​​No amount of training will make walking 92 miles easy, because it’s a stupid idea. It’s not so much the physical strain of walking for four days, but the mental challenge. Last week I joined the 100+ Leeds fans (and one Newcastle fan) on an odyssey from Gary Speed’s first football pitch in North Wales back to Elland Road, raising almost £70,000 (go on, get us over that line) for mental health charities Andy’s Man Club and The Samaritans. The walking was often the straightforward part. There’s nothing that can psychologically prepare you for reaching the day’s destination, exhausted, and looking over to your roommate cutting off a blister plaster, gipping at the sight of his own foot leaking onto the carpet of a Travelodge.

I will be eternally grateful it wasn’t me whose foot was leaking. But still, I didn’t need that moment in my life. Judging by the images being sent in the WhatsApp group for everyone who participated in the walk, I got off lightly. I’ve kept quiet on the group, mainly because whenever I open it I’m faced with another harrowing photo of a blister that looks more like a Haribo, or a missing toenail, or a foot that is being held together by tape, and I’m too haunted to know what to say. On the first night someone sent a still from a horror film of a foot with toes missing and bones protruding, but people were already reaching such grotesque states I couldn’t stop looking at it, taking far too long to work out whether it was real or not. Reaching the meeting point for lunch in Marsden on the third day was like walking into A&E, people holding themselves up with crutches, necking painkillers, grimacing as they were going through their own routines of talc and tape they’d convinced themselves would make the next few miles more bearable.

Aside from the photos of X-rays of fractures and ankles swollen beyond recognition, the group is still full of the same joking, piss-taking, and heartfelt supporting for each other as it was during the walk. I was lucky to only get one small blister, so was able to get through each section at my own pace knowing I had nothing to complain about, but since getting home I’ve felt a big emotional lull, like a Sunday morning comedown. I’m missing getting to a random hotel struggling to move and spending the rest of my night worrying how to get my muscles working again, or walking along a Lancashire industrial estate chatting to someone I’ve not met before (Enda Maxwell was always particularly stoic company). I absolutely miss the support of Katie Watkin, who became everybody’s mum for the four days, always seeming to know exactly what each of us needed without us having to say, whether it be the sugar-rush of a donut or serious medical attention. Alongside our Michael, they took on the logistical responsibility of keeping us alive, meaning we only had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

People on the WhatsApp group have been incredibly brave and honest in opening up about some of the difficulties they have faced and why they wanted to do the walk. Each person has always received admiration and support in response. It has reiterated why charities like Andy’s Man Club and The Samaritans are so important and necessary. Andrew Greenway, who was helped by Andy’s Man Club and now works for them, recently appeared on an episode of The Square Ball podcast and spoke about seeing men go to a group meeting looking like they are physically carrying the weight of the world, then leaving looking literally taller and more relaxed after listening to other people who might be going through similar experiences or talking about their own. Those charities are there so people don’t have to walk 92 miles to feel that support.

As football fans, a dose of gallows humour always helps. The pain of a particularly grim stretch of never-ending road to finish the second day was eased by TSB writer Chris McMenamy throwing his bag onto the hotel bed and proudly announcing, “I’m as tight as a nun.” A begrudging doff of my hat too to the motivational techniques of the trio of gentleman sitting in a beer garden outside a pub in Chadderton, berating me 53 miles in that some older walkers had passed long before and I should really get a move on. And I can only admire the enthusiasm of the Scouser serving at an Irish bar in Warrington, asking if we come here often for a drink, offering four lads dead behind the eyes in exhaustion a free shot each if we liked their Instagram page.

I’m still riding the relief of reaching Elland Road and drinks in the Gary Speed suite. Temptation got the better of me and some friends after a righteous pint and we found a way to get pitchside briefly, sneaking our feet onto the turf just in time to be told off by a bigger boy in a hi-vis jacket. I still can’t listen to any music without hearing the ‘Here we go’ refrain of Rockin’ All Over The World replacing every lyric, or shut my eyes without being struck by visions of blistering feet, but I’m already looking forward to going out for a walk again at the weekend. In the meantime, Michael has warned that people need to keep donating or he’s going to start posting photos from the WhatsApp group. Trust me, you don’t want to see what I’ve seen. Please stop that man and donate. ⬢