Reverse Recharge

​I hated Facebook more than any other company until the day I joined it! How ironic life can be; it then became the most defining part of my life. I don’t know when I started liking the company—maybe it was after the first paycheck, maybe after seeing how open the culture is internally, or maybe after seeing how easy it is to converse with non-British colleagues! After a few years of working here, one main reason I like Meta is its recharge leave policy. After every five years of service, Meta encourages employees to take a one-month paid holiday to recharge from the pressure of work burnout. Though it seemed like a luxury initially, after five years of work, it became a necessity. Anyway, how can I be a normal human being if I can’t find fault in everything that is free?

Recharge leave is much celebrated at Meta; everyone asks, "What did you do?" I can't just say I spent time doing exercises, sleeping for an hour in the afternoon, and watching some telly with the kids in the evening. I do that anyway while working! I was looking for a story I could sell. By this time, I had been enlightened: no one cares how much you work unless you can make it "big." So, I thought I would go for a solo hike. There is no one to verify what I say; if I am really careful, I could be a "Big Fish"! I’ve always liked Big Fish stories and have seen a few people like that. They are genuine; they don’t think they are exaggerating their lives—they truly believe their lives are adventurous and entertaining. I always wished I could practice and genuinely become like them.

​I needed this solo walk, and I was determined to make it part of my recharge leave. But I realized I had never actually done anything on my own. I was a born manager: I "hired" best friends, researched and found an awesome wife, and then "produced" efficient kids. I could always delegate my responsibilities to them without them ever noticing. But now, I wanted a solo walk.

​I tried convincing Abhiman to join for a few days of "solo" walking. I knew that with him, it could still technically be classified as a solo walk for me. But he saw through my plans and skillfully refused, saying it wouldn't be a "solo walk" for him! That is technically true as well.

​I realized I needed someone who doesn't use their head to think, so I asked Swathi. She said yes to the last three days without  asking "what" or "when." We think with our hearts! Then Pooja joined, Ashwini got scared of leaving me alone with the girls! Before I knew it, I had included the kids and Kisor as well. The logistics were becoming complex; suddenly, I needed a helping hand just to manage the additional work of the last three days!

I think I’ll still earn my "solo walk certificate" for those final three days as well. Ashwini always complains that I don't talk much anyway. But I still can't delegate the planning work since first week is still me all alone.

With no help in sight, I begged my soulmate for help. She was very enthusiastic and efficient. She came up with a very clean 12-day walk plan from Minehead to Penzance! She knew I had done Kili and would be doing a marathon. She was completely blown away by my fitness and said if I can’t do it, no one else can either! I was sold; I said yes and shared it with Ashwini. She believes in the Internet and AI more than me. But she is convinced I am incapable of using technology correctly, so she started digging deeper. My baseline is to answer 65% of her investigative questions logically to ensure the plan is safe for an average human being.

Knowing I can’t see things even in broad daylight, I explained my 12-day SWCP hike plan to Reddit users. I was expecting accolades, but they lol and ridiculed my ignorance and incompetence before I could even refresh the page! For a moment, I had a deep appreciation for my wife as how calm and appreciative she is. One of the redditor was calmer and explained I should consider reducing the length of the walk substantially. Also suggested some local hikes to re-evaluate my fitness level. Honestly, he wasn't insulting my fitness, though he was wondering how stupid people can be to plan such adventures without even getting the distance right!

​I don’t like to upset people, but I was really angry at my soulmate for causing me such horrible embarrassment. I wanted to be right in front of my wife for once—why is it so hard! I bashed my friend for getting the elementary facts wrong, but she was so sweet in saying sorry that I instantly forgave her. To err is AI; to forgive is human.

This time, I thought I should really listen to my wife and contacted a few tour providers for a clean itinerary. One of them responded with a plan meeting my demands for a challenging solo hike. I relaxed it further by shortening the trip to a ten-day walk from Minehead to Padstow. Essentially, I pivoted from a 270-mile march in 12 days to a 160-mile walk in ten days. They accommodated everything, and Ashwini was almost satisfied.

​But I felt my "soul" was missing from the plan. After all, this is my recharge, and I needed some of my own skin in the game. I decided I would save 50% of the cost by executing the exact same plan myself. I’ve been told that everyone has great ideas after a beer, but it’s the execution that really matters. I looked at the plan, booked the B&Bs myself, ordered a second-hand book covering the path from Minehead to Padstow, and bought an OS Maps subscription—which Redditors treat like a treasure trove.

​With these in hand, I managed to get Ashwini to reluctantly agree to the plan, even if she wasn't fully convinced. In Meta, this is perfectly normal; we encourage the principle of "Disagree and Commit" in order to move faster. I have officially moved fast; now I just have to see if I break myself.

As always, I didn’t check the depth of the water before jumping in. Five days before the trek, I finally started looking at the finer details: things to pack, distance to travel, and how to stay vegan while completing the trek. OS Maps lived up to its reputation for being the darling of Redditors. It was unusable for normal humans. Even ChatGPT struggled! All I had to do was duplicate the readily available maps others had already created for 10 days and add my hotels as waypoints. It was certainly created by an all-female tech staff! It looks beautiful! Sometimes it works, but I couldn't figure out how and why it works. It’s like mood-dependent without any fixed pattern; sometimes it lets me plot 3-4 days nonstop without issues, but other times I had to experiment for hours to plot a single day. After a lot of trial and error, I thought I did manage to understand how it really works. So, I take my statement about the female tech staff back; it was derogatory.

