Steep Hills and Unimpressed Sheep
Oh ya ******.
The words I uttered when I reached the bottom of my planned training hill. The "475m elevation" on the trusty little route planner hadn't really meant much when I was planning this training hill. Shading my eyes as I squinted up at the very distant, very high hilltop, it meant a lot more now.
Wheezing my way up the previous (much greener) hill, I had been oblivious to the extent of my unwise choice until this point.
For some reason, despite running for about four years now, I'm still clueless about distance. I was certain the top of the nice green hill would definitely be as far as I had planned...and I definitely wouldn't have to climb that massive, massive hill starting to come into view....even though this path looks like it joins that paa.... oh bugger...
Day one: I can't lie. I got to the bottom of this big, heather clad, rocky beast, looked at my watch and went "Yup, tea time." And promptly turned around. I didn't even feel bad.
Day two: (yesterday) I told myself to suck it up and put my brave girl pants on. My poor quads would just have to feel like they'd been through a mincer for a bit, but you can't seriously expect to be able to be a trail runner without some sore muscles - I mean, get a grip woman. So up I went, cursing the sheep who seemed to motor up it effortlessly in front of me.
I stopped/started my way up to about two thirds/three quarters before stopping properly (long enough to hear something other than my own wheezing/verbal telling off for being so unfit - I live in the countryside, in Scotland for goodness sake, why isn't this a doddle?!). Anyway, what I heard when I stopped needing an ambulance... was hardly anything at all. Being on my own, this high up and this far from civilisation was the quietest thing you can imagine. Birds calling in the very far distance were the only sounds to be heard, and that in itself made the shaky legs worth it. And, being a clear day, the hills around me and right across Angus were breath-taking (if you have enough left to take that is).
I clambered back down the hill - which may well have been as tricky as coming up - and made my way back to my car, set on the idea of doing this hill as often as it takes to get good at it.
Day three: (today) "It's half six in the morning, what in Christ's name do you think you're doing, you absolute lunatic." Is what I'm sure the sheep were saying as they watched me half drag, half trip up this same bloody hill, obviously looking so pathetic it never even crossed their minds to run to safety. I'd have to look like a potential danger to them for that to happen...and even the little gammy-legged one was thinking "Bring it on, love".
But I got to the top this time! And my God, the views were worth it. Looking out over the other side of the hill, you can see right out to the desolate, snowy mountain tops, steep ravines and cliff faces making the landscape look wholly prehistoric, and the wind whipping over the heather around me. It's a strange thing, being in the middle of such vast, immense, empty hills, and what it can do to you. You feel completely alone, insignificant and tiny. Not in a bad way, just in a very blunt, truthful way. A sort of realisation settles on you, and you're not sure if you feel really, really at one, or very spaced out. Or perhaps the exercise is getting to me.
I almost wet myself when a grouse came hurtling past making an ungodly racket. Clearly I'd been standing on top of his hill long enough.
So I will be back next week, to undoubtedly amuse some more sheep and hopefully find I can do considerably more running rather than sitting on my arse cursing my unfitness.
For now, signing out, the incredibly hungry runner. (Like, seriously, there's not enough food in the supermarket to satisfy what my body thinks it needs right now...).
The words I uttered when I reached the bottom of my planned training hill. The "475m elevation" on the trusty little route planner hadn't really meant much when I was planning this training hill. Shading my eyes as I squinted up at the very distant, very high hilltop, it meant a lot more now.
Wheezing my way up the previous (much greener) hill, I had been oblivious to the extent of my unwise choice until this point.
For some reason, despite running for about four years now, I'm still clueless about distance. I was certain the top of the nice green hill would definitely be as far as I had planned...and I definitely wouldn't have to climb that massive, massive hill starting to come into view....even though this path looks like it joins that paa.... oh bugger...
Day one: I can't lie. I got to the bottom of this big, heather clad, rocky beast, looked at my watch and went "Yup, tea time." And promptly turned around. I didn't even feel bad.
Day two: (yesterday) I told myself to suck it up and put my brave girl pants on. My poor quads would just have to feel like they'd been through a mincer for a bit, but you can't seriously expect to be able to be a trail runner without some sore muscles - I mean, get a grip woman. So up I went, cursing the sheep who seemed to motor up it effortlessly in front of me.
I stopped/started my way up to about two thirds/three quarters before stopping properly (long enough to hear something other than my own wheezing/verbal telling off for being so unfit - I live in the countryside, in Scotland for goodness sake, why isn't this a doddle?!). Anyway, what I heard when I stopped needing an ambulance... was hardly anything at all. Being on my own, this high up and this far from civilisation was the quietest thing you can imagine. Birds calling in the very far distance were the only sounds to be heard, and that in itself made the shaky legs worth it. And, being a clear day, the hills around me and right across Angus were breath-taking (if you have enough left to take that is).
I clambered back down the hill - which may well have been as tricky as coming up - and made my way back to my car, set on the idea of doing this hill as often as it takes to get good at it.
Day three: (today) "It's half six in the morning, what in Christ's name do you think you're doing, you absolute lunatic." Is what I'm sure the sheep were saying as they watched me half drag, half trip up this same bloody hill, obviously looking so pathetic it never even crossed their minds to run to safety. I'd have to look like a potential danger to them for that to happen...and even the little gammy-legged one was thinking "Bring it on, love".
But I got to the top this time! And my God, the views were worth it. Looking out over the other side of the hill, you can see right out to the desolate, snowy mountain tops, steep ravines and cliff faces making the landscape look wholly prehistoric, and the wind whipping over the heather around me. It's a strange thing, being in the middle of such vast, immense, empty hills, and what it can do to you. You feel completely alone, insignificant and tiny. Not in a bad way, just in a very blunt, truthful way. A sort of realisation settles on you, and you're not sure if you feel really, really at one, or very spaced out. Or perhaps the exercise is getting to me.
I almost wet myself when a grouse came hurtling past making an ungodly racket. Clearly I'd been standing on top of his hill long enough.
So I will be back next week, to undoubtedly amuse some more sheep and hopefully find I can do considerably more running rather than sitting on my arse cursing my unfitness.
For now, signing out, the incredibly hungry runner. (Like, seriously, there's not enough food in the supermarket to satisfy what my body thinks it needs right now...).
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