“Alone in the dark with the storm raging around me, my headtorch died.” Winter Spine Challenger – Part Two

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All Change! Tackling the Second Day

Sunday morning dawned grey, cold and drizzly. Saturday’s beautiful clear skies and sunshine were nowhere to be seen. The drizzle gradually became heavier, with rain continuing on and off throughout the day. It was cold rain too, often turning into sleet and occasionally hail on the higher ground.

The bitterly cold night had left numerous farm tracks and roads covered in sheet ice—huge, impossibly slippery stretches, five, ten, or even more metres long, covering the entire width of the track with no way around. This was the result of puddles and surface water freezing over after days of heavy rain prior to the event. These treacherous conditions continued mile after mile and meant that micro-spikes were essential if there was to be any chance of staying upright. I delayed putting them on for as long as possible, trying to find ways around the inescapable ice rinks wherever I could. After a couple of slips and falls, there was no avoiding it. I sat down on a rock at the side of the track and wrestled with my spikes. Once on, they immediately gave me greater confidence and I chided myself for not putting them on sooner.

Some others seemed less confident in their choice of spikes and continued edging cautiously around the sides, while I barrelled fearlessly across the middle of the ice sheets on a mission. Great fun! The main downside of micro-spikes is that they’re a pain to put on, and once fitted they change your gait and can feel awkward to run in. On the lower road sections in the valleys they weren’t required and actually slowed progress. I was also conscious that running on asphalt would blunt and eventually wear them down, rendering them useless. As a result, a repetitive cycle of spikes on, spikes off continued for several hours.

By lunchtime I had covered another 20 miles and reached the small village of Lothersdale. The Hare and Hounds looked inviting and was still serving Sunday lunch, but I wasn’t in the mood to sit down for an hour. Kind supporters were handing out a variety of treats, some homemade and some shop-bought. I spotted a friendly face and was offered a Greggs sausage roll. No need to ask me twice! My friend had clearly raided the local Greggs, buying enough chicken bakes, sausage rolls and assorted treats for everyone who passed while he was there. There were some very happy runners in Lothersdale that day. So much so that later, when one runner recognised him further along the course, they called out, “Look, it’s the Pasty Man!”—much to my amusement.

Pit Stop at the Co-op in Gargrave

As the day wore on, the weather was still poor, but I could feel the temperature gradually rising. From well below freezing overnight, it climbed to nearly 10°C as the sun set for the second time during the race. This marked contrast meant the ice began to melt. Counter-intuitively, the further north we went, the warmer it became and the less ice and snow there was to contend with. Inevitably, though, there was a sting in the tail—but more on that later.

With only one full checkpoint at 46 miles and a monitoring station at 83 miles, opportunities for resupplying without carrying extra weight were few and far between. For that reason, the Co-op in Gargrave, around 72 miles in, was a highlight and I counted down the miles to it.

I arrived at around 5:15pm, already wearing my headtorch as darkness had fallen. The bright fluorescent lights of the Co-op were a stark contrast to the dark, muddy lanes leading into the village. I picked up a meal deal—sandwich, crisps and a drink—but only after making a beeline for the confectionery aisle to secure a couple of Crème Eggs. I also grabbed a bag of Haribo and an iced coffee. With a long night ahead and no more shops along the remaining 35 miles, I was keen to load up with as many calories as I could stomach—and carry.

Gargrave to Malham Tarn

I walked purposefully out of the village, working my way through my Co-op feast and keen to get moving again. Every step taken was a step closer to the finish line.

The next opportunity to rest was ten miles ahead at the Malham Tarn monitoring point. After a flat run along the river valley, I reached Malham village. By now the runners were spread out over many miles and I hadn’t seen anyone since leaving the Co-op.

On the far side of the village, I spotted a National Trust sign announcing my entry into Malham Cove, a well-known natural landscape famous for its rugged beauty. I could hear rushing water and feel the increasing wind, but in the darkness there was nothing to see.

A long, winding climb followed—and the ice was back. Great sheets of it stretched as far as I could see, so the spikes went back on. No messing about this time. The sense of moving into unknown, wild territory, combined with being completely alone, created a real feeling of trepidation. I trudged onwards and upwards, carefully climbing to avoid slipping.

