Journal 2025
WORK WEEK 2025 saw a group of 7 athletes traverse more than 300 miles across Utah and Arizona, skiing, cycling, paddling, hiking, and running through some of the most striking and unforgiving landscapes in the American Southwest.
They set out to prove that endurance and adventure can do more than test limits; they can create change. Over a week defined by teamwork, resilience, and reflection, the group pushed through long days, shifting terrain, and moments of crippling fatigue, sticking together from start to finish. It wasn’t about records or podiums. It was about effort, connection, and purpose. A reminder that hard work, when done for something bigger than yourself, can move more than just the body.
Jump into:
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
“I thought I’d dodged the jetlag, but my watch is telling me my body battery is at 11%. And we haven’t even started”.
— Steve Jacobs
With this lineup of now overly confident first-timers and seasoned shredders, the training wheels came off quickly. The team split across the mountain clocking up miles on groomed greens, blues and blacks, ripping corduroy in spring sunshine. Being a Monday late in the season, the resort was a ghost town — just us, fresh snow, and zero lift lines. Lovely.
Breakfast thrown down in a local coffee shop, we headed to Deer Valley to get fitted for our ski rentals. We were at the front of the line for the first lift, however it was for the bunny slope. In an act of solidarity that would pull through the entire week, we agreed to join the novice skiers for a few runs to offer support, guidance, and a few playful insults before the more seasoned skiers shot up to the top of the mountain.
Brett and Ben spent the day terrorizing other athletes with questionable ski etiquette, while James B briefly disappeared from the grid when his tracker died. Sending imaginations into overdrive, spiraling from “lost” to “injured” to “secret après.”
By the time the snow softened, we’d clocked our first 26.2 miles. Legs shot and faces burned, we packed up and hit the road: five hours south to Escalante, refueling with in-car pizza, dodging a few literal deer in headlights, and assembling bikes under the stars before collapsing into bed.
One marathon down. Six to go.
The adventure began with a blur of jet lag on long-haul flights as the UK crew touched down in Salt Lake. Luggage collected, rental cars secured, we went to work, customizing the convoy with neon orange WORK WEEK branding.
Next stop: Park City. Hotel check-in and the inaugural “what have we signed up for?” stares ricocheting across the room. Excitement mixed with nerves, it was the first time all the athletes had been together, and the reality of seven marathons in seven days began to sink in. Meanwhile, our production crew rolled in from LA, their vehicle overflowing with camera gear and gas station snacks.
"It’s a tough decision to call it, Ben is obviously gutted, but there is no failure in this".
— Ricky Bowry
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At mile 65, things got serious. As we battled the altitude and desert sun all day, Ben started showing signs of heat exhaustion. The support crew pulled up to offer respite from the desert heat, but we had to make the tough decision to pull him out of the rest of the ride. A brutal moment, but absolutely the right move as we tried to protect his week ahead. A decision Ben did not like, in the least.
We rode into Bryce Canyon National Park, weaving through pine forests and skating along ridgelines perched above the iconic Hoodoo spires. The temperature swing meant fingers that were once frozen solid in the morning were now wiping sweat from our brows.
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We regrouped at Rainbow Point for a lunch stop that included a pep talk from a group of overexcited school kids who thought we were a) lost, and b) complete lunatics. Behind schedule, and racing the clock to make it to Best Friends Animal Society Sanctuary in Kanab, Ricky got a little over-eager, misjudging a corner, going full send over his handlebars. Miraculously, he walked away with just a bruised ego and bloody nose.
The final 15 miles were a full-body assault. Uphill, into a headwind, over pavement so cracked it felt like each jolt was nature personally mocking Stephen N’s creaking knees. After 9 hours in the saddle, we approached our finish line - the iconic double Red Canyon arch, met by our support crew who quickly whisked us off to Kanab for some much-needed bunny yoga. You’d be surprised how healing it is.
Running on four hours of sleep and a dangerous level of optimism, we started the day under the stars, pedaling into the dark along the aptly named Scenic Byway 12. Think postcard views with a side of burning quads, and 23 brutally steep climbs sprinkled over 100 relentless miles.
"80% of it is mental. You just gotta keep paddling, take it one stroke at a time”.
— James Kennedy
For hours, it was just us and the lizards sunbathing on the canyon walls. No boats, no noise, only paddle slaps and the occasional curse when someone clipped their fingers on the side of the kayak mid-stroke. At mile 8, we hit the beach at Antelope Canyon, earlier than expected due to Powell’s historically low water levels. A reminder of how fragile this landscape is. We stretched our legs on a two-mile hike into the narrow, surreal slot, scrambling across red rock and dodging rattlesnakes as the heat dialed up.
Andrew, head of our support crew, had the kayaks ready, so we loaded gear, pushed off, and paddled toward Antelope Slot Canyon. Spirits were high, except for James B, who was struggling to keep pace. We thought it was nerves until we realized his paddle was twisted backward. Crisis averted. Stroke rate improved.
