Fell running in the south-west of England

Halfway up the climb to Ugborough Beacon, I started questioning my life choices. It was another baking hot evening, at the end of a busy week, and I was three miles into a fell race on Dartmoor. Up until this point I’d been feeling pretty good, but right at the start of the ascent - the biggest of the race - my quads blew a fuse. It was like suddenly they were dead. I wasn’t even trying to run any more, but to just stomp my way up, bent forward, my hands on my thighs. I looked up. It was too much. Too far. Why was I doing this again? I hated hills. Why was I running a stupid fell race?

The answer came pretty quickly. At the top of the hill, we crossed a flat area of tufty grass that felt like it was designed to twist an ankle, but then we hit a small trod, a sheep trail snaking gently down. From there, apart from one small climb, the last 4km was all downhill. And what a ride it was.

As we crested Western Beacon, the final hilltop, my family were standing up on a pile of rocks, cheering me on; the views across south Devon opened up, as far as the sea, everything bathed in the evening’s golden light. I tipped myself over the edge and began the long tumble to the finish.