Well then.

June has been eventful.

Not in the dramatic “rescued from a mountain by helicopter” sort of way.

More in the “I’ve somehow become the sort of man who spends his evenings comparing airline fares, weighing walking shoes, discussing sock thickness and voluntarily giving up beer” sort of way.

Yes.

You read that correctly.

The 26th June marked 6 months since I last drank. Half a year….

I know.

Thoughts and prayers.

I’m going to keep this up. I’ve made the decision that alcohol and I really don’t get on too well together, and I’m no longer missing it. In typical Rich ‘shit or bust’ fashion, my aim is to get to the trip alcohol free. It’s a big ask, but I’m actually half way there. What’s the harm in trying right? 

However, as I know you love weigh in updates, the big milestone this month is that I’ve now lost six stone.

Six stone.

That isn’t weight loss anymore.

That is a missing person report.

It is roughly the weight of two holiday suitcases, a small adult, or the amount of outdoor equipment I’ve somehow convinced myself is “absolutely essential.”

When I started this journey back in January, I knew I needed to lose weight. That was obvious. You cannot casually drag the old version of me to Everest Base Camp without involving either divine intervention, a yak, or a Sherpa filing for overtime.

But six stone?

That feels slightly mad.

The strange thing is, everyone else notices it far more than I do.

People do say, “Rich, you’ve lost loads of weight,” and my immediate response, being British, is to become deeply uncomfortable, make a joke, and immediately change the subject.

But the truth is, I feel brilliant. I really do. 

Walking is easier.

Stairs no longer feel like Everest’s little brother.

My knees have stopped sending formal letters of complaint.

I’ve started putting on my old jeans and pulling the waist out over a foot, and I can now comfortably do walks that would have completely finished me six months ago.

Training has become part of normal life now.

Earlier this year, a six-mile walk felt like a proper expedition. Now it is something I can squeeze in before deciding what’s for tea. I’m even finding myself looking at hills and thinking, “That looks useful.”

Useful.

A hill.

Read that sentence again and appreciate just how much this challenge has changed me.

Of course, the real Everest remains spectacularly unimpressed by my Nottinghamshire strolls. Every time I feel pleased with myself, I remember that Everest Base Camp sits at 5,364 metres, where oxygen is in noticeably shorter supply and simply putting your boots on can apparently become an endurance event. Kala Pattar, where I hope to top out, sits near on 5700m, or 19000 ft. That still blows my mind, given I’ve never trekked above 4500. 

So there is still plenty of work to do.

Which brings me back to the alcohol.

I’ve decided that if I’m going to give myself the best possible chance of getting to Base Camp in one piece, I need to take the training properly seriously. That means looking beyond just the walking, the kit and the weight loss.

It means recovery.

Sleep.

Hydration.

Consistency.

And not undoing a week of good decisions because a cold pint looked at me in a beer garden.

I’m not pretending this makes me some elite athlete.

Let’s not get carried away.

I remain very much a man who can be emotionally compromised by the smell of chips.

But giving up alcohol feels like the right decision. For more than just the trek. 

Maybe not forever, but for the moment, as they say, one day at a time. 

I’m not making any grand life announcement here. I haven’t started wearing linen trousers and talking about inner peace.

This is about the trek.

It is about getting my body as ready as possible. It is about arriving in Nepal knowing I have done everything I reasonably can to prepare.

And, frankly, if I’m asking my lungs, legs and nervous system to behave themselves above 5,000 metres, the least I can do is stop making them deal with weekend lager.

So beer has been benched.

Wine has been dropped from the squad.

Spirits have been released on a free transfer.

They may be recalled after Everest, depending on performance, medical advice and how emotional I get when I see a bar in Kathmandu.

In other news, one thing that still has not happened, though, is the flights.

Yes.

We are still here.

I have now spent so long watching Emirates fares that I feel emotionally invested in their pricing strategy. Every morning I check them with the optimism of someone buying a lottery ticket, convinced that today will be the day they mysteriously drop by £300.

They do not.

They just sit there.

Mocking me.

Every.

Single.

Day.

I have reached the point where I know the prices better than some of the airline staff probably do.

I tell myself, “Just wait another week.”

Another week passes.

Nothing changes.

At this stage I am fairly certain the flights have become sentient and are deliberately refusing to move simply because they know I am watching.

The annoying thing is, when you are spending this much on a flight, you start doing ridiculous mental gymnastics to justify it.

