Andy Hood.

Attrition: the gradual wearing down of strength or resolve through sustained pressure.

If you’ve ever run the South West Coast Path — truly run it, not wandered along with a romanticised notion of hardship, yes I’m thinking The Salt Path here — then you already understand the word. The path doesn’t defeat you in dramatic moments. It does it quietly. Mile by mile. Step by step. It asks questions of you that don’t have easy answers, and it keeps asking them long after you’d like the conversation to end.

I know this path well. I live close to it, in 2022 I ran around 170 miles of it just after my recovery from cancer, starting near home, finishing at Land’s End. It wasn’t in one go, but it was still a marathon to an ultra every day, day after day. In good weather, the trail is dry but technical — rocks and roots constantly demanding your attention. In January, after one of the wettest winters on record and in the grip of Storm Ingrid, it was something else entirely. Heavy, saturated, and angry. Thick mud that stole energy, downhill sections that punished tired legs, and conditions that forced you to stay present whether you wanted to or not.

Winter ultras are not usually my thing. I’ve learned — sometimes the hard way — that the body needs seasons, just like everything else. Winter is usually a time for maintenance, for backing off the intensity and letting things recover. You can’t keep asking the body to perform without eventually paying the price. And being in my 50s, having come through cancer, that truth feels more real than ever. My body carries more history now. More fatigue. More awareness.

So when I entered UTMB’s Arc of Attrition in late January, I surprised more than a few people — including myself. Beth, a friend and fellow runner, even messaged me with a gentle reminder of a conversation we’d had where I’d laid out my sensible winter recovery plan. She wasn’t wrong.

Why enter at all? Partly because I love the coast path. Partly because so many people I know were doing it. And partly because sometimes you feel a pull toward something that doesn’t make perfect sense on paper. I knew it wouldn’t be the 100 mile race, or even the 50. This time, I chose the 25 mile route — which, predictably, turned out to be closer to 27. After a busy year of running, asking my body to train through winter for anything longer felt like tempting fate.

Storm Ingrid tore through Cornwall with ferocity. Eighty-mile-per-hour winds. Cold that cut through layers. Rain that felt physical. The 100 mile runners who started on Friday faced the worst of it, and I have immense respect for anyone who stood on that start line. Only 39% would finish. The 50 mile runners didn’t escape unscathed either. By comparison, my Sunday morning start in St Ives felt almost undeserved — blue skies, calm air, a picture-perfect town slowly waking up.

But the coast path doesn’t care about fairness.

Saturday was bib collection in Porthtowan, followed by an early coach to St Ives. Around 800 of us would make our way back along the coast, each with our own reasons for being there. The running was tough, as it always is — narrow, steep, uneven — but the shared experience softened it. Conversations at the start. Familiar faces turning into real connections. Paul and Laura. Beth again, our paths crossing across years and continents, we’d first met at London 2 Brighton, then at UTMB Nice and again last year in Chamonix. Loyd and Liga from Run4Adventure, whose warmth and generosity always remind me what this community is really about. Along the way, I ran and chatted with people like Jack from Plymouth, crossing paths repeatedly as the miles unfolded.

Those small human moments matter. They ground you when the terrain tries to take your attention elsewhere.

This race was also the first outing in 2026 for my Check Ya Balls shorts. They sparked conversations, smiles, and — more importantly — awareness. Since Sunday, I’ve had messages from runners saying they checked for the first time, or were grateful for the reminder. Something simple. Something slightly cheeky. And something that genuinely saves lives. Wearing them isn’t about making a statement — it’s about quietly starting a conversation that matters.

The finish at the Arc is designed to leave a lasting impression. A steep descent from the mining engine house at Mount Hawke, a road crossing, and then a brutal climb back up the other side on rocky single track. It’s a final test when the legs are already tired. I’d trained hard for hills this block — structured sessions, strength work, plyometrics — and when I reached that last climb, the body responded. I ran it strong. Crossed the field. Rounded the corner. Saw the finish. And for those final 100 meters sprinted like it was a track race.

Will I do it again? I don’t know. The event was exceptional. The Arc Angels — the volunteers — were outstanding. The coast path will always pull at me. Part of me wonders about the 50 mile race. Another part feels drawn back to Land’s End, to pick up the coast path where I left it in 2022.

That run was my first big adventure after cancer. A line in the sand. A reminder of what was still possible. And perhaps that’s what this race stirred — not the desire to go further or faster, but the quiet sense that some journeys aren’t finished yet.

UTMB you came with Attrition; I responded with Resilience.