£500,000 raised, 230 miles to run, one number that still matters: 7
More than half a million pounds has poured in as Kevin Sinfield powers through his latest seven-day ultramarathon, “Running Home for Christmas,” a 230-mile test of endurance that doubles as a tribute to his late friend Rob Burrow. The former Leeds Rhinos captain, now on England’s rugby union coaching staff, is covering roughly 31 miles a day across a week that starts festively with a Santa Dash in Liverpool and ends with a final leg from Old Trafford to Saddleworth. It’s his fifth year of doing this. It’s also the first without Rob.
That absence looms large, by design. Burrow wore the number 7 throughout his decorated career, and this challenge is built around that number. Seven ultramarathons. Seven days. The symbolism isn’t subtle, but it doesn’t need to be. Crowds have lined streets along the route—families, club stalwarts, kids in rugby shirts—to clap him through wind and rain. They’re not just cheering a runner; they’re cheering a cause.
Familiar faces have joined him on sections, including Olympic legends Laura and Jason Kenny. Laura’s own connection runs deep—she lost her grandmother to motor neurone disease. In places like Beverley and Hull, the reception has been loud and warm. Sinfield has said he always enjoyed playing in Hull; it showed in the way people turned out, some with MND charity T-shirts, others with handwritten signs for loved ones.
He’s not doing it alone. A small team of physios, pacers, and logistics staff keeps the whole thing moving—carbs, gels, dry kit, repeat. Each day is a loop of careful pacing and damage control. Sleep is brief. The goals are simple: get to the next stop, keep the legs turning, raise money, keep the story of MND front and center.
MND is a cruel disease. It attacks the nerves that control movement, leading to muscle wasting, loss of speech, and eventually difficulties breathing. In the UK, around 5,000 people are living with it at any one time. People often need communication aids, home adaptations, and specialist care—expensive, complex support that families can’t face alone. Treatments are limited, and research funding is vital if progress is going to accelerate.
That’s why these miles matter. They convert sympathy into grants, nurses, equipment, and research projects. They keep charities running support lines and clinic services. They move the needle from good intentions to practical help.
Sinfield is running in memory of Burrow and the late Doddie Weir—two giants who turned brutal diagnoses into campaigns that changed how the public talks about MND. He’s also honoring footballer Stephen Darby and former rugby player Ed Slater, both living with the condition, and the roughly 5,000 people across the UK who wake up to it every day. Names matter. They take MND from abstract to personal.
From one-off challenge to a movement—and the road ahead
If this looks slick, that’s because it’s no longer an experiment. Over the past few years, Sinfield’s running has evolved from a bold idea into a repeatable model: long days on the road, regular city stops, and a steady drumbeat of community events around the miles. The total raised across all challenges is now closing in on £10 million. It’s not just the figure that stands out—it’s the consistency. Year after year, people keep showing up and giving.
Six charities benefit from this latest drive, with the MND Association as the main beneficiary. Also supported are:
- Leeds Hospitals Charity, helping fund the Rob Burrow Centre for MND
- Irish MND Association
- Darby Rimmer Foundation
- My Name’5 Doddie Foundation
- MND Scotland
For families, the impact is immediate: faster access to wheelchairs, communication tech, home care support, and specialist clinics. For researchers, the money helps seed new studies and trials. For campaigners, the visibility keeps pressure on budgets and priorities. It all adds up—slowly at first, then suddenly.
There’s also the culture shift. The sight of a rugby hardman running ultramarathons has made endurance fundraising feel accessible. Local clubs plan mini-runs to coincide with his stops. Schools set up bake sales and coin trails. Amateur runners latch onto a mile or two at the edge of town. You can feel the momentum in the sheer number of small, human moments along the course—handshakes, snapshots, and, often, quiet tears.
And he’s still not done. Sinfield has already mapped his next step: a sixth challenge in December 2025, called “7 in 7: Together.” The clue is in the name. This one will take the team back to Leeds for the first time since Rob’s death, aiming to reconnect with the city that shaped them both. It will start in North Yorkshire and finish at AMT Headingley Rugby Stadium. The plan is to visit places big events often skip, so people there know they’ve not been forgotten.
The 2025 event includes a daily “Extra Mile,” inviting members of the MND community to join for one mile from December 1 to 7. The format adds rhythm: each day the run is broken into 7km blocks that must be completed within the hour. Why that detail matters: it anchors the day, creates a schedule supporters can latch onto, and builds a sense of shared progress—another nod to the number 7 that defined Rob’s career.
There are tributes woven into the 2025 route as well. In East Anglia, the team will run from Bury St Edmunds to Ipswich in honor of former Ipswich Town striker Marcus Stewart, who is living with MND. They’ll also return to Cork, remembering broadcaster Charlie Bird, who died in March 2024 after campaigning openly and bravely with his diagnosis. These aren’t just route choices. They’re statements: this is for you, this is for your family, this is for your town.
Back in the here and now, the current challenge keeps building its own stories. Volunteers in high-vis hand out cups of water and smiles. Runners slip in for a few miles, peel off to work, then pop up again later in the day with their kids. Drivers slow down to lean on the horn; shopkeepers hang signs in windows. In a week like this, Britain feels smaller and kinder.
Money raised is one measure, but there’s another: time. Time is what patients and families need—time to adapt, time to plan, time to squeeze meaning from a brutal diagnosis. The MND Association and partner charities use funds to shorten waiting lists, place specialist nurses, and give families breathing space. The proposed Rob Burrow Centre in Leeds aims to bring state-of-the-art care under one roof, designed around patients rather than forcing patients to crisscross hospitals. If bricks and mortar can carry love, that building will.
There’s a growing sense that these challenges aren’t just about fundraising—they’re reshaping the conversation. MND is better understood than it was five years ago. Awareness means people spot symptoms earlier, ask the right questions faster, and push for better services. It also means more pressure on policymakers. The difference between a nine-month wait and a three-month wait for equipment can define a family’s year.
The sporting world’s role matters here. Rugby has rallied around its own—Burrow, Weir, Slater—but football and athletics keep adding voices and faces. That cross-code solidarity brings new audiences and donors. When Laura and Jason Kenny run a stretch, thousands who follow Olympic sport take notice. When supporters in Hull or Liverpool turn out midweek, it sends a signal to anyone who feels alone with a diagnosis: you’re not.
Sinfield’s style hasn’t changed much. He keeps his explanations short and personal—this is for Rob, for Doddie, for the Darbys, Slaters, Stewarts, and Birds. He talks about friendship as the engine behind all this. When his legs look heavy, someone on the roadside usually shouts a version of the same line: Do it for Rob. It lands every time.
There’s a discipline behind the emotion. The daily 31-mile target sits on the edge of what most bodies can handle for a week. That’s why the team plans rest windows to the minute, applies strapping on the move, and keeps nutrition simple and regular. No heroics with pace—just steady miles, hour after hour.
And yet, the heroics show up anyway. In the way parents introduce their kids to the idea of service. In the way teammates carry each other through grief. In the decision to lace up on a cold December morning and run again.
By the time the final leg heads from Old Trafford to Saddleworth, the total raised will have moved again. It always does in the final push. But the number is only part of the point. The rest is connection—between a rugby team and a city, between a disease and the people who refuse to look away, between a small shirt with a big number 7 and all the miles that number still inspires.