“It’s only another fifty quid…”

“It’s only another hundred…”

Before you know it, you are convincing yourself that nearly fifteen hundred pounds for a return flight is actually “quite reasonable” because somewhere on the internet somebody once paid more than that. 

I have become the sort of person who knows the price of a flight to Kathmandu on any given day, yet still stands in Aldi debating whether branded beans are really worth the extra 40p.

Priorities.

The good news is that another important job has finally been ticked off.

Travel insurance.

Now, I appreciate that “Rich buys insurance” does not exactly scream edge-of-your-seat entertainment, but when your holiday involves flying into Lukla, trekking above 5,000 metres and relying on your body to keep cooperating, it becomes one of those boring jobs that suddenly feels incredibly important.

After reading what felt like several thousand pages of policy wording, I finally found one that covers everything I need.

Another piece of the puzzle.

Another excuse for my wife to ask, “How much has this cost now?”

Speaking of spending money, the kit collection continues.

I know.

I said it was nearly finished.

That turned out to be optimistic.

The latest additions have been my Merrell Moabs, which have genuinely transformed walking.

Apparently spending half a year walking in a pair of Reebok classics was not the masterstroke I thought it was.

These things are ridiculously comfortable.

I wore them straight out of the box expecting the usual blisters and discomfort.

Instead, I somehow managed one of my quickest walks yet.

Which naturally led me to spending several evenings researching heel-lock lacing techniques, hiking socks and whether my toes were moving around too much.

Normal people have hobbies.

I have become emotionally invested in footwear.

The fundraising this month has also been something I will never forget.

Someone I had never even met made an incredibly generous donation.

So generous, in fact, that my first reaction was not excitement.

It was concern.

I genuinely contacted him to make sure he had meant to donate that amount.

Imagine being so wonderfully British that someone donates a huge sum to your fundraiser and your immediate response is, “Sorry… are you absolutely sure?”

Thankfully, he was.

And I honestly do not think I have quite found the words to express how grateful I am.

It was not just the size of the donation.

It was the kindness behind it.

Complete faith from somebody I had never met, supporting both this challenge and Cancer Research UK.

Moments like that remind me why I am doing this.

Every donation matters.

Every message matters.

Every bit of encouragement matters.

But every now and then somebody does something so unexpectedly generous that it completely stops you in your tracks.

This was one of those moments. Thank you again. 

At home, Isla continues to be one of my favourite parts of the whole adventure.

Our Everest map has become something of a ritual.

We have pinned every overnight stop along the route, and she regularly asks where I will be sleeping.

Lukla.

Namche.

Dingboche.

Gorak Shep.

She probably cannot pronounce half of them yet.

Neither could I six months ago.

But every new conversation somehow makes the whole expedition feel more real.

It is lovely being able to include her in the journey.

To me, it is months of planning, training, fundraising and logistics.

To Isla, it is Daddy climbing a very big mountain.

I much prefer her version.

The website continues to grow as well.

Hundreds of people are visiting every week, reading these ramblings and following the progress.

That genuinely blows me away.

When I first started writing these updates, I assumed they would mostly be for family and friends. Instead, people from all over the world are following along, donating, sending messages and cheering me on. I’ve joined some fantastic online groups too, meeting people going the same time as me, facing the same challenges and apprehension, but above all sharing a common goal.

I honestly could not ask for more.

Well.

Maybe cheaper flights.

July has probably been the month where everything has started to feel genuinely real.

The weight loss is no longer a novelty.

Training has become routine.

The insurance is sorted.

The kit cupboard has reached maximum capacity.

The fundraising continues to exceed every expectation.

Alcohol has been politely shown the door.

And somehow, despite all the jokes, panic, spreadsheets and expensive socks, I am beginning to believe I might actually be able to do this.

There is still a long road ahead.

More miles.

More hills.

More blisters.

More kit I will almost certainly convince myself I need.

More evenings where I stare at flight prices and try not to develop a personal grudge against Emirates.

And more alcohol-free weekends, which may prove to be the hardest altitude test of all.

Eventually, I will have to bite the bullet and buy those flights. Hopefully before Emirates decide they can charge extra for optimism.

As always, thank you to everyone who has donated, shared the website, sent messages of support or simply followed this slightly ridiculous journey.

Every single bit of encouragement helps.

Onwards.

One step at a time.

Love to you all,

Rich

A strange thing happened this month.

People have started looking at me and saying things like, “Rich, you’ve lost a lot of weight.”

Now, being British, my natural instinct is to immediately dismiss this, make an awkward joke, and change the subject. But the reality is that the scales don’t lie. Since January, I’ve now lost over five stone.

