Andy Hood.

London2Brighton 2024: The Sequel No One Asked For, But I Ran Anyway

There’s a universal rule in life: never revisit perfection. Don’t rewatch your favourite childhood film, don’t reread that book you swear changed your life at 18, and definitely don’t go back to an ultra-marathon you once described as “magical”. But there I was, at 3:20am on the 25th of May 2024, shovelling porridge, yoghurt and a gel into my face, preparing to do exactly that. Because apparently, I enjoy danger.

The first London2Brighton (L2B) 100K I ran—2023—was perfection. Glorious weather, flawless organisation, friendly people, a proper point-to-point adventure. The whole thing was so good that returning in 2024 felt like risking emotional vandalism. But, like someone who absolutely shouldn’t text their ex at midnight… I went back.

Richmond greeted me with early sun, perfect running temperature, and Mike. Lovely Mike. A man who has done every job at Ultra Challenge events, including handing out finishers’ T-shirts, which he’d also end up doing for me that evening. Ultra Challenges are basically run by entire families; the Paynes alone could staff a small festival. Their mum works the events, their dad drives the “you-broke-yourself-come-get-in-the-van” rescue car. It's wholesome chaos and the reason these events feel like being adopted by a giant, sweaty family.

My legs were not, shall we say, fresh. They were still traumatised from a 24-hour treadmill run (yes, I know), multiple 50Ks, a Stonehenge-to-Avebury jaunt, a 37-mile backyard ultra, and—my proudest moment—The Doughnut Run London: 35 miles past 21 Krispy Kreme stores. In summary: I was overtrained, under-rested, and exactly the type of genius who decides to run 100 km anyway.

At bag drop, I was ambushed—in the best way—by Emily and Niki, two absolute firecrackers from the Ultra Challenge Facebook group. They recognised me because I once again carried a sign on my back printed with names of people affected by cancer. Dozens of names. Sobering, inspiring, grounding names. We took photos, swapped good-lucks, and parted ways to begin our individual suffer-fests. Emily made it to Brighton; Niki bowed out with injury after a huge effort.

The first miles were a dream: cool breeze, flat riverside path, smug sense of athletic competence. I fell into step with Beth, a newly qualified nurse working in a children’s cancer hospital—talk about perspective. We chatted away until I was yanked aside by someone calling my name; another person whose submitted name I was carrying. One of many emotional little moments along the route.

By 40K, my early enthusiasm started demanding payment. I’d definitely under-fuelled and my legs were sending passive-aggressive messages. Thankfully, this is when I met Dan, a lovely human suffering exactly the right amount to match my own. We ran together for 15K until halfway at Tulleys Farm, bonding over running, life, and his upcoming 1,000-mile cycle from Land’s End to John O’Groats. His wife works at Great Ormond Street, a place my own family knows well, so cue more emotion. Humans. They get you every time.

The halfway stop was a godsend. I arrived with cramped calves, a grumpy IT band, and the carb level of a bread-averse squirrel. Enter Julian: massage therapist, miracle worker, and temporary saviour of my right leg. Shoes changed, snacks inhaled, hugs acquired (Ultra Challenge is basically 60% running, 40% unsolicited hugs), and I set off again.

The second half… well. Let’s call it “character-building.” More road than I remembered, more heat than I wanted, and more motivational ladies with signs like “Embrace the Chafe!” than I deserved. My greatest regret of the day is not stopping to ask their origin story.

Then came Ardingly. I applied Deep Heat. I did not wash my hands. I then went for a pee.

Let’s leave that there.

The mud arrived next. Then the stiles. Then the cows—not the cute kind, the “we’ve been waiting for you” kind. I’m convinced cows play a nationwide game of “Stile Ambush”. They block it until the last second, then part like Moses just to laugh amongst themselves when you step in something squishy.

At 88.5K, Plumpton appeared: the last refuel before Brighton and the looming South Downs. My body was fading like a cheap torch, but mentally I leaned on the names I carried. Every kilometre, I tapped the sign on my back, acknowledging them all. It helped. It mattered.

The climb was brutal. The descent was slow. The rumour that “it’s all downhill” was a lie of biblical proportions. Running alongside the A27 is essentially a sloped insult. But eventually—finally—the Brighton racecourse appeared. The last kilometre is absolutely, definitely, scientifically more like five. But the finish line lights reeled me in like a moth with sore quads.

Mike handed me my T-shirt and fizzy drink with a “Well done, Andy—great time.” It meant the world.

I’d made every fuelling mistake possible, convinced my leg to file an HR complaint, and still somehow ran faster than last year.

And I’ll be back. Because these events aren’t about the time. They’re about the people.

And the cows. Always the cows.

—Andy