I spent a tiring but wonderful week in the Pennines recently, at the Spine Race. It calls itself “Britain’s most brutal race” and I’ve never heard anyone disagree. The Spine is a 268- mile footrace along the Pennine Way, England’s oldest and toughest National Trail, in winter. It’s a single-stage race, meaning the clock is always ticking, so sleep is a luxury runners can barely afford. It’s dark for 16 hours of every 24. The mountainous and boggy terrain saps energy. The weather could do anything and everything, and usually does. Broken bones (there were at least three broken ribs this year), hypothermia and trench foot are not uncommon. Water bottles freeze. Hallucinations abound. Less than half the field usually finishes the race. Worse still, in 2015, one fatigued runner ran into a cow’s backside.
The Spine Race has had a hold over me ever since I first heard of it back in 2011. I’d recently written the official guidebook for the Pennine Way, which took me about 16 days to walk. The idea of running it in winter was batsh*t crazy. Only three people finished the first race. Then a handful more the next year. I was on the start line the third year, for just my fifth ultramarathon. I simply couldn’t resist. The brilliant lunacy of the concept tugged at my soul.
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