Night One
I leave checkpoint one knowing it’s 63 miles to checkpoint two at Hardraw.
Sixty-three miles of self-sufficiency. Sixty-three miles of looking after myself across deserted moorlands, hills & fells.
It’s the longest stretch between checkpoints in the entire race. There’s a monitoring point roughly 36 miles in, at Malham Tarn, with water, safety & medical support, but nothing more. It isn’t a place to rest. It isn’t somewhere to linger. It exists simply to check in on us, to make sure we’re still moving forward, still safe.
In a slightly strange way, I’m looking forward to it. This feels like the real test. Not just of fitness, but of competence.
Can I navigate 100km alone, through a remote landscape, through the night & into the following day, carrying everything I need & making good decisions when I’m tired, cold & on my own?
It’s still light when I leave Hebden Hey, which feels like a gift. I’d expected to step straight into darkness, so this bonus daylight buys me a gentle start to leg two before the headtorch comes out. I’m a confident night runner. I’ve spent plenty of hours moving through the dark, but tonight I know the balance will shift. Once it gets properly dark, this will be more hiking than running.
The checkpoint sits a mile or so off the Pennine Way, reached by an out-and-back along a narrow country lane. We drop down into checkpoint one & climb straight back out again. Mildly annoying, but also oddly reassuring. Runners arriving as I leave, others leaving as I arrive. A brief brushing of lives before we scatter back into the hills.
Climbing towards Heptonstall Moor, I’m struck by how good I feel. I didn’t eat much at the checkpoint, but the rest has done its job. I’d been lower than I wanted to admit going in, mentally frayed, but I leave feeling steadier. Re-anchored.
The early miles across the moor are runnable. Lumpy, but friendly. Wide, open, slightly featureless terrain. It’s the section I remember least clearly from my run in March 2024. Back then, the Spine wasn’t even on my radar, so I hadn’t paid much attention to the details.
And yet, as I move through it now, I’m surprised by how much my body remembers. A bend in the track. A sharp turn. A road crossing. A small stone bridge. A tree I once stopped beside for a snack. Unimportant moments at the time, but fragments that surface quietly as the landscape reveals them.
At around 22:15, I finally concede defeat & switch on my headtorch. I’ve delayed as long as I can, but the darkness has thickened. A few miles later, just after Walshaw Dean Reservoir, I stop to add another layer. The temperature has dropped sharply with the night, the wind picking up too. Suddenly, it’s cold.
There’s a steady climb after the reservoir, nothing dramatic, but welcome after the earlier flatness. Part of me knows I should run the flats while I can, but hills offer a legitimate excuse to walk. I pull out my poles for the first time. I’ve carried them since the start, but avoided using them before Hebden Hay. Useful though they are, I find them awkward when eating, drinking or checking the map on my watch. Still, after a while, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the tips on the flagstones becomes soothing, a metronome in the quiet night.
Another layer goes on. I’m now wearing a t-shirt, arm sleeves, fleece & windproof.
Top Withens
I’d earmarked Top Withens as a break point. The ruined farmhouse sits high on the exposed edge of Haworth Moor, famously but incorrectly linked to Wuthering Heights. A small plaque gently corrects the myth, explaining that while the location may have inspired Brontë, the building itself bears no resemblance to the fictional Earnshaw home.
Last March, I sat here with coffee & cake. Tonight, it’s Tailwind & a peanut-butter-&-jam sandwich. Less romantic, but effective.
Before the race, I’d toyed with the idea of using Top Withens as a trail-nap spot, imagining myself tucked behind the ruined walls in my bivvy. Standing here now, exposed to the wind, the idea feels laughable. It’s far too cold to linger. Sandwich eaten, I move on quickly.
Somewhere on Ickornshaw Moor, the wind sharpens further, the mist rolls in & the temperature drops again. I pull on my insulated jacket, sealing myself into warmth. Fog hangs thick & low. When I turn slowly in a circle, all I see is my headtorch beam bouncing back at me, visibility shrinking to just a few metres.
