Day 19. Alarm goes off. It’s still dark outside. Headlamp’s dead. Watch is on 12 percent. Shoes are wet from yesterday. Good start. Plug the headlamp in. Can’t find the other cable. There are 47 cables in this house and none of them fit the fucking headlamp. Fuck Bradley. Fuck my shoes. Fuck this hill and its endless views. Fuck charging headlamps every night. Fuck starting in the dark just to earn the right to do it all again tomorrow. I stand outside waiting for the watch. “Locating satellites.” Come on. “Locating satellites.” They can take a photo of my house from space but apparently they can’t find me standing in my own fucking driveway. Eventually it buzzes. Ready. I’m not. First climb feels bad. Second climb feels worse. By the third I’m bargaining with the universe. If I finish this lap, I’ll be a better person. I’ll stretch. I’ll foam-roll. I’ll stop eating dinner over the sink. None of that’s true. Fuck Bradley. Fuck my shoes. Fuck this hill and its endless views. Fuck the satellites floating in space. My watch says zero vert and a stationary pace. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck every hill on the fucking map. Halfway up, an 80-year-old man comes past me. Beige shorts. Old polo shirt. Hands behind his back. Not even dressed for exercise. He says, “Morning.” I say, “Morning.” But what I mean is: How the fuck are you doing that? He keeps walking. Calm as anything. No poles. No gels. No carbon-plated trail shoes. Just two original knees and somewhere important to be. I try to stay with him. Terrible decision. He drops me before the corner, then stops at the top to look at the view. I arrive 4 minutes later making the sort of noise that usually brings livestock running. He asks, “You alright, mate?” Yeah. Just doing a challenge. “Nineteen hundred metres today.” He nods. “Bit silly.” Correct. Fuck Bradley. Fuck my shoes. Fuck this. Fuck charging headlamps. Fuck the satellites. And fuck that 80-year-old man walking up the hill faster than me. Nothing personal, mate. But fuck you specifically. The watch finally ticks over. 1,900 metres. I stop it immediately before one of the satellites changes its mind. Upload activity. Day 19 complete. Everyone in the comments says: “Absolutely loving this challenge!” Liars. Every single one of them. I take my shoes off. Put the headlamp back on charge. Look at tomorrow’s number. Two thousand metres. Fuck Bradley.
