to hold back tears & shut out the world around me. In the midst of the crowd, I need a quiet moment to myself.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

In. Out. In. Out.

I try to calm my pounding heart.

The race director offers a few final words of encouragement. I hear him, but the words don’t stick, floating past on the wind.

Surrounded by people, I feel completely & utterly alone. Like an imposter. Around me, runners swap stories of previous Spines, Northern Traverses, Cape Wraths, Dragon’s Backs. Names heavy with prestige. I listen, nod, smile. Inside, something tightens. What am I doing here?

In comparison, Winter Downs 200 suddenly feels small. Lightweight. Not enough. The voice in my head starts to list the reasons I don’t belong. Not experienced enough. Not tough enough. Not worthy of this start line.

Then I catch myself.

This is not the moment to unravel. I know how much I’ve given to be here. The early mornings. The long miles. The sacrifices no one else sees. I didn’t end up here by accident. I earned this place.

Still, doubt clings on, stubborn & insistent, pressing in during these final minutes. My heart races. My hands tremble slightly.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

In. Out. In. Out.

Lost inside my own head, I barely register the final countdown.

Five… four… three… Deep breath. Two… one… Go.

The field surges forward, a wave of bodies carried by cheers from friends & family. I step over the line quietly, almost unnoticed, slipping into the middle of the pack exactly where I want to be.

The noise fades.

The doubts fall away.

There is only the path ahead. With one last steadying breath, I begin my epic journey along the Pennine Way.

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Edale

The moment I start moving, a sense of calm washes over me. This is exactly where I want to be. The flickers of doubt from the start line soften, then fade quietly into the background. I know I’m ready & I find myself genuinely looking forward to what the next few days might hold.

Edale is a tiny village tucked into the Hope Valley, home to fewer than 400 people, surrounded by rolling hills & wide, open views. Best known as the start, or end, of the Pennine Way, it’s a familiar place for walkers & runners heading out into the Peak District.

This weekend, though, the village belongs to the Spine. Staff, volunteers, runners across all three races & their families spill across the green, doubling the population overnight. As the race starts, locals & supporters line the streets, cheering us out of the village; a gentle but deeply grounding show of support.

The opening miles ease us in. The trail undulates through lush, green fields, cradled between steep hillsides & winding cloughs in the Vale of Edale. To the right, the slopes of Grindslow Knoll rise sharply above us. To the left, the Great Ridge stretches across the skyline, familiar & reassuring. The ground is soft, forgiving, almost encouraging. It would be easy to let the excitement take over.

I rein myself in, quietly reminding myself that this is just the beginning. There is a long way to go. I glance at my heart rate, easing off slightly as it creeps upwards, trying to keep the early adrenaline in check.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to approach this race. Trying to shape a strategy for something this vast feels almost futile. My goal is simple enough: to finish. But beneath that sits something more important to me. I want to finish knowing I gave it everything I had. That I didn’t coast. That I didn’t leave anything in reserve. That second part matters more than I usually admit.

I don’t doubt I can finish. Not for a second. Cocky? Maybe. I’d call it confident. But confidence doesn’t mean charging in blindly. I want to walk away knowing I showed up fully, both physically & mentally.

Jacob’s Ladder ©Official Spine Photo. photographer unknown

Jacob’s Ladder

A few miles in, just beyond the small hamlet of Upper Booth, the path funnels us towards Jacob’s Ladder. A steep staircase of gritstone slabs etched into the hillside, climbing sharply onto the Kinder plateau. The climb begins with a narrow stone bridge over the River Noe & rises around 300 feet at a punishing gradient of 24%. It’s the first real test of the Pennine Way.

As usual, it’s wrapped in thick clag. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the top from the bottom, or the bottom from the top. Some might find comfort in that. Personally, I’d quite like to see the view one day.