After plotting the path, reality started to hit me. The second day involves an 1,800m ascent and 33km. The fourth day is 900m with a 42km distance! The total elevation is ~11km over 280km, assuming I don’t deviate from the path at all. I can see the tour operator laughing at me now! I think he has seen enough "intelligent" Indians by now who take his plan and then try to execute it on their own without paying for his services. So, he gave me an almost-correct plan without revealing where the devil is hiding in the details. Anyway, this is my plan, and I am sticking to it! I am a top-down approach guy and have never appreciated the "devil in the details" style. An elephant always makes its own way!

​It will still be a good story even if I can’t finish it and have to skip a day or two. I just need to ensure the following scenario doesn't happen—which Ashwini was very keen I should consider—where both of my phones run out of charge, my battery pack dies, and someone snatches my physical copy of the book. I told her I can whistle with my mouth, but she thinks the frequency won’t match the standard whistles trekkers use, which apparently is true!

So, here I am: 280km, a height significantly greater than Everest, a first-time solo trekker, a moody app, a second-hand book, and a mouth-whistle. It might be a disaster, but at least it’ll be a story to share with colleagues. What it’s definitely not is a "recharge" leave!

Vegan marathon-Biology of miles

​Rest assured, I am not writing this blog to promote veganism. In fact, I don’t want any one of you to experiment with a vegan diet. If you do, I will feel restless, as I’ll need to find something even harder to keep me away from the crowd. I think I suffer from enochlophobia—fear of crowds—a common disorder among KREC graduates—my alma mater.

My kids expected me to write a blog on my first marathon; my wife wants me to write one too. No one explicitly asked, but I am developing this art of reading them. Kids say I talk too much, wife says I hardly talk, friends say I only talk nonsense! Writing is much easier. I can be more fluent and descriptive when talking to myself. It feels like no one is listening—and I don’t need to listen to anyone either.

The Diet of Defiance

This was my third dietary experiment. The first one was two years ago, when I challenged my vegetarian-convert son. He was feeling too proud of his achievement. I beat him badly and destroyed his vegetarianism for three months. I don’t bias people based on age or gender!

The second year was a vegetarian experiment. But it didn’t excite me; it felt less than ordinary, because 90% of my friends are already vegetarian. Following a heavy dose of New Year drinks, I was in a good mood to rejuvenate myself. So, I told myself I would become vegan for six months. I thought it would be easy, until people started asking “Why?” That was undoubtedly the most difficult part of being vegan.

Apparently, “I just felt like experiencing being vegan” isn’t the right answer. Diet, apparently, is a religious topic—with formulas. My wife and friends don’t trust me on doing it right. I showed them my CET marks to prove my intelligence. They challenged it, saying engineering and biology are completely different disciplines. I was outnumbered. I ended up conceding defeat by admitting honestly that I wanted to stay “above” all my Brahmin friends.

Despite that, I felt people were still conspiring against me. A friend in London welcomed me with mouth-watering prawn fry and biryani. My lactose intolerant friend in the US somehow had no plant-based milk. Even the airlines didn’t provide vegan food despite being in business class. But I also saw my friends being emotional and sad rejecting their best dishes and sticking to simple ones.

I realised one thing: veganism is also hard on others.

So, I have decided to relax the rules a bit, still staying above my vegetarian friends. My next vegan stint will come with exclusions in tiny print that only I can read.

The Sandwich Solution

I reiterate, this blog isn’t about promoting my vegan diet. I saw a few people running with big “Vegan Runner” t-shirts, and I maintained a safe distance from them. I do feel a vegan diet is beneficial to running as it helps with weight reduction. But if you ask more technical questions, I’ll be out of my depth here.

In reality, the biggest contributor to my weight loss was a week-long ski trip with my friend. He has a “sandwich solution” for all his problems (financial or otherwise), and I think we were heavily influenced by that. I lost four kilos after the vacation—a blessing in disguise, as I get to criticise his food habits while maintaining my ideal shape before my major runs!

Philosophy of Pain

This year, I was determined to push more people to run and make them feel the pain. Seven people who never dreamed of long runs registered for the Reading Half-Marathon. My logic was simple: if they can run a half-marathon from nothing, I should be able to do a full marathon.

I even promised one of them a money-back guarantee—if she didn’t finish, her registration fee is on me. They all did wonderfully well. I didn’t lose any money, managed to take credit for inspiring them, without giving any back.

I was dead against full marathon two years ago. Articles suggested they cause permanent physiological changes. Now that my circle has convinced me my engineering skills don’t apply to biology, I simply stopped reading them. I read philosophy instead.

I was watching One Piece with my kids. There, Dr. Hiriluk answers the question: “When does a person die? A person doesn’t die of disease or bullets—they die when they are forgotten!”

This feels apt for people like me in a mid-life crisis; who think they have achieved everything, but something still feels empty.

The answer is simple—just run. Run away from all equations you can’t control. Run like there is no tomorrow.

