Author: Angeline Dresser
Getting to the start line
At the beginning of January this year I took on the 108-mile Montane Spine Challenger South race. Every single step of this race, including getting to the start line, felt like it was in the hands of fate. I hadn’t really planned to enter it.
In June 2025, I had completed the 168-mile Summer Spine Challenger North and was then left with the inevitable question of, ‘what next?’ Well, apparently the other half of the Pennine Way.
I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to enter the full 268-mile Summer Spine 2026 race, but I was curious. However, you only have a few weeks after the race ends before entries for the following year open. The pain and torture hadn’t completely faded from my memory, but neither had the magic. I decided to let the race sell out then join the waitlist, but my plan was thwarted as I was then offered a place just a few days later – the memories still too fresh at this point. So, I joined the waitlist again. This time, I was over 100 on the waitlist so something made me also join the Challenger South Winter 2026 list. I told myself it was a logical decision – this would be a way to experience the other half of the Spine course, running from Edale to Hawes, where the Challenger North begins. I also thought it would be good to experience the winter race (what most consider to be the real race).
At the end of August, I started to experience terrible abdominal pains whilst I was in Kerry, Ireland. I spent the next couple of weeks lying around reading Jilly Cooper and feeling sorry for myself. Every day I wondered whether I was dying and tried to calculate at what point of pain I would need to drive myself to the nearest hospital (just a little a 2-hour drive away). Fortunately, it didn’t get to that stage. I saw a doctor who suspected gallstones. He told me to stop running and to get seen by a doctor when I was back in the UK. So, I decided to take some strong pain killers and run Carrauntoohil fell race.
I was aware it was a fairly stupid decision, and I was struggling to breathe through the pain during the race, but apart from that it went quite well (third lady, thanks for asking). I then felt much worse afterwards but managed to make it back to the UK. Cue three months of hospital investigations and training reduced to painful short walks with a lightly weighted bag.
Whilst in one of these hospital waiting rooms, I received the email telling me I had 48 hours to take up a place on the Winter ‘26 race. I consulted the WhatsApp recce group set up by Liz Adams of North Leeds Fell Runners (NLFR), who was training for Winter Spine Sprint ‘26. Everyone assured me I should go for it and that I could borrow kit: I signed up. Then I spent many weeks wondering what was wrong with me – both physically and mentally.
As race day approached, I wasn’t getting better but the doctors had ruled out everything they could think of. They were starting to just throw pills at me to see what stuck. I didn’t take the pills but I did go to see an osteopath who I had seen a few years ago. He diagnosed stress and trauma and began to work with me. We started to make progress, but it was slow. After looking into the cost of insurance, and speaking to my coach, Nicky Spinks, I decided I may as well start the race and get as far as I could. I would consider it an immersive recce.
I had spent the previous weeks both unable to see how I would be able to race, but continuing to collect kit because, I think, to give up on that would have been a clear signal to myself that I didn’t believe I would get better.
Registration etc.
A couple of days before the race was due to start, the weather forecast threatened snow. We received an email from the organisers to say there would be mass train cancellations. The start times for Challenger South and Spine Sprint South were pushed back to later on the Saturday, and we were encouraged to get there by car, if possible. Liz and I made a plan to get as far as Sheffield and then stay overnight. When we actually got to Sheffield it seemed like the roads were clear so we met up with another competitor and decided to share a taxi to Edale.
The driver shook his head as soon as he saw our enormous bags and heard where we were going. In the end he reluctantly agreed to drive us through the wintry Sheffield roads out to the start of the race where we needed to go for kit check. The distress of trying to make it to the start was just what I needed to distract me from the fact that the next day I needed to begin a 108-mile unsupported race in the middle of winter.
The kit check is randomly varied so you don’t know which items you’ll be asked to present. I was required to show my full kit – which, whilst quite annoying, was also reassuring as I then knew for sure I did have all my kit. After that, it was on to the mandatory race briefing where you’re told how to use your emergency button on your tracker and the penalties for being naughty.
Afterwards, whilst waiting for the minibus to the hostel, I popped into the cafe next door. Lucy Gossage was there, modestly entertaining the crowd. When the minibus arrived I got on and instantly regretted my seat choice. Across from me was a man with such intense pensive energy, I felt I needed to avoid all eye contact with him. I later learnt that he was Eugeni Rosello – a man firmly cemented in the Spine hall of fame. You can Google him if you’re unfamiliar.
Over the next 15 hours or so I doubted every single thing I had packed and tried to sleep. The next morning it was off to registration and more hanging about before the 10am start. The car park was full of Spiners, supporters and the media crew, an exciting nervous buzz filling the valley to the backdrop of golden-white snowy hills.
