I get knocked down (but I get up again)
Who wins when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Robin Bush encounters The Spine Race to find out.
“Mr Bush, I’m afraid you have developed infections in your skin and blood, which in turn have led to sepsis.”
I was dehydrated and needed some fluids to keep my kidneys working. My feet, despite the swelling and blisters, weren’t in too bad nick; and X-rays identified my ankle injury as merely soft tissue – tendons, most likely - and no fractures.
10 days later I was discharged.
A month later and I’m still not exercising, but I’m able to walk and getting better each day.
People have asked me what’s my why, how did I keep going? I’m not sure I had an idealistic purpose in mind; at least not one that most people could readily identify with. The Spine Race is the first of five ultras I’m doing in 2022 to raise money for Prostate Cancer UK. But it wasn’t this altruism that drove me to the finish. To be perfectly honest, I think it was defiance.
Cancer is an indiscriminate disease. While people think they can empathise, I don’t think you can know how it feels to be given a life-limiting diagnosis until you receive one. Faced with this news some people curl up and let the world pass them by. But me? I refused to accept that this disease would stop me doing the things I did before. I wanted to show myself that I could still do ultras. I refused to give up. The Spine was, for me, representative of my life. I wasn’t going to give up, no matter how hard or how painful I would keep going.
“Glad to see you’re still with us, we were all worried about you there for a while.” I blinked at the A&E consultant who had arrived in my hospital room, and asked him to explain what he meant. I could only remember snapshots from the night before; conversations at Hut 2, friends walking with me into Kirk Yetholm, kissing the wall, getting brought to Borders Hospital, incredible pain, being asked lots of questions, IV drips and sleep... wonderful and welcome sleep. I was struggling to piece together quite why I was in hospital, and why I was causing a medical professional concern.
It transpires that I was admitted to the hospital with a fever, a rattle on my lung, swelling in both ankles and feet and a wound on my left shin. I couldn’t stand due to excruciating pain, and therefore neither could I walk. I also must have stunk, which in itself is not actually a medical complaint, but it is likely to cause medical folks to complain. Initially the accident and emergency team were trying to establish the cause of my high temperature, and their main focus was to bring this under control. For hours overnight they worked hard to regulate my core temp, but despite their best efforts it seemed that I steadfastly refused to cool down. According to the consultant they were worried that my system would become “overwhelmed” by the infection and I “wouldn’t make it”. I normally consider myself to be quite a resilient person, but I also believe that if you don’t want to hear the answer to a question you shouldn’t ask it. Because I was feeling a bit emotional at this point, I didn’t enquire any further as to what system he was referring, and how close it got to me not “making it”.
The Spine Race is unlike anything I had tried before, but I was ready. I was in good shape physically and mentally. I knew that it was going to be tough, it would hurt and wasn’t going to be pretty. I had a Spine plan. I knew what pace I was aiming for, had my sleep worked out, I’d planned my nutrition and I had recced most of the route. I am aware there are variables that are impossible to factor into a race plan, but I was confident. However, as Mike Tyson once said, “everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.” The Spine Race punched me hard, and then just kept on hitting.
Despite my plan the wheels started to fall off early on, when it became obvious that my food strategy was flawed. The majority of my food was freeze-dried, which on recces when you’re not worried about the time it takes to get your stove out and boil water are great. In race conditions, when you’re slow due
to blisters, it’s a different matter. What I actually needed were snacks, lots of snacks; the issue was that because of the cancer I had changed my lifestyle, and now I need gluten and dairy-free food, but most small village stores don’t stock much in the way of allergen- friendly items. Rationing myself and scrounging from runners who had dropped out of the race proved to be the only option, and a workable solution.
More significant issues started to become apparent from Hebden Hey to Hawes, a long section of the race interspersed with various checkpoint options. I was in good spirits, but I had to keep stopping for a wee. I mean, every 10 mins or so, sometimes more frequently. To provide some context, almost a year before I had surgery to have my prostate removed to rid me of cancer. Ultimately this didn’t work, and not only was I still fighting prostate cancer but it also left me with some urinary incontinence that lasted a few months. As I made my way towards CP2 the continence issue became worse, not only was I stopping more frequently but occasionally my bladder would spasm causing some leakage. I was starting to worry about whether I was doing myself some internal damage; plus I had the embarrassment of knowing that I was peeing myself. We all know that ultrarunning is mainly psychological and I didn’t need these worries in my head. I decided to keep an eye on my urine, if I was peeing clear, good, not peeing clear, bad, get help.
In addition to this my feet started to become seriously painful. They were taped up, and I couldn’t really tape them any more, so I just kept moving. If that wasn’t enough my rucksack straps started to chafe - and I mean they seriously started to rub. The fabulous folk at the Lothersdale checkpoint did an impromptu fix on the straps with gaffer tape and tea towels, which helped a little, but once again I didn’t really have any other options at that point. I made a note to try and think of a solution, but all I could do was keep moving.
