Whilst the next section to Bellingham loads onto my watch, I phone the husband. After telling him not to expect to hear from me, I’ve fallen into the habit of calling briefly at each checkpoint.
This time, though, I deliberately wait until I’ve left.
He answers with a simple “hello” as I say, “Just to warn you, I’m about to burst into tears.”
As I burst into tears.
I’ve done the one thing I’ve tried so hard not to do: I’ve looked at how far I still have to go instead of how far I’ve already come.
I’ve covered 180 miles. One hundred and eighty *freaking* miles. More than two-thirds of the race. But all I can see is the 88 miles that remain & right now they feel completely insurmountable.
Between great big, breathless gulps that burn my throat, everything spills out at once: the overwhelm, the exhaustion, the frustration, the pain, the fear about my knee. Words tangle together. The tears come freely, unstoppable.
As I knew he would, he tells me I don’t have to continue. That I can stop if I want.
And this is exactly why I waited until I’d left the checkpoint before calling him.
Through sobs, I tell him I’m not stopping. I’m not done.
There isn’t much more to say after that. I don’t quite hang up on him, but there’s definitely no lingering goodbye either.
Still, the call does exactly what I needed it to do.
I’m stubborn. Being told I can stop is like striking a match to paper. Something catches. The spark takes hold. Determination rises, stronger than the overwhelm, stronger than the exhaustion, stronger than the frustration, stronger even than the pain.
I take a breath. Wipe my face. Keep walking.
There are only 88 miles left.
Let’s f*cking go.
Just after I had wiped the tears away. I took a selfie to remind me of my inner strength.
It’s just gone 8 pm & I’ve timed my checkpoint stop well again. There are still several hours of daylight left. Moving is so much easier in the light & I want to make the most of it.
I pull my poles out and pop my headphones in. Head down, I go.
I tap out of Alston, the tip-tap of my poles echoing sharply on the tarmac. Over the river & onto the quietness of a dirt track. I remember this section vividly from April’s recce with Rel. We stayed at Alston Youth Hostel at the end of our first day.
The first few miles are fairly nondescript, characterised by vast swathes of farmland. Nothing technical, nothing complicated & in the state I left the checkpoint in, that is a blessing.
The path, a worn groove through coarse grass, criss-crosses endless fields. The ground is dry & rutted underfoot. Rough stone walls divide herds of sheep, each wall another obstacle for a tired Spiner. The stiles, often nothing more than a couple of protruding stones, are becoming increasingly precarious.
More than once, I find myself lodged awkwardly on top of a wall, feet at odd angles, refusing to follow instructions from my brain.
There are a few gentle inclines, but nothing particularly taxing & I soon fall into a comfortable rhythm. The rhythm I lost in the miles before Alston. I am not running, but I am moving well again & with that comes contentment.
I cross the bridge over Gilderdale Burn & spot a wild camper at the water’s edge. He shouts a few words of encouragement. I wave and call back a cheerful thank you before heading up towards Epiacum Fort.
This spot had piqued my interest back in April. At about 1,000 feet above sea level, Epiacum is the highest stone-built Roman fort in Britain. First constructed in the early second century AD, it was partly demolished & rebuilt around 200 AD. The Pennine Way passes alongside it, marked by an information board pointing out key features, though from ground level now there is little left to see.
One of the things I love about the Pennine Way is its rich history & heritage. Its wild landscapes stretch across two countries, numerous counties & three National Parks. Every section has a story to tell. One day, I would love to traverse the trail at leisure, discovering its past & listening properly to all its tales.
The path runs almost parallel to the River South Tyne for several miles. In bad weather, some walkers divert onto the slightly easier South Tyne Trail, perhaps even hopping on the South Tynedale Heritage Railway for a mile or two. Not an option for us!
Just before Slaggyford, a small Northumberland village whose name comes from the Old English for “muddy, dirty ford”, my feed alarm sounds. It has been two hours since I left Alston. Two hours of good, steady movement (bar 101 wild wees), so I reward myself with a small break on the village green.
As I sit & eat, I grab my headtorch from my pack. It is not quite dark enough yet, but putting it on now will save me from stopping again later. I quietly congratulate myself on still being able to forward-plan in my cognitively impaired state.
I pass the first tap, partially hidden behind a parked car, just as the volunteer in Alston said. He was right. And he was also right that I did not need 2.5 litres of water. I did not even need a litre.
