It’s Sunday, and at 11am Paula and I were stood on the start line for the Warhorse 10K in Iddesleigh, Devon. A limited run of just 250 places that sells out faster than a Glastonbury ticket drop. The medals? Always brilliant. The optional T-shirts? Exceptionally wearable.
🍜 Race Day Rituals
First things first: leftover Chinese for breakfast. It’s tradition. It works. And it gives us the perfect excuse to order extra the night before.
Wilko stayed home this time. Iddesleigh’s a friendly little village, but parking options were slim and the farmer’s field set aside for race parking was sodden. An email two days before asking runners to car share sealed the deal—we took the car.
🏃♂️ The Run: Potholes, Cowpats & Gravel Glory
The route is mostly road, with a long downhill start along country lanes that have more potholes than Swiss cheese. Proper ankle-snappers. Best strategy? Leave space between runners so you can see what’s coming before it hits you. Or run between two runners and use their reactions as early warning systems.
Early on, a cowpat made a guest appearance—clearly dragged onto the road by a tractor tyre. Several runners had already smeared it into the tarmac, but the poor soul in front of me hit the jackpot. Her foot slid sideways in slow motion, and somehow she stayed upright. Deserved a pat on the shoulder (pun fully intended) and a “well done” with a laugh.
Then the route turned skyward. Slight incline, off-road, through estate gates and onto gravel. If you’re not used to loose gravel, it’s a game changer. The house we passed looked amazing—like something out of a period drama. Then it was into a tree-lined track, across a field, and back onto road for the rest of the run.
🩳 Shorts, Splits & Sprinting
I was feeling good. Breathing right. Enjoying the run. Paula had vanished on the first downhill, which was odd—I’m usually faster downhill. But I was holding back, knowing the hills would hurt.
At 4K, the only water station appeared. I grabbed a bottle and lobbed it into the bin mid-stride like I was hitting 180 in a darts match.
I was trialling new shorts from 262—designed to hold water, gels, keys, and dignity. They worked. No bounce. No chafe. No back pain. Felt like my old self again.
One gripe: Paula bought the women’s version and got a phone-sized thigh pocket. Why don’t the men’s have that? Also, they’re short. Proper racing short. And if they’re loose, there’s a risk your purple pointer might pop out. Didn’t happen today, but it’s a real concern—especially when tying laces. No one wants to flash a fellow runner mid-stretch.
🏔️ Hills, Hurt & Heroics
At 6K, the real hill began. Long, winding, relentless. It levelled out briefly, then climbed again until 8K. Finally, the summit. Then downhill like a cheetah chasing dinner—until the secret hill you forgot about hit you in the shins.
The lanes were classic Devon: grass mound in the middle, puddles on either side. I skipped past runners, opened up my stride, and zipped past one, two, three. Two more down the hill—I could catch them.
Head down. Arms pumping. I sprinted past both and finished ahead with a strong finish. One of them gave me a pat on the shoulder and a “well done, strong finish.” I’ll take that.
🕒 Results & Recovery
Third year running. Under one hour. 58:38. Not as fast as last year—off by a minute—but after a rough few months, I’m back. And that feels good.
Paula? 52 minutes. PB. 3rd female in her age group. She shouted me in, complimented my finish, and welcomed me back to running. She knows.
🍳 Food of Champions
We planned a celebratory lunch, but our chosen spot was only serving carvery. We wanted simple. So we ended up at Morrisons—scrambled egg on toast. The food of champions.
While reviewing our splits, I won the fastest split for a change. One out of four. A win’s a win.