Heading into Malham I was doing ok; despite constant pee stops and a strange gait I felt good. I had teamed up with a few other runners, which proved to be one
of only two occasions that I travelled with company. I had a naïve idea that The Spine Race would be one of camaraderie, joining up with other runners, chatting and sharing a sense of unity through joint suffering. In reality my pace was inconsistent and while I ‘cat and moused’ with other athletes, I was mainly on my own. Solitude can take its toll on your psyche, especially when you’re in the dark for long periods, and it was on the stretch between Horton-in Ribblesdale and Hawes that I hit a low point, in fact the lowest of points.
I had made a decision at Malham Tarn not to sleep there, and instead pushed on to Horton where I trudged into the public toilets which would be my hostel for the night. As I sat on the tiled floor I took some time to assess my situation. If I slept here till morning it would mean that I would be moving during daylight hours. Bonus. It would also mean that I would be eating into my contingency time for finishing. Crap. My options were to push on to Hawes, escaping the stinky loos and digging deep, which would likely mean completing the rest of the race mainly in darkness. Or I could sleep here and reduce the time I slept at Hawes. I decided to push on, preferring to spend longer resting and recovering at the next CP. But I was miserable, in agony, tired and alone in the dark. I wanted to curl up, and the world could sod off. For some reason I checked my phone. I never use my phone while on races, preferring the sense of adventure and being in my race bubble, but there were messages from friends saying how well I was doing and one from my coach, Paul Tierney, stating the same. It was early in the morning and I sent a him a text telling him I was struggling. His advice was to focus; the sun would be up soon which would make me feel better. Sure enough, as the sun rose so did my spirits. I was emotional, in pain but I could see where I was going and Hawes was just within reach.
I left CP3 with my feet and shoulders patched and ready for action. The routine was established: the first kilometre after leaving any checkpoint would be the most painful, and then my body would become accustomed to the pain and I would be able to carry on. However, when I needed to stop and attend to
yet another foot issue, I noticed that my already swollen feet were feeling huge - clown feet huge - and agonisingly pushing against the sides of my shoes. I took some paracetamol, put my head down and kicked on to High Cup Nick where a friend said they would come and meet me to say hello. I made the rendezvous, in what was thick clag, much later than planned, and when asked how I was, for the first time I had to admit that “my feet were fucked” and that “I think I’m in real trouble.”
Intuition and experience told me that something was seriously wrong. I slept in a bus stop for a couple of hours, and then made my way to CP3.5 where Allie, the medic, removed my shoes and we saw the extent of the swelling. I was going to need bigger shoes. Alan from the safety team contacted race control for clarification on the rules, and posted a Facebook plea that if anyone was dropping out at Alston and had size 12 shoes could they leave them. To give you some idea, I’m normally a 9 but wear a 10 allowing for an extra size. For now, with some fresh tape I managed to squeeze my feet back into my shoes and hobbled off towards Cross Fell. As I reached every fell summit on the way I rewarded myself with a Colin the Caterpillar Jelly sweet, it’s the small things that make the big difference.
If I could just make it to Greg’s Hut I could rest, recover and eat and then move on again. Until then I had never understood the affection that was afforded to Greg’s Hut. It’s just a hut, right? Wrong! When you are down on the bones of your arse and you are greeted by John and the team with noodles and a warm fire you may as well be in ultrarunning paradise. Greg’s gave me another opportunity to have my feet tended to and this time the medic, Mary, decided not to remove all the tape, but we agreed to use some sticky liquid to attach the skin back down. I can’t remember the name and it stung like hell, but it was wickedly effective. I left the oasis of the hut in warm sunshine, and in a good mood. Heading down the track towards Alston, a friend of mine appeared. Pete ‘Toddy’ Todhunter, a bit of a fell-running legend, and to see him gave me a huge lift. We headed towards Alston, talking and enjoying the sunshine. I was moving well, coping with the pain and feeling positive.
Alston CP, a thing of legend. It was like an ultrarunner’s garage. There were charging points laid out, water and fruit on the tables, lasagne to cater for all allergen profiles. Some shoes had been left for me by runners who had not been able to continue, and there was a new pair waiting for me too. Having tried them all on I opted for the new pair. I ate, I slept, I came downstairs and ate again. The swelling in my feet had got worse, the medic managed to pierce two toenails to relieve the pressure of the blisters underneath, and diligently padded and taped me back together. I gingerly attempted to put on my large shoes, to find that once released from the confines of my old trainers my feet had swelled further. I howled and swore as I tried to manipulate my feet into the pristine shoes. For the first time I thought my race might be over. Problem-solve, Robin. Think. I figured that my old race shoes might have stretched to accommodate my feet as they swelled. While they were painful to get on they were easier than the new pair, so they would have to do if I was to finish this race.
