My Five Peaks Challenge

If someone told you to climb a mountain I’m sure most people would say it’s hard, but doable. If someone told you to climb two mountains in two days I’m sure most people would say that’s incredibly hard, but probably okay. But if someone told you that you had to climb five mountains and that you only had 48 hours to complete them all, including travel time, I’m sure most people would tell them exactly how stupid they are, before going back about their day whilst muttering under their breath how mad that very idea was. I’m not most people, clearly. A friend of mine mentioned that he was planning an Ultra challenge of climbing all five of the highest peaks in the UK and Ireland within 48 hours, and asked me if I was up for it. The smart thing would’ve been to offer some sponsorship and wish him well, but before I knew it I’d said yes and booked my flights from London to Glasgow. I knew I’d need to do some training, but realistically I only had eight weeks, and as a single dad who lives in Kent I didn’t really have all that many options. I couldn’t just drop things and head to the highlands for a weekend of walking, so I had to make do with long hikes through the Kent valleys, fitting in an 18km walk in the morning followed by a 15km walk in the afternoon. I actually enjoyed these, though I knew I was missing out on the up and down nature of mountains that would be ahead of me. But it was the best I could manage, so I laced up my boots and got on with it. As the weeks progressed I gathered my gear - bought a new jacket, a headtorch bright enough to see from Mars, and a few other bits and pieces to make life easier. When the day of departure finally came I thought I was as ready as I would ever be. As true as that was, I wasn’t ready enough. The flight to Glasgow was smooth, and we picked up some vans to drive to Fort William in. There were about 30 people walking, split between a number of vans and with two drivers per van who wouldn’t be walking but who would be an absolutely vital member of the team - there was no way anyone would be able to walk those distances and stay awake to drive to the next ones. Our gear was thrown in the back and we crammed into seats barely big enough to sit in and definitely not big enough to sleep in, and set off. First up was Scotland and the UK’s highest peak; Ben Nevis . Standing at 1,345m it might not rival Everest these days, but it’s certainly more than a stroll up the slope to the shops. We set off with spirits high, but within 30 minutes I knew I was in a bit of trouble. Previous visits to the Ben had seen me take longer routes but ones which were more like paths, on which you could vary your stride length according to how much you wanted to go up with each step. The route we’d chosen was far more brutal: step after step after stone step, each of varying heights and each feeling like part of a large and never ending staircase stretching out ahead of you. At the bottom was the height of the June heatwave, which saw us sweltering and already wondering if the three litres we were each carrying would be enough. As the walk wore on, though, the temperature fell, and we slipped into a rhythm, moving almost too fast to have enough breath to talk. Many in the group were running on adrenaline and seemed to forget that we’d agreed clear finish target times, instead they were moving as if we were already several hours behind and needed to up the pace. A few walkers fell behind, and I stayed with them as I was concerned for their safety, but all of them kept trudging upwards. After a couple of hours of progress we hit the snow line and realised we were just about at the summit. Five of us were still together, and we enjoyed a very quick snack break and a sip of some whisky I’d brought with me for the occasion before heading down. Again, most of them decided to speed walk down, leaving me with one walker who found the down pace more difficult than the up pace. Still, eventually we returned to our vans, only to be told that we had about 90 seconds before we had to leave. That hadn’t been in the plan - I’d expected enough time to change and drink, but as they’d all walked ahead of us they’d been sitting and waiting for a while, so were keen to make progress. The following hours on the drive to Scafell Pike were some of the most uncomfortable of my life. Not only was the seat I was in cramped and hard, but the drivers clearly felt in a hurry, and were driving as if the spirit of Colin McCrae was in them. Every corner was felt, every roundabout was a hard brake, and not one second of sleep was had before we arrived and started our second ascent of the challenge. The 978 metres of England’s highest peak were probably my least favourite of the whole journey. There was no visibility at all, and yet again the route was mostly stone steps followed by stone steps. Imagine being on a stairmaster for 3 hours, where each step is a random height, and you might be close. The windy summit couldn’t come quickly enough, before I simply turned around and once again headed back to exactly where I’d started from, all the while asking why I was even doing this. Thirdly came probably my favourite peak of the trip, with the 1085m of Snowdon sitting as one of the most picturesque of the lot. I had previously walked up it with my son when he was 12 so knew how relatively easy it could be. But that would’ve been far too easy, of course - our