Our inspiring customer, Lee Heley, took on the jaw dropping 268 miles of the Summer Spine race. His recount of this race is a great read and we congratulate him in this awesome adventure.
The Summer Spine Race covers 264 miles of the Pennine Way, running from its start in Derbyshire to its end in Scotland. It is the (slightly) less brutal June version of the Winter Spine held in January. I completed the race in 130 hours and 12 minutes. A hundred hours moving, 30-ish hours dwell-time. Just under five and a half days. I came in fiftieth of 102 finishers and 158 starters. Okay, very pedantic aside: yes, you may have heard the Pennine Way is 268 miles. It is. But no Spiner does the four-mile out-and-back up the Cheviot at the end, so the Spine race is actually 264 miles. I wanted to do the Spine because I’d walked the Pennine Way with my dad when I was 11, back in the 1980s. My sister did it too. It’s part of our family history. When I got into running just before and during lockdown, the idea of running the Pennine Way became an obsession. I wanted to do it before I even knew the Spine Race existed. I did the Spine Sprint (43 miles) in 2021 and the Challenger South (110 miles) in 2022. The effort in that race put me off for a year, and a lucky London Marathon ballot place knocked me out in 2024. So, I booked the Full Summer Spine for 2025. Training started in January with 40 then 50 mile weeks, motivated by my coach, Jim Dodsworth. I added three long, slow days towards the end: a 34-mile hiking recce from Hardraw, a 50-mile solo fast-pack over the Cheviots at night, and 50 miles on a backyard ultra I organise from my house—with Jim and running club friends. The Spine is different to most races. You can ultra-shuffle much of a 100-miler—hike the climbs, walk the later descents, and finish in 24 hours. At the front end competitors just keep running to finish in 14–15 hours. But 264 miles is too far to do that. The Summer Spine record is 70 hours 46 minutes —less than four mph. My pace, once you include stops, was two mph. So, the challenge isn’t speed or fitness—it’s endurance. Can you keep going while your body and mind break down over days? Endurance isn’t just about pushing through pain—it’s about holding onto what makes you happy, even when it hurts. What I loved about the Spine was the people. On day one over Kinder Scout, I chatted with a lot of Spiners—sharing why we were doing this mad thing—and then one of us would push on. I met Andy Kirk at sunrise after night one. We stayed together until the end. Later, we both met Matt Pilgrim as it got dark leaving Low Way Farm (Checkpoint 3) at the start of day four. The three of us made it to Kirk Yetholm together. That company made all the difference—to my mood, to my mind, and, without a decent GPS watch, to my navigation. I loved the intensity. I didn’t sleep at all the first night. After that, I slept around three hours a night for four nights, plus the odd nap. That level of sleep deprivation gives everything a strange, heightened feeling—like standing in the kitchen at 2AM at a party: enthused, emotional, and functional… just. Spooling out quirky thoughts and long anecdotes from some deep cupboard at the back of my mind. I loved the jeopardy. I genuinely didn’t know if I’d finish—at least not until the last day. That uncertainty was a huge motivator, driving me over each hill and through each village. And I loved the scenery. It was misty on day one over Kinder Scout and day three on Fountains Fell, but otherwise it was bright and beautiful: heather, peat moorland, vast landscapes. We were like tiny mites crawling across the fur of some giant brown beast lying across the middle of England. Some moments were unforgettable: Looking down from High Cup Nick at 4 AM, light rising, mist drifting through the bowl of the valley like God had scooped it out with an ice cream spoon. Gazing out across green farmland to the Lakeland Wainwrights from the top of Cross Fell. Toiling in hot sun up and down along Hadrian’s Wall, sheer drops to our left, a wide plain stretching into the distance. Clambering up the boulders alongside Cauldron Snout at 2AM, lit by our head torches, water thundering down next to us. I also loved overtaking people. I’m not proud of it, but it woke up my competitive streak. On day one I pushed from mile 15 to Checkpoint 1 at 43 miles. Hiking hard up hills, I passed other runners and got a quiet thrill each time. But the Spine is hard. I didn’t enjoy all of it. The pain came early. My feet