The Spine (Part 6 of 7)

Sound The Alarm: Alston CP4 to Bellingham CP5

This post follows Part 5: Alpennine Chilliewack

A volunteer welcomed me into Alston checkpoint with an upbeat “you’re looking good!” A second volunteer chimed in with “yeah, you actually are!” They made light work of sounding sincere, but I knew I looked like shit.

Unlike at the last checkpoint, I was perfectly dry, so it was a simple question of removing my shoes and heading into the main room. There weren’t many runners here, and there were huge rectangular tables positioned beside our chairs, affording loads of space to spread out our kit.

Alston checkpoint is famous for its lasagne, and looking across the other side of the room, I could see why. A runner was in the process of being served a whacking great plate of it. The lasagne slab was a couple of inches high, as wide as the plate, and looked like it weighed a kilo. I could hardly believe it when I overheard this unrealistically large portion was actually the runner’s tenth serving. Was that even physically possible? It turns out I was witnessing the Alston lasagne serving record being broken before my very eyes. It felt like there ought to have been a Guinness World Record observer here overseeing this superhuman feat of consumption.

I certainly wouldn’t be able to eat ten servings, but I could probably put away a couple! Rubbing my hands, I ordered the vegan lasagne, preparing myself for a feast. But what I received surprised me. The plate was almost entirely empty. There was something right in the very middle, though. What on earth was it?

Closer inspection revealed it was a tiny little cube of lasagne. Was this how the lasagne serving challenge works – we start with a rabbit-sized portion, and work our way up to the kilo slab? Err… why? But at least that explained the tenth portion; I mean, ten of those massive slabs would be enough to put someone in hospital!  

I forked the little taster of Alston lasagne into my mouth. It was barely a mouthful, but it was genuinely delicious. I gave a double-thumbs up and asked for my second serving, hoping they’d step up the sizes quickly. “Sorry. We’re all out of the vegan lasagne”, came the reply.

Having had a taste of that delicious, delectable, divine Alston lasagne, my poor little face couldn’t mask my disappointment.

“Would you like the vegetarian lasagne?”, she asked, optimistically. “No thanks, it’d need to be vegan”, I responded, willing them to tell me they’d have another batch ready in a few minutes. “The vege lasagne’s good”, she said, trying to tempt me. “No thanks”. “But we have the veg lasagne…” She took a bit of convincing that, no matter how tasty it was, I honestly didn’t want it.

Coming to terms with the fact that there wasn’t a fresh batch about to materialise from the oven, I just asked for a banana, and gazed longingly at the preposterous slab of lasagne across the room. The new Alston lasagne record holder appeared to be experiencing some gastronomical discomfort in his quest to finish that giant tenth slab. It could be a DNF right there.  

I had spent the long, arduous drag to Alston vigorously debating whether to push straight through, try my first micro-sleep, or go for another proper 3 hour slumber. While the reports of scary weather ahead suggested I should hurry straight along, I had to weigh that against the risk of sleep deprivation, and worsening foot pain should I not allow at least a brief pause to recover.

After careful consideration, I had decided on taking another 3 hour sleep. It had seemed to work well for me at Langdon Beck. And anyway, I was so thoroughly uncompetitive that there wasn’t any rush from the perspective of race positions. It made sense to maximise my chances of completing this thing.

The sleeping provisions at Alston youth hostel were a little more basic than the last two. While there were bunks, there was no bedding, and I was advised to take my sleeping bag into the dormitory. I couldn’t be bothered to unpack it, so I just tried to use the whole thing as a pillow. As uncomfortable as this was, I had no difficulty transplanting myself into the land of nod.

Some time later…

I was being shaken awake. A voice was asking “Are you Adrian?” 

Was I? After many days of existing in this whacky parallel universe, full of drystone wall families, rocky animals and holographic shapes, I wouldn’t bet my mortgage on it.

“You’ve only got 40 minutes before your 8 hour checkpoint timeout”, the voice whispered urgently.

8 hours and 40 minutes… a full night’s sleep… that’s nice, I thought, smiling, and rolling over onto my side.

Wait, what? I sat bolt upright, eyes wide open. 40 minutes? I was about to be timed out? What the actual fuck?! 

I thanked the volunteer profusely, but stayed sitting, utterly shocked. That was right, I remembered, each checkpoint has an 8 hour time limit. If you stay there any longer, you’re disqualified. So I must’ve slept through my alarm. How long had I been asleep, for goodness sake?

I looked at my watch, but since I had no idea when I’d arrived, the time meant nothing to me. I tried to work it out from the alarms that were configured on my phone, but there were so many, it was hopeless. Thoroughly confused, embarrassed, and plenty more emotions besides, I gathered my things and tried to return to the main room as quickly as I could. 

