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I have tackled this ass about face but with good reason.  I wanted to complete the event before I pestered you for donations.  Actually there's no point being dyslexic unless you do somethings backwards.  

Only a handful of people who start the Welsh 3000 complete it.  I was pretty sure I was going to be one of the many on the hard shoulder.  On the day we did the event, out of hundreds that started, less than ten finished.  

I'm half way through life's innings, all that is left of the reasonably sturdy twenty year old is my mouth.  Where once there was a bag of grit, there is now an empty space.  I don't know what happens in the next forty years but there won't be any more of this sort of thing.  Frankly it's miserable and if misery equals fund raising appeal then put your hand in your pocket. 

I have chosen a dyslexia charity for a few reasons.  They need money to change the name dyslexia.  It's too difficult for the sufferers of this problem to spell.  We might need to raise quite a bit to achieve that.  Secondly, the Hellen Arkell School had to cope with me at a time when it was hard to tell the difference between being stupid or dyslexic.  They were able to use special techniques to confirm that I was both.  I think they would be grateful for any donations.  A charity that can fix a young person before they step into life has got to be a good.  Last, the Welsh need help with their spelling too.  This is the most ambitious project.  After the name Snowdon it gets sticky.  Here are the mountains we summited in the day:

Crib y Ddysgl, Garden Ugain, Crib goch, Elidir Fawr, Y garn, Glyder Fawr, Glyder Fach, Tryfan, Pen yr Ole Wen, Carnedd Dafydd, Yr Elen, Carnedd Llewelyn, Foel Grach, Garnedd Uchaf and Foel-fras, lllfffggrrodMygoodnessImtired.

Don't you think that with a bit of money we could change those names into something less like letters drawn randomly from a Scrabble bag? 

If the precise details of my torture fuel your schadenfreude then the following four paragraphs are for you.  Otherwise skip over it and give something:

We trudged up Snowdon and got to the summit at tennish in the evening.  A summer evening on Snowdon, who would need a sleeping bag for that?  Wet and 4 degrees, I shivered and heard each of my breaths, 8640, I had time to calculate, for the next seven hours.  I wished I had taken the extra weight of a sleeping bag.  At 0500hrs when the earth started lighting up, I was shivering so violently my bivi bag sounded like a helicopter at take off.  I kicked my buddy Nick Helen and told him to get up.  He unzipped his sleeping bag.  Still damn cold and windy.  He looked brand new, I had already completed one endurance event just by surviving the night.    

We are on the hoof by 05.30 and scrambling along the ridge of Crib Goch, you can youtube this ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjZMlaDg7qk ) and with more research you can watch horrible things happening to stupid sheep who fail to notice they are no longer bonded to the rockface.  There's 3000ft between leaving the top and drilling oneself into the ground.  Nick has a big brain attached to a body made of string and legs made of missiles.  His ascent rate matches these specifications.  I have legs made of string and a body made of chocolate and a head as hollow as an Easter egg.  I also have an ascent rate in line with these statistics.  My greatest challenge was keeping Nick down to a sensible pace.  

Fifteen peaks over 3000ft, all the mountains in North Wales, up and down like a yoyo, 5 gallons of water consumed, 100,000 footsteps taken and a virticle climb that gets you a way up Everest.  17hours and a bit later we finished.  When I was twenty-one going up the hill was a pain and going down was a joy.  Now its different.  Each step down feels like being stabbed in a knee cap.  Going up ain't no picnic either. Doing this was stupid.  

Nick Hellen would have completed the challenge in half the time.  Still we were the quickest of the day.  I was the worst prepared and added to this the sole of my boot got sliced away from the leather upper when we were half way round.  I had to walk like Charlie Chaplain. 

The last section was wet, dark and cloudy and hard to navigate because compasses, rather like me, don't like the type of terrain they have in North Wales.  After the challenge has been completed and you've patted yourself on the back, there's the walk back to your car.  Add another 11 miles.  11 miles is long enough without the 17 hours that came before.  I never did taste a beer as clean or feel a bed as comfortable.  Lights out at 0500hrs. 


I think that counts as a worthy cause and a sufficiently nasty way to raise money?  Better than William Wyatts, and Robin Barclays 24 miles and stopping off for a good dinner.  William even  wore his smoking jacket for 2 miles.  They raised a ton of cash. (£140,000. goodness knows what charity benefitted from that)  Smoking jacket aside, we didn't even have time for lunch.

If you don't belive me go and do the Welsh 3000  yourself and if you finish it I'll put £50.00 in the kitty.  Seemingly, the brave thing to do is to tell everyone before you attempt it.      

Max