A few years ago I was on a zoom call at work and one of my colleagues mentioned that her friends were doing the London to Brighton ultra challenge. I didn’t even know this was a thing, and after a hasty burst of research, the idea was stuck in my head. Within a few weeks had signed up to give it a try.

I half heartedly mentioned it to a couple of my friends but it got very little traction, and honestly for some reason I thought it was something I would want to do by myself. I’m still not sure why; my friends and I hike together all the time, as I’m writing this we’ve done 18 x 20 mile hikes in the last decade plus numerous other smaller walks too (all documented in meticulous detail on this very blog). But I was determined, I could do this by myself.

As it turned out, at the eleventh hour my uncle got wind of this challenge, and being a similar sort of lunatic, expressed the desire to join me. As soon as we did the challenge it became clear to me that if he hadn’t come too, I wouldn’t have finished it. It was excellent, but so gruelling.

Now the problem with these challenges is once they’ve got their claws into you, they’re never letting go. And I don’t just mean psychologically. I mean tailored ads, mailings lists, all the sort of stuff one needs to be gently persuaded to maybe consider one again even though last time you swore that was it forever.

I shared a few of the options with the hiking core crew and Mat got very excited. Before I knew it, he was inviting people too. Before long we had a crew of seven determined to give the Jurassic Coast Challenge a try.

The enormity of the task ahead of us – combined with how badly I struggled the year before – inspired us to come up with some serious training treks, and we ended up doing five training hikes of approximately twenty miles each, covering locations such as Langston Harbour, the Knepp Estate, and the Hambleden hills. We bought hiking poles (something I hadn’t bothered with on London to Brighton until the end) and learned to use them. We bought bladders and appreciated the value of staying properly hydrated (as well as the value of finding convenient woodland places to nip to the bathroom). We found a decent looking Airbnb that could accommodate us all in Bridport about ten metres from the beach. We were ready.

The night before the challenge began we registered at the challenge, checked in at the Airbnb, went for dinner, and then packed our final bits. Impressed by how close the Airbnb is to the beach, I tell Rob that first thing Monday I’m going to stand in the sea while I drink my first tea of the day. Arran arrives short on supplies, having had a break in the night before and having hastily packed. There’s a moment of horror when we realise Rob has forgotten the top part of his bladder, rendering it useless, and we all scramble to find additional water bottles for him to carry. (It was, apparently, on top of the microwave. Which is good to know but not tremendously helpful).

I never sleep before hikes and ultras are the worst. Before London to Brighton I managed about 90 minutes, this time I grabbed a far more satisfying 3 hours and 20 minutes before the 5am alarm, and we headed off to get the transfers needed to get us to the start (which I won’t go into detail about because honestly they’re really useful to have but boring to read about).

What you want to read about is the challenge starting, right? So we’re guided into this pen, given a very wholesome dance themed warm up (Mat and I loved it, the others looked somewhere between indifferent and furious), count down to the 8:30 start time and then finally we’re off (after lots of shuffling as we get past the start line)!

The first few minutes are really quite cramped as we head off through a few fields and pathways, and naturally it starts to rain so we stop to get the waterproofs out, immediately getting overtaken by everyone around us, and losing the crowd, which is quite nice actually. Mike leaves the group in the first ten minutes of setting off to go for a wee, which is a habit he becomes remarkably consistent in maintaining over the course of the challenge.

Our route leads us under Corfe Castle, which was built by William the Conqueror (you might have heard of him) in the 11th century. It’s a visually stunning sight, and a lovely way to start our journey.

As we leave the coincidentally named village of Corfe Castle we immediately realise our mistake combining layers with waterproofs as the elevation kicks in and become a hot sweaty mess, but once we get our attire sorted we’re on our way, climbing high up over the hills that look down at the valley below, the steam train from the Swanage heritage railway occasionally passing through the valley (although not enough for Rob’s liking).

This stunning route eventually lowers us down into the Ulwell Holiday Park, where Jen and I once spent a week on holiday. I have very fond memories of reading the last Game of Thrones book there while drinking cider in 2012 and hoping George RR Martin would release the next book before the show caught up with him. Or at all, would be nice.

Just before Swanage we reach our first rest stop of seven, where we break for a snack and a reflection of the walk’s start before we’re off again. There’s not too much to say about this stop really given how early it was in the hike, and it’s fair to say none of us needed it at this point, but the pastries were nice and it’s always good to top up the water.

