Andy Hood.

Treadmills, Trauma & Boxes of Kindness: My 24-Hour Run for ChemoHero

I realised our kitchen was a health-and-safety incident waiting to happen the morning after my 24-hour treadmill run. My beloved steel-cut oats—breakfast of champions and people pretending to be champions—were stored in a below-counter cupboard. Normally, reaching them would require nothing more than a gentle gym-style squat. But the day after running for an entire circadian cycle on a treadmill? Let’s just say my legs filed for divorce. Two inches into the descent, my quads mutinied, my dignity evaporated, and I had to call for family assistance. They fetched the oats. They laughed. I died inside.

It was a fitting reminder that treadmills are evil.

I don’t recall the exact moment the idea to run for 24 hours on one of these mechanical punishers entered my brain, but I do know where I was: on a treadmill, being lulled into a false sense of security during yet another BBC ‘named storm’. Some gym member had recently completed a 24-hour gym session, and I—clearly suffering from deep winter delirium—thought: “I’ll do that too. But harder.”

Treadmills, however, do not appreciate confidence. Wave to someone? You get catapulted into the wall. Glance at your Apple Watch because it’s disconnected from Strava and if it’s not on Strava it didn’t happen? Wall. Every time. And unlike the outdoors, where uneven surfaces give your muscles variety, treadmills force your legs into the same repetitive motion until they quietly crumble in protest.

Why did I sign up for this? Simple: ChemoHero.

ChemoHero began when founder Lisa Wallis, diagnosed with breast cancer before her 30th birthday, decided to gift “Boxes of Kindness” to patients on their first treatment—beautiful, practical little parcels of comfort. Lisa sadly passed in 2021 after nine years living with cancer, but her legacy continues. In 2023 alone, ChemoHero delivered 454 Boxes of Kindness, mainly through the Seamoor Unit in North Devon, but also as far away as Europe and Australia. Her husband Rob and a team of extraordinary trustees now run the charity, adding counselling support and even a chemo-day “Trolley of Treats” for top-ups and morale boosts. Their work is powerful. It stays with you. And it stayed with me.

So on January 27th, 2024 at 10am, I began the treadmill ultra. The Ultra Devils whispered self-doubt (“you’re not ready,” “you didn’t train enough,” “where is your fuel plan, you idiot?”). Lies, all of them. The day was physically brutal, mentally demanding, and at one point I swear I saw someone walking around the darkened gym at 3am. My son assures me the gym was empty. Apparently sleep deprivation makes you see ghosts. Noted.

But it was also joyful. Family, friends, and gym members dropped in to run, chat, and distract me from the wall I stared at for 24 hours. My son DJ'd a 7-hour vinyl set. I danced while running (allegedly—no one will ever see the footage). Dawn French even sent me kaleidoscope glasses that became my midnight morale-boosting party trick.

By Sunday morning, I’d gained my first running blister, my first black toenail, and a renewed hatred for treadmills—but also over £2600 raised for ChemoHero. That’s more than 30 Boxes of Kindness. Thirty people whose hardest days might be made just a little brighter.

And yes, the porridge oats have now been moved to an eye-level cupboard. My legs insisted.