Normally, I’d push here. Today, I deliberately hold back. Without the familiar rhythm of effort, the climb feels harder than it should, dragging on as I count steps rather than settle into a flow. When I reach the cairn, I turn & look back, reminding myself early on to focus on how far I’ve come, not how far I still have to go.

Below, a ribbon of runners snakes down the hillside, dissolving into the mist. I turn & move on.

Looking back towards Jacob’s Ladder

The trail threads its way across to Kinder Scout, the highest point in the Peak District at 2,087 feet. The path is narrow & busy & there’s a constant negotiation for space. Someone passes me, I pass someone else. Eventually, I push a little harder than planned, just to find clear ground & my own rhythm again.

From Kinder Low, the route heads east along the edge of the plateau towards Kinder Downfall. This stretch always reminds me of running along a coastal path, the land dropping away on one side. The trail becomes rougher here, scattered with gritstone boulders that demand constant attention. Foot placement matters. Sometimes hands too. It’s more scramble than run in places, but I enjoy it. Perhaps a little too much. I rein myself in again.

We skirt around Kinder Downfall, the highest waterfall in the Peaks. On windy days, the water blows back on itself in a fine mist. They say on a clear day you can see the Welsh mountains from here.

Just past the waterfall, just as suddenly as it closed in, the cloud lifts. Grey gives way to blue. The moorland brightens, the landscape sharpening into colour. Below, Kinder Reservoir glints in the sunlight, as if someone’s turned the saturation up on the whole world. With it comes a small but welcome lift in mood, a quiet spark of optimism.

Suddenly, the clouds lifted & the sun came out!

My feet dance along the flagstones, reclaimed from demolished cotton mills & laid across the worst of the bogs. I haven’t run this section since the Sprint in 2023, but my feet remember it well. There’s a gentle incline, dry & runnable. I feel strong.

Should I be running? I’m not sure.

Part of me wants to lean into it, to bank some easy miles while the terrain allows. Another part knows the danger of getting carried away too early. I move somewhere between the two, trying to balance patience with momentum.

The Kinder Plataeu, ©Official Spine Photographer

Snake Pass

The stretch from Snake Pass to Torside, skirting Bleaklow, isn’t one I know particularly well.

It starts gently enough, a runnable climb along a gravel path that briefly follows the line of an old Roman Road before veering off & winding alongside a stream bed. The trail hops from one bank to the other, changing underfoot from flagstones to stones to mud, sometimes all at once.

Away from the water, Bleaklow opens into a vast expanse of moorland. Wild, exposed & quietly beautiful in its bleakness. Heather & coarse grasses stretch across the landscape, broken only by the occasional wildflower. Deep peat channels cut through the terrain, forming narrow corridors with dark walls rising almost to shoulder height. The lines twist & overlap, and at times it takes real concentration to stay on the right one.

The gradients are kind, though & when the ground firms up, the running is actually pretty good.

Eventually, the path narrows into a single track high above Torside Clough, clinging to the hillside with a hint of coastal clifftop drama. It should feel expansive & freeing, but it’s busy, & I’m still finding my rhythm. I move cautiously, allowing space where I can. A few runners bound past confidently, only to be stopped abruptly by a slick, boggy patch. Smug in my waterproof socks, I splash through & carry on, reminding myself at the same time, not to get pulled into racing this early.

With the sun now blazing & the earlier cloud cover all but gone, the views across Torside Reservoir are spectacular. I slow, stop briefly & take a couple of photos.

Because of course I do.

Black Hill

Since my first Pennine Way outing in 2022, I’ve slowly pieced the trail together, section by section, until I’ve covered it all. I might not remember every mile, but the familiarity has become a quiet source of reassurance.

I know where the terrain bites & where it flows. I know the big climbs, the punishing descents & the sections that reward patience. I know where the shops, cafés & taps are, and which checkpoints offer the chance for a reset. That knowledge gives me confidence. It grounds me.

For some, the magic of the Spine lies in discovery. For me, it’s in recognition. Landmarks become milestones, small goals that help pull me forward when the miles feel heavy.

