Fell down south

“What I love about this race is that it’s short and ridiculously brutal,” explains John Connor, who organises the Purbeck Marathon a few miles up the coast. And as we start to jog slowly away from Charmouth Primary School, his words – ‘short and brutal’ – are proved to be painfully accurate.

The first climb takes us up a steep Tarmac road – a fearsome ascent that the Ordnance Survey illustrates with a cluster of contours crossing the road at 90 degrees. I’ve been putting in some hill training on home runs around Bristol, repeatedly dropping down and climbing out of the Avon Gorge, but the murderous accumulation of lactic acid in my legs suggests I haven’t done anywhere near enough. Runners either side are starting to walk the final incline, but I persevere and meet the first water stop at the top a deep shade of lobster red. Tactically this could be my undoing.

“The joy of this route is that from here you can see pretty much the whole thing laid out in front of you,” says Gordon, who breezes by just as I finish gulping down the last of my water. “From here you can see the best of the Jurassic Coastline from Lyme Regis to the west and towards Weymouth to the east, and that’s where we’re heading – Golden Cap just to our south.”

If I were walking, I’d agree, it is indeed a beautiful view, and as the path levels, I start to regain my composure and take in my surroundings. The hedgerows are bristling with butterflies and bumblebees as we trace the edge of agricultural land. It is a bucolic paradise, about as far from gritty, peat-dark moors as it is possible to find. But while the landscape might be genteel, there’s no hint of southern reserve among my fellow runners.

“Cracking route this! Beautiful mixture of hay meadows and coastline,” says one runner who suddenly appears on my shoulder, before pulling away on the next incline. “No need to rush, I’m enjoying the shade!” says another as we wait patiently in a queue to negotiate a stile. “I’ve raced this one for the last six years,” says a third who gives me a 10-minute rundown of his 17-year running CV. “Save your legs for this climb: it’s a real killer,” says another with a broad smile.

And it is. Golden Cap is the highlight of the route: all 196m of it. It might not stand comparison with the lofty summits of the Lake District, or barren moorland routes or the prolonged scree gully descents of Snowdonia, but it has a large concrete trig point at the top and that’s enough to give it a whiff of mountainous achievement. The main difference is the sea churning beautifully below. I grew up further along the Jurassic Coast on the Isle of Purbeck, and I’ve always loved running along the high cliff paths. One day the sea can be a stormy grey of ominously brooding water, and the next a calmly exotic Mediterranean blue. And the inclines come with surprising regularity, taking you to a host of headland lookouts before dropping down to secluded beaches, where it’s a treat to dive in and cool off. Running by myself I’ve even marvelled at porpoises far out to sea and watched sea birds plunging into the water to fish – something you’re never going to spot from the summit of Mam Tor on the ridge between the White and Dark Peaks.

But is a route like this really a fell run? Honestly, I don’t think it is. It’s not mountainous or wild enough really to pass muster. But there’s no doubt it’s just as tough. Perhaps it needs its own classification: a term that captures both the challenge and the country idyll, the bruising barrage of short ascents and the fact there’s a Mr Whippy ice-cream waiting for you at the finish. Fell running fails to capture the eclectic range of terrain, from canopy covered woodland to long swooping paths that lead literally from sea level to high coastal cliff and back down again. I challenge anyone to run this route and not find themself grinning from ear to ear as you cross a sandy finish line and stand, Canute-like, with tired feet in the refreshing chill of the English Channel.

I don’t think it’s a question of a north and south divide. I spent a lot of my summers as a child on Dartmoor and would watch runners pile past Okehampton army camp to race up to the summit of Yes Tor. And it comes as no surprise that Okehampton Running Club is well represented in the Fell Running Association’s list of races in the South West. In the middle of the moor is even a mountain rescue group that has its own swift-response, moorland running team, whose function is to get to casualties faster than anyone else. Fell running might belong up north, but there’s something culturally similar that, at its utterly uncommercial best, is associated with village fairs and local festivities.

With just a few miles to go, my mind is now focused on the finish line. I’ve lost time chatting to the coastguards on duty on Golden Cap, and taking photos of other runners along the way, so I’m looking for a big final push and I employ the best bit of running advice I’ve ever been given. “When you get to the top and start to descend simply switch your brain off,” fell-running author Richard Askwith told me prior to my first ever fell race. So I do just that and let gravity speed me back into Charmouth. The last 300m takes us over a wooden bridge, back into the village and over the finishing line. And, on one of the hottest days of the year, the local fire crew are ready with their hoses to cool everyone down. Forget medals and commemorative T-shirts – this has to be my most memorable finish ever.

“What did you think of that then?” asked Gordon, who’d obviously been waiting a while. “Brilliant,” I reply. “I’ve set a personal best and I’ll be back next year to beat it!”

This year, the Charmouth Challenge takes place on 4th July. Find our more at charmouthchallenge.co.uk