I wish I had met that volunteer earlier in the race. Looking back, I have been carrying far too much water, paranoid about running out. I wonder how much the extra weight contributed to my back & knee pain & how much carrying less & feeling lighter has lifted my mood over the past few hours.
Mentally, I am in a completely different place from where I was running into Alston. Then, Kirk Yetholm felt impossibly far away. Now, it feels achievable again.
I move through a small woodland, tall trees blocking the last of the daylight. Flicking my headtorch on, I step carefully over tangled roots crossing the path. Moments later, I emerge back into open farmland. The sun is now a thin orange line on the horizon. There is something deeply peaceful about these final minutes before day slips into night.
Farmland becomes moorland. Moorland becomes farmland. I lose myself in my audiobook, focusing only on movement & the story in my ears. I have never listened to an audiobook before. I always thought I preferred reading, but right now, being carried along by a story is the perfect antidote to the monotony of the dark trail.
I just keep moving forward. That is all.
The ground is damp, with the occasional boggy patch, but nothing too problematic. Boardwalks cover the worst sections. For the most part, I am entirely alone, traversing isolated moorland in the middle of the night & I am not phased by it at all.
If anything, I am thriving. I relish the magic of the silence & solitude.
Occasionally, I spot the faint red blink of another runner’s rear light far ahead. Sometimes I glance back and see a pinprick of headtorch behind me, both so distant there must be miles between us.
Somewhere along here, the Pennine Way cuts directly through a farmyard. Old cars, maybe a caravan, chickens. I remember it from the April recce. Rel & I were convinced we were trespassing in someone’s garden.
We were not. And I am not now.
Lost in my audiobook, eyes on the path, I suddenly hear a voice.
Startled, I turn. In the shadow of a house stands a man next to a barbecue, offering me a sausage. Or maybe a burger. Either way, barbecued meat.
I blink. Shake my head. Make sure he is real.
He is.
It is after midnight. Why is a man barbecuing in the middle of the moor?
Then he starts talking about the Spine. Asking how my race is going. With knowledge. With understanding. Instantly, my alarm dissolves. He is another trail angel, one of those extraordinary people who live or work along the Way & come out, unprompted, at all hours, to support us.
There was the man with the tin of biscuits before Cowling. Annie in Garrigill. And now this man, offering a midnight barbecue for exhausted runners.
I do not want to stop. And as a vegan, I do not want a sausage, burger or anything else from the grill. I slowly inch away, trying not to be rude but keen not to linger either.
Please tell me I did not hallucinate this.
(I later discovered he is fondly known in the Spine community as Rasta Ralph & that I absolutely did not imagine him.)
The early hours creep in & a hint of colour begins to brighten the sky. I cannot tell if it is the end of yesterday or the beginning of tomorrow, or where I fit within that equation. The thought feels far too complex.
I look up.
The sky is a kaleidoscope of pinks, purples & oranges, swirling & rushing towards me. I lower my head & the light noise quietens. I glance up again & I am drawn back into the psychedelic vortex.
For a moment, I marvel at it. This sure beats the hallucinogenic herds of wild animals that joined me during the Winter Downs 200.
But hallucinations are a sign of just how sleep-deprived I am. I keep my head down to steady my vision. I am exhausted. The temptation to nap is strong, but the path, while soft, is also wet & boggy. Even in my state, I know that would not be wise.
Instead, I aim for somewhere I know I can rest. One of the advantages of reccing the course is knowing what is coming & having a target keeps me moving.
In a few miles is Walltown Visitor Centre. The café will not be open, but there are 24-hour toilets, picnic tables & shelter. It feels like the right place to aim for.
Except it is much further than I remember.
The moorland drags on & on.
Eventually, it gives way to a rough, hedge-lined track. Solid, stony ground used by farm vehicles. Easier to navigate, harsher on tired feet. I do not remember this section at all from April. It puzzles me how some parts of the trail are etched into my memory while others have vanished completely.
My eyes are heavy. It takes almost as much effort to keep them open as it does to move forward. I start nodding off, literally falling asleep on my feet, my poles catching me as I jolt awake.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The ground looks inviting, but I force myself on. I know I am close.
Haltwhistle Golf Club is eerily empty in these early hours. I cross the main road & see the railway line ahead.
