Six Hills Out and Six Hills Back
Will this anxiety ever ease? The knot in the pit of my stomach feels like a nest of black slimy eels, their movement slight, but they’re there, establishing their comfort in my discomfort, settling in for the duration. Recently, my usual arsenal of tried and tested strategies to obliterate them hasn’t worked. I really think I need to find new ones.
All this, and I’m only going for a run.
It’s a good 30 minutes from my house to my favourite place to run, but still it’s not long until a landmark hill comes into view. I smile as I remember fondly, just after COVID, how I used that hill as an interval session, like it was a perfectly normal thing to do on a Wednesday morning. Three friends, with a collective age of about 160 years old, felt once again like teenagers who’d just been given a bit more freedom from our parents. And we ran those hills knowing what a privilege it was after the hard restrictions of COVID.
I’ve so many happy memories of this national park on my doorstep. Too many to mention, yet still I couldn’t quash my nerves on this particular visit. As I drove into the car park, my nervous system spiked, as I recognised a car in the car park, my immediate reaction was to turn around, go home, it felt too much to face someone who was once someone I used to coach, someone who shared these trails with me, who also found solace up these hills and down the dales.
I swallowed my fears; I could do this.
I started slowly, the first mile is always tough as it’s a long, slow incline, fab to finish on but a deal breaker if you start out on it too fast. I noticed a woman just sat in her car with her car door open, her four-legged companion sniffing the ground, raising its wet noise and fluffy ears as it curiously watched me run past. I remembered my own furry friend, no longer with me, who loved nothing more than running these hills with me. He would dart off in every direction, chasing new scents that usually led him to roll in anything that smelt rotten, fox poo or dead badger, he wasn’t choosy in his scents.
The route was simple, 6 hills out, 6 hills back, it’s a tough run, of course it is, I’m starting here again, I’ve only been back here a handful of times since my broken ankle. And I know I shouldn’t compare myself to where I was a year ago, or even 15 years ago, the hills don’t care, and I try my hardest to be content with where I am right now. I am. Well almost, I only slightly beret myself for catching my breath at the top of a hill, and yes I know I used to be able to race up what is affectionately named “the beast”, but for now I’m running for 20 steps, walking for 20 steps. I will be able to do it again, I need to keep showing up. If I don’t, I wouldn’t be able to do it.
The last mile really is the best bit of this route, all downhill and I ran like a child, full of abandonment and excitement as I navigated each jutting stone, testing my ankle, feeling the trust increase as each foot landed. I relaxed into a familiar rhythm of a faster pace as I pushed on, the lactic acid response kicked in. It felt a lot better than those slimy eels. As I approached the last half mile, the rugged path was replaced with smooth tarmac, I glanced at my watch, could I hold this pace? Every second burning, until my watch finally clicked over to 6 miles. I stopped, panting and soaked in sweat. I was so happy.
As I headed back to the parking kiosk, catching my breath, a woman hurried next to me, she seemed flustered, and a bit breathless as she turned to me and “You’re amazing! I’ve just watched you run up those hills. How far have you run?”
I was taken aback; it was the lady with the dog. I stumbled on my words, “Erm, just 6 miles” I said. Why are we not used to compliments, why did I say just?
“Wow”, and then she asked if this was a normal distance for me, I told her I was coming back from injury, that I used to run lots of miles up here regularly, that I had been for years, and now I was slowly building up my mileage and my confidence
As we walked towards our cars, she had parked next to me. I say parked, it literally looked as though she’d “thrown” it into the parking space with zero thought of right angles.
I’ve done the same myself, randomly parked a car, jumped out, hoping to catch someone, with an impulse to tell them that I think what they’re doing is amazing. Usually, it’s related to running!
Anyway, as she got to her car door, she turned to me and said
“I wish I could do it”.