mano et mano

Kingsdown, Kent.

I pull on my old New Balance top with the frayed cuffs, swimming trunks and my Five Fingers. On my head is an old beanie with a head cam attached. I navigate the drop from the holiday camp to the beach and run, scrunching across the shingle beach towards the cliff.

Earlier I had stopped a local runner, as lean as whipcord and asked him for his advice on a route.

“I would run along the cliff top” he told me, “It's a great run and you can run right through to Dover if you wish” I don't answer, just stare at him meaningfully to imply that I do those distances as a warm up. I make sure that he gets a good look at my club jacket, mano et mano. I too am a serious runner is my unspoken message, We are hairy chested, testosterone fuelled machines.

I climb the flight of steps at the base of the cliffs and stop for a moment at the top to enjoy the view. I also make sure I'm not going to plunge to my death. Which is important.

I quickly realise that this is true English heritage trail running, not the iconic Seven Sisters as I have promised myself or Beachy head but something as good. I feel as if I am running along the edge of the world on a muddy, purpling path with the ghosts of history alongside. I look down on the backs of birds and sneer at the tiny fishing boats far below. On my right are rolling green fields and in the far distance I see the dirty smudge of the French coastline. I run happily along for near on eight miles, past the memorial to the Dover patrol and return to my holiday base where I jump straight into the indoor pool.