‘I’m just going to enjoy it,’ says a naive-sounding voice behind me, underneath the start line’s inflatable gantry. Then a second voice – with the tone of someone who knows better – replies, ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s possible.’
It’s not called the Killer Mile for nothing. Ahead is a sadistically incessant incline designed to make one solitary mile (just 1,609m) feel like a never-ending slog. Surely we should be rolling wheels of pungent cheese down this hill, not trying to run up it.
I’m in the village of Mow Cop, six miles north of Stoke-on-Trent, to take on the 38th iteration of the Mow Cop Killer Mile (held annually, every May). It’s a race with an intriguing history. Inspired by the heroics of Coe and Ovett at the 1980 Moscow Olympics, the North Staffordshire Road Runners decided to turn their most notorious club session – Friday lunchtime sprints up Mow Cop hill – into a formal race. The Killer Mile was born and, well, that’s why I’m here.
Everyone alongside me on the start line knows that this is no ordinary mile. With a 25% angle and 570ft (174m) ascent, the route begins at Scholar Green – in the village’s lower reaches next to a level crossing – and climbs steeply to the hilltop ruins of Mow Cop Castle, which is a folly built in 1754.
The brutality of this race is tempered by a celebratory atmosphere. There’s a wonderful English eccentricity in the air. To my left, a runner is wearing a bright pink Cheshire Cat outfit. To my right, Scooby Doo is stretching his quads.
Clearly, this event is not just ‘a true test of endurance on one of the toughest uphill races around’ – it feels like something deeper and more meaningful. It’s a communal rite of passage and a collective hardship shared by young and old alike.
The inaugural event, in 1982, attracted just 95 runners. Fast-forward to 2026 and it’s a sell-out, with 1,250 participants across two junior races, two fun runs and one competitive line-up. Some are serious club runners, primed to challenge either the men’s course record of 6 minutes and 12 seconds or women’s course record of 7 minutes and 54 seconds. Others are just here for the banter before a few pints at The Ash Inn.
Eventually, the starter klaxon sounds and I’m off. The first 200m are not too bad. I’m near the front and moving well, but I’ve not really got a clue how to pace this. So I revert to a simple plan: full-send, hang on and see what happens. It’s only one mile, after all. What’s the worst that could happen?
The answer is a one-way ticket to destination: pain. A place where calves scream, lungs bust and heart rates spike dangerously into the red. Living in Cumbria, I’m a decent fell runner – but I’m not prepared for this.
After a right-turn, the terrain steepens. I look at my watch. Only 400m down and it already feels like I’m digging deep. After 1km, just when blessed relief is most needed, the incline pitches up yet again. I’m struggling, falling down the field after momentarily reverting to my hands-on-knees fell running power walk, yet I find the strength to pick it up again.
Writer James Forrest with his hard-earned medal
Mercifully, the steepness abates and I finally see the silhouette of the castle ahead. It’s done. My Killer Mile is over in 9 minutes and 19 seconds. Would I recommend it? At the finish line, I promise myself never, ever again. But now, with the hindsight of runner’s pain amnesia, all I can recall is how devilishly fun the whole eccentric thing was.
For more information, visit killermile.com.
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