Just before the level crossing, someone has made their garden tap available to Pennine Way walkers. This is possibly the last water before checkpoint five at Bellingham, still 21 miles & many (many) hours away. Despite my earlier revelations, I don’t want to risk running dry as I approach the heat of another day. I fill all my bottles.
Three litres. Three kilos. My pack feels brutally heavy again.
After hours alone, I’m suddenly aware of others, someone behind me, a couple of runners ahead. We drift together, unspoken, drawn towards the same sanctuary. Walltown.
Walltown
Nestled in the southwestern corner of Northumberland National Park, Walltown is a beautifully restored natural haven on the site of the former Walltown Quarry. By day, thriving parkland with trees, wildflowers & wildlife, by night, a Dark Skies Discovery Site offering some of the clearest views of the stars in England.
It’s just after 4 am. The sky is getting lighter with every step. I turn my headtorch off, disappointed I missed the stars, but grateful for the return of daylight. And then I see it, Walltown Visitor Centre, pulling me in like a magnet.
A camper van is parked up & a man stands over a stove, food scattered across the picnic table in front of him. Spine Safety Team.
I’ve never been so pleased to see them, especially one making coffee. Another runner sits there taping his feet. Someone else is eating a rehydrated meal. I’m told the toilets are open & already full of sleeping runners. Clearly, we all had the same idea.
I phone race HQ to log my stop. If you stop for more than 30 minutes outside a checkpoint, you must let them know. I tell them I’m stopping for a couple of hours.
Coffee in one hand, poles in the other, I quietly open the door to the ladies’. Catherine is just waking & packing up her bivvy. We exchange a few words. Whilst we are rarely on the trail together, we seem to cross paths at most checkpoints & rest stops. She points out where she slept, legs propped on the toilet seat to reduce swelling.
I look around. For a 24-hour public toilet, it is surprisingly clean & warm.
I wouldn’t normally go anywhere near, let alone lie on, the floor of a public loo, but then again, I wouldn’t normally have run* (*hiked) 200 miles in a little under four days…
Right now, it looks perfect.
I throw my pack down & pull off my shoes. They are wet & as I take them off, I realise that my waterproof socks have leaked & my feet are also wet. I peel those off too & lay them on the floor, hoping that both will dry whilst I rest. I use my foil poncho again, rather than my bivvy bag. Mainly due to laziness, the bivvy is at the bottom of my pack, the poncho in the front pocket!
I pull the hood up, use my pack as a pillow, elevate my swollen knee on the toilet seat, not the most comfortable of positions, but I’m asleep almost instantly.
I wake with a start. I have no idea where I am and, groggily, wonder why I am lying on the toilet floor. Piece by piece, it all comes flooding back to me.
How long have I been asleep? Thirty minutes…? Forty…? An hour…? Less…? I have absolutely no idea. It could have been five minutes, or even just two. I have no concept of time, but I am certain of one thing: I need to get moving again.
My socks & shoes are still wet. I vainly try to dry them under the inefficient hand dryer, but to no avail. So, still wet, I pull them back on. Looking back, this was a mistake & I wish I’d been a little more clear-headed. I had a clean, dry pair of socks in my pack, but it doesn’t even occur to me to put them on.
I don’t know it now, but I will regret this later.
I emerge from the dimly lit toilet into the glare of the bright morning sun & make my way over to the SST. Several other runners are sitting around the picnic table & Gilly is about to take my place on the toilet floor. I sit down. It all feels rather civilised.
I make up a cup of instant oatmeal. I spot an abandoned banana on the table & am told to help myself. Craving something fresh, I’ve never known a simple piece of fruit to bring me as much joy as that banana does. Having had a “sleep” & with the sun rising behind me, oatmeal & a banana make it feel like breakfast time. I eat slowly, savouring both the food & the calmness around the table.
I’m learning that whilst I prefer being by myself on the trail, I need human interaction now & again. I seem to draw energy from those around me. Just a brief conversation & a few simple words are enough to give me the psychological boost I need to push on. There’s perhaps a selfish undertone to these interactions, too; hearing about other people’s struggles makes me feel less alone in mine.
Sitting around the table, sharing a few words, I feel myself recharging. We don’t say a lot & nothing with deep meaning, but what is said lifts me. I’m reluctant to move; it’s quite pleasant here. But I do. I finish eating, wash my mug & make one final coffee to take with me.