The route then led through Swanage, which is nice but honestly no one likes walking through towns on a hike; it’s just weird and you feel like you’re dressed like an idiot when you’re back in civilisation. The route then leads uphill once more towards Worth Maltravers and loops us back to the second rest stop at Corfe Castle (both village and structure) where a strangely purgatorial feeling sets in the closer we get to where we started.

The second rest stop provides lunch and I’m pretty happy with the food on offer (in addition to sandwiches, fruit and crisps they have proper satsumas as opposed to those weird easy peelers). Most of the team get to work on their first sock change and we’re treated to a visit from Becky, Mike’s wife, and their daughters Sophie and Maisie. We take a bit longer here but it’s a worthwhile break to get ourselves sorted.

Leaving the second rest stop we’re almost immediately treated to an amazing uphill climb near Church Knowle that takes us up onto the Purbeck Ridge Path.

The Ridge is, quite frankly, bloody stunning. It runs for miles with views as far as the eye can see in both directions. It’s sunny but not too hot, and everyone is in a good mood as the path gently rises and lowers over the hills. If the whole thing had been like this we would have had no problems.

A short while later Mat gets a call from his wife, Hannah, who cryptically tells him to turn around. He does and she’s a short distance behind us, having driven down to support him for the weekend. He is, of course, absolutely delighted.

We carry on and walk for a few more miles, the group splitting into smaller units and regrouping on and off as comes naturally. One of the nice things about the Ultra challenges is meeting new people and we all end up chatting to various groups as we go, including a very nice lady who apparently has a decent side hustle selling pictures of her feet online. I could do the same after this walk, but only to medical journals or horror effects enthusiasts.

We hear a crack and looking behind, see the sky above us is black. It’s likely to start raining any minute now, and we make our way down some of the steepest descent we’ve ever faced. It’s so sharp it’s almost comical, and the air is filled with the sounds of hikers giggling as they try a range of ways to handle getting downhill, from walking in a zig zag (and nearly bashing into one another), walking like Mr Soft from those Softmints adverts that used to freak me out as a kid, or in some cases even jogging down (I tried this, would recommend).

The further we descend, the higher the next hill seems, and the more the rain slowly starts to make its presence known.

At the base of both hills we pause to regroup, hastily throwing on our waterproofs as the rain comes. We do one of those hands-in huddle things before ascending – it was meant to be ironic but the hill is so intimidating that we do it sincerely – and as the storm begins, we start to climb.

I heard another participant refer to this monster as Heart Attack Hill and I can certainly see why. The ascent was like nothing we’d ever done before, made all the harder as the rain intensified. Everyone set off at their own pace, with Arran storming ahead, Swatty, Rob and I moving in a similar pace behind, and Mike, Clyde and Mat coming next.

If we’re hoping for respite when we reach the top we don’t get it; the storm is worse than ever, with thunder cracking loudly over our heads, reminding us that we’re incredibly exposed and carrying metal poles too. The rain couldn’t possibly get any worse, and yet it does, the track rising and the descending, and becoming more and more water logged.

The rain decides to adopt a new strategy here and tries striking from the side, all the better to get into our hoods. Then it turns to hail, because at this point why not. The sun glows sickly behind sepia clouds.

The whole thing is borderline apocalyptic and really quite incredible. Everyone is marching at their own pace now and when I catch up with Swatty for a bit I tell him this is greatest and worst thing I’ve ever experienced and he wholeheartedly agrees. It’s fair to say we’ve lost the plot by this point.

As if things couldn’t possibly get any better, as the hill descends the chalk path turns into a stream, and with the grass bank too slippery to walk on anymore, we are forced to walk a considerable stretch of it in ankle deep water. Splendid.

Finally, as Swatty, Rob and I reach the bottom, as if on cue the rain stops and finally the sun breaks through. We take what we refer to as a soggy selfie and later check the time of that picture against the ones at the base of the hill: the whole thing took fifty minutes.

Finally leaving the hills we enter the village of West Lulworth. If we’re hoping this will be drier we’re as foolish as we are soaked; the road has completely flooded, to the extent that water is entering some front doors. We’re left with no choice but to cross, with pretty entertaining results.

A small ascent out of West Lukworth into some farmland and a pretty sunset gets us to rest stop three, where Hannah meets us once more and our hearts collectively break as we realise how wet our bags are.

They are soaked. Almost everything in them is drenched, certainly all our changes of clothes, and I die a little inside as I wring significant amounts of water from the hoodie and towel, both of which I needed for the next, night time stretch.