Earlier, I talked about a beautiful book called The Rise of the Ultra Runners. It’s an inspiring attempt to answer why people run. Sometimes it is just the Strava likes, sometimes the sense of pushing yourself beyond your limit, sometimes just the smile from a random stranger in the street showing you as an example to their 6-year-old child.

But beyond all, it’s a sense of losing yourself in a mundane activity—which seems so dull, yet so profound.

As someone said: the God of Small Things!

Negotiating with Coach

When I registered for the Brighton Marathon, my goal was sub-5 hours. I asked CoachGPT for a structured plan. After some negotiation, we settled on 40km per week. I followed it diligently throughout the cold winter months—weighted runs on Mondays, tempo runs midweek, and 20k+ runs on weekends.

Practice and discipline triumph over talent.

In three months, I grew overconfident enough to target a sub-4 marathon. My coach truly made me believe in that dream! I am sure I would have been better off if I had listened to my wife and kids that much.

That dream stayed until my last 35km trial run, which completely bruised my toes. I had the toe guards, but no one reminded me to use them.

Two weeks before the big day, I did the Reading Half as preparation. My coach warned me against pushing too hard. But I couldn’t resist that proud feeling of AI apologising—admitting my gut feeling was better than its advice backed by that insane amount of stolen data.

I hit my personal best of 1:45, with a more bruised toe. Who cares when there are still two weeks of tapering to heal.

Toilet Calculations

There was no excitement until the morning of race day. My recharge holidays started, but the “heat” was missing. But I was well prepared: a litre of electrolyte water, 5 gels to be taken precisely every 45 minutes, and the well-tested oat-banana breakfast.

I even bought carbon shoes a week earlier, thanks to my student runner. Where I grew up, color didn’t matter—pink or blue, all came from god. For a difference of £40, I don’t mind a few eyebrows going up; it ticks my box of staying high in the crowd. For the record, I explicitly verified with my coach that it was indeed not a “girly” shoe.

My plan was solid. I unloaded part of my bio-waste before leaving home and planned to use the toilet once again an hour before the race. As per my precise calculations, I needed to use the toilet at least twice for optimal run efficiency.

Once I reached the Preston Park starting point, I was awestruck by the massive crowd. The toilet queues were never-ending. After 25 minutes of waiting, I got my turn and spent five minutes trying to find the toilet paper. They weren’t there.

I was oddly satisfied—because I had already verified this earlier and wasn’t waiting for my wife to get them. I’ve told her many times I can function efficiently without her, but she still doesn’t trust me!

Realising I went to the wrong toilet, I tried another. Then another. No toilet paper anywhere—but I observed that wait time decreases exponentially as you try more toilets.

At some point, reality settled in. My body decided everything was fine, and the earlier calculations weren’t exactly data-driven. I rushed to the starting point and joined the tail of Wave 7.

Unexpected Variables

Wave 7 was for those aiming for 5 hours. I religiously maintained a 5:40 pace as suggested by my coach. Since I was at the tail, I was constantly overtaking people. Soon, I crossed the 5-hour and then 4:45 pace keepers.

I carried a rain jacket against a slight rain forecast—which turned out to be a poor choice. I could hear my coach laughing at me.

The run felt easy, but I could feel the need for a “wee” stop. However, the queues would cost me 5–7 minutes, which meant losing my razor-thin sub-4 margin. I balanced it by drinking less water.

No water in also means guaranteed cramps.

The Brighton track was flatter than my usual routes, but the beach wind compensated for that. By the time I crossed the halfway mark, it was 2:01 hours. My Strava recorded 22km, which broke my math. The route markings were in miles, and conversion to km was challenging.

I caught up with the 4:30 pace keepers and thought I had gained 30 minutes since the start. But math clearly doesn’t work like that. I knew I couldn’t solve it even if I was resting.

The supporters were creative. One lady had a placard: “Run fast if you think I am sexy.” I instinctively looked at increasing my speed. Before reacting, I sensed my wife would see that—she doesn’t need GPS to track me.

By the time I confirmed it was safe, I forgot who was holding the placard.

Then I wished my family would see me and cheer—it seemed to help others. I spotted them finally at 27km. That also helped me get rid of the annoying rain jacket, which increased my speed slightly.

I have no idea how I was measuring these gains—but I am always right.

I started noticing the pain but kept the pace. The roads were slightly slanted, misaligning my feet. To avoid this, I started running in the middle of the road, which felt much better.

Why I Run

As the pain increased, I remembered why I wanted to run. I wished to dedicate my first marathon to Manu, whom we lost during Covid.

I remember him every time I go for a long run—when the legs give up, I think of the struggles he went through.

I lived with them in a tiny one-bedroom house when I came to Bangalore in search of a job. I saw him grow from a small boy into a fine human being I really admired.

He was just married when Covid struck him. The initial hospital wasn’t great, and recovery wasn’t happening. After a month, they shifted him to a better hospital near home. It was dangerous—they got stuck in traffic with the oxygen cylinder running out.

Luckily, his dad sourced one nearby. It was as if he got a new life.

Hearing that, I was convinced he would make it. Some people are born to fight.

Yet, nothing mattered. He lived a short life—but ensured his family was financially supported.

