Free Keep on Running by Phil Hewitt Page B

to the start, just north of the Festival Theatre, next to Chichester Rugby Football Club. A few marquees had been set up as the walk/race headquarters, and it was all very relaxed, with plenty of people I knew manning the tents. I'd signed up for the race during the week, and the remaining formalities on the morning were quickly dealt with.
    Â Â With ten minutes to go, worried about the missing 195 metres, I walked away from the start line; with three minutes to go, I ran towards it, timing it to perfection to cross the line as the gun went off. I'd done the little extra which would turn – to my satisfaction, at least – a 42-km run into a marathon, and off I went, one of several dozen runners heading out under clear blue skies, still with just a hint of chill in the air.
    Â Â Just as in London, it was great simply to get going; interesting too to see which route the marathon was going to take us on as we headed northwards out of the city before veering across towards the former Westhampnett airfield, which so famously became the Goodwood motor-racing circuit in the years after the war. We were on historic turf as we clipped the corner of the site before crossing the road to head towards Goodwood House itself, seat for centuries of the Dukes of Richmond. Running past the house, we headed up the celebrated Goodwood hill climb, now a central part of the annual Goodwood Festival of Speed. The Festival website bills it as a 'challenging white-knuckled 1.16-mile course', which 'starts as a tree-lined run through the southern corner of the Goodwood estate' and then 'turns to sweep past the front of Goodwood House before climbing a steep and narrow estate road bordered by flint walls and dense woodland groves towards Goodwood's equine racecourse on top of the magnificent South Downs'.
    Â Â Magnificent indeed, but on foot it wasn't quite so white-knuckled. Instead, it was a slog; long, slow and draining, but, coming just 40 minutes into the race, it was manageable enough, bringing us to the top of the first of the day's four climbs, emerging on the high ground next to Goodwood racecourse, elegantly positioned to enjoy stunning views across the Downs. Not that we paused to enjoy the views. Instead, we ran beyond the course and then darted down a country track to run sharply downhill on a tough, rutted, stony footpath through the woods northwards into the beautiful village of East Dean.
    Â Â Against the clear early-morning sky, it looked ravishing, full of archetypal Sussex appeal and, for me, full of happy Sussex memories. It was here that the poet and playwright Christopher Fry lived for many years, and one of the great pleasures of my job was occasionally going to see him, always a treat as I stepped back into another world full of charm and pleasantries long since lost to modern-day living.
    Â Â 'Have you come here by motor car?' he would ask with a twinkle, and I would always wonder whether the archaism was deliberate, before concluding that it wasn't. Christopher really did live in a world where cars were motor cars. I smiled to myself as I ran through the village, just a few yards from where he was doubtless sipping tea from a bone china cup. 'No, I came here on foot this morning,' I chuckled to myself in tribute to quite the most endearing man I have ever met.
    Â Â But there was no time to pause for thought as the route took us on and out of the village, a flattish road taking us eastwards towards a left-hand turning which led steeply upwards through the woods to the top of the South Downs where we joined the South Downs Way. The ascent was a struggle, particularly as the risk of tripping seemed high, but it was more than worth it. There was something about the air at the top. You could almost feel it cleanse your lungs as you breathed it. Again it struck me: you couldn't possibly conceive a marathon more different to London.
    Â Â As so often happens after a long climb, I accelerated once I