I crossed paths with the safety team many times during the race. They were out and about at various points on the course to keep us runners safe, essentially roving support teams. While stationed at specific locations, their primary role was exactly that: safety. If a runner got into trouble, HQ would send the nearest team out to help them. For this reason, we were told not to rely on them being at any particular point.
Different teams had different approaches. Some were simply there to monitor, checking we were okay & logging our race numbers as we passed. Most carried some water & would offer a top-up if needed. Others had camping stoves so we could heat our own food. And some had tea, coffee & a range of snacks, all supplied through their own generosity.
Two teams stand out for me.
The first was in Gargrave on Monday morning. It was just before 7 am. & I’d made it through my first night. I was sitting in the bus stop applying sun cream, waiting for the Co-Op to open, when they made me a cup of super-strong coffee that gave me wings.
And then there was this guy at Walltown. He had a tiny camping stove & endless patience, heating pan after pan of water, making tea, coffee & rehydrating meals. He also had a box of food, biscuits, cereal bars & fruit & told us to help ourselves to anything we wanted.
I gather my things together and hoist my pack back onto my back. After a decent break, it doesn’t feel quite as heavy as it once did. I thank the safety volunteer for his generosity & head off once more, coffee in hand, towards Hadrian’s Wall.
Hadrian’s Wall
For nearly 300 years, Hadrian’s Wall marked the north-west frontier of the Roman Empire. Built around Emperor Hadrian’s visit to Britain in AD122, it was a symbolic statement of Rome’s imperial power, stretching 73 miles from coast to coast across the width of the island.
At its peak, the wall stood around 12 feet tall & at least 8 feet wide, its primary purpose to slow the crossing of raiders. Very little of the original masonry remains; much of it was dismantled & reused as stone for new buildings.
Passing through some of the most beautiful parts of England, the site is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site & a National Trail in its own right. The Pennine Way joins the Hadrian’s Wall Path for just under ten of its 84 miles.
I somehow only took two photos of Hadrian’s Wall. I think by this stage, I had lost the mental capacity to think of anything other than moving…
In the slight chill of the early morning, I’m still wearing the leggings I slept in. I very quickly realise this is a mistake. Once moving, the cold is deceptive.
The first climb curves gently to the left & is mercifully short. At the top, I stand in the warming golden rays of the morning sun, finishing my coffee & gazing back along the trail towards the Visitor Centre, already just a small dot in the distance. Somewhere around here, I know I will cross the 200-mile mark. I pause, briefly reflecting on how far I have come, rather than how far I still have to go.
It feels almost serene. These are the moments I came here for. Standing alone, on top of Hadrian’s Wall, looking out over the countryside in the soft morning light.
My regret is that I didn’t capture it. The photographer neglected to take a photo. I suppose this is what people mean when they talk about living in the moment.
I make it sound idyllic. And maybe, for those few minutes, it was.
I push on.
Following the line of the historic Roman wall, now partially reconstructed, the trail becomes a tangled web of interwoven paths. Sometimes it’s hard to find the right groove in the ground as they weave around rocks & long-forgotten turrets.
The climbs are mostly short & sharp, twisting up & around the crags. Poles become more of a hindrance than a help; it’s easier to use my hands. This is my kind of trail: narrow, rugged, rocky & just a little technical.
And I have no idea why this is one of the two photos…???
As the sun creeps higher, the temperature climbs with it. The leggings & jacket are shed & stuffed back into my pack.
It’s only 7am, but with very little shelter along the wall, I can already feel the sun burning my skin. I stop at Cawfields Quarry to put on suncream. I hadn’t even thought about it earlier; I’d left Walltown layered up against the cold of the night.
Leaving the former quarry, the path climbs steeply around the crags to the remains of a turret. Below, a small reservoir glistens in the sunlight, looking cool & inviting.
Navigation here is simple: follow the snaking line of the wall. I cross fields, pass a few small houses & haul myself up and over stiles. The shade of the occasional tree brings only brief respite from the sun. Back in April, this path was busy, popular not just with Pennine Way walkers but with those tackling the Hadrian’s Wall Path too.
Today, in these early hours, it’s just me & a handful of other Spiners.