team had chosen to do the Pyg route, which was once again dominated by stone steps. I stayed with them for the first half an hour, but when I stopped to catch my breath for 30 seconds the rest of them carried on, so once more I was walking alone. My thighs felt like they’d given out hours earlier and had little left in them - it was here that I realised the training I’d done just couldn’t replicate the up and down nature of what I was now dealing with. I simply trudged on at my own pace, trying to stay on the path (not always succeeding) and trying to keep as close to the target time as possible. I hit the saddle before the actual peak and saw my team walking down, telling them that I knew I had 20 minutes left before I had to start the descent so would see how close I got. I genuinely thought I was about to time out, but they told me that I’d be at the peak and back to where I was within 30 minutes, so I put on as much of a burst of speed as I could and hit the summit. The perfect view really cheered me up, and I found myself with a tiny spring in my step for the first time since before I’d set off. I made it to the van five minutes earlier than the target, and felt pretty good about it. The drive to the ferry was comparatively good - we lucked out with the traffic, and after a few hours we were walking around the ship like dazed sailors during a zombie apocalypse. Thankfully the organisers had the foresight to book us space in the lounge, complete with free snacks and the ability to have a hot meal, which I took advantage of despite it being possibly the worst cooked curry of my life. It was enjoyed along with a pint whilst watching England beat Panama in the World Cup, and followed by 90 glorious minutes of sleep in the lounge’s reclining seats. That didn’t last long enough, though, before we were once again starting another six hour drive to the 1040m of Carrauntoohil . The Irish peak was a totally different challenge - as well as the rocky road leading up to the base of it, we were faced with the Devil’s Ladder - a semi-dry waterfall of rocks which had to be climbed up using hands as well as boots, and where a slip or a loose rock could legitimately cause life-threatening situations for you and anybody below you. Once more I was walking alone, and with exhausted body and mind I was genuinely worried about what might happen. However, there was nothing to do but crack on, so I climbed each rock and boulder one at a time for the best part of an hour or more, until eventually I got up to the next level. More stone steps in a zig zag. Yay. And these were made worse by the addition of wild winds whipping hailstones so hard I needed to cover my eyes, lest they be slice open. I may be exaggerating, but not by much! The way down felt longer than ever, but at the bottom we were lucky enough to have hot food waiting for us, which was a very much needed morale boost. For the first time on the trip I wasn't one of the last ones off the mountain, and it made such a difference being able to have a restful moment out of the jostling seat of a mini-bus. Sadly, that joy was not long-lived, as we had one more drive to endure. Four hours later we fell out of the vehicle at the base of our final destination - Slieve Donard . The 850m high Northern Irish peak might not have been the highest of the lot, but after four mountains it felt a lot higher than it was. Yet again the going was up stone steps, though thankfully the weather was absolutely glorious so it was as pleasant as it was possible to be. I was exhausted and running on fumes, and my group rapidly went ahead leaving me for the final time to walk alone. Two thirds of the way up I felt ready to give up. I just didn't think my body could take any more punishment. It was only the thought of telling my kids that I'd come so close only to give up that kept me trudging on. I took to counting the steps in batches of ten - as long as it moved me forward or up it counted - and then once I'd taken a hundred steps I allowed myself a few seconds of standing still. A hundred steps came and went, then a hundred more. Then my teammates started passing me on their way down, telling me that I was less than ten minutes from the peak, and that they'd see me in the pub. I refused to let myself believe them - I'd been there before, and their ten minutes felt very different to my own - but I decided to keep moving forward until I couldn't move forward any more, ten steps at a time. And then I was there. At the top of the final peak, as the sun was approaching the ridges around me and the wind was blowing. Somehow, despite everything, I'd made it. Not one step had felt easy, but every one of the 95,000 of them had made a difference. Am I going to do it again? It's bloody unlikely. This trip humbled me somewhat, and has made me realise at the age of 45 that I can no longer take my fitness for granted. But it also surprised me in that I actually did it. Despite having several months less training in me than my peers, and the fact I'd not gone up a mountain in about seven years, I'd somehow survived the lack of sleep and the constant pain and drain to achieve something that very few people have ever done before. We'd made it round, we'd raised nearly £20k for charity, and I had another story to tell. Every part of that made it worthwhile, and I'm massively grateful that I got the chance to do it.

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