People die when they are forgotten.Manu is not forgotten.

The Final 29 Seconds

At mile 23, my legs gave up. I knew why—I only finished 500ml of water instead of a litre. No water in also means guaranteed cramps. It was all over my legs.

Pushing the pace would have stopped me completely, so I reduced speed. The official sub-4 chance was slim, but I still had a chance at a “Strava sub-4.”

The math wasn’t too hard—3 miles in 29 minutes… then 2 miles in 18 minutes.

The cramps increased, and I gave up on the official time.

Then I saw it—Strava still showed a sub-4 possibility.

A stranger in his fifties ran past, encouraging everyone to finish fast. I started pushing. The cramps took a break.

That last kilometre was the fastest I ran—with cramped legs.

Yet, when I saw the time after crossing the finish line, I had missed it by 29 seconds.

I was still proud though. Strava recorded 43.15km, meaning I ran more than a marathon.

Analysing the data, I understood what happened. My first half recorded nearly 0.9km extra—I was constantly overtaking people, making my own path. The second half had fewer people and less overtaking, so only about 0.25km extra.

In hindsight, I should have been overconfident the moment I decided to register, running with the 4:00 pace keepers.

This marathon hasn’t killed me. So it has made me stronger. Which is slightly dangerous—because now I have more theories to prove right. Or wrong.

And just to be clear: this is still not a promotion for veganism.

Climbing Kili(3) - The Itch, The Ache and The Aftermath

We started climbing at 11 PM, pole pole. The support staff were incredible — singing, guiding, and encouraging. We were fully charged and walking like disciplined soldiers. We even had a real American soldier in our group, climbing without any hiking sticks. There were so many people ahead of us, even though we had started early. It felt like one giant, slow-moving human chain stretching into the darkness, their head torches literally shining through the night.

My paracetamol was working wonders. The summit walk felt like a cakewalk — except for the seven-minute break every 90 minutes, when we had to drink hot tea, cold water, and discharge urine. It was dark, so we weren’t allowed to wander too far for… operational reasons. Practical, yes — but removing mittens, gloves, and then opening two zips was not a simple engineering problem. I desperately needed help, but asking felt socially unacceptable. Without assistance, the entire operation could easily consume five minutes — leaving barely two minutes to drink tea and water before marching again.

Drinking from the hydration bladder on summit night was a technical skill. With temperatures dropping below freezing, there was always the risk of water freezing inside the tube, so after every sip we had to blow the water back into the bladder. I performed this ritual diligently. It would have been humiliating to declare my water frozen when I knew exactly how it was supposed to be prevented. Despite that, it appeared someone had performed black magic on me — within two hours, the water stopped flowing. Ice had claimed victory.

Drinking from the thermos wasn’t an option either. The new thermos was so efficient that the water inside was still boiling hot. Meanwhile, my internal calculations went horribly wrong. My legs started crying from the cold. During the next pit stop, I decided to postpone my pissing responsibilities — priorities had shifted. I knew I wouldn’t be able to change the shoes on my own, yet I pretended to try, hoping someone would notice. Eventually, I gave up and pleaded for help, even though it felt mean to ask others to deal with my shoes. The guide arrived like a benevolent deity — removing my shoes one by one and placing the warmers inside with divine patience. Unfortunately, leg warmers behave very differently from hand warmers and take a long time to activate. Physics refuses to negotiate with desperation.

I blamed ABC for not guiding me properly. He should have forced me to use the leg warmers earlier. Even though the cold was still biting, I maintained hope that eventually it would become tolerable. Hope is surprisingly cheap in the presence of pain.

Even at a slow pace, it was a relentless climb. I made sure to eat gels and snacks consistently to keep my energy up. I was doing quite well — except for the numbing feet, the cold hands caused by the mismatched mitten, and my iced hydration system.

ABC, on the other hand, was struggling. He had done everything right except for one tiny mistake — he forgot to take his super drug for his nose. His nose froze, much like my hydration bladder. Perhaps he focused too much on blowing the water back and neglected nasal maintenance. Now he couldn’t breathe through his nose and had to rely entirely on his mouth. The dust wasn’t as bad as on previous days, but a blocked nose on summit night is deeply demoralising.

As the temperature dropped further, approaching -12°C, every step became painful for him. By then, three members of our group had already fallen back. The guides began helping others by carrying their backpacks and eventually insisted that ABC offload his as well, saying he would struggle otherwise.

No one offered to carry mine — which was slightly sad, but also a massive moral boost. Clearly, they perceived me as a strong climber that night. I accepted this silent compliment with great dignity while internally collapsing.

The first five hours were probably my best. I was operating at peak efficiency. Then the paracetamol wore off. The headache returned — with vengeance — perhaps because I couldn’t drink properly due to my frozen water.

I stopped caring about my legs or hands. They became third-world problems. My energy was draining rapidly. There were no snacks left. I have no idea who consumed them. I usually overpack snacks. I don’t know why, on summit day of all days, I would run out.

Then suddenly I remembered — I had extra snacks in my jacket pocket. I reached for them.

Empty.

It dawned on me that I had been keeping my left hand — the one with the undersized mitten — inside my jacket pocket for warmth and had probably dropped all the snacks somewhere along the way. High-altitude generosity.