The challenge has been well organised until now but in some ways the wheels did come off a bit here. The storm has clearly taken everyone by surprise; there are mass drop outs, and some of the staff announce that there is the option to take people to the next rest stop (the halfway point, where the people doing the challenge over two days are camping) but for us guys doing the continuous challenge, there’s little point. Worse, given the time (9pm or so) we’re starving and there’s very little food, especially for those with dietary requirements. Even the pot noodles have gone and at best there’s only a few biscuits and hot drinks to tide us over. For vegans, the only food choice is a cup of tea. Morale is at an all time low.

And yet we’re not done. We want to see this through, weather and warmth be damned. We use the silver blankets the organisers have provided us with to whip up some improvised insulation and before we know it the boys have created a range of silver capes, ponchos and jacket liners.

Hannah kindly offers to source us some clothes that aren’t reflective and heads off (the local area was not accommodating despite a sterling effort) and we in turn decide to resume, donning our head torches and glow sticks and vanishing into the night.

The night section of ultras are weird. They’re fun at first in a night-hike-with-the-scouts kinda way, and it’s entertaining looking out for the next glow stick and the one after that to guide your way, and occasionally spotting nocturnal wildlife, but the novelty wears off soon enough. You’re spending so much time looking at where to put your feet that delights such as the night sky broadly go unnoticed.

It probably didn’t help that early on we reached Durdle Door, the beloved limestone arch, but could only see its silhouette in the darkness. Our route after that involved more hills and elevation, made harder to tackle with such poor visibility.

Worse, the battery on my head torch died after about an hour and a half, leaving me with Mat’s (kindly donated) bike light that I had to hold, making it harder to hydrate or walk with poles, which are incredibly useful on the uneven ground (take Arran’s word for it, he got taken out by a tree root that caught his foot as he was walking, although to be fair I’m not sure the poles would’ve saved him). This all sounds trivial, but believe me after the last few hours this stuff adds up.

It’s around here that we finally reach halfway as we see the 50km sign. It’s a welcomed sight, but doesn’t lift my spirits as much as I would’ve hoped.

My own personal saviour at my 50km dark time is Swatty, who asks “Do you want some reasons to be cheerful?” and explains to me why he’s doing this walk for the Junior Diabetes Research Fund, about how his son was diagnosed with type one diabetes at three years old, and how brave he’s been getting through it. It’s a fascinating, inspiring chat that completely pulls my head out of my arse and compels me to keep going.

It probably helps that around this point we left the hills for a while and the path opened out into a level track that enabled me to put the torch away and rely on the others’ light (there’s probably a metaphor for the last few hours here).

At some point – and I might have my chronology wrong here, things are starting to blur in the memory – we pass a residential street and see two occupied parked cars. One was definitely not filled with drug dealers, the other definitely didn’t have a couple being inappropriate in. Both did, however, provide unintentional entertainment, so we’re grateful to them for that. Certainly more appreciative than to the competitor we saw who kept trying to tell us what was ahead. I’m sure they were trying to be helpful, but we can do this ourselves, thanks.

Another stretch of hills ensues and Rob reaches his own dark place. He’s absolutely tapped out and still has a few miles to go before rest stop 4. In some ways it’s harder for him than us; unlike the rest of us he signed up to do the halfway challenge, and there’s something about knowing the end is in sight that makes the last few miles all the longer. It’s also worth calling out that due to the position of rest stops, half of 100km is apparently 58km. We take his bag from him, get him to drink as much as he can and take it one step at a time, and slowly he comes around, regaining his energy as we approach Weymouth. A natural divide in the group emerges owing to energy levels but we crack on, undeterred.

The hills end and our last stretch before the halfway point is a primarily a beachfront promenade where Rob, Clyde and I manage to regain some of our lost pace. We enter the park where the rest stop is based to little fanfare (its way after 2am by this point) and Rob concludes his ultra challenge.

Rejoining the others, we’re dismayed to see what remains of the food options, although maybe they were more appealing earlier in the day; the thought of eating anything at 3am is pretty abhorrent, we would all prefer sleep. I know as a celiac Clyde had to actually wake one of the attendants to see what food was gluten free, as for some reason nothing was labelled.

One saving grace of this stop was that we had left halfway bags here, either booking through the extras or in Rob’s car, and although it was cold and we had no way of getting properly dry, having a change of clothes – dry ones at that – did us a world of good.