There’s a small group of guys I keep crossing paths with. They’ve formed a little unit, working together, keeping each other going. One stops, they all stop. We exchange a few words as we pass. I take comfort in the fact that we’re all walking. I think I’d feel quite disheartened if they were running while I was reduced to a shuffle.
I watch them & wonder whether I’m missing something by not buddying up. Aside from Fountain Fell & the section over Cauldron Snout with Ben, I’ve deliberately moved alone.
I like being alone.
This is my journey, my adventure & somewhat selfishly, I don’t want to share it. Still, I wonder if some company might help pull me through the darker patches?
Moments like now, when every part of my body hurts. When my right knee is screaming, my skin feels as though it’s on fire beneath the mid-morning sun & I’m so tired I just want to curl up at the side of the path & sleep.
At Sycamore Gap, still named despite the sad absence of the tree, the guys are sprawled on the grass. Shoes scattered around them, eyes closed, sore feet resting on packs. Once, there would have been a pool of cool shade here. Now, the heat trapped between the rolling hills is oppressive.
The warmth is wearing me down, but I don’t want to stop in full sunlight.
A little further on, near Crag Lough, I find a small patch of woodland. Tall trees, species unknown, stand to attention on either side of the dirt track, blocking out the sun & throwing deep pools of shade onto the ground. I drop my pack & slide gratefully down onto the cool earth.
I eat a snack, refill my front bottles & sit for a moment, relishing the breeze brushing against my skin. The Sycamore Gap guys pass me again. This is how we keep leapfrogging each other.
The temptation is there to linger, but I don’t. The trail calls me back. I know there isn’t much wall left now. It continues for another mile or so before we leave the comfort of its guiding line behind.
Somehow, unintentionally, we’re all together again; me & the guys. The path drops down through fields towards Wark Forest. In the distance, I trace the tree line with my eyes & spot where Rel and I stayed. How wonderful it would be to stop in the comfortable bunkhouse right now. I push the thought aside & fixate instead on the forest. It’s close. I promise myself a rest in its shade.
But when has the Pennine Way ever taken the easiest route?
We criss-cross rough fields, turn sharply down a stony track, over a stile & into yet another field, seemingly moving away from the forest altogether.
Guarding the only stile out of the last field is a bull.
He is big. Very big. HUGE.
His companions – his bodyguards – stand watching him, watching us, a few steps to his right. Other than retracing our steps, I can see no other way out.
I am beyond caring. My need to escape the sun & reach the shade outweighs my fear of the bull. I’m about to walk towards him, poles in hand (in hindsight, perhaps not my most sensible idea), when one of the guys steps forward, waving his arms & shouting. Surprisingly, the bull moves aside. The guy climbs quickly over the stile. I follow, heart pounding, vaulting over with more speed & agility than I’ve managed for days.
Looking back, we were very lucky. Others behind us were forced to make significant detours.
Was there some unseen force looking out for me, making sure I wasn’t alone at that moment? I wonder if I’d have been as brave on my own, or whether I too would have slunk away in search of another exit.
Again, the photographer failed to take a photo & words really cannot convey quite how enormous & intimidating that bull was.
The adrenaline carries me forward & soon I reach the edge of the forest. I stop at the first patch of shade large enough to sit in. The guys carry on.
Alone again.
I dump my pack, pull off my shoes & rub my toes into the cool grass. Tiny pinpricks of pain flare & I worry about hotspots forming on my feet. I sit.
It isn’t a particularly enjoyable break. We’re now firmly in midge territory & as soon as I stop moving, the swarms descend, in my face, on my arms, clinging to my legs. I spend as much time swatting (unsuccessfully) as I do resting.
So much for my idyllic forest pause.
I eat, swallow another paracetamol, hoping it might dull the pain, drink deeply & refill my flasks, grateful once again for the reduced pack weight. The midges force me to move sooner than I’d like. Grudgingly, I force my aching feet back into my shoes, hoist my slightly lighter pack & stand.
Looking back, I often wonder where the strength to keep going came from. Every part of me wanted to curl up on that forest floor & sleep. Perhaps the midges were a blessing in disguise.
A little further on, I find the guys again, lying together in the shade of a tree. I really should know their names. I’m sure we introduced ourselves days ago, but my tired brain has failed me. Therefore, they will forever be “the guys” in my Spine story.