Another hour passed. I was walking like a zombie. No energy left. My mind entered a strange meditative state. I wasn’t thinking — I was existing. Slowly, the first rays of sunlight appeared. The first summit point became visible — still about an hour of climbing away.

The sunrise was stunning, with vibrant colours stretching across the horizon. But I felt like a colour-blind spectator. I didn’t even have the strength to take a photograph. All I could do was push myself forward like a lifeless log toward Stella Point.

Lack of options in life can be a blessing. When there is only one path forward, you commit to it fully, regardless of discomfort. I had realised this during my first trail marathon, when arrogant overconfidence caused me to start too fast. Severe cramps followed; I felt like my toes were breaking. Yet I didn’t back down. I was mentally prepared to sacrifice my toes if required.

Tonight was different. I was in a trance. Not thinking. Just following the line of headlamps ahead of me like a sheep in a disciplined herd.

Finally, I stepped onto the much-awaited Stella Point. ABC collapsed just before me, and I dropped down beside him immediately. He looked completely shattered. A guide rushed over and squeezed gel and sugar directly into his mouth. I watched with a glimmer of hope. For a moment, I thought nobody cared about me. Then I begged the guide and secured my portion — without crying, even babies don’t get milk.

After two minutes, I could breathe properly again and slowly stood up. I checked my jacket pockets.

Magic.

All the snacks I had “lost” were right there. I grabbed the juice and drank it in one go, then devoured the snack bar as if it were a Michelin-starred dessert.

That’s when I remembered ABC’s wisdom — something I had politely listened to and allowed to exit through the other ear. At high altitude, the brain stops functioning efficiently. Decision-making becomes unreliable. Mild hallucinations are not uncommon. He had advised me to listen to the guides and avoid heroic independent decisions. I believe I followed that advice — except I never asked anyone to check my jacket pockets. Most likely, I had checked the wrong pocket earlier. Or perhaps I was holding a snack in one hand while searching for it in the other. Altitude logic is a fascinating discipline.

None of it mattered now. I was at Stella Point — just one kilometre from Uhuru Peak, with only about 100 metres of elevation remaining. That stretch felt surprisingly manageable, and soon we were standing at the top of Africa. Intact.

Mission accomplished!

I felt more joy seeing ABC genuinely happy than from my own achievement. He had accomplished something he once considered impossible. As for me, I wasn’t sure whether I felt happiness or emptiness. Perhaps both. There is a strange vacuum that follows the completion of something you desperately wanted. The journey had felt heavier — and somehow more meaningful — than the summit itself. The suffering on the climb felt sweeter than standing at the top. Pain and pride coexisted comfortably.

We spent about thirty minutes at the peak before beginning the descent. The day was far from over — Millennium Camp still awaited.

Descending toward Barranco was dramatically faster. There was a specific downhill route, filled with volcanic dust. Everyone was practically running — including ABC — which made me the slowest for once. Mildly embarrassing, but I can’t lose. I reminded myself that those sprinting downhill hadn’t carried their backpacks on the way up. I had mastered the art of selective happiness.

At camp, we received a grand welcome with traditional songs and dance. It felt like victorious soldiers returning from battle. After a quick lunch, we packed and began walking toward Millennium Camp — a relatively uneventful stretch, elevated only by the quiet joy of completion.

Millennium Camp felt different. We were closer to the rainforest, surrounded by richer vegetation. From one side, Uhuru Peak was still visible — snow-covered, proud, almost indifferent. This route is apparently the closest to the summit but usually reserved for supplies and emergency evacuations.

That night, we had the best sleep of the entire week. A grand dinner. No more Diamox. No more midnight bathroom marathons.

The next morning, we headed toward the final gate, eager to collect our certificates and enjoy the long-awaited celebratory beer. The 13 km downhill walk felt more like flying than hiking. No more pole pole.

At the gate, we washed our faces with fresh running water. The sensation was indescribable. A humbling reminder of how easily we take simple comforts for granted — much like uninterrupted time with a close friend.

After beer and lunch, we attended our “graduation ceremony” and received our certificates. Honestly, the ache of the climb felt more soothing than the glory of the trophy. Eleven people from different parts of the world, united by a shared pursuit, carrying a story that would remain with us forever.

Then came the most delicate task of all — tipping the support staff. Without them, this would have been a tragic novel rather than a memorable chapter.

I consider myself a stoic, unattached to things. But when it comes to giving money away, I suddenly feel as though my wife is watching me from a hidden camera. I get nervous.

The official recommendation was $300–400, which I felt was reasonable. But walking beside ABC for a week has already inflated it by 50% to $500. I knew I shouldn’t compete with him here — I didn't want to win — yet curiosity overpowered wisdom. I forced him to reveal his secret envelope. Then instantly felt deep hatred toward myself for intruding into another man’s privacy. I had no options and no cash left. So I ended up borrowing enough to reach a number that felt respectable. I hope neither of us remembers exactly how much I owe him! ABC often says that once you have enough money, you should stop worrying about it. In this regard, he is the true stoic. I never tell him he is my teacher!

Back at the hotel, we spent nearly two hours cleaning our gear. Kilimanjaro dust is almost as persistent as the mountain itself. We ended the trek with a long, luxurious half-hour bath, finally washing away every trace of the trail.