Well, some of us. Unfortunately Clyde’s halfway bag didn’t have enough for him to change into, and feeling the cold on his chest, the ultra has absolutely done him in. He’s seriously unwell by this point, trembling, and there’s no way he can continue and decides to retire. Although he comes down hard on himself for it, it is however worth calling out that he had walked 58km already, by far his personal best and far longer than any of the organised hikes we’d done before. After Rob wakes from his power nap they both depart, and we’re incredibly sorry to lose them both.

Mike is also tempted to leave, but Mat fortunately talks him out of it, reminding him he’ll hate himself for it later. He agrees to stay on, for now.

Shortly before we leave Mat tells me he spoke with one of the Marshalls and got a medal and t-shirt for Clyde; he’d completed the halfway challenge after all, and should celebrate that, saying he’d give them to him at the end. It’s an incredibly considerate thought which for some reason I found really moving.

But it was time to resume, and with the dawn just starting to break, the remaining five of us departed the rest stop for Weymouth.

Our pace is pretty impressive as we head off, driven by clean clothes and the promise of a new day. I remember when doing London to Brighton the previous year I didn’t feel any better when dawn came, worse if anything, but this time around it comes as a huge relief. The route leads us along the sea front, and we pass a guy sleeping on the beach and some girls who absolutely should’ve been in bed at this time, one of whom slurs “I wish I had the energy to do that.”

We loop around the harbour and up some stairs into a nicely landscaped public park, where Mat decides to reapply Vaseline to his more intimate areas, seeing as no one is around at 5am.

As we ascend higher we see the sun rise, pausing for a moment to appreciate the start of a new day as we set off.

Our route turns decidedly residential here, and it’s weird walking through streets at this time; when it’s light but no one is up yet. We encounter a couple of dog walkers but that’s about it.

Before long we come to the fifth rest stop at Wyke Regis. Set next to a campsite and only 8km after the halfway stop it feels a little premature and not really required, but we’re finally able to get our pot noodles… and then remember why we don’t normally eat pot noodles. Ah well, at least I use the time to keep my 462 day Duolingo streak going.

Mike’s crisis deepens, and we convince him that this stop is no place to drop out – if he can get to the next one at Abbotsbury at 82km he can claim the 3/4 medal, but also at 82km in it’s only 18km to the end.

“Only.” We may come to regret that.

From Wyke Regis we go round the back of some military base, a friendly soldier on guard having a brief chat with us, and soon after we’re passed by clusters of runners doing the two day challenge and have caught up with us.

One nice thing about the second day of the challenge – and there’s not much other than it finishing – is how nice everyone is to those of us doing the continuous challenge. Over the remainder of the challenge we will be told repeatedly that they don’t know how we’re doing it. We don’t know how we’re doing it either, and would rather not think about it too much in case the wheels come off.

The military route leads to a beach, which is nice to see from sea level for a change as opposed to from the cliff tops.

From there it’s another mix of roads and cross country. At one point we cross what I think was a holiday park, where a Marshall politely and preemptively warns us to be quiet as residents have complained about the noise before. We pause for a few minutes to tape up Mike’s feet and then cross a few more hills before we reach Abbotsbury, our sixth stop.

It took a lot longer than I’m describing here, but the second day is a strange beast; we’re all pretty tired and now the scenery is so much more level it’s hard to create milestones in your mind beyond the rest stops and any photos taken, and funnily enough the desire to take photos diminishes significantly on day two. Hopefully I’ve got the point across. It was certainly long enough that I realised a few miles from the rest stop that I had drank my bladder dry.

Rest stop 6 is meant to be breakfast, but we arrive around 11am, our timings all over the place by this point. We don’t care. We just want to finish the bloody thing. Arran’s knees are nailed by now, and he’s forcing himself on with a limping gait, refusing to quit.

Hannah, Becky, Sophie and Maisie join us for the Abbotsbury rest stop, where we’re all taking stock and handling repairs. Personally the blisters are coming in thick and fast (after the storm they were inevitable for me with trail shoes) so I’m liberally applying tape to anywhere I can stick it to. Fortunately for me I have an assistant in Sophie, Mike’s eldest, who seems to take great delight in shuttling each and every piece of the tape’s discarded backing material to the bin for me. I’m really grateful for the distraction, but finally there’s no putting it off any longer, it’s time to head off for the last 18km, with only one more rest stop before the end.

The main concern now (other than feet, energy and all that good stuff) is the heat. The sun is shining brightly, there’s barely a cloud in the sky, and our route is incredibly exposed as we walk along the base of some hills and then down a road running parallel to the beach.