The actual race begins
At about 9:58:55 I realised I needed to re-tie my laces. I stood up with my shoes tight and then suddenly, we were off – through the car park, up the lane and then on to first flagstones of the Pennine Way, making our way to Jacob’s ladder. It was very slippy underfoot, with snow and ice. I stopped after just a couple of miles to put on my brand new mandatory micro spikes. It felt wrong to stop and see people carry on past me but I knew it was important to make good decisions early. I was so glad I had stopped to put them on, I couldn’t believe what a difference they made. I also got my poles out at this point. Neither the poles or the grip-wear would be put away before the end of the race.
As I climbed Jacob’s Ladder there was something strange about being out on the course in the race, after a few years of dot-watching from afar. When you’re there in the race there’s no dramatic music, no text overlays to tell you where you are.
On the approach to Kinder Low, we were under an empty blue sky and surrounded by dazzling white snow. The air was perfectly still. I had prayed for this – authentic snowy Spine conditions; I couldn’t believe my luck. I was, however, already in pain and I was worried. I reminded myself to keep breathing fully and deeply, and to keep moving. I reminded myself I was there to recce for as long as I could, and that if I had to pull out it would be OK.
Whilst the snow was beautiful, it was hard work. We were walking in the narrow path made by the people at the front or perhaps walkers from earlier that morning. It was getting deeper and was waist high in some parts. I was only wearing a base layer and a very thin smock on top but I was sweating. I kept thinking about stopping but I thought soon I’d cool down. I also didn’t want to try interrupt the conveyor belt of runners that we had become. I was trying to move efficiently but a bizarre lean had set in. I found I kept falling to the left and having to correct myself. I thought maybe this was just me but later found out someone else had experienced the same thing.
Later on, as Torside came into view it looked very different to how it had in the torrential rain of my recce. At the bottom there was a Mountain Rescue tent, where hot drinks and some snacks were available. The snow appeared to have cleared so I took off my microspikes. It would only be ten minutes before they’d be back on again.
The day went on, fuelled mainly by homemade Christmas cake. At some point, I stopped being aware of the abdominal pain. I spent pockets of time running with other people but there was no one who was a perfect pace match. Just before the White House there was another MRT tent (with hot potatoes!) and it was a truly welcome stop. Leaving the tent, I started running with someone new but after a few miles I suddenly became aware I was going to have to leave him. We had been having a good chat but the sound of my own voice was making me feel physically sick. I had to run on alone to silence the nausea.
What’s that? How rude.
The course was much more runnable during the evening section and I felt like I was making good progress. I knew Nicky’s FoodBar wasn’t that far off, and I think I became lazy with my eating.
Credit: Clorroe Cam
The worst bacon sandwich of my life
When I saw the lights of Nicky’s FoodBar come into view it was a beautiful sight. But when I arrived and opened the door I was hit by the warmth and claustrophobic size. I started to worry I was going to faint and was convinced I might be pulled out of the race by the safety monitoring man stationed there. I tried to force myself to eat the bacon sandwich I had pre-ordered but gave up halfway through. I went to stand outside for a while to see if I could sort myself out and the safety man told me not to throw up in the Portaloo. After five minutes or so, I came back in ordered chips instead. I ate them very slowly until I felt safe to leave and then carried on with the race. Very shortly after, I heard a voice say, “is that Angeline?” and was confused to see Tom Sanders and Rachel Rowley from NLFR on the course. It was such a nice surprise, but I was still in my bacon sandwich sickness fug. I don’t think I really computed that I’d seen them for a good 20 minutes.
I carried on towards Stoodley Pike, which seemed to hover on the horizon in the darkness for a long time, never getting bigger. As I saw the lights of Hebdon bridge come into view I thought about everyone sitting in the pub or in their cosy living rooms. I thought about how nice it would be to be doing Sprint South, and be on the home straight to the finish line. Instead, as soon as I hit Hebdon Bridge, it was straight up a steep climb again to get to the Hebdon Hey checkpoint a few miles further on.
The detour to the checkpoint adds a mile on but I was just looking forward to getting there and I tried to not think about it.
When I arrived, I was met by the big smile of Alyson Blakeley from Roundhay Runners, as she guided me into the scout hut. I sat down by my checkpoint bag and pulled out my to-do list as Alyson made me a coffee. I put things on charge and consulted my list. I knew I wanted to sleep so I asked for a bed and went to get food. There were a couple of people by the kitchen who had already pulled out of the race. It sounded very appealing but I decided to go for a shower and a nap instead. I took all my clothes off in the freezing bathroom and turned on the shower. The shower never got warm so I put my clothes back on my (now cold) dirty body and went for a sleep. I slept for just over two hours and then got up. It was still dark. I ate my third checkpoint meal and tried to get myself organised. I didn’t recognise many people in the checkpoint by this stage. It felt like I had woken up at a party to discover everyone else had gone home hours ago. I assumed I had lost a lot of places and was near the back, but I didn’t want to know so I didn’t ask or look. It turned out that many people had actually dropped out of the race at the checkpoint.