ABC declared that the bath was unquestionably the best part of the entire hike. No one believes him — he says the same thing everywhere.

But for those thirty minutes, I believed him completely. 

As I stood there, watching the water finally turn clear, I recalled a few lines from a great poet:

I chased an ache that settled deep within,
Scaled heights to outrun the smallness inside.
The summit loomed, indifferent and austere,
And I stood, high-headed, trembling in its shadow.

Pride flared, then faded with the thin air,
Faces, laughter, struggle — the true summit unseen.
Yet still, a quiet question pierces my chest:
Why climb at all, if the mountain keeps its secrets?

Climbing Kili(2) - The mountain pushes back

so far ... 

Unlike the first two days, the third day was supposed to be exciting, with a lot of ascents up to Lava Tower, which is at 4,600 m. That was our acclimatization challenge, after which we had to do further ascents and descents to reach Barranco Camp at 3,900 m. Lava Tower sits on the slopes of the Kibo cone, and the desert-like walk with high elevation was indeed satisfying my thirst for adventure.

We spent two hours there having lunch, as the walk had been quite exhausting. After lunch, I stepped out to use the toilet and was pleasantly surprised to see that a toilet tent had been set up. My stomach got far too excited, and I immediately occupied the place.

Halfway through, a gentleman almost opened the tent zip and stopped abruptly. That’s when I realised my mistake — I hadn’t checked the tent number and was using somebody else’s toilet. I had assumed everyone would plan efficiently; who, in their right mind, would set up individual toilets midway through a mountain?

Anyway, the gentleman didn’t mind, but my body turned even colder from sheer shame.

As if that wasn’t enough, the added height started taking its toll — a sharp headache returned quickly. I didn’t tell anyone except ABC, still afraid they might consider me a risk. Then came the medical check, which was brutal. My oxygen level refused to go above 79, but after a few more minutes, it reached 82, so I asked them to stop right there to take the reading. Since “everything else was fine,” the guides didn’t mind much. After lunch, we continued walking toward Barranco Camp.

Barranco Camp was beautiful in a deceptive way. We followed our usual routine. I was more tired than usual, but miraculously, my oxygen levels recovered to around 90. I made sure to keep my hands warm with hot water before taking the reading — purely for scientific accuracy, of course.

The guides explained the next day’s itinerary: Barranco Wall — a crucial day of the hike with a bit of rock climbing, considered one of the more challenging days of the trek. I slept very well that night. ABC, on the other hand, couldn’t —  he had caught the infamous Kili cough. He hadn’t used his neck gaiter as efficiently as I had. Luckily, he had a special medication that, with just two drops, could keep the cough away for 12 hours — basically altitude black magic.

Barranco Wall lived up to its reputation, especially the rock sections. This wasn’t hiking anymore; it was controlled scrambling. Hands on rock, boots searching for tiny ledges, bodies pressed close to the mountain while pretending it was completely normal. Every few metres required focus: where to place your foot, where to grab, when to move, and when to just freeze and listen to the guide. At some points, you trusted the guide’s hand more than your own survival instincts.

Unlike ABC, heights don’t usually bother me. But the “Kissing Rock” turned into “Pissing Rock” for me. The rock face narrows and forces you to lean in and shuffle sideways while pretending to be calm. I was so busy negotiating with gravity that I completely forgot to kiss the rock — missing a prime show-off opportunity.

I showed off way too early by being overly confident in my climbing skills and ended up hurting my knees. I didn’t expect a tiny touch against rock to be so painful. Of course, I didn’t tell anyone, enduring it silently while pretending it was part of my grand endurance strategy.

ABC kept saying he had a fear of heights. Apparently, acrophobic people sometimes even get the urge to jump. But annoyingly, he was super efficient and much faster than me on rocks. I was relieved after about 90 minutes of climbing. The views that followed were truly breathtaking.

We had tea there, enjoying a glimpse of Stella Point, then headed toward Karanga Camp. This section felt more like a valley — a lot of unnecessary ups and downs, as if the mountain wanted to make sure we didn’t get too comfortable. The day was long but rewarding, both physically and mentally.

My headache returned like a badly written subplot, but overall, it wasn’t close to testing our limits. ABC was much better, which was the only unsettling part, disrupting my peace and internal narrative.

Karanga Camp sits around 4,000 m — close enough to the summit to feel real, but far enough to allow denial. Oxygen checks continued, numbers fluctuated. Guides nodded thoughtfully. I pretended not to care while doing precise mental math on acceptable failure scenarios.

Dinner tasted good. The cold was getting colder. Diamox-driven night bio breaks had become a strangely tolerable routine.

The following day was short — an easy hike to Barafu Camp at 4,670 m. They called it a “rest day,” but we still did another hour of acclimatization. Barafu means “ice,” and we could feel it even before they told us.

This was summit night. We were supposed to sleep in the evening, wake up by 10 PM, and start the summit hike by 11 PM after a night breakfast. This was where reality finally sank in. I followed ABC’s footsteps, copying everything he did to ensure I was fully prepared.