The afternoon was a grind. We hugged the canyon walls for shade and sanity. The open water felt like paddling through wet cement, with boat traffic kicking up chop that spun us around every time we paused to hydrate or take a photo—no rest for the people stupid enough to kayak a marathon.
The mental fatigue began to set in. Every mile dragged more than the last. Our backs were burnt, arms numb, hands calloused. The sun dipped, and the sky flared orange as we realized we weren’t making it back before dark. We flicked our headlamps on as our spirits flickered up and down. We pushed on under a full moon, alone on the lake again. From golden sunrise to silver moonlight.
We hit Lone Rock Beach and finally turned toward Wahweap Marina, 14 hours after we set out. In the distance, the truck headlights and our wonderful support crew called us home. Floating, we held the finish-line ribbon with Ben crossing first—sweet redemption after his DNF on Day 2.
After a brutal day of grinding out 100 miles on the bike, kayaking 26.2 miles, not using our legs for the day sounded almost relaxing… how wrong could we be.
At our bleary-eyed morning briefing, we ran through the safety protocols, a not-so-gentle reminder we’d be spending all day exposed to the weather on open water.
We rolled out just as the first light cracked over the plateaus, turning Lake Powell into a sheet of gold. Glassy, windless, perfect conditions, like a postcard we were about to ruin with our sweaty ambition.
“My left knee is absolutely wrecked, and it’s only day four”.
— Stephen Newey
However, the landscape made it worthwhile. Alien rock formations, boulders bigger than houses, and towering plateaus streaked by layers of rock. You don’t get views like this anywhere else. But then, with not a single sliver of shade to hide in, the sun turned up the heat like it was on a mission to cook us alive. And with the support truck struggling to stay within reach on the increasingly gnarly terrain, every bottle fill-up felt like an oasis.
It started fast. We bombed downhill over packed gravel, slicing through the desert like a bunch of caffeinated coyotes, until the realization hit: what goes down, must come up. Every glorious descent would become a painful uphill slog on the return. Future us is going to hate present us.
Dust coated everything — our bikes, our mouths, and the camera crew hanging out the back of their vehicle like Mad Max extras, but even more awesome. The gravel transitioned to deep sand. A soul-sucking, leg-burning, momentum-killing sand - causing Kendo’s pedal to go rogue, slicing up his leg and reminding us that the line between progress and patience is skin-deep.
Eventually, we hit giant slabs of slick rock, rolling out in front of us like nature’s skate park. We zig-zagged up and over, slowly closing in on Alstrom Point, 1,000 feet above Lake Powell, and absolutely worth every drop of sweat. We took it in, snapped a group selfie that didn’t do it justice, and turned around to face our old friend: the return journey. Damn you, past us.
The sun started to dip, but confidence remained high. Until Ricky jammed his front wheel and went flying over the bars, his second airborne dismount of the week. Someone get this man some training wheels!
With 10 miles to go, we found Ben lying on his back beside his bike. Heat exhaustion again. But it wasn’t going to stop him this time. The cavalry scooped him up, and we pressed on into the darkness.
We finished the day like many before, battered, bruised, sweaty, sandy, but still smiling. And hungry. Always so damn hungry. One more beast behind us.
We headed out on a 50-mile, out-and-back route, into a lesser-known corner of Glen Canyon. We weren’t entirely sure what lay ahead, but we knew the terrain would be wild, the scenery would be epic, and the middle bit would be hell for anything with wheels (and arguably, humans too).
"It's a lot of early mornings and late nights. But then you cross the finish line and it's brilliant. You get lost in it."
— Ben Hallaways
11 miles banked, onto phase two. Our freezing-cold 15-mile boat ride to the Glen Canyon Dam gave us a preview of the course ahead, but the sun hadn’t reached the canyon floor, so we huddled up, burrito-style, in sleeping bags.
PTSD was in the air. The ghost of the kayak marathon loomed large, but surprisingly, the SUPs felt easier. The fins kept us pointing forward, so stops weren’t as soul-destroying until Ben’s fin clipped a rock (he just could not catch a break!) and snapped off, forcing him into a ballet of micro-paddles and tightrope-worthy balance to stay upright and avoid the freezing water, unlike Stephen a mile earlier.
Dropped off, we were ready… but the boards weren’t. They were flat. Five minutes into pumping and expending unaccounted-for energy, a tragic twist: our only pump broke. Just as panic set in, a passing group lent us a spare. Thank you to Kevin and the crew, wherever you are! As we set off, cheers from our support crew echoed from above. The sun hit the canyon walls. The water glistened. Wild horses grazed the riverside. Excitement kicked in. And fireworks filled the skies… ok, maybe not, but the horses thing is true.
The current was on our side. If we hit the right channel, we’d glide like we’d unlocked a cheat code. We regrouped at ancient petroglyphs — 6,000-year-old carvings of longhorn sheep and tribal scenes, a humbling reminder of who came before us. Paddling around Horseshoe Bend, tourists on the rim, 1,000 feet above, looked like grains of sand. Seeing it from the bottom up hit hard, the power of this river is colossal.