By late morning, the temperature is climbing fast, a sharp contrast to the damp grey start in Edale. After the bleakness of Bleaklow and the monotony of the Torside tarmac, the trail pulls me towards Black Tor & the climb to Laddow Rocks. One of my favourite sections, ever since I first ran it in May 2023.

The path twists up beside a tumbling waterfall, narrow & rocky in places, runnable in others. Exactly the kind of climb I love. I’d flown up it during the Sprint & today I feel a flicker of that same spark.

Before the climb, I notice both front flasks are empty. I know I need to refill, but rather than stopping immediately, I wait until I find a rock with a panoramic view back towards Crowden. I sit, swing my legs over the edge, shrug off my pack & finally stop.

Until now, I’d been stubbornly eating & drinking on the move, unwilling to lose time. I know this isn’t sustainable.

A peanut butter & jam sandwich. A few mouthfuls of water. Sitting still feels indulgent. I refill my front flasks, shifting a litre of water from the back of my pack to the front. The balance improves instantly.

Even after months of training with a full pack & three litres of water, it still feels uncomfortably heavy when full. The more I eat and drink, the lighter my pack becomes. Surely a good incentive to keep eating & drinking.

About ten runners pass me while I sit, including two women, one of them Anna Troup. The other, Catherine, is someone I’ll cross paths with repeatedly over the coming days. My competitive instincts flare briefly, then settle. I’m only 20 miles in. Positions mean nothing yet, but skipping basics now will cost me far more later.

I sit for a minute longer, soaking in the view & taking a few photos. It really is glorious. And something clicks. Stopping costs less than pushing through. A few minutes of rest gives me more than it takes.

The view from my rock!

I set off again, climbing strongly, weaving around the rocks of Laddow. The path hugs the hillside, narrow, uneven, fringed with ferns & easy to trip over if I lose focus. Wild, beautiful, demanding. Everything I love about the Pennine Way.

Across Wessenden Head Moor, the flagstones offer a brief respite before the road crossing & the descent. Ahead, the first snack van of the race, a magnet for hungry Spiners. Burgers, chips, cold cans of Coke. Tempting, but I push on. Nikki’s Food Bar is only eight miles away & right now, I’m craving quiet more than food.

As the chatter fades behind me, I finally get it. Silence. Just me, the trail & the sound of my breath.

Doubting

By mid-afternoon, though, the heat & lack of sleep begin to take their toll. My energy dips. My stomach turns. The shared dorm the night before was good for my budget, less so for rest. One snorer carried on well into the early hours, & when I finally drifted off, my alarm dragged me straight back out again.

I know, as my mood drops, that I should eat. Low mood, eat food. But tired & slightly nauseous, even my trusted peanut butter & jam turns my stomach. The miles start to feel heavier. My thoughts begin to spiral. If I’m struggling now, how will I cope with another 230 miles?

I spot a woman ahead & subconsciously match her pace, searching for rhythm, for distraction. She seems to want solitude just as I’m craving company. I sit in her shadow for a few miles until the unexpected oasis of Brun Clough Reservoir appears.

A local Mountain Rescue team has set up a not-quite-official aid station. Squash, Coke & hot salty potatoes. Heaven. I drink greedily, eat without thinking, refill my bottles.

Low mood, eat food. It really does work.

Crossing Brun Moor, I remind myself that just because I’m on a 268-mile journey, it doesn’t change the fact that thirty miles is still a very long way. Fatigue is part of the ebb & flow. It will pass. It will return. Repeatedly. The real question is whether I’ll keep finding the resolve to meet it.

Several hours later, as the light softens, I turn off the Pennine Way & descend into Hebden Hey, just beyond Hebden Bridge, Checkpoint One.

The final stretch has been steady rather than remarkable. A Coke & quick chat with a race photographer at Nikki’s Food Bar. A rain shower over Blackstone Edge. Long, flat reservoir paths that seem to stretch on forever. I remind myself that running the flat is non-negotiable, even when it feels endless.

