I’m running in the middle of a group of men across Dartmoor. The route is unknown to all of us except our leader Adharanand, but it seems to me like we just keep running further and further away from the car. In which direction? I don’t know, I’m too busy trying to soak the views into my skin. Besides, these men all seem lovely so far. I’m in no danger. I turn my cap backwards and think, this is just the break I needed.
We pause beside a tor and I climb on top of the rocks. I feel medieval, I feel powerful, I feel like I’m in pursuit of something important and marvellous. I raise my arms above my head. My lungs enjoy the extra space to breathe. My ribcage expands, and I don’t want to make it contract. Never, ever again. I want to stay there for longer, but I know the group will want to press on.
At least, I think so.
I go back and chat to Gavin about using the tors to shelter from extreme weather. Then I notice Jonathan disappear behind the rock and I think, it’s not that windy or rainy…and then Adharanand leaves the group to stand behind a different corner of rock, and I think…and then Heath takes Jonathan’s place, and yes I think they’re weeing. Yes. That is what’s happening. They return to the group as if it’s a normal part of a Saturday morning run: climb a hill, wee on a tor.
For women it’s not as casual as this, because it’s not as straightforward. Within my running club, the women often share news of public toilets we’ve found on our routes. One of the women once squatted in a bush, not realising there was a public toilet on the other side of the fence. She got some strange looks from the staff.
I’m sure no one would mind if I found my own corner of tor to squat beside. I feel like we know each other well enough already. Not through any of the small or large conversations we’ve have before now, rather from learning how each other runs.
Down rocky trails and along boggy plains, we’ve all yelped at the unexpected depth of a puddle, or nearly slipped down a bonus stretch of scree. A particularly sociable branch of bracken whacks me in the face after Adharanand has flown through it, and it hits Nigel after me. We call over our shoulders, “Sorry, sorry, don’t worry.” On the steep descents we’ve tried not to fall into each other, and on the steep ascents, we’ve run unnecessarily close to each other. We’re not racing, and it’s not like we’re going to get lost, so I don’t really know why. I think we’re just enjoying running together.
The distant trees and the close camaraderie make my everyday life feel silly and small. My anxiety, its triggers and the giggles of depression seem so far away here. It’s probably just because I’m on holiday, right? I’m sure they would manage to find me if I was here for long enough. I’d be running up a hill towards Haytor and they’d be skipping and dancing right there at the top. There’s still emptiness, there’s still alienation and fear. It just looks a bit prettier on Dartmoor.
I’ll enjoy this escape for what it is for now. But maybe there’s something I can take home with me - some deep and meaningful message about running between the tors - the goal is in sight, the distance is manageable. I hop between rocks and mud flicks up my legs and it’s all magnificent, because I am able to keep moving. I get tired, the clouds change, the wind throws hair into my mouth and threatens to steal my cap, but I stay firm. One tor and one wild pony at a time.
Back at the ranch, I hold my socks beneath the shower to try and rinse out the mud. I squeeze and squeeze them, but the water doesn’t get any clearer. Are they just more mud than sock at this point? As for the mud buried in my toenails, I know that’s going to need some firm scrubbing. I decide not to bother. We’re all friends here, and it's comforting to keep a bit of the moor with me.
