Andy Hood.

London to Brighton: How I Accidentally Joined 3,000 Friends on a 100K Jaunt

Normally, I dodge cities the way most people dodge scam calls, yet there I was on a sultry May morning in London, willingly standing among thousands of humans wearing Lycra. Instead of running from the city, I was running to Brighton—62 miles away. Yes, this was the Action Challenge London 2 Brighton 100K Ultra, affectionately L2B, less affectionately “What Have I Done?”

If you’ve ever run 100K, you know the emotional washing cycle: excitement, joy, pain, despair, hunger, euphoria, and the overwhelming belief that everyone around you is now your soulmate. If you haven’t and are wondering whether you should sign up, let me save you the scroll through 14 blogs and 27 Facebook posts: yes, you really should. (And no, you don’t have to tell family yet. Ease them in later.)

Despite having run countless marathons, halves, 10Ks and “why did I sign up for this again?” distances, I’d never run an organised event. Unless you count school sports days, where we were forced into shorts so tight they threatened future fertility and rewarded with one Smartie. ONE. Meanwhile Ben—the suspiciously fast seven-year-old—hogged the orange ones with suspicious performance-enhancing enthusiasm. Bastard.

But this year I turned 50, survived testicular cancer (minus one testicle, plus a life upgrade), and I was born in Brighton. The universe basically signed me up for this event itself.

The Event

L2B isn't a race. It’s more like Parkrun’s big, chaotic, 100K cousin who turns up with a BBQ and tells everyone they’re doing great. You can run, jog, walk, or stylishly hobble the distance in one go or split it over two days. No giant screen shaming you with your time, just happy faces, volunteers, and industrial quantities of snacks. The whole thing is absurdly inclusive and well-organised—I suspect they have logistics wizards chained up behind the scenes.

Getting to the Start

I arrived via a train that had enjoyed a leisurely 30-minute sunbathe at Woking. I expected a carriage full of ultra-runners; instead, three Lycra people and tumbleweed. Fortunately, the signage from Richmond Station to the start was so impressive it deserves its own BAFTA. National Highways could learn a thing or twelve.

A quick pre-race wee, bag drop (which they transport for free—this alone feels like sorcery), and chit-chat later, and I was ready.

My fellow starters included one guy attempting 100K on a whim—ultra-runners are nothing if not chaotic optimists—and his mate, already deeply regretting encouraging it.

Then Ibiza-DJ-Dave (the warm-up guy) bounced us into action at 7:30am.

Across the Thames and Beyond

Running along the Thames in the morning felt serene and scenic. Runners exchanged little nods of solidarity that said, “We’re all doing this voluntarily, I think?” Volunteers appeared like neon angels, including Simon, who recognised my Facebook post: I was carrying 100 names of people affected by cancer. He asked me to run with his mum’s name too. Throughout the day he popped up like a helpful hologram.

The route weaved through parks, streets, villages and—at one point—a whole train station, where commuters stared at us like we were escaping. Which, in a way, we were.

The Mental Game

My strategy: never think about the full 100K. Only the next 12–15K. Bite-sized misery is easier to digest.

The feed stations were wonderful, full of cheerful volunteers, drinks, medics, snacks and no judgement—even when I danced at the 25km checkpoint. Quiet lanes, trails, gorgeous countryside and the joy of overtaking people on hills (I live in Devon; hills are my love language) carried me to halfway.

Halfway: Emotions, Snacks and Tears

At Tulleys Farm (56K), I received cheers, my story read over the PA, and—yes—shed a tear or seven. I restocked, re-creamed, re-shoed, and hugged volunteers. Then, back out into the oven that was Early Summer England.

The Long, Scenic Trudge

The later stretches were a blur of woodland shade, kind strangers, a child called Esme offering water and sweets like an angelic pit crew, and cows who were far too interested in me.

Then came the infamous South Downs climb—practically vertical if you ask my memory. But the sunset at the top? Worth every swear word.

Into Brighton

Descending toward Brighton, I walked an hour with a lady who’d taken a tumble, then realised time had leapfrogged me. The city lights eventually appeared, teasingly close. My waist light died 200m before the end—but honestly, so had my ability to care.

I crossed the finish to cheers, a medal, an absence of sneaky race photographers, and a BBQ that tasted like victory.

In Short

It was fun. It was hot. It was emotional. It restored my faith in humanity. It was one of the best days of my life.

If you’re thinking about a 100K—this one especially—do it. Maybe I’ll see you next year. I’ll be the guy avoiding cows and keeping an eye out for orange Smarties.