Well, here we are. May.
Another month closer to Everest Base Camp, another few kilograms gone, and another deeply troubling look at my bank balance.
The big news is this:
I am now 23kg down.
Twenty-three kilograms.
That is not weight loss anymore. That is a small Labrador. That is a child’s suitcase. That is a full bag of cement with commitment issues. That is enough weight that, had I been carrying it in an airport, easyJet would have charged me £870 and asked me to repack it on the floor in front of everyone.
When this all started, I had a clear, sensible plan:
Lose some weight.
Get fitter.
Raise money for Cancer Research UK.
Walk to Everest Base Camp.
Come home triumphant.
Possibly become unbearable at social events.
What I had not fully appreciated was that “training for Everest Base Camp” is not actually a hobby.
It is a full-scale financial and emotional hostage situation.
Because the other big development this month is that I have now bought almost all my kit.
And by “bought my kit,” I mean I have spent the last few weeks obsessively researching things no normal person should ever have to care about.
Waterproof ratings.
Breathability ratings.
Down fill power.
Synthetic insulation.
Base layers.
Mid layers.
Outer layers.
Emergency layers.
Layers for when your other layers have emotionally given up.
Socks that cost more than a family meal.
Gloves for temperatures I have no business being in.
A hat that appears to have been designed by someone who hates both wind and dignity.
There are now sections of my house that look less like a family home and more like the stockroom of a nervous Cotswold Outdoor.
Every parcel that arrives is another small reminder that I have made this decision publicly and can no longer quietly pretend it was a joke.
The postman has stopped making eye contact, many because he’s also dodging the latest Daphne dog attack.
My family are pretending to be supportive, but I can see the concern in their faces every time another package arrives containing something called “technical merino” or “expedition grade thermal liner.”
At one point I found myself standing in the kitchen explaining the difference between a waterproof jacket and a hard shell, and halfway through the sentence I realised I had become exactly the kind of man I used to avoid at parties.
The thing about EBC kit is that every item sounds optional until you read one online forum post written by a man called Dave who went in 2018 and “nearly lost three toes outside Lobuche.”
Suddenly, the £9.99 gloves you were looking at seem less like a bargain and more like a formal resignation letter from your fingers.
So you upgrade.
Then you upgrade the upgrade.
Then you convince yourself that actually this is an investment, because good kit lasts years.
This is nonsense.
Good kit lasts years because after buying it, you can’t afford to go anywhere again.
I now own clothing for weather conditions that, if they occurred in Nottingham, would result in a COBRA meeting.
I have a down jacket so warm I can only try it on indoors for eight seconds before I start to sweat like a defendant.
I have walking trousers, thermal leggings, waterproof overtrousers, baselayers, fleeces, gloves, liners, buffs, socks, boots, poles, bags, dry bags, and several items I am still not entirely sure how to wear.
One of them may be a hat.
One may be a compression sack.
One may be a medical device.
At this stage, who knows.
But the kit is mostly sorted.
Which is brilliant.
And terrible.
Because now I have moved from:
“I need to buy things to prepare for the trek”
to:
“Oh no. I have bought the things. This means I might actually have to go.”
There was a comforting distance when this was still a spreadsheet.
A spreadsheet is safe.
You can hide behind a spreadsheet.
You can colour-code “sleeping bag” in amber and pretend you are being productive.
But now the sleeping bag exists. In my house. Looking at me.
It is enormous. It has a temperature rating that implies it could keep a Victorian explorer alive during a polar misunderstanding. It also cost enough that I briefly considered sleeping in it permanently to get my money’s worth.
And yet despite all this — despite the weight loss, the walking, the kit buying, and the terrifyingly real itinerary — I still occasionally catch myself thinking:
“Do I actually like hiking?”
This seems like something I should probably have established earlier.
But we are where we are.
Training continues. The weight is still coming down. I am definitely fitter. I can walk further, faster, and with less of the general wheezing soundtrack that accompanied the early stages of this journey.
Back in January, hills were something I respected from a distance.
Now I look at them with mild resentment and a vague sense of professional obligation.
I have started to become one of those people who checks elevation gain. Not because I enjoy it, obviously, but because apparently this is who I am now.
The walks are getting longer. The boots are being broken in. The legs are starting to remember what they are for. I’m beginning to understand that fitness is not one big heroic moment. It is just repeatedly doing slightly unpleasant things until your body stops formally objecting.
The 23kg loss has made a huge difference. Everything is easier. Walking is easier. Stairs are easier. Getting out of chairs is less of a small engineering project.
But there is also a strange side effect to losing this much weight:
You start to feel more capable.
Which is dangerous.
