Becci Skelton: Climbing Everest at Dyfi Bike Park - 8849m

Climbing Everest. Sounds mad, right? The rules are dead simple: pick some hill—any hill—and ride up and down until you’ve clocked 8,849 meters of climbing. That’s Everest’s height, in case you’re wondering. No cheats. No dodgy shortcuts. Just you, your legs, and a stupid amount of suffering. Up, down, repeat. Did I mention you start hating your own existence about halfway through?

Monotonous doesn’t even cover it. It’s like willingly signing up for torture. And weirdly, I couldn’t wait.

April 18, 2025 — 8:00 AM
Dyfi Bike Park, Machynlleth.

My Saracen Ariel was primed, I’d carb-loaded like a pasta-addicted squirrel, and—of course—the Welsh weather was doing its best impression of Mordor. But this was it. The big one. Easily the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do on two wheels.

Usually, folks come to Dyfi for the uplift (and I don’t blame them). It’s one of the wildest bike parks in the UK. Six laps and your legs are toast. Today, though? No uplifts. No sneaky van rides. Just 25 laps, all powered by yours truly. Up that endless, leg-melting fire road. Again. And again. And again.

So… why?

Why put myself through this circus?
Back in 2017, I lost my mum to cancer. She was the kindest, fiercest, most supportive person you could ever meet. When she died, our world just… fell apart.

She was always in my corner. Even when she was too nervous to come watch me race, she’d be blowing up my phone straight after. “Go get them, tiger,” she’d say. I tried to live up to that. Still do.

Ever since, I’ve wanted to do something big. Something that actually means something. Something that could raise a chunk of change for Cancer Research UK, so maybe—just maybe—some other family doesn’t have to go through this hell.

And Welsh Air Ambulance too. Those people are real-life superheroes. Especially around places like Dyfi, where you’re basically in the middle of nowhere. You pray you’ll never need them, but if you do… trust me, you want them.

This ride was for them. And for her.

The Ride Begins
The build-up? Chaos. One minute I’m feeling invincible—I’ve done the prep, just get out there and smash it. Next minute, I’m spiraling: Who do you think you are? You’re not cut out for this. You’re not Ben Hildred.

I’d never even sniffed this sort of endurance before. But one thing about me? I don’t quit. Not when it matters.

So I clipped in and just started grinding.

Lap after lap. Hour after hour.

Sometimes I was solo, sometimes with my absolute legend of a support crew. Couldn’t have finished without them. They kept my bike running, brought the hype, brewed cups of tea, threw snacks at me, and sent it down the descents for a bit of party atmosphere. Heroes, every one of them.

Fueling the Beast
One thing nobody tells you about this kind of thing: eating is a nightmare. You think you’ll be starving? Nah. Your stomach is basically on strike. Started off strong—bananas, PB & jam wraps (do it, trust me), mountains of pasta, crisp sandwiches (don’t judge). By lap 8, though? Every single bite felt like chewing cardboard.

That’s when Torq Nutrition swooped in. Gels, bars, magic carb powders… whatever it was, it kept the engine running when “real food” was a lost cause.

Into the Dark
And then night showed up.

I hadn’t ridden in the dark in ages, and honestly, I was dreading it. But those first laps at night were… weirdly awesome. Head torch on, total silence, just me and the mountain. Spooky, but kind of magical.

But, of course, that didn’t last. By 2am I was nodding off on the climbs, hallucinating, singing Meat Loaf (badly, sorry world) just to keep from face-planting into the fire road. I was absolutely cooked.

Needed a reset. My watch was dead anyway, so I crawled into the van, still soaked, too tired to even peel off my kit. Got maybe 10 minutes of sleep? Woke up shivering and miserable, but with my brain rebooted.

Tapped on the van window. “Let’s go again.”

That micro-nap was a cheat code. Came back swinging. And when the sun started coming up? Oh man. That lap was pure magic. I knew I was going to make it.

The Final Push
Single digits left. Things got real. Lap. Click. Lap. Click. Nearly there.

But the fatigue hit like a truck. Needed to go full hermit mode for a bit. Ripped some laps on my own, just me and my thoughts, digging deep into why I was even out here.

Kept asking myself: If Mum was waiting for me at the top, would I make it up this hill?

Every time: Hell yes. Not even close.

The Party Lap
When we hit Everest height—8,849 meters—the whole crew was with me. Rolled out of the Dyfi café to a wall of cheers. Uplift Land Rovers passing by, packed with riders, all hollering support. My brother and my nieces were on the hill.

Not gonna lie, I was fighting back tears.

We’d technically hit the magic number two-thirds up the hill… but come on. You don’t stop there. Not me. Not today. Gotta finish the job.

So we went all the way. One last climb. Final descent?

Best run of my entire life.

All the pain just… gone. Full send, heart bursting, grinning like an idiot. Pure joy.

Job Done
And then… it was over.

Everest. Completed it, mate.

The emotions hit like a tidal wave—relief, pride, exhaustion, and this huge ache because my mum never got to see it. She’ll never know. That stings more than I can put into words.

But this ride? It was for her. For the fight. For everyone out there battling their own mountain.

We’ve raised £18,606 (and counting) for Cancer Research UK and Welsh Air Ambulance. If you fancy helping us hit £20k (yep, I’m a sucker for round numbers), the page is still open. GIVE NOW!

To all who gave, messaged, cheered me on, or hugged me on this wild ride — thank you. From the bottom of my very full, very exhausted heart.

This one was for you, Mum.