I switched to my well-researched Mammut mountain shoes, which I couldn’t return because no one told me shoes can’t be returned after being used. How else am I supposed to know if they’re comfortable without testing them once? Honesty in life never pays well — especially in mountaineering retail.

I was confident I would sleep well. All five previous nights I had slept like a baby (they also wake up every three hours) and woke up with zero headache. But on summit evening, I realised I’m an adult and married. I had hoped ABC would start snoring so I could blame him, but he anticipated that and fell asleep quickly. I tried thinking of other external factors to blame for my poor sleep, ran out of options, and finally fell asleep at 8 PM.

At 10 PM, the alarm rang promptly, but I felt surprisingly fresh, with no headache. It seemed I had stored enough “sleep credit” from the previous nights. ABC’s planning was spot-on, as always. We were ready within minutes. There was no need to pack, since we would return to the same camp for lunch after the summit climb.

We geared up with warm merino wool clothes and headed for night breakfast. I was determined to ace the summit, taking a precautionary paracetamol in addition to the full 250 mg Diamox. I kept the backpack light, carrying only minimal snacks — we had never finished the ones we carried anyway. In addition to our own, we were given packed snacks, which I stashed in my jacket pocket for quick access.

I wore two layers of socks and extremely thick mountain shoes, so I ignored ABC’s advice about leg warmers. He was clearly sad that no one ever listens to him — a problem I immediately understood — so I put the leg warmers into my trousers anyway. I confidently prophesied that I would start sweating within 10–15 minutes.

Finally, I filled my water bladder with 2 L of water and my brand-new thermos flask with 1 L of hot water. The headlamp was fully charged. Gloves and summit mittens on — except the left mitten, which was far too small. Nightmare! I had tested the right-hand mitten — flawless. Who in their right mind would bother testing the left one too, distrusting an “efficient” stock manager?

Anyway, how hard could it be? My wife trusts my body’s resilience — she always says I’m unusually strong against the cold. That’s the only praise I’ve ever received, and this was only a couple of hours to the summit. So bring it on.

Climbing Kili(1) - The Itch For Something Bigger

I don’t know whether this is a midlife crisis or a genuine interest in making the best of my remaining life. Either way, I’ve been constantly bugged by an internal push to find my limits. Earlier, I challenged my son, went vegan for three months, and ran a half marathon. That slowly became my normal routine, and as usual, the itch returned — louder this time — asking for something bigger.

That’s when one of my friends casually suggested climbing Everest Base Camp. I said yes without blinking. So did many others. But when it came to actual planning, one by one they started discovering excellent, well-researched reasons to drop out. The idea refused to leave me alone, so I looked for alternatives and finally locked onto Kilimanjaro — one of the best non-technical high-altitude climbs in the world.

I was determined to do it even if it meant going alone, but somehow I managed to lure my friend ABC. I suspect he was also going through his own midlife crisis, which turned out to be a real boon for me.

Unlike me, ABC is a meticulous planner. He won’t jump into a river expecting others to save him like I would. He would first measure the depth, verify it multiple times, check historical river data, and only then jump. If I’m nearby, he would probably convince me to jump first and observe the outcome before taking his turn 😄

Bottom line: he’s not just clever — he does his homework meticulously. Bringing him in meant I didn’t have to do much beyond locking onto the Lemosho route and suggesting Altezza as our tour operator. He would triple-check that it was a sane option anyway, but I needed something in my name.

As expected, all the preparation went smoothly. ABC practically did a PhD on how to climb Kili with zero risk, while my contribution was mostly nodding and occasionally increasing the risk slightly to make it more adventurous. Many say I am a cheapskate trying to reduce expenses, but I just don’t believe them.

Climbing with zero risk felt boring, and I wanted to retain the feeling of doing better than ABC. After all, I was considered more fit, and I initiated the adventure and invited him — not the other way around. I deserve that privilege.

He insisted on expensive insurance, citing data about how many people get air-rescued and how terrible it would be without proper coverage. I went with insurance that cost one-third of his price — still a substantial amount for something I was confident I wouldn’t need. See, overconfidence is extremely useful for becoming rich, though sometimes it might also end your life a bit earlier.

Similarly, I was dead against taking Diamox. What’s the fun of artificially helping your body? That’s not testing the true limits of willpower. A friend suggested home remedies and pranayama based on her Himalayan trekking experience. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I spent the entire month of August in India, leaving me with just one week before Kili — not enough time to become a pranayama expert. ABC eventually convinced me to take Diamox using all his negotiation tactics.

Before agreeing, I still wanted to prove I could do it without Diamox. So on a Friday night, one week before our return flight to the UK, I decided to do a quick trip to Leh and attempt a day hike to a nearby pass at around 4,500m. For the first time in my life, I even convinced my wife that this wasn’t such a bad idea.

We flew from Mangalore via Delhi, as Leh airport is apparently one of the trickiest airports to land at — a nightmare for pilots even in broad daylight. Not our problem, we thought. We comfortably boarded the morning flight, expecting to reach Leh in 90 minutes.

After 90 minutes, the pilot developed second thoughts due to bad weather and poor runway visibility. After circling for 15 minutes, he decided to return to Delhi.

At this point, everyone on the plane did a crash course in aviation and began advising the pilot. Many produced real-time data showing other flights landing successfully. The pilot, likely suffering from a sudden inferiority complex, handed out snacks (clearly over budget) and attempted another landing after 90 minutes.