After what felt like an age, the track levelled out onto a plateau around 400m above sea level and the monitoring point emerged from the darkness. I arrived at 9:30pm and was greeted by a team of volunteers. With no other runners there, it felt like having my own personal pit crew—drying my gloves and waterproofs, making tea, cooking my instant noodles and chatting like old friends.

I made full use of my allotted 30 minutes of dwell time. I felt relaxed—perhaps a little too relaxed—but soon found my groove again as I headed back out into the night.

Decision Time – To Sleep or Not to Sleep?

It was now 10pm on Sunday evening. I had been on my feet for 15 hours that day, having left Hebden Hey at 7am, plus 16 hours running on the first day. In total, I’d been moving for 31 of the previous 36 hours, with just 2.5 hours’ sleep.

Time was still on my side, but there were 25 miles to go and a decision to be made: do I sleep at all, or push through the night to the finish?

I didn’t feel the need to sleep as I left Malham Tarn, so I postponed the decision. I had started to experience mild hallucinations—nothing dramatic, but a clear reminder that sleep deprivation was setting in. I knew there was one more potential opportunity to sleep in Horton in Ribblesdale, around 93 miles into the race. There was no B&B or camper van—no bed at all—but at least it was down in the valley, where I could find a relatively sheltered spot to set up my bivvy if needed.

A course diversion had been put in place due to dangerous conditions higher up. The revised route was no shorter but avoided the sharp edges of Pen-y-Ghent, which were deemed too risky in icy conditions. The wind was really starting to pick up, but I wasn’t too concerned as I descended into Horton at 1:40am on Monday morning.

Suddenly, a wave of fatigue hit me. I questioned whether I needed to sleep or if I could realistically push through. Fifteen miles remained—another five or six hours on my feet. If I was going to sleep, the village was the safest and most sheltered place to do it.

Unable to think clearly, I stopped for a few minutes and sat on a bench outside a pub, closing my eyes to reset. After a short while, I realised I was okay and simply wanted to crack on and get the job done. At around 2am, I turned off the road and began the climb up the Cam High Road.

Sting in the Tail

I didn’t know what to expect from this final section of the race. In hindsight, that was probably a good thing.

The wind had continued to build and was nearing gale force. From the course profile, I knew the Cam High Road—a Roman road—was a long climb: around eight miles of continuous, gradual but punishing ascent on uneven, rocky, icy ground, eventually levelling out just under 600m before continuing for miles.

Stone walls lined the track, but the wind direction offered little to no shelter. As I gained altitude, the wind speed increased further. The buffeting was incredible. The wind was broadly behind me, which helped, but it came at roughly a 45-degree angle, and the strongest gusts almost blew me off my feet several times.

I was running on empty by this point, driven only by my determination to finish. Every step was difficult: deafening wind, uneven icy ground, bitter cold, and brutal wind chill. I struggled to maintain any real forward momentum. Turning back wasn’t an option—it would have meant retracing five miles back to the village, straight into the wind. Mentally, I was at my lowest ebb. At 3am, alone in the dark with the storm raging around me, my headtorch died.

You have got to be kidding me.

According to the manual, the battery should flash a low-battery warning at 20%, then again several times over the next 30 minutes. In the bitter cold, it gave one warning flash and then died completely. I hadn’t even had time to think about finding a sheltered spot to change it.

I was carrying two spare batteries, but in the gusty wind, swapping one over took far longer than it should have. My hands quickly grew cold as I crouched beside the trail, fumbling in the faint beam from my watch. Eventually, I got it changed and set off again, picking up the pace to warm my core.

By 5am, I had finished the climb, crossed the high ground and begun the descent. That’s when my second device failed—my watch died. Again, a low-battery warning was immediately followed by shutdown.

A dead watch might not sound serious, but it was my primary navigation tool, providing course confirmation and alerts if I strayed off route. Without it, finding the next turning in the dark—let alone navigating to the finish—would be extremely difficult, and I still had five miles to go.

I did have a backup GPS handheld, but it would take time to boot and load the route. Nobody wants to run 108 miles without proof so I was determined to get it back up and running. I found what little shelter I could, plugged the watch into my power bank, and tucked it inside my jacket to protect it from the cold. While I waited, I sipped from my bottles and took on a few calories.

