Sometimes You Have to Be Ridiculous (Or: How I Lost a Ball and Gained a Mission)
- Andy Hood
- Jan 4
- 4 min read
Sometimes—and this is important—you have to be ridiculous.
Not mildly silly. Not “dad joke at a barbecue” funny. I’m talking full theatrical, what-is-this-man-doing-and-should-we-call-someone ridiculous.
Because awareness? Awareness is hard.
Awareness isn’t about long, sensible paragraphs, calm fonts, or earnest photos where everyone’s wearing neutral colours and nodding thoughtfully. Awareness is about hijacking a single, fleeting moment in someone’s day—the exact moment between scrolling past a cat video and watching someone ice-bathe while shouting motivational quotes.
You get that moment, and you might just save a life.
Talking about your health doesn’t usually win that battle. Talking about cancer definitely doesn’t. And talking about your balls—or rather, ball, singular—after one of them was evicted by cancer in 2021?
Yeah. That’s not exactly algorithm-friendly content.
Let’s be honest. If I post something on Instagram that says:
“Please regularly check your testicles for lumps.”
Most people will nod sagely, think “Yes, good message”, and immediately scroll on to someone bench-pressing a fridge.
And I get it. Attention spans are shorter than my patience for people who say ultra runners are “just jogging”.
So the question became:
How do you get people to stop scrolling and start listening—long enough to possibly save their own life?
The answer, it turns out, is to lose your mind. Publicly. Repeatedly. In running shoes.
The DM That Made It All Worth It
Christmas Eve. Phone pings. Instagram DM.
A man called Neal messages me.
He tells me he found a lump. He tells me he went to the doctor. He tells me he’s waiting for his scan date.
And then he says the sentence that makes all the nonsense worth it:
“If it weren’t for your posts, I probably wouldn’t have checked.”
Read that again.
Not might not have. Wouldn’t have.
That message didn’t come from a pamphlet. Or a public health poster. Or a sensible, measured awareness campaign.
It came because somewhere along the line, Neal stopped scrolling. He laughed. He read. It stuck. And when it mattered, he acted.
That’s the point of ridiculousness. That’s the whole game.
Becoming a Lighter Runner (In Ways I Did Not Anticipate)
After surgery—which technically made me a lighter runner, though not in the way sports science journals usually mean—and chemo that absolutely knocked me sideways, I knew I wanted to tell the story.
Not for sympathy. I’m British; that would be awkward.
I wanted awareness. I wanted people checking themselves without fear, embarrassment, or thinking “That’ll never happen to me.”
But I needed a hook.
And then my brain—an organ my family describes as “wonky at best”—did its thing.
What if I wrapped the message around running?
Not just any running. That would be too normal. Too expected. Too sane.
I’m talking Willy Wonka levels of inspiration, except instead of chocolate rivers it’s treadmills, shopping centres, doughnuts, and deeply questionable eyewear.
The idea was simple:If I could get people staring at the spectacle, laughing at the madness, wondering “Why?”—then the message could sneak in quietly behind the chaos and take up residence in their consciousness.
Like a life-saving Trojan horse. In shorts.
Exhibit A: The Shopping Centre Treadmill Incident
First up: a treadmill.
Placed in a busy shopping centre.
On a Saturday.
In April.
I then ran a 50K ultra on it.
No scenery. No fresh air. No escape.
Just shoppers, confused children, retail workers questioning their life choices, and me—sweating profusely while people bought socks nearby.
Was it ridiculous? Absolutely.
Did people stop? Oh yes.
Did they ask questions? Even more yes.
And once they asked questions, the message slipped in:
Check your balls.
Exhibit B: 24 Hours, 100 Miles, and Dawn French’s Glasses
Nine months later—because apparently I hadn’t learned anything—I did it again.
Same treadmill.
This time?
24 hours.
Around 100 miles.
And yes, I wore Dawn French’s kaleidoscope glasses.
Why? Because if you’re going to stay on a treadmill for an entire day while the gym goers watch you slowly unravel, you may as well commit to the aesthetic.
By hour 17, reality becomes optional anyway.
People laughed. People stared. People filmed. People Googled what on earth was happening.
And then—again—they heard the reason.
Exhibit C: Running to Jeremy Clarkson’s Farm (Because Of Course)
At some point, Jeremy Clarkson gave a life-saving nudge related to awareness.
So naturally, I ran an ultra to Diddly Squat Farm to say thank you.
Because that’s what normal people do.
Was it odd? Yes.
Was it memorable? Definitely.
Did it get attention? Oh, you bet.
Exhibit D: London, 57K, and 20 Krispy Kreme Doughnuts
And then there was London.
57 kilometres.20 Krispy Kreme doughnut stores.
A run that combined endurance sport with what nutritionists would describe as “a personal attack.”
People followed it because it was absurd.
They shared it because it was funny.
They remembered it because it was different.
And once again—there it was.
The message.
Ridiculous, But Effective
Here’s the thing.
Every one of these stunts sits firmly at the top end of the ridiculous scale. Possibly even leaning off it.
But they worked.
Press articles. BBC News. Radio interviews. National conferences. Blogs. Social media.
Millions of pairs of eyes and ears stopped. Read. Engaged. Commented. Donated.
More importantly, people checked themselves.
And that—more than medals, miles, or mildly traumatised shopping centre managers—is the point.
I set out to be ridiculous.
I set out to grab attention.
I set out to save lives.
And somehow, through a mix of running, stupidity, humour, and one less testicle, it’s working.
And Then There’s the Underpants…
But that—my friends—is a whole other chapter in this ongoing journey of daftness.
Stay tuned.
And in the meantime?
You know what to do.
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