You know when you’ve walked 85km and you could just do with an easy few miles, but instead the race organisers decide to send you along a shingle beach where your feet can’t get any purchase, and you basically slow to a crawl, thighs, calves and the soles of your feet burning? For three kilometres? Don’t you hate that?

We certainly did.

No one had a good time in this stretch. It sort of became funny because of how ridiculous it was, then stopped being funny, then was funny again, at least in my mind. Swatty nicely articulated it as “Day one was the best hike ever. Day two is the worst,” and I can’t fault his logic here. This sapped every ounce of our resolve. We suddenly understood why the organisers had (inexplicably until now) put another rest stop 5km from the end. We now craved reaching it.

As soon as we left the beach the soles of our feet felt like they were on fire, and it took a while before this passed. Where the path led us next was full of boisterous young cows, many of whom were curious about the masses of people limping by them. I think we were all too tired to tell whether they wanted to play or were being aggressive and took no chances here.

The heat continued to persist, but given where in the day we were, we found ourselves surrounded by all sorts of challengers, from other continuous walkers, to those doing it over two days, to those doing day two only. We were able to share in our collective misery and trade war stories as we went. I’m so tired by this point I’m telling people about Heartbreak Hill (not Heart Attack Hill) and getting polite but confused nods back.

A short while before the final rest stop we see Swatty’s family arrive and we chat to them and Hannah for a while, but we’re all mindful that to stop for too long might mean not resuming at all. We bear down and march to the final rest stop at Burton Bradstock.

Despite the hazy memory that persists over large portions of day two, this last rest stop is very clear to me. It was all about getting the bladders filled, soaking our neck gaiters and putting them round our heads, eating whatever can give us energy to finish, and getting on. No point changing the socks, I wouldn’t get my shoes back on again if I did. One member of staff tells the lads about the number of continuous challengers who have finished already, but we’re tired and grumpy and don’t think his maths holds water. I remember one lady asking me as someone doing the continuous challenge how I feel, and me replying I felt euphoric, tearful and sick. It was definitely time to get going. Last push.

The last 5km of course feels like 15km, and consists of some hills which look far steeper than they were on the elevation chart. Two in particular are really brutal and one goes on forever, both up and then down. I’ve tried my best not to count the miles as we go and just focus on the walking, but since the 85th kilometre there’s been lots of observations like “less than 10 miles to go… less than 10k to go,” and so on.

A particularly harsh blow to the confidence is delivered when a competitor in front of us is on the phone to a friend of hers. I hear her friend ask “Are there any fit men around?” She looks around, sees us, I shake my head and she says to her friend, “Nah.”

Hey, you try looking like Chris Hemsworth after a total of 3 hours sleep over 3 days and 98km walked, mate.

We follow the path down and suddenly we’re back in civilisation and on the 99th kilometre. We just have to hold on.

We walk past a pub’s beer garden where a musician is singing and playing violin. The audience gives us a huge cheer as we pass which moves us all, but also gives us another push. We’re nearly there now.

Round the corner from the finish we see Rob and Clyde have come to meet us, and the whole crew reunited, they escort us towards the finish line, the air full of cheers and celebration. Swatty and Mike’s kids join their dads to cross the finish line, and Hannah, Kayleigh and Becky cheer us on as we reach the end.

We cross the finish line and receive our medals and basically after that everyone completely falls apart. Either we don’t know what to do with ourselves and are pacing around, or dropping to the floor, or the emotion gets too much. The sense of euphoria is ridiculous. There are tears, I won’t say from who.

The post finish experience consists of mostly searching for food, taking bags off, taking advantage of the excellent free massages and so on. Mat touchingly gives Clyde his t-shirt and medal and more hugging ensues. We find the adrenaline and euphoria is enough for us to eat, chat and head back, but some wobbles occur – Mat looked like he was going to faint while waiting for his burger and annoyingly they had again run out of gluten free burgers.

Swatty is taken home by his family (after lots of sweaty hugs from us) and the rest of us head back to the Airbnb. It’s not especially long before we all pass out.

The next morning I wake after a very satisfying sleep and, true to my word, have my tea in the sea.

A short while later we convene for a well earned fried breakfast and a final group shot, Swatty added in post because we couldn’t bear to leave him out.

And then our fellowship, though eternally bound by friendship and love, was ended.

Unless we do one again later. They’re saying no now, but I can convince ‘em…