But even even that wasn’t simple. One of my really hard falls on the descent to Garrigill had injured my hip more seriously than I’d realised at the time. During my sleep, the muscles surrounding it had stiffened, and now I couldn’t even walk properly. With the clock ticking down to a checkpoint timeout, there wasn’t any time to assess it here. I just had to get myself prepared, and out of the checkpoint before I was disqualified.

I wolfed down a jacket potato and beans while performing a hurried kit turnaround, and hastily departed the checkpoint while thanking every volunteer I could see for waking me in time. I’d very nearly been DQ’d in my sleep for goodness sake. I’d very nearly let down the millions of victims of apartheid and ethnic cleansing in Palestine. I was seriously shaken, and thoroughly ashamed of myself. But I was up, I was out. Somehow, more by luck than judgement, I was still in this crazy thing.

But I couldn’t shake the profound sense of disbelief. I’d spent almost 8 hours in a checkpoint. If you’d asked me beforehand whether I’d take my full 8 hour time allotment at a checkpoint, I’d have physically laughed at you. But there you go. It happened.

The long stretch north to Hadrian’s Wall was mostly across fields and moors. The route was flatter, there were fewer patches of ice, and fewer sections of that rock hard churned ground. This, coupled with the feeling of refreshment after my longer than expected sleep, meant this section was much more like a traditional run. I had the headspace to devote to nutrition and hydration. I even managed to keep one of my flasks unfrozen, by paying close attention and sipping regularly from it.

I found myself thoroughly enjoying many of these passages. Little stream crossings, remote open access moorland. I felt so much more at home on this terrain, and made much faster progress.

Never having visited Hadrian’s Wall, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I kept staring at the ubiquitous drystone walls around me with one eyebrow askew, wondering “is this it?”

I was crossing one of the very few roads along this section when I heard someone shouting my name. It took me a few seconds to pop out of my focused bubble and recognise the face. It was Ivan Holroyd, fellow Dragon and fell addict!

I was amazed he’d come out to see me at this early hour, and in this weather. We stood and nattered for a bit; rather, I rambled incessantly about whatever had been in my head at the time. Having had his ear bent, and probably nearing hypothermia himself out of the warmth of his car, he gently encouraged me to get going again. “Left foot right foot” he shouted after me, as I disappeared into the darkness.

It wasn’t long after that I passed through a car park called Walltown. Given the name, I figured this had to mark the start of Hadrian’s Wall proper. There was a convenient public toilet, so I popped in to remove an upper layer, in preparation for the warming temperatures as day broke. I felt quite prepared for the Hadrian’s Wall stint.

I’ll get this out the way first: the physical wall alone didn’t impress me. It was, at the end of the day, a drystone wall, very similar to the hundreds if not thousands of other drystone walls I’d passed over the last few days. It wasn’t even as tall as me.

The totality of Hadrian’s Wall, though, was quite something. The stone wall sat atop a rugged ridgeline that oscillated across the country as far as my eye could see. Craggy on the northern side, with rolling grassland to the south. It was obviously a natural defensive line, but it was also a remarkable aesthetic feature in an already picturesque landscape.

Its crowning glory, this ancient stone wall, gave it an almost dreamlike quality. Covered in snow and frost, this was a truly timeless scene. The year could have been 3024, 2024, 1024 or 124 AD, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. That sense of timelessness emphasised my little place on the practically endless continuum of people, culture and history. It was like those stars in the sky. Simultaneously insignificant on the one hand, and someone’s entire reality on the other. If you need some time to reflect, you could do worse than visit Hadrian’s Wall.

I trotted along the wall’s endless undulations, wanting to immerse myself in it, but alas, I found the navigation to be a continual frustration. There were so many very similar, but slightly different trails I could take, each of which had a slightly different ascent profile. I didn’t want to risk taking an easier route than I was supposed to. The GPS track on my watch just wasn’t detailed enough to tell me exactly where I needed to be, and in one confounding instance it tried to direct me straight over the northern crag. Thankfully I had the presence of mind to stop clambering down before things got too out of hand.

My handheld GPS had Lindley’s higher resolution track, and this was much more useful for navigating this fiddly section. I used this for the remainder of the wall, which passed without any further rockface climbing incidents.

A pair of photographers waited up ahead. One broke off to the side and ran up with me, snapping photos along my climb. “It’s not quite what I expected”, I proclaimed, gesturing to Hadrian’s Wall. “It’s not very tall…”

“Much of the stone was pilfered over the years, and used to construct local homes”, the photographer explained, with the authoritative air of a local historian. “It’s at its highest in this central section. Look, it’s as tall as you here”. I stopped and sized up the wall. He was right. At this point, the wall just about reached my eyeline, which – you’ll know if you’ve met me – shows just how short the wall really is!