In hindsight, it was clear that the extreme cold had caused the batteries to drain far faster than normal—showing just how severe the conditions were.

The Finish Line

After regrouping from a long and difficult night, I began the final descent into Hawes. It was muddy, slippery and boggy—but by then I didn’t care. I was so close.

Eventually, the mud gave way to firmer ground and the track led into the village. Shortly after 8am on Monday morning, Hawes emerged from the murky gloom. A few zig-zags across fields, a couple of alleys, and suddenly I was on the High Street with the finish line at the Market Hall in sight. At 8:09am I crossed the line, after 46 hours and 9 minutes. 108 miles covered on 2 hours 30 minutes of sleep.

Race Statistics

  • 152 starters
  • 82 finishers
  • 54% completion rate
  • 39th place

The Aftermath

With the job done, it was finally time to relax. I sat in the Market Hall for a good hour, happy to just be still. I managed to get some calories in and plenty to drink. Strangely, not feeling that tired at the time, I decided it was time to go. Spencer collected my drop bag and loaded it into his car. We had an Airbnb about ten miles away—a lovely farm cottage way off the beaten track. Once we made our way back to the cottage, the fatigue started to hit me hard. I had the most amazing hot bath and then, at around midday, decided it was time for a nap. My head hit the pillow and I was gone!

Four hours later, I was feeling a bit more human. Heading downstairs, I lit the log burner and chilled while Spencer cooked the perfect recovery meal—roast chicken with roast potatoes, stuffing, veg, and gravy. This went down very well. I highly recommend having a chef as support crew if at all possible!

I am so grateful to Spencer for his invaluable support on this and so many others of my adventures. The debt will be repaid one day, for sure. After dinner was the perfect opportunity to sit and chat in front of the dancing flames and swap tales of our respective exploits over the weekend. From what I hear, the treacherous conditions were certainly no easier when experienced in the car. Black ice, floods, blocked roads, and other cars losing control and blocking access roads… I’m pretty sure there’s an equally long blog post to be had covering what the race weekend looked like from his perspective! The conversation inevitably turned to what’s next and would you do one of the longer races? Anyone who knows me at all already knows the answer to that one!

My Winter Spine Challenger Journey: 108 Miles along the Pennine Way – Part One

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Getting to the start line of my first “Spine” race

The Spine Race is one of those iconic races almost everyone has heard of, even beyond the running community. It’s notorious. The most brutal race in the UK, they say. Add the full force of the British winter in January and you have a real challenge on your hands.

The full Spine Race distance is 268 miles, covering the entire length of the Pennine Way, but other distances have been added to the series since the inaugural edition in 2012. These include the Challenger and Sprint options, the latter being a ‘mere’ 46 miles. My race, the Winter Spine Challenger South, covers the first 108 miles of the Pennine Way from Edale in the Peak District to Hawes in the Yorkshire Dales. That distance is more than enough to be challenging, especially given the vagaries of the weather at this time of year. North of Edale is not an area of the Peak District I know well, so I was looking forward to getting out onto new terrain and exploring some unfamiliar trails.

I’ve always been drawn to big challenges and, although I’ve run many long races since I started ultra-running in 2012 (more than 80 in fact), I’d never taken part in a Spine Series race before. A gap in my event calendar, combined with a serendipitous email offering a waiting-list place in November 2025 led me to the start line. Sometimes things just feel meant to be.

And so there I was, standing in Edale, lined up for a delayed start—pushed back by two hours as Storm Goretti dumped significant snowfall across large parts of the country, bringing widespread travel disruption. Such was the concern that all train services in the area were cancelled for the 24 hours preceding the race, forcing the organisers to delay the start to give runners more time to arrive.

My race-day preparations were more relaxed than some. I’d stayed locally at the YHA near Edale the night before and was being exceptionally well looked after by my good friend Spencer. His next-level chef skills and meticulous organisation set me up perfectly in terms of logistics and nutrition.

With no way of knowing exactly what conditions would be like—or how much rest I’d need over 108 miles with around 5,500 metres of climb—I set myself a rough target of between 45 and 48 hours. Whether I finished at the lower or upper end of that range, I knew there would be two long nights out on the hill. In January, there are fewer than seven hours of daylight, meaning around 17 hours of darkness to endure before the sun rises again.