The trail becomes vague. Sometimes, no more than a suggestion in the soil, threading between shrubs or sinking into narrow peat channels. My eyes flick constantly between the ground & the map on my watch. I’m grateful that the summer has dried the bogs; most are small, easily skipped. Whilst any stretch of clear flagstones shining back through the mist feels like a blessing, a quiet reassurance that I’m still on track.
Progress is slow, but steady. And oddly, wrapped in fog & darkness, I feel calm. Content. I know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. I put my headphones in, pop on a podcast, hunker down inside my layers & keep moving.
There’s no drama out here. No big story. Just me, alone in the mist, trusting the thin line on my watch & taking the next step… then the next… then the next.
It’s somewhere around 3 am when fatigue finally starts to press in. The first real waves of tiredness roll through me. And then, ahead on the hill, a warm golden glow appears. A small beacon of light in the dark.
Just like the Mountain Rescue team at Brun Clough, supporters from a local tri club have set up an unofficial aid station on the outskirts of Cowling. It’s not a Spine checkpoint, but it’s recognised, allowed & quietly brilliant.
Several runners are already inside when I duck into the tent. I shrug off my pack & sink into a chair. The warmth is instant. Blankets appear. Bacon sandwiches are offered. Mugs of steaming tea are pressed into cold hands. I decline the food, but ask for hot water to make up some oatmeal.
This becomes a ritual over the coming days, my reliable fallback whenever hot water appears. Lightweight to carry, easy to stomach even when nothing else appeals, a dependable hit of carbs & energy. My drop bag holds over twenty small bags of pre-mixed instant oats, pimped up with chia seeds, flaxseed, powdered peanut butter & raisins. Knowing I’d likely find ad-hoc hot water along the way, I always carry a couple of portions with me.
While the oats soak in my thermos mug, I sip a proper coffee. My one small luxury this week. A stash of Taylor’s coffee bags, the closest thing to a decent brew this coffee snob is going to get.
We’re allowed to stay for a maximum of thirty minutes. As time ticks away, I reorganise my pack, top up bottles, shuffle snacks around, trying not to get too comfortable. The temptation to stay is strong, but eventually I force myself back out into the cold.
The rest has worked. With sunrise not far off, I leave feeling more awake than I have in hours.
Gradually, the moorland softens into farmland. At one gate, a man stands offering a tin of biscuits & a few kind words. I blink hard, convinced I must be hallucinating. Who would be standing on a deserted farm track at this hour, handing out biscuits? It’s only days later, when another runner mentions him, that I realise he was real.
The Pennine Way crosses a road & threads through the edges of Cowling. After hours of silence, tarmac & houses feel oddly intrusive. Dawn creeps in & the mist lifts. There’s something quietly magical about watching a new day form, especially one you’ve travelled through the night to meet.
05:15. The joy of a new day!
I expect the light to wake me up. Instead, it does the opposite. As the world brightens, I grow sleepier. I make small navigational errors, nothing dramatic, but enough to irritate me. Missing the best line across a field. Hesitating at junctions. Struggling to reconcile the map on my wrist with the reality in front of me. Minor mistakes that feel huge when you’re tired.
I know I need sleep. I just don’t want to stop.
Just before Thornton-in-Craven, salvation appears in classic Spine fashion: a farmyard tuck shop. A small shed stocked with drinks, crisps, chocolate & pastries. A Pennine Way institution.
A sign welcomes Spine runners. Several are already inside, rummaging in fridges or dropping coins into the honesty box. I don’t need food or drink, but off to the side is an old garden chair. I sit down, set a ten-minute alarm, pull my buff over my eyes & lean back against the wall.
The alarm detonates in the silence. I jolt awake, heart racing. The yard, busy moments earlier, is now completely empty.
My first trail nap.
Gargrave
I reach Gargrave just before 7 am. Perfect timing. The Co-Op opens at seven & I’d marked it as a key resupply point during this big stretch. Before heading to the shop, I duck into the public toilets, mostly to wash my hands & face to try to feel vaguely human again.