I put my headphones in, cue up some music & start moving with intention. I know where I’m going now. About eight miles ahead lies the pit stop at Hornystead Farm. That’s it. Just eight miles. No more, no less, though I know full well those eight miles could take three hours.
Somewhere between the forest & Horneystead Farm, barely a scrap of shade
Hornystead Farm is home to another trail angel, like Clove Lodge, a Pennine Way institution. A small barn set up as a comfort stop for weary walkers. Inside, a bed piled high with blankets, chairs, a wash basin with soap & a table laden with food.
What I didn’t realise was that for the Spine, the farmer’s wife goes all out. Sandwiches, crisps, fruit, a fridge full of drinks, cakes & sweets.
Between Wark Forest and Hornystead, I somehow joined a group. Six or seven of us arrive together, joining a couple more already seated inside. Catherine is in the corner, shoes & socks off, eating a sandwich. Someone else lies stretched out in the shade of the yard.
There’s a jovial, almost party-like atmosphere. The farmer flits about, refilling bottles, handing out drinks, offering sandwiches, cheese or ham (sadly, no vegan options). As another runner leaves, I claim their chair in the doorway & accept a can of Fanta.
I’m not sure cold fizzy orange has ever tasted so good.
I don’t stay long. The number of people in such a small space makes me feel claustrophobic. I check the time & do some mental maths. The Co-op on the far side of Bellingham closes at 10 pm. I really want fresh food, fruit, maybe a smoothie. I want six hours at the checkpoint, which means arriving there by 3 pm & leaving before 9.
It’s 12:45.
Can I cover the 5.5 miles to Bellingham in two & a bit hours?
I’m impressed by my sudden mathematical prowess. There must be something magical in the Fanta (aka sugar!).
Before leaving, I drop some coins into the honesty box & sign the visitors’ book with my name & race number. Scanning the list of runners ahead, I spot a familiar name right at the top. Anna Troup.
As I leave the Hornystead party alone, I wonder, once again, if I’m missing out by keeping to myself. The companionship, the banter, the shared suffering.
But I want to move to my own rhythm, my own pace. And right now, that pace feels good. I’m not running, but the sugar, the atmosphere & the nearness of the next checkpoint have given me a second… third… fourth wind.
I feel like I’m flying to Bellingham.*
(*I have since checked my mile splits. I was most definitely not flying — though I did manage a near 20-minute mile.)
Bellingham | Checkpoint Five
I arrive at Bellingham at 15:12, pretty much bang on target from leaving Hornystead Farm & am met by the familiar, friendly team of volunteers. Among them is the indomitable Nicky Spinks, who insists on carrying my bag to the tent for me.
That feels very wrong.
I shower, actual heaven, see the medics about my knee & eat the first two of four baked potatoes with beans before settling into my tent to sleep.
I am so tired that I expect sleep to come easily.
Instead, the mid-afternoon sun turns the tent into a sauna. It is sweltering. The heat wraps around me like a thick winter blanket; the air is heavy & unmoving. I unzip the door, hoping to let some air in. None comes. Not even a hint of a breeze.
I lie back down, feet propped on top of my drop bag, raised as high as I can manage. Given the state my lower legs & knees are in, this feels like a fairly pointless exercise, but I’m willing to try anything. I reason that even if I can’t sleep, at least I can rest.
But it isn’t restful.
The ground is lumpy. My legs ache. My knee screams even while perfectly still. On top of the heat, it’s noisy & I can’t block out the sounds around me. Sleep refuses to come.
After less than thirty minutes, I decide that lying there getting increasingly frustrated is a waste of precious time. I get up & pack my bag for the very last time. This is my final chance to access my drop bag before the finish.
I swap out a couple of pieces of kit & leave behind anything non-essential, trying to reduce my pack weight for the final section. I then spend far too long staring at my food, attempting to decide which snacks appeal the most.
The answer, of course, is none of them.
I hand my drop bag back to the volunteers, eat two more baked potatoes with beans, & go through my final kit check.
Just after 7 pm, having used only 3 hours and 59 minutes of my allocated six hours, I head back out into the early evening.
The final leg.
Next stop: Kirk Yetholm.
- Checkpoint 5: Bellingham
- Distance covered: 218 miles
- Arrival time: 15:12:07, Thursday 19th June
- Race time: 103:11:52
- Time in checkpoint: 03:59:45
Photo Girl Runs 