Just a Little Bit Further — the joys of trail running

I didn't start trail running in any real sense until I moved out of the centre of Exeter and onto the edge of Dartmoor. I had plenty of intriguing lanes, footpaths and pavements to explore in the city but I was always running for time. You know what I mean by that? Like, the variables I was interested in were time, distance and their relationship to each other.

When I moved to Dartmoor's verdant eastern edge, part of the reason was to embrace the trails. I missed the immediacy of nature in the city and Dartmoor certainly has an abundance of it. I moved to a valley with steep sides, innumerable trails, brutal hills, a tor cloaked in ancient woodland and a river that captures the heart with every sweeping meander.

Trail running

The first thing I discovered about trail running is that time goes out the window. For a start, stiles, kissing gates, stepping stones and fallen trees turn the whole affair into a something definitely approaching an obstacle course. The time it takes me to run a trail 5k depends on the weather, the mud-level, the river's mood, the forest's desire to shed branches, how many times I get lost and, sometimes, the whimsy of cows. Also, most importantly, the elevation gain involved.

Running along Exeter's river valley path gave me, at most, a 19 m elevation gain. And that was crossing a couple of bridges. Here, in every direction but two, I'm presented with considerable hills.

There's something about trail running that feels a lot easier than road running though – which actually seems like a misnomer, but asphalt running is harder to say. Despite the inevitable ascents, the roots, the rocks, the rivers and the constant risk of mud, running off road is plain old interesting. You can never be quite sure what's around the corner here. The woods change every day on a minor scale and every few months on a dramatic scale. The river changes with the weather. The moor is a free-for-all, with sheep turning up where they weren't before and ponies asserting their right of way. Views appear over every gate, revealing valley vistas I never knew existed as fields fold and drop away beneath me.

Running up a massive hill is quite uncomfortable, but a pheasant popping out of a hedge and beating a hasty retreat or a squirrel stood in the middle of a byway undecided about its next course of action, is a most welcome distraction.

A little further

On Friday afternoon, I went out for a run with very little plan. I took a headtorch, because I didn't last week and I like to think I'm a quick learner. Yeah, I see you sun, clocking off early.

I started immediately running up a hill, first up a lane called Trough Lane and then a byway called Stony Lane. Which I feel says a lot about the kind of place I live. The start of the hill had, I shit you not, a 34% incline. It then—almost pleasantly— eases off to about 15% for around half a mile.

I took numerous stops, largely to not die but also to take some photographs.

After ascending Everest, I sauntered off on autumnal trails, a leafy mix of mud, roots and bolting birds. The last time I was here was bluebell season, when the woods were flooded in green and blue. Now it's umber. I wasn't actually sure how far the trail went through the woods, and thought repeatedly about turning around. But the tor was there somewhere, enormous looming granite blocks clad in moss and gravity. So I kept running, ignoring the simultaneous creeping sensations of being both utterly alone and of being watched.

But you're never really alone in the wood. You're surrounded by birds and animals, watching you pass. It all depends on how you think about it, are you a stranger amongst them, or are you one of the gang? I scared a bird and it ricocheted off through the brambles. I apologised and leapt across an errant stream.

Maybe just a bit more

I found the tor and it was time to turn. Following what my mum would call a Hobbit tunnel out of the woods, I headed across a farm and legged it across the fields. I met the lane I left earlier but much higher up and took great delight bounding down it. It was the home straight but halfway down, I spied a footpath heading off east across a field.

I wonder where that goes?

I prevaricated for a moment, standing on the style at my decision point, looking down into the valley. There was still some dying light, so I started running through the field. Soon, I was greeted by 20-odd young bulls who either hadn't see a runner before or had, and had eaten them. I slowed to a half-jog, not wanting to spook them any more that I was. A few snorted at me, and made abrupt lurches in my direction. I'm a fan of cattle in general, I like their dedication to Granny's Footsteps. Had they been larger, I probably would've turned around. But it's hard to take snorting bulls seriously when they're small and so adorable. So I stayed close to the hedge and walked through what I can only imagine was a mixture of bull urine and mud.

They followed along, clearly unsure whether they should oust me or lick me. I hopped a stile and none of us ever had to find out which.

Soon, I found a lane and ran back down its delightful decline, arriving home considerably dirtier than I had left but exhilarated. The time and distance were irrelevant. Now, the only thing that mattered was elevation gain (340 m/1,115 ft)—so I could feel justifiably pooped—and how glorious all the new things I'd seen were.

Distance and effort was always something I had to talk myself into in the city. Now I don't need to, because curiosity carries me through even the largest of cow pats.

Moo.