Parked outside is the Spine Safety Team (SST). They hand me a cup of ferociously strong black coffee & ask how I’m doing.
Surprisingly, I feel cheerful. I’m about 26 miles into this long section. I’ve made it through the first night & I’m genuinely looking forward to what comes next. After the dull fields leading into Gargrave, the trail ahead promises Malham Cove, Fountains Fell & Pen-y-Ghent. And with the mist of the night gone, a clear sky hints at actual views.
I sit in the bus shelter alongside a couple of sleeping runners, sipping coffee & sensibly decide to reapply suncream. It may be early, but the sun already feels warm. Better now than later.
Inside the supermarket, I spend far too long wandering the aisles in search of something both vegan & appealing. I emerge with bananas, a fruit smoothie & a box of chocolate flapjacks.
Just after seven, I drift back through town, a surprisingly confusing place to navigate compared to misty moorland in the dark, before rejoining the rough, stony paths I much prefer.
I ran this section from Gargrave to Horton-in-Ribblesdale last September, not long after signing up for the race. And as the trail pulls me gently onward, familiarity settles in again.
Malham, Fountains Fell & Pen Y Ghent
The road out of Gargrave climbs gently beneath tall trees before a stile, easy to miss in the hedgerow, drops me into a lush, grassy field. The view opens out, but it’s a little underwhelming. Endless fields filled with endless sheep stretching off into the distance. Pretty, yes, just not especially energising at this point in the race. Still, the ground is smooth & runnable, so I jog steadily across it.
Four, five, six, seven fields later, with a few turns thrown in for variety, I cross the fast-flowing River Aire. For the next four miles, the path shadows its meandering channel towards Malham. It’s obvious the river has flooded recently; the trail is cracked, rutted & strewn with exposed roots & old debris.
Today, my parents are driving north to Northumberland for their summer holiday, deliberately timed to coincide with me finishing the Spine just over the Scottish border. Their route from Diss in Norfolk includes dinner & a stay with friends in Otley, only a few miles from where I’m running this morning. A few weeks ago, my mum had casually asked where I thought I might be on Monday…
I never told them this, but all morning along the River Aire, I’m scanning for a blue car. Every road in the distance, every bridge, every crossing point. Each time one appears, my heart lifts for a second as I try to make out who’s inside.
It’s never them.
For the Pennine Way, bar a few minor lumps & bumps, this is a relatively flat stretch & I’m running surprisingly well. Better, if I’m honest, than several other Spiners I pass. Some are barely moving, grimacing with each step. Someone mentions blisters so bad their feet feel like they’re on fire.
I always stop for a quick word, but I feel almost guilty for being so cheerful when they’re clearly hurting.
That’s the nature of this race. We all ride our own waves. I’m cresting one along the Aire while others are stuck somewhere in the troughs. I know, without question, that later today our roles may well reverse. The ebb & flow of the Spine. A rollercoaster in slow motion.
As Malham Village comes into view, I’m still scanning for that blue car, for the familiar shapes of my parents inside it. Malham, a busy tourist hotspot, looks almost pristine. Smooth paths, neatly cut grass, clear water running through the beck, public loos that are clean & fully stocked.
I take full advantage.
It’s ridiculous how much joy clean hands can bring. Grimy, sticky fingers are one of my least favourite parts of long days on the trail. A splash of water & a squirt of soap does wonders for both my hygiene & my mood.
I arrive earlier than expected. The café is only just flickering into life. I sit on a bench, shrug off my pack & stretch out my shoulders, savouring the brief sensation of weightlessness. A flapjack, a refill of my soft flasks & a conscious decision not to hang around for coffee.
Large pack back on, I jog out of the village towards Malham Cove, passing groups of day hikers with enviably tiny backpacks.
Malham Cove is one of Yorkshire’s greatest hits. A vast, curved limestone amphitheatre, seventy metres high, carved by glacial meltwater thousands of years ago. Today, the waterfall runs underground through a hidden cave system, leaving the cliff face dry, pale & imposing.