Because capability leads to confidence.
And confidence leads to buying trekking poles at midnight while watching YouTube videos titled “What I Wish I Knew Before Everest Base Camp.”
This whole thing has become a cycle:
Lose weight.
Feel motivated.
Research kit.
Buy kit.
Feel poor.
Panic.
Go for a walk.
Feel better.
Remember Lukla airport exists.
Panic again.
Lukla, by the way, remains the small aviation detail I am trying not to think about.
For those unfamiliar, Lukla is often described as one of the most dangerous airports in the world, which is exactly the kind of phrase you want associated with the start of your relaxing charity trek.
Most holidays begin with “welcome to your resort.”
This one begins with “hopefully the aircraft stops before the mountain does.”
Lovely.
And after that, assuming all goes well and the plane lands somewhere broadly runway-shaped, the actual trek begins.
Phakding.
Namche.
Tengboche.
Dingboche.
Lobuche.
Gorak Shep.
Everest Base Camp.
Kala Patthar.
These places now live rent-free in my head like a Himalayan anxiety playlist.
I keep looking at the itinerary and thinking, “That’s a lot of walking for someone who once considered the far end of Tesco car park a logistical problem.”
And then there is altitude.
At sea level, I can now walk at a decent pace and feel pretty good.
Unfortunately, Everest Base Camp is not at sea level.
It is very much not at sea level.
It is at the sort of height where your body starts asking why you have betrayed it.
Apparently, by the time we get to the higher sections, simple tasks can feel difficult. Walking uphill becomes harder. Sleeping can be disrupted. Appetite can go. Breathing gets heavier.
So in many ways it will be exactly like being skint, but colder.
Speaking of being skint, I would like to take a moment to thank outdoor equipment manufacturers for their ongoing commitment to bankrupting the adventurous middle-aged man.
There is no such thing as a cheap essential.
Everything is either:
“Budget option — fine unless conditions become real”
or
“Recommended option — please sell a kidney.”
I have spent money on socks that I would previously have reserved for tyres.
I have bought clothing so lightweight that when it arrived I assumed the package was empty.
I now understand the phrase “buy once, cry once,” although in my case it has become “buy repeatedly, cry continuously.”
The real emotional damage is that every expensive thing is justified.
That is the problem.
You can’t even be properly angry about it.
Good boots? Needed.
Good waterproof? Needed.
Good insulation? Needed.
Good sleeping bag? Needed.
Decent gloves? Needed.
Proper layers? Needed.
Blister prevention? Needed.
Insurance? Needed.
Flights? Still looming in the distance like a financial boss level.
At this point, the trek itself is starting to feel like the cheap bit.
I’ve already started talking to items of kit like they are employees.
The boots are senior management.
The down jacket is head of emergency warmth.
The waterproof is risk and compliance.
The walking poles are operations.
The sleeping bag is clearly finance, because it cost too much and is difficult to understand.
And me?
I am the increasingly nervous project sponsor who approved the budget before fully reading the scope.
Still, it is happening.
And underneath all the jokes, the panic, the skintness, and the occasional “what have I done?” moment, there is something genuinely exciting building.
Because 23kg down is not nothing.
That is months of effort. Months of saying no to things. Months of walking when I didn’t fancy it. Months of trying to become the version of myself who can actually do this.
And that bit feels good.
Really good.
There is still a long way to go, obviously. I’m not pretending I’m suddenly a Himalayan athlete. I remain very much a man who gets emotionally unsettled by the price of a fleece.
But I am closer than I was.
A lot closer.
The version of me who started this would have looked at the training plan and quietly closed the laptop.
The version of me now has bought the kit, lost the weight, done the miles, and is starting to believe that maybe — just maybe — this ridiculous idea might actually be possible.
Which is worrying, because belief is how they get you.
One minute you are saying, “I’ll just do something challenging for charity.”
The next minute you are stood in your living room wearing three layers, a rucksack, trekking poles, and a thousand-yard stare while your family wonder whether to intervene.
So that’s the May update.
23kg down.
Kit nearly complete.
Bank account badly injured.
Morale fluctuating.
Regret levels moderate to high.
Excitement levels annoyingly high.
Common sense still missing, presumed lost somewhere between “deposit paid” and “extreme sleeping bag purchased.”
Thanks again to everyone who has donated, supported, laughed, encouraged, or simply watched this slow-motion midlife expedition unfold.
Every donation makes the effort worthwhile, and every bit of support helps — especially now that I’ve spent most of my disposable income on socks and fear.
Onwards.
Possibly upwards.
Definitely poorer.
All the best,
Rich
Rich treks Everest Base Camp 2027 