Cockbain's The Hill: Where the Summit isn't the End.

This whole thing kicked off almost a year ago, during one of those throwaway chats with Vic, you know, the kind where you’re just catching up and suddenly you’ve accidentally agreed to something outrageous. So when she floated the idea of entering The Hill, I’d love to pretend I played it cool or needed loads of convincing… but truth is, the second she mentioned a challenge nearly a year away that sounded completely heinous, I was in. No hesitation.

Fast-forward a few months and, honestly, the training wasn’t quite landing the way I’d hoped. Sure, I knocked out a 100-miler in July, but mentally and physically I still wasn’t where I wanted to be for something as savage as this. But time waits for no one, and suddenly it’s Friday 5th December, and there I am, standing on the start line of Mark Cockbain’s The Hill wondering how the hell we got here.

160 miles. 56 summits of the same hill. 48 hours to get it done.

And just to spice things up, the rules: no poles, no headphones, no crew, no pacers, no external help of any kind. All the comforting crutches we lean on in ultras? Stripped away. What’s left is the raw, uncomfortable truth of it all: running for no one but yourself.

Let me set the scene for you. It’s creeping up to 9pm on a Friday night and there are 24 of us out here, “like-minded runners” is the polite term, but let’s be honest, lunatics is far more accurate.

The rain’s been battering the place all day, the ground is completely saturated, and what used to be the best path up and down the hill has transformed into a small but enthusiastic stream. Perfect conditions for a 48-hour sufferfest, obviously.

Hoods up.

Headtorches on.

Watches ready.

We are stood around in the dark, waiting for Mark Cockbain to casually send us off into the abyss.

I’m next to Vic, who’s grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, and I’m smiling back at her while internally interrogating every life choice that brought me to this exact moment. Why did I say yes? Why didn’t I train the way I meant to? Why didn’t I follow the plan my coach so carefully set out?

The truth is… there are about a dozen reasons. Injury. Moving house. Family life. And a whole shed-load of other things that aren’t worth listing. Life got messy, as it does. But none of that matters now. Because here we are, about to start The Hill, whether I’m ready or not.

I actually did have a game plan going into this, something Vic and I had talked through either earlier that day or maybe the day before (time is already a blur at this point, and that’s before the running even starts). The plan was simple: walk the uphills, run the downhills. That’s it. Fool-proof. Or so I told myself.

I knew from the recce that I could run the whole climb if I really wanted to… but doing that for 48 hours straight? Yeah, absolutely not. Vic, being far wiser than me, insisted we do the first summit together. I’m convinced this was less about camaraderie and more about babysitting me so I didn’t tear off like an idiot. Something she may or may not have witnessed before.

So that’s what I did. Over the next few hours, I stuck to the plan: hike the ups, run the downs. Sometimes in step with other runners, sometimes completely alone but surrounded by headtorches, lost in my own little world, letting my body settle into whatever rhythm it wanted to find.

Summits ticked by. Hours ticked by. The number of headtorches on the hill slowly thinned out as people spread, drifted, quietened.

And the strangest thing? Time just… dissolved. There was no sense of minutes or hours or distance. Just the next climb, the next descent, the next trip into Halfway House to top up fluids, grab some fuel, and dish out a bit of playful abuse to the volunteers; who, by the way, took it far too well.

By the time the sun finally decided to show up, I was deep into a routine. Mechanical. Steady. And, surprisingly, feeling far more positive than I’d expected to at this stage.

Which is probably a good moment to confess something: I honestly didn’t think I’d last very long in my first Cockbain event. Not exactly the confidence you want going in… but there it is.

The Wrekin’s a bit of a local celebrity around Telford , the kind of hill that sees everything from dog walkers to families to people who definitely should’ve worn better shoes. So it shouldn’t have surprised me when, on one of my climbs, I looked up and saw a fully grown man in a dinosaur costume trudging up the path.

For a split second I genuinely thought, Right… this is it. This is the sleep deprivation kicking in already.

But a quick word with one of the volunteers confirmed that, no, I wasn’t hallucinating; the dinosaur was very real. A relief, yes. But if I’m honest, also a little disappointing. Anyone who’s danced with sleep deprivation in an ultra knows the hallucinations can be absolute comedy gold.