Malham Cove rises up. The path climbs up the left & runs along the top.
From the village, the Pennine Way tracks Malham Beck to the base of the Cove, then shoots straight up the steep, punishing staircase. Roughly 400 steps. About 250 feet of relentless ascent. On tired legs, it’s tough.
I know from experience that the only way through this is to commit. Poles are useless here. I stash them, take a breath & go. I pass a few people on the way up, which makes me feel far more hardcore than I probably should, but I also know that if I stop, I won’t start again.
At the top, I pause long enough to take in the panoramic view. The valley stretches wide behind me, green & generous. Worth every burning step.
But the next challenge is already waiting.
The limestone pavement sprawls ahead, a fractured mosaic of slabs & deep fissures carved by water over millennia. It looks beautiful until you try to cross it. Every step needs thought. The “path” is more suggestion than instruction.
I still don’t know if there’s a correct line across it. Last September, I wandered in confused circles for what felt like hours, convinced I must be missing something obvious. I wasn’t. Today, at least, I have a vague sense of direction.
Once off the crazy pavement, the trail continues climbing through a rocky, uneven landscape that’s impossible to run on. Irritation starts to simmer. I could move faster; my legs have the energy, but the terrain won’t let me.
A sharp switchback, then the heat of the sun shifts from my back to my face. I squint in its brightness. The path slowly curves left & eventually, grass reappears beneath my feet & with it, my patience. The limestone fades behind me & movement starts to feel fluid again. My mood lifts with the terrain.
Walkers & dogs join the trail. The dogs bound around joyfully & for a moment, I wonder if Sammy, my own pup, is missing me.
Malham Tarn glints to my left, glacial & serene. Despite popular myth, it isn’t England’s highest lake, but it’s still beautiful. The path here is a gift: wide, smooth, forgiving. But the sun is fierce now & the energy I had climbing the Cove begins to drain away.
Malham Tarm & the relief of a smooth path!
With no shade, I overheat quickly. I know the Malham monitoring point is close, but I just can’t go any further without stopping. I need a moment. I find a sliver of shelter by a fence, slump to the ground & let myself pause.
Just for a minute.
I’m strict with myself. Two minutes, no more. Even so, it takes a firm internal argument to get moving again. One version of me wants to lie down & sleep. The other knows that stopping too long will cost far more than it gives. Thankfully, the sensible voice wins.
Checkpoint 1.5, Malham Tarn, sits tucked into the outbuildings of an old Georgian manor house. It’s a safety checkpoint only. Medics, volunteers, water. No drop bags, no food, no beds. A maximum of thirty minutes & then you’re back out.
Runners lie sprawled in the shade outside, shoes off, looking as dishevelled as I feel. The heat is taking its toll on everyone.
Inside, the thick stone walls hold the cool. I collapse into a chair, gratefully. With hot water available, I make oatmeal. Odd in the heat, maybe, but exactly what I’m craving. The pimped-up oats & sugary coffee hit the spot.
I drink squash, refill bottles & do the mental maths. Eleven miles to Horton-in-Ribblesdale. “Only” eleven. But it’s over Fountains Fell, then up Pen-y-Ghent. Exposed, slow, six-plus hours in the afternoon sun with no shade.
Thirty minutes vanish in a heartbeat. I’m ushered gently back outside, warned about “frisky cows” in the field below & sent on my way. But I feel refreshed. Fed, watered, mind clear again.
Next up: Fountains Fell.
A clearly defined track winds down from the Tarn, blessedly shaded by trees. Skirting Malham Moor, with Fountains Fell looming ahead, I fall into step with Ben. I’ve been running almost entirely solo, wrapped in my own bubble, but conversation arrives easily. We talk about feet, packs, heat & how we’re feeling. I then discover he’s a photographer too! Cue the inevitable shift in conversation to cameras, shoots, lenses & the fact that neither of us has taken many photos during the race!
We chat our way up the lower slopes & before I realise it, we’re halfway up. The Pennine Way doesn’t summit Fountains Fell, but it comes close, making this the highest point since Kinder Scout, nearly eighty miles back. The path is rugged, littered with limestone, exposed & steep in places.
