Picture the scene if you can.  It is oh-seven-hundred (more later) and I am standing at a crossroads, surrounded by mist.  My only companion is a wall-eyed pony which glares malevolently at me from its perch on a grassy hummock in the middle of a bog.

I am either lost (very bad news) or not sure where I am (not so bad apparently, even if it feels much the same).  Whilst falling sobbing to my knees, I notice footprints heading up the track to my left.  Gritting my teeth, I haul myself upright, yell “Up the Somerset Four!” defiantly and plunge into the gloom, cursing quietly and wondering how I ever ended up in this place.

Blame it on Roger, I thought.  He was the one who had called me a few months before and cheerily suggested that I join him and a group of friends on the “Chara Challenge”.  It would be a breeze, a stroll in the park.  We had after all done the 3 Peaks together and this would all be over in under 10 hours and in one day.  My first mistake was to say yes, without checking it out.

When I did, I was horrified.  The Challenge is pretty much the same as the final part of the Royal Marine selection process.  Candidates have to cover 30 miles across , partly on rough roads or tracks, partly across country and taking in the highest Tor on the way.  Marines have to do it in under 8 hours, officers in under 7.  Oh and you have to carry a pack weighing at least 32 pounds (plus water and food).  We were allowed 10 hours.

I called Roger right back, but he had switched his phone off.

Over the following months, I did my best to prepare for the frightful ordeal, starting with shortish walks around North Devon and .  Things seemed to be going well and I impressed myself by keeping up a steady 3 miles per hour.  Then I tried to walk 20 miles along the coast, between Bideford and Hartland.  My right calf went after 6 miles.  3 miles short of Clovelly, I ran out of water.  By the 14 mile mark both my legs were cramping up.  The last 3 miles were absolutely desperate.  The whole thing took 8 hours.  It was clear that there was no way I could hope to complete the Challenge.

I did the only sensible thing and got in touch with Ella Thomsett at the Challenge.  She said that there was an alternative – 15 miles, in under 7 hours.  You could start out with that and then stop, or push on for the second 15 miles.  That might just about be doable, I thought, and decided to stay on board, rather than pull out altogether.

In the end, the day of reckoning arrived.  We were ordered to report to Okehampton Camp by nineteen hundred hours on Saturday 7 August.  As soon as I got there, I knew that this was going to be worse than even I had imagined.  I was surrounded by huge, muscle-bound people who looked like extras from “Predator”.  The men were even more intimidating, all shaved heads and thousand-yard stares.  I shrunk into a corner.

I knew I had passed though a portal to another world when organiser Harry Thomsett started his briefing.  He may have looked a little like Harry Enfield’s younger brother, but he did not sound like it.  It was all “oh three hundred” this and “” that.  I learnt that being “pulled off” was not to be welcomed and what to do when lost/not knowing where one was.  It does not rain in the forces, it honks it down.  There was a lot of rousing stuff about teamwork, putting one foot in front of the other and ultimate challenges.

And so to bed.  At oh nine hundred.  Except for Roger, who had forgotten his boots and set off on a two hundred mile round trip to get them. But not to sleep.  There were about 40 of us in one room.  Where was the ladder to my bunk?  Where had all the springs gone?  Whose head was my bottom resting on?  How am I supposed to sleep on a rubber-covered foam mattress in the middle of a storm of manly grunts, snores, belches and farts?

The torment ended at oh two fifty five when team-mate Matt (the only military man in our team of six) got up and switched on all the lights.  Oh death, where is thy sting?

Alive and well and lurking in the aptly named Mess Hall at Okehampton Camp, as it turned out.  Breakfast was a pre-heated, foil-wrapped, army ration pack.  My “lucky dip” said it was sausage and beans.  As I stared morosely at the bright orange and boiled liver coloured mess on my polystyrene plate, I realised I had found the last hiding place of Richard Branson’s infamous sky-chefs.  Grimly I forced down a few mouthfuls, washing the taste away with sips of insipid, room-temperature, “fruit” drink.

Shortly before dawn we all gathered to hear the Challenge Team read out the list of the service people who had died in combat in the last year.  There were more than 160 names.  I thought of those who must have survived and wondered how many of those around me might not be here, next year.

The Challenge starts right on time (of course), at five in the morning.  We should stick together, we know, but we also know from last night’s briefing that those aiming to do the 30 miler are expected to do the first “easy” 15 miles in 4 hours.  Matt leads our group out, working his whole body like a speed skater on bennies.  Try as we might, Roger and I fall off the pace.  We speak for a while, but soon even that is beyond us.  We remember that we are supposed to run on the down slopes.  We retreat into our private worlds of laboured breathing, rubbing straps and pain.  Slowly, I lag further behind.  When I pause for a moment I find myself alone, with only the mist and a solitary pony for company.

Soon the mist lifts and I can see groups of walkers strung out ahead of me, round corners and up hills which seem impossibly, unkindly, far away.  One foot in front of the other.  What idiot said that, a lifetime ago?

Everything comes to an end, no matter how much one is enjoying it.  I did the 15 miles, in just under 5 hours.  I was pleased with that and delighted to be outside the time to go on to the 30 miler.  I could not have done it at all, let alone in another 5 hours.  The other members of the team were waiting for me, except for Matt who had gone on.  Stuart and Tom had turned their ankles and Will and Roger were spent.  It was just before nine and the sun was hot already.  I cracked a tinny and collapsed.

About 3 hours later, the first 30 miler came in.  Most of those who finished were military, none made it in under 8 hours.  With 10 minutes to go to the cut-off time, Matt came into sight.  He looked like a praying mantis having a fit.  He had fallen twice on the Tor and had a big lump on one cheek.  He was running.  Tears came to my eyes as he finished.

The people we had come to support are extraordinary.  They do things we cannot.  They look after each other.  I do not suppose they always agree with the decisions which govern their lives, any more than we do.  Still they follow their orders and sometimes they pay the price – not just for an instant but often for the rest of their lives.  They are admirable human beings.  Oh, and just a little bit scary.

For all of you who have supported our efforts so far, many, many, thanks.  For those who have not yet done so, it is not too late – please just take a few minutes and send us a cheque, payable to Combat Stress, or go on to the www.justgiving.com website, and donate on line.

Thanks (and never) again!

 

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