The woman I’d shadowed earlier pulls ahead again. I tell myself not to care.

Reader, I care.

I say the miles passed without incident, but the truth is the doubts never really left. They lingered quietly, waiting. The familiar waves of heat-induced nausea came & went, a sure sign I’d started too hard. I was weary, my energy ebbing & more than ready for a pause.

As Hebden Hey draws closer, one question loops steadily through my mind, growing louder with every step.

Can I really do this?

Hebden Hey | Checkpoint One

I’d aimed to arrive at Hebden Hey just before nightfall. Instead, I roll in at 19:20, two hours ahead of plan. I’m not quite sure whether to feel proud or uneasy. Have I paced this well, or gone out too hard?

For context, it’s only two hours slower than my entire Spine Sprint finish in 2023, which ended in Hebden Bridge. Back then, I was broken. Today, I still have 220 miles to go.

Inside the checkpoint, I’m greeted by the warmest possible sight: Mel Sykes. Winter Spine finisher, Peak District running buddy, & now volunteer. She immediately takes me under her wing, helping with my drop bag, filling bottles, mixing Tailwind & appearing, almost magically, with drinks whenever I need them.

Each runner has a single 20kg drop bag that moves from checkpoint to checkpoint along the route. Certain items are mandatory, including a sleeping bag & towel, but the rest is up to us. It’s a snapshot of what we think we’ll need over the course of the race. Mine is mostly spare kit, warm layers & food.

Finding food on the trail had been one of my biggest pre-race concerns. There are honesty boxes, small shops & cafés along the Pennine Way, but not all cater for vegans. During recce runs, I’d realised my options could be limited, so I decided the safest plan was full self-sufficiency if needed. At each checkpoint, I’ll restock my pack with snacks from my drop bag. Anything I find on the route will be a bonus.

I’m not planning to stop for long. It’s early, busy & loud & the advice from seasoned Spiners was clear: don’t linger at CP1. This is my first real test of checkpoint discipline.

Everything in my drop bag is labelled to minimise decision-making. I charge my watch, change my t-shirt & socks, refill my pack with snacks & add a couple of extra warm layers for the night ahead. Once I leave here, it’s 63 miles (100km) to Checkpoint Two.

I take a few minutes to freshen up. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Change my contact lenses. A medic tapes a small patch of chafing on my back. The tape will still be there at the finish, which tells you everything you need to know about the quality of their work.

Then comes food. Or more accurately, the battle with food.

My stomach, still unsettled, turns at the sight of pasta & crumble, but I know I have to eat. I start small with a plain baked potato & salt. It stays down, so I risk a little vegan pasta. I do my best. It’s not much, but it’s something.

Around me, seasoned Spiners pile plates high, fuelling up on big, stodgy, calorie-dense meals while chatting loudly about “the last time” or another big race they’ve done. I sit quietly in the middle of the chaos, picking at my food, acutely aware of how little I’m eating. That familiar pang of imposter syndrome creeps in, whispering that I don’t quite belong here, that at some point someone will realise I’m out of my depth.

Before leaving, I pass my first kit check of the race; second, if you count the one at registration. You hand in your drop bag, then volunteers check that all the mandatory kit is in your pack. Each checkpoint checks different items, & without fail, they always seem to be the ones buried right at the very bottom.

Two hours after arriving, a little over my 90-minute target, I’m packed, checked & ready to leave.

It’s still light outside.

My body feels tired, but my mind is steady. One day done. One checkpoint behind me. A very long way still to go.

• Checkpoint 1: Hebden Hay 
• Distance covered: 46 miles
• Arrival time: 19:23:36, Sunday 15th June
• Race time: 11:23:21
• Time in checkpoint: 01:56:50

Next up: Summer Spine Part II | Hebden Hay to Hardraw

All ready to leave Checkpoint One & head out into the night! ©Mel Sykes