Coal was once mined up here. Deep shafts still gape in the ground, unfenced relics of the past. Last September, in thick mist with visibility down to metres, they terrified me. Today, beneath blue skies, they feel benign.
The company helps. The sun helps. I feel light, almost joyful, as we climb.
Near the top, we spot two familiar figures. Mel & a friend. She waved me off at Hebden Bridge last night & now here she is again, out on the fells, cheering us on. Seeing someone who knows these miles intimately gives me a genuine lift.
Approaching the summit of Fountain Fell ©Mel Sykes
We bypass the summit & begin the descent. It’s far steeper than the climb, but I let gravity take over, flying down the rocky path in a way that feels borderline reckless but glorious. This is my kind of running: weaving between limestone edges, following the groove, feet tapping out their own rhythm. I hit the tarmac at the bottom feeling strong, so I push on while the momentum is there. Ben eases off behind me.
Pen-y-Ghent stands sharp against the sky ahead. Last September, I could barely see it through the clouds. Today, its profile cut cleanly against the sky, it looks almost inviting.
At 2,277 feet, it’s the smallest of the Yorkshire Three Peaks, but it’s the only one the Pennine Way climbs.
The imposing Pen-y-Ghent. The path is the small line you see rising straight up from bottom to top.
Back in September, in 40+ mph gusts with near-zero visibility, it was one of the most terrifying things I’ve done. For seasoned fell runners, it’s nothing. For a South London girl clinging to wet rock with the wind sandblasting my face, unable to see the “path,” the edge, or even the top, it was huge. And yet I did it & reaching the cairn at the summit gave me a surge of pride I still remember vividly.
Today, I can see exactly what I’m about to climb.
At the foot of the climb, I stash my poles; they’ll only get in the way. There’s a scattered line of Spiners, hikers & runners ahead. The scramble is chaotic, a jumble of rocks & boulders. I pick a line & haul myself upward, hands on stone, legs burning.
Two girls with an off-lead dog bound past, fresh & confident. They breeze by with big smiles & encouraging words, joking that they’re only out for a quick jog. I envy their energy, their confidence & the ease with which they move.
Eventually, the scramble relents & the flagstones appear. I step onto them with relief, legs trembling slightly from the effort.
Looking back from the top of Pen-y-Ghent
The summit is busy. I don’t linger, instead crossing the wall to begin the descent. Part of me wishes I’d paused to mark the moment.
The first section is pure joy. I bounce down the steps with glee, already imagining myself running all the way to the bottom. Then the path dissolves into loose rock & reality bites. The girls with the dog vanish ahead while I gingerly tiptoe down, kicking protruding rocks & stumbling on tired feet. Frustrated, cautious, half-running, half-sliding, I worry far more about tripping & falling than I’d like to admit.
Before the path deteriorates!
Horton-in-Ribblesdale greets me with what can only be described as a mini Spine party outside the public loos. Safety team, runners sprawled on the grass, Catherine among them, feet up, shoes off. We’re all clinging to scraps of comfort.
I remember laughter. Easy, delirious giggles. But I couldn’t tell you now what any of it was about. What I do remember is the sheer bliss of washing my hands, splashing my face & brushing my teeth with my tiny travel toothbrush. After eighteen hours of sugar, clean teeth feel almost transcendent.
I sit for a while, letting the rest sink in, but that familiar itch to move returns. Late afternoon is creeping in & with fifteen miles to checkpoint two at Hardraw, I want to keep ahead of the night.
After about twenty-five minutes, I shoulder my pack, pop in my headphones & hit play on an audiobook. Poles in hand, I head out again.
Leaving Horton, the skyline is ruled by the Three Peaks. Pen-y-Ghent, Ingleborough, Whernside. Majestic silhouettes against the softening sky. My path is gentle by comparison. Dry stone walls guide the way. No navigation stress, no technical footing. Within minutes, I’m absorbed in the story in my ears, drifting along to the rhythm of the trail.