I tried to get myself ready to leave but realised my microspikes were broken. Luckily, I was able to borrow some. I had bags labelled with replacement food, medical supplies and food but I kept doubting all my decisions and couldn’t get myself ready to leave. I wasted a lot of time faffing and then decided to go for more hot food. After 6 hours I left the checkpoint.
Emerging from the first night
It was dark and rainy, and underfoot was very muddy. It was a slow, soggy slog towards Wuthering Heights country. After two or three hours it slowly began to get light. Snow had turned to sleet and I was finding it hard to navigate. The snow gave way to ice which had partially thawed and refrozen. It was hard work to stay upright. My hip flexors were in pain from reacting to countless slips but I had resisted falling over so far. If I hadn’t been able to borrow Yaktrax at Hebdon Hey I don’t think I’d have been able to get through this section. The sleet then changed to relentless rain and I started to get very wet and cold. I knew I had some spare layers in my bag but only a couple and I worried that if I put them on now then I’d pay for it later. Hebdon Hey is at mile 46 and this is the only point where you have access to your bag. After that you either get to the end (a further 62 miles) or you pull out of the race.
Mid-morning I stopped to put an extra layer on. I was scared by how wet I was; my four pairs of gloves were soaking. I had another few pairs in my drop bag but they were no use to me there. When I took off my bag to get a spare layer out I realised my mandatory cup, which I was storing in a mesh pocket on the outside of bag, was half full of rainwater. I put my extra layer on and then put three pairs of wet gloves back on. I kept my down jacket in my bag for emergencies.
The rain never let up throughout the day. I kept coming to sections where I had made navigational errors on my recces. But I was reluctant to keep looking at my map in the rain and, instead of remembering the correct route, I kept repeating the same mistakes. I started to shout at the hills.
I was feeling sorry for myself but told myself to focus on getting to Gargrave. If I could do that I could go to a shop or a pub, have a rest and reset. My friend, Jasmine, had also said she would aim to meet me there for my one permitted social meet. For those of you not familiar with the rules, the race is fully self-supported so you cannot accept help from anyone, unless that person is offering the same help to every entrant. You are allowed to be met by a friend or family member once during the race, but they cannot help you. For those of you who have heard my tales from Challenger North 2025, Jasmine is the friend I was hallucinating in miniature form in a field full of sheep on my approach to Kirk Yeotholm.
I slid around in fields for another a few hours, made another terrible navigational error on the way into Gargrave, in my rush to get to the pub, and added about another mile.
When I got to the pub, I hovered around on the doorstep wondering if it was immoral to walk into a carpeted pub so filthy and wet. Then someone shouted from the bar, “come in and shut the bloody door!” so I did.
I ordered a massive plate of chips, onion rings and garlic bread and emptied my bag. I stared at my sodden pile and tried to make a plan. My thoughts were moving even more slowly than my legs so it was hard work. I chatted to some people in the pub and, though I don’t think I was making much sense, they humoured me. I noticed that across the room there were a couple of other Spiners who had fallen asleep behind a table.
Once I’d eaten as much as I could I wrapped up some remaining garlic bread, dried my gloves under the hand dryer in the bathroom, then headed out again.
Follow the lights
As I walked through Gargrave, I saw a group of people who were going to the shop for supplies before carrying on. I considered joining them for safety but I didn’t want to waste any more time so I carried on alone. A dense fog had descended and as I left Gargrave it was hard to see the Pennine Way signs or to spot gates. I kept moving across the fields at slightly the wrong angle. There was no snow or ice in the fields, just really wet mud. I was constantly slipping – though I still hadn’t fallen over.
My knee had started to hurt and when I got to the steps at Malham I had to use my one good leg, my two poles and some deep breaths to get the other leg up each step. There was a diversion in place at the top of the steps at the limestone pavement, due to the ice and winds. Unfortunately, there was only one sign. I tried to follow it but hit a wall, a literal one. I had no phone signal and my map wouldn’t load. I turned around and tried a different direction. There was no one else about. I tried to be systematic and tried not to panic. After a long while I saw some red and white scraps of tape, which reassured me I must be on the right path.
A couple of miles later, I saw some headtorches further up the hill. I tried to speed up to catch them but the lights disappeared. Ten minutes later they reappeared but it was so dark I couldn’t work out whether it was the same people or another set. Eventually, I saw two people coming down the hill. I shouted to ask if I was on the wrong path. They told me I was on the right path and that they’d been going round in circles for hours. We stayed together until Malham Tarn, where there’s a small MRT stop with a maximum time of 30 minutes. Just on from here is a bird hide where many people chose to sleep. I wanted to carry on and see if I could get to Horton-in-Ribblesdale before stopping to sleep.