And the dinosaur wasn’t even the standout. Throughout the day I kept passing two blokes dressed as Santa Claus, each lugging a 34lb bergen, casually doing hill repeats for twelve hours like it was the most normal thing in the world. There I was, thinking I had signed up for something ridiculous.

This is the part where I’d love to launch into tales of epic adventure, drama, heroics, ultra-running glory. But the truth? It was far more ordinary in that uniquely brutal way ultras can be. It was grit. It was stubbornness. It was just keeping the effort steady and ticking off summit after summit, over and over again.

No fireworks. No hero moments. Just endurance in its purest, simplest form.

Somewhere along the way, probably during one of those long, quiet stretches where your brain starts negotiating with itself, I’d struck a deal with my various personalities. Get to 28 summits, the halfway mark, and we can all be happy. Job done. That was the milestone I could stand behind, the line in the sand.

But as soon as I realised I was actually going to hit 28… well, the maths goblin in my head woke up. Despite being sleep-deprived, rain-soaked, and more than a little feral, I somehow managed to string a few numbers together. I messaged Vic with my new, upgraded plan: I was going to reach 24 hours and/or 30 summits, whichever came first. In true Vic fashion, she sent back exactly what I needed: that calm, supportive, “I’ll be there when you finish” energy that makes you feel like maybe you’re not completely unhinged.

Up to this point, I was in an absolutely brilliant place. Sure, my legs were a bit sore but as the old saying goes, pain is mandatory, suffering is optional. And I wasn’t suffering. Not even close. I was actually enjoying myself… which should probably have been a warning sign in a Cockbain event.

My coach Jon messaged too, wanting to know how he could track me. I fired back a voice note, buzzing with excitement, sounding far too awake and far too cheerful for someone deep into a 48-hour hill repeat. His reply started with laughter, proper laughter, because I think even he couldn’t quite believe how “with it” I sounded.

Little did I know things were about to shift.

Thirty summits done. Back at Halfway House in under 24 hours. I came bouncing in like Tigger on caffeine, legs light, mood high, absolutely chuffed with myself. And there was Vic, waiting just like she promised.

I strode straight over to the DNF bell, hand ready to ring out my grand, triumphant “I’m done on my own terms”… and then Vic stopped me. A gentle hand, a calm voice: “Let’s go inside for a minute.”

I was not prepared for what happened next.

She asked how I felt. Fair question. Then she asked why I was stopping now. Another fair question. And I had answers; good ones, I thought. I’d had a rough 2025. I was finishing strong, finishing happy, finishing exactly how I wanted.

But the look she gave me… honestly, it could have put the fear of God into even the toughest runner out there.

Then came the tone. You know the one. A full senior drill instructor energy shift. Suddenly the room felt smaller.

“Have you given your all?”“You do know you have to give everything to a Cockbain event, right?”

It was less a chat and more an old-school dressing down, the kind you don’t forget in a hurry. By the end of it, something in my brain had flipped.

Next thing I knew, I was changing socks and shoes, refilling my pack, shouldering the weight again. And then I walked out the door, past that DNF bell, deliberately not touching it and back out onto the course.

Leaving the warmth of Halfway House behind me, tail firmly between my legs like Eeyore, but with a spark of fury in my chest. If I wasn’t going to quit on my terms, then fine, I’d push myself further than I believed I could.

Over the next three summits, everything unravelled and in spectacular contrast to how steady and uneventful the previous hours had been. It started with a sudden, sharp, searing pain in my left shin, the kind that stops you dead and forces you to rethink every step. Descending became an exercise in gritted teeth and creative swearing.

“Fine,” I told myself. “If this has to become a march-or-die scenario, then so be it. I’ll just walk.”

But the universe wasn’t finished with me.

Next came the sleep deprivation. My ascent probably looked less like an experienced ultrarunner and more like someone staggering out of a nightclub at 2 a.m. weaving, swaying, trying to convince myself I was still upright.

And then came the final gem of the trifecta: my stomach deciding it wanted to violently eject its contents for no apparent reason other than pure exhaustion. That was when I knew the countdown had started. My time out there was limited.