It eventually came time to turn away from Hadrian’s Wall and head north again. I felt good heading north. I was sure Scotland was up there somewhere.

For the first time in quite a while, the route entered a forest – Wark Forest, the southern part of Kielder. The tree monocrop made a change, but it wasn’t long before I passed through a felled section. The smell of freshly cut wood filled my nostrils. An industrial wasteland of chainsawed tree stumps stretched out as far as the eye could see. Debris littered the trail. There was no life to be seen or heard. How many bird’s nests had been lost? What of the mycorrhizal network, the soil health? It was a disheartening scene, and caused me to reflect on how all consumption – even supposedly sustainable consumption – has an enduring impact.

I’d been out of water for some time, and was feeling pretty dehydrated. However, I knew Horneystead Farm wasn’t too far up ahead. An established institution on the Pennine Way, Horneystead is well known as a permanent, welcoming oasis that offers anyone travelling the Pennine Way food, water and shelter, 24×7. A fabulously altruistic provision from some truly caring local farmers. I just had to find it before my muscles dried up completely.

A fence line with a style ran over the brow of this hill. I clambered onto the style, perched atop it, and gazed out ahead. Across the valley, I could see two farms. The farm to my left was a complex of fancy, modern premises. The farm to my right was a far more traditional affair. Just by looking, I could tell the right hand farm would be my saviour, and I was indeed proved right.

From the base of the valley, a series of handpainted signs announced the presence of Horneystead and the various services on offer – up to and including a shower and bed, if needed. It sounded like a veritable Travelodge! I really appreciated all the encouraging signage, which had obviously been handcrafted with love.

As I crossed the last rock-hard foot-wrecking field before the main barn, a Spine volunteer emerged. She had a beaming smile, and kindly walked me into the infamous Horneystead barn. It wasn’t long before I was sitting down, tucking into some homemade vegetable soup. This was ladled straight from the slow cooker into a rustic mug; and by golly by gum, this veggie-packed super-chunky wonderbroth was fab. I couldn’t resist a second serving.

With my water refilled, I set back off, shouting my thanks to Helen (the farm’s owner) who was busy working with her horses. I had just 7k left to go to Bellingham. Beneath these clear blue skies, that didn’t feel like too wild an ask. 

For the first time in the race, that “last little 7k” actually did turn out to be an easygoing affair, mostly consisting of roads and trails over mildly undulating terrain, none of which were badly iced. It was a treat to be savoured.

This far north in Northumberland, I noted that rural life felt quite different to that down south. Raw, remote, and far more isolated. There didn’t seem to be very much around in terms of pubs, shops, clusters of houses, or anything really. It just seemed to be the occasional farm here and there. It must be a much slower pace of life, I mused.

Talking of slower paces of life, I was really enjoying myself out here in the sun. I reached a river crossing, and paused at the water’s edge. I came up with the idea of a little game. I’d try to cross the river while keeping all my kit bone dry. Go!  

I headed a bit further upstream, but the banks of the river just rose higher, and there was no obvious means of crossing. Downstream was blocked by a wire fence. There weren’t any stepping stones, a rope, or anything like an overhanging tree. I scratched my head. All there was was a single patch of ice floating atop the water.

I tested the ice patch with some of my weight, but it was pretty thin and began to crack. It wasn’t like there was another obvious solution to my puzzle though.

I tried again, more slowly this time, very tentatively transferring my body weight to it until I was standing with both feet on the ice. It didn’t sound good. Cracks were spreading outwards from under me in all directions. I braced myself to fall through… but the sound of cracking slowed and then stopped, and the little ice sheet seemed to hold together. Keeping both feet in contact with the ice at all times, I carefully shimmied my way across the surface. When I was close enough to the bank, I bent my knees and leapt with both feet. The ice gave way and failed beneath me, but not before providing enough resistance to support my jump to shore. Victory!

Okay; I admit, on paper, that’d been a complete and utter waste of a couple of minutes. But it’d been quite good fun! Time well spent, I told myself, as I cracked on up the hill.

It was still a glorious mid-afternoon when I arrived into Brown Rigg Lodges, Bellingham. The final checkpoint! I was 370k down, with less than 70k left to go. All that really stood between me and the finish were the Cheviot hills.

But they weren’t going to be easy. I knew that. And no matter what I did here at Bellingham, I was going to have to cross them in the dark, in extreme cold and high winds. That was what I’d been worried about to start with.

What I had to do now was prepare the kit I’d need to cross safely, and decide whether to sleep here, or push straight through. My finishing, and my safety, would depend on making the right calls.

The outcome of my Spine was going to be determined right here, in this checkpoint.

Continue reading: Part 7: My Race is Irrelevant

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