Getting to the end
The wind was picking up as I made my way on to Fountains Fell. I was getting very tired but told myself to focus on getting to Horton-in-Ribblesdale, and to think no further than that. I knew there was a church there with tea and coffee supplies, and I hoped it might be open. This section from Fountains Fell to Horton is all quite exposed and I was worried I might be blown off the trail. I spent a lot of time doing a silly crouch-run to lower my centre of gravity and, for the first time during the race, was glad of my ridiculously heavy bag.
There was another safety diversion in place at Pen-y-Ghent which meant turning off left before the summit. Even with the diversion in place, it was still pretty terrifying. I felt disorientated coming into Horton and wondered if I’d somehow managed to take a wrong turn. After a while I worked out where I was and I found the church. I tried the door, it was locked. I wanted to cry. I went down the road to the public toilets, which were open but they were so bleak and cold I decided to carry on. I knew it was a risky move as there would be nowhere to shelter on the next section and that by leaving Horton I was committing to moving non-stop until the end. I worried that I wasn’t capable of making safe decisions but I felt I should take the risk.
Why did they invent this road for me?
My hallucinations were out of control as I moved towards the Cam Road. No matter how many miles I covered, everything looked the same. The noise of the wind was constant and infuriating. My senses felt both blunt and overloaded at the same time. The path under my feet was diabolical; rocks irregular and bigger than pebbles but too small to avoid. I was hallucinating something new every minute or two. I would wait for the illusion to reveal itself in its real form – the dog or baby would become a rock, the old man would become a fence post. But as time passed, the visons refused to become anything plausible. I saw a woman in a headscarf kneeling on the side of the path, as if in prayer. I thought to myself that she must be freezing. I wanted to get to her to check if she was OK. I realised it was possible she was an hallucination but she stayed where she was until I reached her and she suddenly disappeared.
My mind was looping nonsense thoughts every ten seconds or so. It was as if I was in a fever dream, except I had to keep moving. I’m not sure I was awake the whole time. I started to think I was the only person in the race and I believed someone had invented the Cam Road for me. I kept wondering why they had made it so horrible. I also couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t let it get light. It felt like I was in a terrible computer simulation.
At some point, the quality of the dark started to slowly change and I realised morning was coming. I heard the sound of someone approaching from behind. I looked and saw they were moving suspiciously quickly. They approached and overtook me with far too much energy. It was my bus pal, Eugeni.
As the light of the grey day fully arrived my hallucinations subsided. I tried to pick up my pace but the snow and ice were back. I was aware of more people around me now and I pushed on to keep whatever position I was in. I started to feel good again and let go on a fun descent. But something suddenly made me stop and check my map. I realised that, yet again, I had repeated another navigational error I had made on a recce. I started to climbed back up the hill to get back on course but my phone started ringing. “Yes?” I answered, impatiently. It was my mum, “you’re going the wrong way!” “Yes, I know!” “And, you’re tenth woman but it looks like there’s some people close behind you.”
With constant map checking, I ran towards Hawes as fast as I could. I felt another person close behind me and, again, wondered how they seemed so fresh. Maybe they had stopped to sleep last night, I thought…No, it was another leader of the full Spine race. I thought I would use all the energy I had to stick to him – I couldn’t be bothered to navigate or open gates anymore. I threw myself down the hill after him but the way he moved was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. He was moving quickly over the lumpy bogs and it was so smooth and effortless. He was getting away and for a while we communicated about gates by hand gesture, from ever increasing distances, until soon he was gone from sight. I did know the way, I told myself, I just needed to concentrate.
When I reached Hawes, it suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea where the finish was. I frantically googled as I ran, staying on the Pennine Way path. I had gone the right way and as I reached the road of the finish line I saw vans delivering goods, people out shopping, others on their way to work. The feeling returned of emerging from an all-night party whilst other people go about their normal business. It around 9am on a Monday morning. I thought of my colleagues at work.
As I crossed the threshold it was photos, a handshake, and then it was over. I sat down and attempted to untie my laces whilst someone cut the tracker from my bag. I realised what a mess my feet were.
Shortly after, my friend Harry came to collect me. He asked how soon I wanted to leave, he asked what I needed to do. I could see the calculation in his eyes, wondering, “why is she malfunctioning?” I told him I needed to force some soup down, that he could put some things in my bag.
I told myself I could stay awake for the drive back to Leeds. I told myself I didn’t ever need to run another ultramarathon.
I don’t need to tell you that neither of those things were true.