As the sun drops, the temperature finally eases. I pass Ling Gill, a narrow limestone gorge slicing through the landscape & when my feed alarm sounds, I drop my pack & fold myself into the grassy bank beside it. I’ve moved away from eating on the go; these hourly snack stops have become tiny rituals, mini rests that break up the miles.
The views are something out of a painting: rolling green fields stitched together with perfect stone walls, dark clusters of woodland in the folds of the hills & far in the distance, the Ribblehead Viaduct standing proud against the horizon. Beyond that, the Lake District rises like a promise.
I should have taken photos.
As I’m sitting, Matt and Catherine wander past. We’ve been leapfrogging each other all afternoon. I watch them trot on, then a couple of miles later, I find Matt napping on the side of the path. The ebb & flow of the race… nobody moves in a straight line for long.
I turn right onto the Cam High Road, an impressively grand name for what is, in reality, a rough stony track clinging to the wall line for ten long miles. Once a Roman road linking distant camps, now it’s the kind of path that earns a reputation: a steady, soul-stealing drag, shallow enough that you feel you *should* be running, steep enough after 100 miles that walking is all you’ve got.
It’s relentless. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to distract the mind. Just stone underfoot, stone wall to my side, sky above, mile after mile ticking past far too slowly. This is the sort of terrain that quietly wears you down, not with drama, but with monotony.
Eventually, the Pennine Way veers off the Roman line & back onto the wild moorland trails. But as I’ve climbed, so too has the wind. By the time I reach the top of Dodds Fell, with the sheer drop down into Snaizeholme Beck Valley yawning to my left, the gusts are biting & cold.
I crouch in the shelter of a shallow gateway, rummaging through my pack for extra layers. Wrestling with my windproof is like trying to tame a sail, flapping wildly, threatening to escape my grip. A few minutes later, I stop again to add a fleece. The temperature has plummeted in minutes. One moment I was sweating in a T-shirt, the next I’m shivering in three layers. A sharp reminder of just how quickly the Pennines can change their mood.
The descent toward the small town of Gayle finally delivers a little relief from the wind & the landscape begins to soften. Hawes comes into view, still deceptively distant, but close enough now to stir a flicker of excitement in my chest.
The drop into the valley is gorgeous. Small fields stitched together with stiles & gates, each one home to sheep, tall grasses or little bursts of wildflowers. Handwritten signs nailed to scraps of wood politely ask walkers to stay on the path. It’s gentle. Comforting. A tender contrast to the wild, exposed fells I’ve just crossed.
Golden-hour light spills across the fields, wrapping the whole scene in that warm, honeyed glow that makes England look almost impossibly idyllic. I should have taken a photo. Really, I should have. But instead, I pull out my phone with an inexplicable surge of emotion & call my husband.
I’d told him not to expect any contact until Kirk Yetholm. And yet here I am, wandering towards the heart of Hawes, needing to hear his voice & tell him that I’m okay.
That I’m more than okay, actually.
Thirty minutes later, at 21:13, I walk into Hardraw, checkpoint two. Almost exactly 24 hours after leaving checkpoint one.
In that time, I’ve travelled 63 miles (100km) & climbed nearly 10,000 feet. Mostly alone. Almost entirely self-sufficient.
This was the section that scared me. The one I thought might undo me. The stretch where I feared my weaknesses would catch up, expose me, swallow me whole.
But I’d done it.
I’d held my nerve, held my pace, held myself together & proved that I was capable. Relief doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Hardraw | Checkpoint Two
CP2 is a marquee & a series of tents in a field just outside Hardraw. I walk in. My race number & arrival time are logged. I am allowed to stay for six hours; I must leave by 3:13 tomorrow morning.
I sit & my drop bag is brought over to me. Checkpoint one at Hebden was almost a half-stop; I never planned to stay for long there. Here, though, I intend to use my full six hours to get as much rest as possible.