The First Day – ‘Winter Wonderland’ (Start to 32 miles)

At just before 10am on Saturday 10 January 2026, 173 of us stood cold—and perhaps a little nervous—on the start line. After a brief set of pre-race announcements, we were off.

After a couple of flat miles out of Edale, we soon started to climb up Jacob’s Ladder onto the Kinder Plateau—the first real opportunity to assess the conditions. The climb itself wasn’t too bad, but once on top it was clear that significant snowfall had accumulated and we were in for a challenging day traversing the high plateau which was white in every direction as far as the eye could see.

The first pop-up checkpoint, run by a local Mountain Rescue team, came at around 15 miles. My planned time to this point was 4 hours 55 minutes. Arriving just after 3pm, I was close to plan and, importantly, relatively unscathed—nothing more than a few slips and a couple of falls, softened by the snow. After a brief stop, I pressed on.

I was cold, but that was expected. The temperature had barely risen above freezing all day and I’d been running in four or five layers for most of it. As darkness fell not long after 4pm, I was conscious that it would only get colder so I needed to keep moving. An overnight low of -8°C was forecast, so conserving body heat early on was vital.

Around seven miles later came the next unofficial checkpoint at the A635 crossing, accompanied by rumours of a snack van that might still be open. Arriving just after 6pm, I was relieved to see the hot food van still there. I thanked the team profusely for being out on such a bitterly cold evening while they heated up a sausage sandwich for me. It went down perfectly alongside a hot chocolate and a can of Coke.

Ten miles remained to Nicky’s Foodbar—another unofficial but well-established fixture on the route. A transport café housed inside a shipping container. Spencer was there waiting for me, keen to see how things were going, and we headed inside to find a table.

The air was thick with warmth and moisture, heavy with the aroma of burgers, chips, and frying oil—like a fast-food restaurant and a sauna sharing the same space. The guy serving told us to help ourselves to any chocolate we wanted—a generous gesture that perfectly captured the community spirit inspired by the Spine Races.

I spotted a crème egg and thought, yes please—that’s exactly what I want. Sadly, my excitement was short-lived. In the time it took to put my food down and return, another runner had taken the last one. Catastrophe!

Still, I was grateful to sit down and tucked into a cheeseburger and chips with a hot cup of tea. My second-choice confectionery was a Twix, which I took with me and ate on the trail. Even so, I couldn’t get crème eggs out of my head. I really, really wanted one—preferably several!

Into Darkness (32–46 miles)

I left Nicky’s at around 21:40, feeling warm and well fuelled after nearly 12 hours on the move. I made a conscious effort to maintain a decent pace to keep my heart rate up as I quickly cooled off and began shivering in the cold night air.

The mission was simple: cover the next 14 miles and reach the sanctuary of the mid-race indoor checkpoint before the weather deteriorated. It was already bitterly cold, but sleet and rain were forecast overnight. I was desperate to arrive dry; getting wet would mean getting colder and having to dry kit on top of everything else that needed doing.

After a slippery, winding descent into the valley, I reached Hebden Hey Scout Centre at around 2am—the (not quite) halfway point. The rain had held off, and I felt incredibly fortunate.

The maximum permitted dwell time there was eight hours, but my plan was to be out in under six. That allowed time for hot food, access to my drop bag, and a few hours’ sleep.

After warm chicken-and-rice broth followed by rice pudding, I sorted my kit—swapping headtorch batteries, refilling food bags, and topping up bottles. I was then shown to an 18-bed dormitory and an empty top bunk.

I settled down shortly after 3am and set an alarm for 6:30am, just in case. In reality, there was little risk of oversleeping. The reality of 18 exhausted, sweaty, restless men trying to sleep in the same room quickly became apparent. Inevitably, there was a snorer—possibly the loudest and most irritating I’ve ever encountered!

After half an hour of quiet irritation and failed attempts to fall asleep, I eventually drifted off. I woke slowly around 6am, having managed about two and a half hours’ sleep. Not wanting to fall back asleep, I stretched, moved around and quietly lowered myself down from the bunk, went downstairs to eat some breakfast, and then prepared to leave.

Once more unto the breach

Just before 7am, I stepped out into the pre-dawn drizzle and began climbing back up towards the Pennine Way. Along the climb I passed runners still making their way down towards the checkpoint, several hours behind me in the race, cold and wet, but all still within the 24-hour cut-off at 10am on Sunday.