went at 30 miles. My knee and hip at 40. First came heel blisters. My Trailflys were just a bit too big. I knew this from a recce and should’ve switched shoes. You pay for your mistakes on the Spine. Both heels hurt for the remaining 234 miles. Then the knee and hip pain. Around mile 40, just before Stoodley Pike, I jogged downhill and it felt like someone drove a pin into my left knee. At Checkpoint 1, the medic said my IT band was aggravated from downhill running with the pack. It connects the hip to the knee—hence both hurting. What’s the solution? I asked. “Rest,” she said. Eighteen runners dropped out there. Well over fifty Spiners would DNF. Maybe they were wise. I hiked. But even that wasn’t enough. Along the valley to Malham, the pain came back. At Malham Tarn (Checkpoint 1.5), another medic said, “Take paracetamol. Try and get to Horton.” So I powered up Fountains Fell. But it hurt descending. I cried into the wind and at the curlews and nightingales, thinking I wouldn’t finish. At the top of Pen-y-Ghent, I tried everything to get down: shuffling, backwards, slow steps—nothing worked. It was over. There was too far left to go to take that much pain. At the bottom, I met a retired man in his seventies walking the Pennine Way. We chatted. Our poles clicked in sync. The the pain stopped, even as the slope steepened. Somehow, by copying his ‘march’—leaning back slightly—I found a gait that didn’t strain the IT band. That man saved my race. I picked up Andy again at Horton. We marched 16 miles to Hawes and Checkpoint 2. As we reached the village, Andy called his wife. I called Sam. “Bit of a niggle earlier,” I said. “But it’s all good now. We’re having a great time.” Getting the very long list of mandatory kit was hard. The Summer Spine WhatsApp group and MyRaceKit shop in Southend sorted me out. And of course I put on a new pair of wild HappyStrides shorts at each checkpoint, sparking a lot of comments. Organising and carrying the damn kit was hard too. My 20kg kitbag met me at checkpoints to resupply the 8–10kg pack I carried. I had a to-do list and checkpoint-specific bags. Even so, I barely made the six-hour cutoff each time. A volunteer at Hardraw (Checkpoint 2) had to throw me out with a minute to spare. I never knew where the time went. I struggled with names and faces. It was embarrassing. I didn’t recognise Andy Kirk when we met at a support tent, and then chatted on the Way. We’d already met on a recce by chance, coming down Great Shunner Fell. And I was convinced Gilly —who I saw three times in the race — was three different women, despite her distinctive Liverpool accent and vanlife paragliding stories. Maybe it was sleep deprivation. I only had 12 or so. But I’ve never been good with names or faces. Now, the suit. I turned up to kit check in my work suit, and that photo became my dotwatching image. Then I packed the shirt, tie, and trousers in my 20kg bag. At Bellingham (Checkpoint 5), I moved them into my race pack—for the final 43 miles. Matt, Andy and I walked together over the Cheviots on the last day to Hut 2. Matt’s knee wouldn’t bend. He had flapping skin on the soles of his feet. Andy’s ankle was swollen. My heels were wrecked and the soles of my feet were on fire from days on flagstones. We looked down at the final hut from the top of the Schil. It was a steep descent. We trudged down in silence, feeling our legs and feet screaming. I felt wretched, close to tears; trapped in the thick tar at the bottom my soul. At Hut 2, I changed. Shirt. Tie. Suit trousers. Tightened the belt. There wasn’t much left of me. This was it. Three miles to the border. Four to the finish. “What are you going for in that suit?” Andy asked. “Casual insouciance,” I said. “I want to look calm and relaxed. I want to make it look easy.” Matt said: “One thing. Don’t finish next to the guy in fancy dress. Everyone regrets that.” So we spaced out. I went first. I called Sam a mile or so from the finish. My running buddies were watching the finish line live stream. The pain lifted. I stashed my poles and held my race-pouch in my hand like a document file. I strolled the final stretch under the finish arch, like it was my first day at work. My dad, mum and sister were waiting at the end, as they were in the beginning. I kissed the wall of the Border Hotel. It was done. The Spine is too much. Too much time. Too much pain. Too much preparation and too much expectation. Too much emotion. That’s why I loved it. That’s why it’s the most important race I’ll ever do.