I rummage in the bag & pull out a crumpled sheet of paper: my checkpoint plan. Put together on the advice of previous Spinners, it’s designed to make sure nothing is missed & to prevent unnecessary time-wasting. At first glance, it feels overwhelming & despite the ordered list, I don’t know where to start.
My dithering is interrupted by a steaming bowl of vegan chilli & rice. I hesitate, spicy food mid-race doesn’t usually appeal, but the first mouthful confirms it’s exactly the real food my body needs. I inhale the bowl & ask for seconds.
Behind the main marquee are rows & rows of identical two-person tents. I’m assigned one right in the middle & told it’s mine for the next few hours. My drop bag is deposited at the door & I’m left to it. It’s dark, so my headtorch goes on as I zip up the canvas door & empty my bag onto the floor.
I unroll my sleeping bag but resist the urge to curl up & sleep immediately. I know how my brain works: everything on the list has to be done first.
Contact lenses out, glasses on.
I plug my watch into a power bank to charge. It’s paused to “resume later” while in the checkpoint to turn off GPS, but keep the timer running. I set an alarm on my phone so I don’t oversleep & plug that into another power bank. A fresh battery goes into my headtorch. Electronics done.
In the privacy of my tent, I strip off. There’s no running water in the field, so I make do with a wet-wipe wash, removing 37 hours’ worth of sweat, dirt & grime before pulling on a full set of fresh running kit. A wet-wipe wash has never felt so good.
My dirty clothes are bundled into a bin bag at the bottom of my drop bag. I don’t relish discovering those in a few days…
I empty the rubbish from my race pack & refill my snacks, ready for the next section. I pack my final round of peanut butter & jam wraps. A few weeks ago, I ran a small experiment: I made a batch of wraps and left them, foil-wrapped, on the kitchen counter to see how long they’d last. Three days was the answer. I made these in Edale on Saturday afternoon, so, based on my very scientific research, they should still be good until tomorrow night!
My bottles are set aside to refill on the way out. Everything else goes loosely back into my race pack; there’s no point packing it properly as it will be checked when I leave.
I repack my drop bag, leaving out only a few basic toiletries for “morning”. Only once everything on my list is ticked can my brain finally relax into sleep.
I sleep in my running kit. It feels unnecessary to keep changing. I pull on an extra fleece for warmth & snuggle down into my sleeping bag, pulling the hood right over my head so only my nose sticks out into the cold night air. I chose not to bring a sleeping mat to save weight & as I wriggle around trying to find a comfortable spot among the lumps & bumps beneath the tent, I wonder if I’ll regret that decision.
Exhaustion outweighs discomfort & I drop quickly into a fitful sleep, only to be woken by a chorus of more than twenty flysheets flapping violently in the strong wind. The noise is so loud it sounds like thunder or distant artillery fire & I briefly fear a storm is brewing right overhead.
I sleep, but it’s neither deep nor restorative. I’d set my alarm for three hours, hoping for two 90-minute sleep cycles, but I barely make it to one. Once I’m awake & realise no more sleep is coming, I decide I may as well get up and get moving.
I ask for a small bowl of warm water to wash my hands so I can put in a fresh pair of contact lenses. With no mirror, I use the selfie mode on my phone. A slightly dishevelled face stares back at me, eyes tired & heavy.
Coffee & more oatmeal. I see the medic to get some extra tape applied to the hotspot on my back. Another coffee. I sit at the front of the marquee, watching the comings & goings, the quiet hustle & bustle around me.
The marquee is lively even in the early hours: runners arriving, runners leaving. Some are focused & composed; others stare vacantly into space. Volunteers flit around with drinks & food, helping with kit. Matt, who I crossed paths with on Cam High Road, gets shouted at as he leaves it late, with just one minute to exit the CP before his time runs out…
I savour my final coffee & signal to a volunteer that I’m ready for kit check.
It’s time.
- Checkpoint 2. Hardraw.
- Distance covered: 109 miles.
- Arrival time: 21:13, Monday 16th June.
- Race time: 37:13:08
- Time in the checkpoint: 05:51:18
Photo Girl Runs 