I mentally reset as I moved forward along the Pennine Way. Clearing my head to go through it all again. At this point, there were still 62 miles to go, but that thought didn’t register at the time. My only aim was to stay present—to deal with each mile, each climb, each step as it came, without worrying about what lay ahead.

To be continued…

Please Support My 2026 Fundraiser

Running the Spine Challenger was never just about finishing a race for me. I choose these challenges because they test resilience, patience, and mindset—qualities that many people are forced to draw on every day through circumstances not of their choosing. Through my blog The Hard Way, I’m raising money for UK charities supporting people affected by homelessness and mental health challenges. Please support my 2026 fundraising if you can. I’d be hugely grateful for your support. Every donation helps turn hard miles into something that genuinely matters.
https://www.givewheel.com/fundraising/12076/the-hard-way_uk/

Winter Spine Challenger South – one week to go

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A week today I’ll be taking on the Montane Spine Challenger South. 108 miles along the Pennine Way starting in Edale. The weather can’t decide between SNOW and RAIN but then it is January! Tracking and event links incoming over the next few days.

I’m raising funds for Millimetres to Mountains and Crisis in 2026 so, please, if you can, support me at my fundraising page here: https://www.givewheel.com/fundraising/12076/the-hard-way_uk/

The Hard Way 2026 Fundraiser

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Supporting Millimetres to Mountains and Crisis

To date, I have run over 80 Ultras and don’t plan to stop any time soon! In 2026, I have a number of big challenges planned and would like to support a couple of charities that mean a lot to me.

  • First up is the Spine Challenger South – 108 miles along the Pennine Way on 10th Jan 2026. 60 hour cut-off and lovely January mountain weather to contend with…
  • Second challenge is the Wild Horse 200 – a gruelling 200 mile, non-stop challenge across South Wales starting 15th April 2026 with a 120 hour cut-off.
  • No doubt there will be more to follow!

My Why

The outdoors has shaped who I am. Through years of ultra-running, long days in the hills, and pushing myself through physical and mental challenges, I’ve learned first-hand how powerful movement, nature and purpose can be. The mountains don’t judge where you come from, what you’ve been through, or how fast you move — they just ask that you show up.

For me, time outside has always given me a deep sense of purpose, provided perspective and given clarity. It’s where I’ve found strength when things were hard, and where I’ve been reminded of what really matters.

That’s why I’m supporting two UK charities whose work reflects the belief that everyone deserves stability, dignity and the chance to rebuild — both practically and mentally.

Why This Matters to Me

Adventure isn’t about elite athletes, big summits or finish times. It’s about finding your own challenges, in your own way, at your own pace. The outdoors has room for everyone — and its positive impact on mental health, confidence and wellbeing is something I believe deeply in.

By supporting these two charities together, I want to back:

  • Transformational mental health support through adventure
  • Utilizing the outdoors as a therapeutic tool
  • Practical support for individuals facing homelessness
  • Engaging activities that promote healing and wellness
  • Building community and connections in nature
  • Enhancing self-esteem and confidence through outdoor experiences
  • Providing skills training and personal development opportunities
  • Fostering resilience and coping strategies
  • Creating safe spaces for self-exploration and growth
  • Supporting physical health through active outdoor pursuits

Find out more about Millimetres to Mountains and Crisis through these web links.

Please support me if you can. You can find my Fundraising Page here – The Hard Way – 2026 Fundraiser

The Hard Way: Endure. Evolve. Inspire.

/ smilersteve / 1 Comment

Long time, no post! Well, it’s been a busy few months and this blog has been gathering cobwebs. Anyway, here we are. Time for a re-brand. My new ethos, tagline and blog name is ‘The Hard Way’.

For me, there is little joy in doing things the easy way. Whether by design, choice, or accident, I do things The Hard Way. Always have and always will. Some people understand and accept that, some don’t. That’s ok. We can’t all be the same.

I don’t always choose The Hard Way—sometimes it chooses me. But whether I’m running ultras or chasing meaning through seeking out adventure, raw experiences or new ways to push the envelope, this is the real me.

This is where I share the journey. Raw. Real. Relentless.