Unfortunately, he still couldn’t see the runway — though several newly graduated pilots on board claimed they could and asserted it was perfectly safe.

After circling both physically and mentally for another 20 minutes, the pilot gave up and returned to Delhi. One passenger demanded to be rebooked only if the next flight was not flown by that incompetent pilot. I really wanted to see how that conversation ended, but I had to run to catch my flight back to Mangalore.

Technically, I did spend a considerable amount of time above 4,000m without spending any money, but apparently that wasn’t enough proof that I could climb Kili without Diamox.

As always, bad things happen when you don’t listen to your wife. I joined friends for water sports during the rainy season and fell sick just before returning to the UK. That meant zero serious physical training before Kili. But I had plenty of past data and overconfidence to compensate.

Meanwhile, ABC transformed himself by completing 30 hikes in 60 days. I initially assumed he was playing mind games. After seeing him lose 4–6 kg, I accepted that the transformation was real — though nothing stopped me from believing I was still more competent. One advantage of losing good eyesight early in life is that you only see what you want to see.

By then, both of us had become overconfident and convinced ourselves it would be a cakewalk: just over 50 km spread across seven full days. How hard could it be?

We flew Qatar to Doha and then to Kilimanjaro. The first day was for rest and gear checks. Deciding who had the best kit turned into a serious competition. The tour managers couldn’t decide who they should favour, so we declared a draw: ABC had the best kit overall, and I had the best kit considering budget.

We had to fit everything into 15 kg duffel bags. My calculations were precise. ABC tried multiple permutations and combinations but still had 2 kg extra. My simple solution was to carry it in my backpack and move it later if needed. We had at least 5 kg of snacks that would eventually disappear anyway.

But my logic failed against his conscience. He hired an extra porter for $175. I supported his generosity by shifting some of my load onto him so my porter carried less.

While he had all the gear, I rented a few items like mittens, summit pants, and a rain jacket — mainly to give more money to Africans instead of wealthy Westerners.

On day one, we met the rest of the team: a 76-year-old Russian, a 62-year-old Canadian doctor with his 55-year-old partner, two Americans in their 40s, and the rest were younger. We were supported by a team of nearly 70 people — impressive employment generation.

Tanzanian authorities strictly limit porter loads to 20 kg, which actually prevents exploitation. The guides were excellent, spoke fluent English, and taught us some basic Swahili like Jambo, Asante, and Karibu. Best of all, Diamox was free — allowing me to mock ABC for overplanning.

The first hike was short, from Morum Barrier Gate at 3,400m to Shira Camp 1 at 3,600m. It was just about two hours — but shockingly dusty. Fine volcanic dust filled the air, coating shoes, clothes, and lungs.

ABC was prepared with neck gaiters and even carried a spare in case he lost one. He had calculated the probability of that being very high, so he generously donated it to me.

We reached Shira Camp 1, marking the first day of the adventure. Entering the small tent and changing inside was harder than the hike itself. I cursed him for not choosing a bigger tent, but he argued that bigger tents aren’t energy-efficient in cold weather. One decision I truly praised him for was getting our own toilet — a universally respected move.

Dinner was surprisingly luxurious: a large dining tent, hot food, and multiple options. I chose a pescatarian menu (wife-approved) and was surprised to see them cooking fish just for me. ABC’s lactose intolerance was also handled with precision. This felt more like royal camping than hardcore trekking.

Nights were tricky mainly because Diamox turns you into a professional night-time urinator. Opening the tent zip at 2 a.m. is a skill I never mastered. Power management was another challenge — one headlamp, one power bank, two phones (one bought from the black market with a substandard battery). Summit night would require seven hours of torchlight, so every percent mattered.

Despite everything, the first night was calm. Morning came with bedside ginger tea and personal wake-up calls. We hiked pole pole (slow, slow) to Shira Camp 2, maintaining a steady pace. Porters carried our chairs, tea appeared magically mid-trek, and lunch was served on the trail.

The walk was long and dusty but not dramatic — about 10 km to 3,850m. Every day, we did an acclimatisation hike, typically a one-hour trek gaining another 100–200m, and then descended to sleep lower.

Apparently, Kilimanjaro isn’t a single peak but an amalgamation of three distinct volcanic mountains. Shira was once much taller but collapsed and eroded over millions of years. The next is Mawenzi, an extinct volcano at 5,149m — the scary sister: rugged, rocky, technical, and deadlier. The last is Kibo, where we were heading, toward Uhuru Peak at 5,897m.

Unlike the other two, Kibo is technically an active volcano, meaning it could erupt again and kill us — though it hasn’t tried in about 200,000 years.

Two people had birthdays on the second day, so the chefs ensured it was celebrated in style with a proper cake, freshly carried from base. But the second day itself wasn’t really a cakewalk.

I had a mild headache. ABC was exhausted and worried. I noticed he hadn’t eaten well in the morning; I, on the other hand, was constantly stuffing myself. Evening rituals continued — tea, dinner, health checks. My oxygen levels dropped faster than I liked, which made me quietly nervous. If it dropped below 75–80, summit day would be denied — and that thought made me feel like a loser.