Off I went into the blackness for another solo night on the Pennine Way. This was a real adventure and despite everything I was having the time of my life. At Greenhead I even treated myself to a lie-in for an hour. But then later I reached Hadrian’s Wall in a blind panic, I had done some mental maths and I thought I wasn’t going to make the Bellingham CP cut-off. There were some other runners emerging from their sleeping spots who reassured me that my maths was terrible, and all I had to do was keep moving at a steady pace. Relief. I progressed, managing the pain with paracetamol and occupying my mind with times tables, interspersed with trying to remember French and Italian lessons. Ooh, la la, grazie. I had an unexpected surprise when another friend, Kate, met up with me on the way and kept me company, providing welcome respite from being inside my own head.
I was told by a good friend that if I made it Bellingham then I would make it to the finish, so that was my target. Now sat on a plastic checkpoint chair at Bellingham, with a screwed left ankle, crippling swollen feet, blisters, skinless shoulders, bladder incontinence and fatigue, I had to try and work out what the hell to do. The cut-off time was a few hours away and the checkpoint was busy with athletes cramming as much sleep in as they could before the big push to the finish. Due to storm damage we were all due to be bussed to a drop-off point some 15 miles meaning there would be a rush of people needing transport away and kit checks all at the same time. In my mind at least, my problem solving had been okay up to this point, I had made some good decisions, I had eaten okay, my nav had been good, I stopped for micro sleeps when I needed them but to continue was going to need some thinking about.
A friend of mine was part of the checkpoint crew. Debs White will be familiar to many of you as an experienced volunteer, safety team member, checkpoint crew and all-round fount of knowledge. We had a chat about how things might play out. I needed sleep but I could get some rest in my bivvy out on the trail once I had been dropped off. It was then that I made, arguably, my only bad decision. In my head the plan was to grab an hour’s sleep in the forest before making my way up onto the Cheviots. This would give me the rest I needed and then mean I would be able to reduce the amount of time I was travelling in the dark. However, I slept for 20 minutes in the car, and stepped onto the forest trail feeling okay. Knowing that moving would be hard for the first kilometre I decided to push on to Hut 1 and grab some kip there, where it would be more comfortable and sheltered.
As I made my way into the mountains it became apparent that my injuries were slowing me to a snail’s pace. This was not helped by some clag on higher ground, combined with calorie deficit and fatigue. I was unable to generate enough body heat to keep my core temperature up, and despite layering up with everything I had I could sense the early stages of hypothermia. I made it to Hut 1, shivering uncontrollably, and aware that I needed to get warm quick. A member of the SST cleared some space on a bench. I pulled out my sleeping bag, bivvy and mat, climbed in and drifted off to sleep. A couple of hours had passed by the time I had warmed up enough to safely continue, a most welcome coffee was handed to me and stepped out of Hut 1 to be greeted by an incredible sunrise. I took the codeine tablet I had been given, and set about heading to Hut 2. It was on this section that the world took on an abstract feel. I’m not used to taking any painkillers stronger than paracetamol, and the codeine combined with my tiredness altered my ability to perceive time properly, I’d look at my watch and it would be 9am, then what seemed like an hour later, I’d look at it again and it would be 9:05am. This continued until I just folded. I sat down and contemplated whether I would ever make it off the mountain. As I was sitting there, disorientated, trying to eat cold rice, along came John. “Are you okay?” he asked me. “Nope, I’m fucked,” I replied, and that’s about as much as I can remember from the initial exchange. However, John took it upon himself to get me to Hut 2 and by doing so seriously slowed him down and compromised his finish time. As the sanctuary of the hut came into sight John bid his farewell and headed off to the finish, leaving me humbled and grateful for his selfless support.
At Hut 2 the medic, Dave, took a look at me and asked whether he could just check me over. Naturally I agreed, and once he’d done I ate, I drank tea and I slept, not necessarily in that order. I got my kit together and prepared for the last seven miles to the finish. But I had the sense that something was amiss. Dave sat down and told me he was concerned about my condition. He had identified the start of an infection and had serious doubts about whether I should finish, and suggested it might be sensible to call it a day and head down off the mountain.
I sat there in disbelief. I had come so far, I had suffered so much pain to get to the end and now, just seven paltry miles from Kirk Yetholm, there was a chance that I would be evacuated from the mountain and not complete the race. Desperation kicked in. I had spent the last 250 miles problem-solving, managing my deteriorating physiology, pushing through the pain, I didn’t feel unwell, there must be another option. This wasn’t going to be my Spine story. We discussed some options and spoke with race control, agreeing that I would stay at Hut 2 a while longer, take some paracetamol and see whether my condition would improve enough to allow me to continue. After another 30 minutes, it was agreed that I could carry on, and with relief I headed off onto the last section. My feet and ankles were wrecked, my shoulders trashed, but I had only seven miles of this sufferfest left and then it would all be over.
As I hit the road section I was met by some friends who had travelled to see me finish. Together we walked towards the Border Hotel. This was it! I was going to make it. The last couple of miles were fabulous and as my entourage peeled off to allow me to enjoy the finish on my own I even managed to jog the last few metres. In keeping with tradition I kissed the wall, received my medal and then was promptly dispatched to Borders General Hospital.
10 days later I was discharged.
Header image courtesy John Bamber