We stopped for lunch at Waterholes Canyon, inhaling calories and exploring a red rock oasis dotted with wildflowers. Just two miles to go. Easy. Right? Wrong. The temp soared past 100°F. The current vanished. We compared GPS watches. Paranoid we may fall short of 26.2, we zigzagged the last mile, overshooting to 27.7.
Exhausted, sunburnt, and hands raw with blisters and calluses, we crossed the finish line. Boards packed, vans loaded with pasta, we rolled out toward the Grand Canyon, ready for Day six.
We split the SUP challenge into two legs due to impassable rapids after mile 16 on the Colorado River. So, before the sun had a chance to rise, we hit Lake Powell. 11 miles of glassy water, circling Lone Rock and turning back at Ice Cream Canyon. Can confirm, Ice Cream Canyon is as cold as it sounds in the morning.
"This is going to hurt like hell, but I'm excited to get it done."
— James Bowry
Brett had wisely said, “Just run your own race.” These words couldn’t have been truer, as the day was about to take a few literal unexpected turns.
Hermit’s Rest, our intended finish line, was closed to all but service vehicles. No crew, no water, and six miles left. The support crew sprinted into action, redirecting everyone mid-run towards the new “finish line” at the park exit.
We kicked off at Yaki Point overlook, on the quieter east rim, where James B led the group in a Shawn T-inspired group warm-up full of primers, hip openers, and mobility moves. After one last peek over the rim, we set off. The group naturally broke into pace pods: Brett and James up front, Ricky, Steve, Stephen, and Kendo in the middle, then Ben (and Andrew biking beside him for support). The scenery delivered, with sweeping canyon views and the occasional elk sighting. The ever-present support crew appeared every few miles with electrolytes, snacks, and moral support.
With just the voice in your head, the sound of feet tapping the asphalt, and the melody of pain throughout your body, it was these moments of solitude where the gravity of the week’s events started to sink in.
Then came the next plot twist: Navigation sounded simple - keep the canyon on your right, but a maze of twisty trails and spotty GPS had Brett and Ricky literally running opposite directions at one point.
From there, the run became choose-your-own-finish-line. Everyone hitting their 26.2 miles at a different point. Some lucked out right at the iconic Grand Canyon sign; others had to pass it and double back.
In true WORK WEEK style, we started together and finished together. We waited for Ben, crossing as one as we had for the previous five days. With the luxury of daylight remaining for once, we soaked sore legs in ice baths and hit the jacuzzi. One more day to go.
After a few hot, dusty days at Lake Powell, pulling into the Grand Canyon was a mental reset. New terrain, new energy, and our final basecamp before the big finish.
Conditions were perfect for running - cool, overcast, and a light breeze. We treated ourselves to a 7:30 am start, soaking up the extra sleep and giving our legs every bit of recovery time before the final hike.
"We're sore, we're tired, and it's getting in our heads. But we've got each other, and that's everything."
— Brett Waters
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We then climbed back up the Tonto Trail. Isolated, silent, surreal. Our legs moved on autopilot. We distracted ourselves with a memory game, James B the clear winner using Jedi mind tricks. How he remembered 27 items under that much strain, we’ll never know.
Down we went into the Grand Canyon, every step a reminder of the climb still to come. Stephen was all heart. His knees screaming, poles shaking, but he kept moving. One step, then another. True grit.
The deeper we dropped, the hotter it got, and the higher the sun rose. The rim now out of sight, we passed bighorn sheep, mule trains, crossing the bridge over the Colorado River. A quick stop at the wildflower oasis of Phantom Ranch, the only water source on the route, and then into “The Box,” the canyon’s deadliest stretch, a furnace of still, trapped heat.
As we reached the base of Bright Angel and the final climb, golden hour bathed the canyon. Our crew joined us, stunned we were moving so fast after 20+ miles.
With a few miles remaining, glass bottles of Mexican Coke awaited us at the rim. Sweet, cold heaven. As we passed through the busy village trail, tourists asked what we were doing. When we told them, jaws dropped. Some even donated on the spot.
Just like the many days before, sunlight had switched to moonlight, but finally, we saw the support car's headlights in the distance. At Pipe Creek Vista, we crossed the last finish line as we always started. Together.
Champagne was sprayed, and the week ended with a gift: a custom capsule for each athlete, filled with seven keepsakes, representing each charity.
An epic finish to a brutal, beautiful week.
Just 26.2 miles of sun-scorched trail and a final test of everything we had left. Only, this one came with a vertical mile of descent and another mile back up.
We wouldn’t see the support crew again until we clawed our way out, so before setting off, we said our goodbyes, loaded up the satellite phone, calories, water, and a gift from Jordan—a montage of messages from loved ones. We’d been in our own bubble for a week, and suddenly the outside world came rushing in. With misty eyes and full hearts, we flicked on our headlamps and stepped into the dark, beams of light cutting across the abyss.