I moved to Bradwell to continue my fell running career; I was 74 years of age. I woke up one morning in 2020 and said to Ann, “before I die I would love to run over Kinder Downfall once more.” She replied, “we won’t do that from here so we have to move.” The bungalow near the beach in Dorset was sold and here we are, a house in Bradwell. The Kinder Downfall was close to my heart. In 1981, I drove from Wolverhampton to Hayfield in Derbyshire. The race to the downfall and back was my first ever race win. I was 35 years of age. I have no real idea why I won. It was as if the other runners just faded at some point and dropped back. Consequently, I was never challenged and did it all on my own.

Behind the scenes

Fitness is an odd thing. I had trained for about 5 years, each year increasing my mileage and speed. The feeling of wellbeing was incredible. Lots of my training was in wild country, up hills and down hills. The Wrekin, in Telford, was a companion to me. I worked so hard climbing it and then descending, always bound to my Casio watch. Subsequently, we moved to the Lake District and became mountain rats. Ann had joined me and yet ran her own race, not mine. There was rarely a path or route we did not run. However, it was always a hobby. Work took me south and I stayed south until that moment of enlightenment in Dorset.

Fell Running

Here I am, staring at my 79th birthday. Uphill is still fine but downhill more of a worry. Those rocks and muddy bits, and high stiles, need to be treated with caution. Yet it is still a wondrous thing, to be running, albeit slowly, over wild country. It is playing, just like a child, with this thing we call the body. It is amazing, the way it recovers, the way it endures even though your confidence is failing. So, I remain a fell runner into my dotage. I could just as easily call myself a mountain runner. However, fell runner sounds more romantic. Fell is a Scandi word, out of the blood and toil of the Vikings.