I messaged Vic:“Going to tag summit then stop halfway down. I am broken.”

The final descent back to Halfway House was a quiet one, solemn, reflective. A strange mix of disappointment and elation.

Because here’s the truth: I approached this event differently. I’d made a conscious effort from the very start to watch my internal monologue. To reframe. To stop the negative self-talk before it took root. Whenever someone asked how I was doing, I deliberately answered positively, not out of denial, but out of intent.

“I feel great.”

“I’m in pain but I’m not suffering.”

“I’m having a brilliant weekend.”

And saying those things out loud changed something. It became true. It anchored me. It carried me far further than I ever expected to go.

Those positive self-affirmations weren’t just fluff , they were fuel. And they played a huge part in getting me to the distance I ultimately achieved.

When I finally reached Halfway House, battered and done, I poked my head inside and told Mark Cockbain I was finished. That it wasn’t my mind quitting, my body had made the decision for me. I’d reached the point where carrying on was no longer grit, just stupidity.

But of course, in true Cockbain fashion, there was one more hurdle.

Mark looked at me and said, almost cheerfully, that I wasn’t allowed to DNF yet. Not until Vic made it back to the checkpoint.

Turns out the sadist himself had promised her he wouldn’t let me ring that bell without her there. A binding agreement, apparently. And there I was, stood half-broken, wondering what fresh torture this was supposed to be.

I’d expected pain. I’d expected fatigue. I’d expected weather, darkness, maybe even a hallucinated dinosaur or two.

But being told I had to sit and wait before I could even DNF? That was a twist even I didn’t see coming.

It wasn’t long before Vic appeared, her distinctive Huggles Robe instantly catching my eye through the doorway. She’d taken a little extra time to make sure another runner got up safely.

The moment she looked at me, I could see it in her face: she knew I was done. She could see that I’d reached my limit for this event, on this day, with this body. There was no judgement, no disappointment , just understanding.

With a soft voice, she simply said, “You can ring the bell.”

So I hobbled outside, reached for the rope of the DNF bell, and prepared to give it everything I had left , one last bit of dramatic flair to mark the end of it all.

Except… I broke it.

The clip that held the rope in place just popped clean off. Suddenly I was standing there holding a short section of rope with absolutely no bell sound to mark the moment. The volunteers tried and failed to hide their giggles.

Thankfully it was a quick fix, and with the rope reattached, I gave it a gentle, sheepish ring. And that was it. My event was officially over.

A strange mix of relief, pride, and absolute exhaustion washed over me but more than anything, there was a quiet certainty: I’d given everything I had on the day. And that was enough.

When the bell rang, properly, the second time , it marked more than the end of my attempt at The Hill. It marked the end of a year that, for me, had been heavy, complicated, and far from perfect. I didn’t come into this event with flawless training, perfect prep, or peak confidence. I came in human, a bit battered, a bit unsure, a bit stubborn.

And somehow, that made what I achieved feel even bigger.

Cockbain events strip you back to the core. No distractions, no crutches, no comfort. Just you, your thoughts, and whatever you’ve got left in the tank. And on that hill, in the rain and the dark and the mud-stream of a path, I found out that I had more grit, more calm, and more positivity than I realised.

I’m proud of what I did out there.Not because it was perfect, it wasn’t. Not because I finished because I didn’t. But because I kept showing up for summit after summit, hour after hour, choosing to stay positive, choosing to keep going until my body genuinely drew the line.

And I’m proud because I didn’t walk away feeling defeated. I walked away feeling… complete. Happy.Strangely fulfilled.

A few thank yous are needed:

To Vic for the support, the tough love, the drill-sergeant interrogation, and for knowing exactly what I needed at every stage.

To the volunteers  for standing in the cold, taking my banter, and patching the bell I literally broke.

To Jon, my coach for creating a program that has made me stronger.

To the other runners  the Santas, the dinosaur, the quiet headtorches in the distance — you all added to the magic.

And to myself for once ,for staying positive, staying present, and giving everything I had.

This wasn’t the finish I once imagined…but it was the finish I needed.

And I’ll be back.

Maybe not tomorrow.

Maybe not next week.

But The Hills hasn’t seen the last of me.