Five stone.

That’s roughly the weight of a medium-sized Labrador, a sack of cement, or one of the rucksacks carried by some Everest trekkers who ignored all the kit advice.

The funny thing is that while everyone else seems shocked, I still mostly see the same bloke in the mirror. The only real giveaway is that my trousers appear to be engaged in a long-term campaign to fall down at inappropriate moments.

The training continues to gather momentum.

One of my favourite moments this month hasn’t actually involved training at all. My daughter Isla has become unexpectedly invested in the whole adventure. We bought a world map and have started putting pins into all the places of interest from Lukla to the base of Everest. It’s been lovely including her in the journey and seeing the excitement through her eyes. Every new overnight stopping point that appears on the map becomes a little event in our house. The trek itself might be taking place in Nepal, but thanks to the support, encouragement and interest from people around the world, it increasingly feels like we’re all on the journey together.

This month I’ve been walking more than I have in years. What started as a few tentative miles has become regular six-mile walks, often on consecutive days. Earlier in the year, six miles felt like a proper expedition. Now it feels like something I can fit in before deciding what’s for dinner.

I’ve covered hundreds of miles since starting this journey and, more importantly, I’m actually enjoying it.

That’s perhaps the biggest surprise of all.

A few months ago, the idea of voluntarily walking uphill for fun seemed utterly ridiculous. Yet here I am actively seeking out hills, checking elevation profiles and wondering whether I should add weight to my pack.

Who even am I anymore?

The Everest Base Camp trek is still many months away, but it’s starting to feel less like a dream and more like a very real event that’s sitting there on the horizon waiting for me.

Which is both exciting and mildly terrifying.

The kit collection has continued too.

If you’ve followed this journey for any length of time, you’ll know that I have developed what can only be described as an unhealthy relationship with outdoor equipment.

Normal people buy a coat.

I spend three weeks researching insulation ratings, fill power, fabric technology, weather resistance and whether a Sherpa in Nepal would approve of my purchasing decisions.

Every delivery arriving at the house now generates the same reaction from my wife:

“What have you bought this time?”

To be fair, she’s been remarkably patient considering the hallway increasingly resembles a branch of an outdoor equipment retailer.

The good news is that I’m now approaching the point where most of the major gear is sorted. The sleeping bag saga alone deserves its own chapter in a future book. I can only imagine the amusement of outdoor retailers watching me repeatedly check stock levels like a man tracking shares on the stock market.

Alongside the physical preparation, I’ve spent a lot of time learning about the Himalayas, altitude, acclimatisation and what life is actually like on the trail.

One thing I’ve discovered is that Everest Base Camp isn’t really about Everest.

It’s about everything around it.

The villages.

The people.

The culture.

The landscape.

The challenge of putting one foot in front of the other, day after day, while surrounded by some of the most spectacular scenery on Earth.

And, of course, trying not to resemble a stranded walrus every time the trail points uphill.

The fundraising continues steadily.

Firstly, a huge thank you to everyone who has donated so far.

Every contribution, whether large or small, genuinely means a lot.

Many businesses and individuals have already stepped forward to support the challenge, and I’m incredibly grateful for that.

The website continues to attract hundreds of visitors every week, which is both encouraging and slightly alarming. Apparently quite a few people are now following this slightly mad idea.

For those who don’t know, this trek isn’t just about reaching Everest Base Camp.

As part of the challenge, I’ll also be taking part in the “Take It Home” initiative. The aim is simple: remove more rubbish from the mountain than I take onto it.

The Himalayas are one of the most beautiful places on the planet, and if I’m fortunate enough to walk through them, I feel a responsibility to leave them a little better than I found them.

So while I’ll be carrying my own kit up the mountain, I’ll also be carrying waste back down.

It’s hardly glamorous, but neither is littering at 5,000 metres.

As for how I’m feeling right now?

Honestly, better than I have in a very long time.

I’m fitter.

I’m lighter.

I’m sleeping better.

I’m more active.

And for the first time in years, I’m doing something that genuinely scares me in all the right ways.

There are still plenty of miles to walk, plenty of training to do and no doubt several more expensive pieces of outdoor equipment that I’ll somehow convince myself are absolutely essential.

But we’re getting there.

One step at a time.

Thank you for following the journey.

July’s mission is simple: keep walking, start introducing some strength training, continue building endurance, and avoid buying any more kit unless absolutely necessary.

Although let’s be honest.

That last one probably isn’t happening.

Love to you all….

Rich

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