‘If
you think The Beast was tough,’ I was told ‘you won’t believe The
Stickler!’ Well, tough though it was, I thoroughly enjoyed running from
Corfe to the coast and back again, pounding up steps and slipping my way
back over heath and field. What more could The Stickler offer? The
answer is: plenty!
I, and
a few other club members as it turns out, was an ‘early entry’ and
proudly set off from a lane at the back of Shillingstone with the number
5 pinned to my Harrier shirt. It was a beautiful day for running – a bit
drizzly, a bit of a nip in the air but nothing like The lake District
this time of year.
They
call it Dorset’s Three Peak Challenge (though the course map at the
school had suggested a ‘hidden’ fourth summit to be tackled) and the
first few miles were one long – and increasingly steep – hill. I thought
to ‘save my energies for later’ (honest) and began walking early only
breaking into a jog when Janie trotted by with words of encouragement.
At the top I got into my stride and particularly enjoyed the ridgeway
section that turned from ankle-deep squidgy turf to gravel track before
dipping down through beech forests, ablaze with superb autumn colour.
After
a steep downhill (one runner had a weight advantage and sped past me in
more of a controlled fall: it’s basic physics – a heavier weight reaches
maximum velocity quicker) we crossed the main road and negotiated our
way through a tricky little path (two rows of barbed wire with a narrow
strip of mud between them) to a pretty village. A cool stretch alongside
a babbling brook lead to the base of the second of the advertised
climbs: Hod Hill.
Oh my
Hod! Muddy, steep and, as we pushed heavenward, I said a prayer of
thanks for the off-road shoes kindly loaned me for the day by fellow
Littledowner, Nick. In the Beast there were times when I went one step
forward and half a step back; on this run I never lost my footing.
Unlike others. The downhill from Hod’s Roman encampment saw me sedately
following two other runners only to have an out-of-control youth (knees
up like mother Brown on acid) weave between us and disappear through a
hole in the hedge. As every runner knows, you can’t belly laugh and run.
I stood at the water station that nestled in the dip at the bottom of
the final assent and cried with laughter. Legs everywhere, arms flaying,
screaming like a banshee – and I thought I was camp!
I
chuckled all the way up Hambledon Hill (walking for much of it),
enjoying the magical views and playing a quick game of pat-splat at the
recently vacated cowshed near the top.
At
this point the competitor in me cut in. With Kevin Brown sniffing at my
heels (and me forced to sniff at something else if ever I dared to fall
behind him) I saw my place on the club league table and dug deep,
pushing deep into the mud. We picked off Paolo in the final stages (who
graciously urged us on. He ‘cycled the 25 miles from Bournemouth before
the race’ – a pathetic excuse, if ever I heard one) and I let Kevin stay
on my shoulder until I felt the cinder path beneath my borrowed shoes.
I was
never going to catch the bloke in front (he of the earlier weight
advantage) but there was still one further surprise to be had. The
finish. ‘Now arriving at Platform One is a train of filthy runners’ –
the old renovated railway station at Shillingstone makes for a fun
ending to a great run.
I
grabbed a water and stayed to see some of the other runners home.
Mercilessly I laughed at the fact that some Harriers (you know who you
are) were pipped to the post by dogs, the canine variety – a pair of
huskies that looked happy to go round again!) And between us we took
pleasure in finding so many familiar names on the back of the
complimentary race shirt.
I like
hills. I liked The Beast. I loved The Stickler. Two words sum it up for
me: muddy heaven!
