Coming home from Eryri was poignant; I wanted to stay up there a while, on the slopes, ridges and peaks. I love the feeling of rocks beneath my hands and feet, love the way rock clings to its temperature, solidly cold or resolutely warm, and love to pick my way over the hills, each step carefully taken. Hiking and adventuring are a part of me that I’ve had to give up over the last few years, but now I want my children to know the joy, and to know that part of me.
But if I want to take my family adventuring, I need to be able to carry a child down a hill, or tow a tired swimmer across a bay. I need to be able to exercise for 5 or 6 hours and still be a cheerleader.
Before I had children, I could run five miles, or swim one mile, in about 30 mins, but now after three pregnancies and a series of injuries/ops, I’m slower, weaker and heavier. Since my job pays me to sit and write all day, slurping coffee and dunking biscuits, this means I have to make a special effort to get moving. (Moving and possibly not eating the Oreos.) So today I did my first proper, non-stop run since my last op:
2 miles in 17 minutes (240 foot elevation).
If I’d come back feeling great, I’d be OK with that — it’s not brilliant but it’s not desperate either. However, I came back with sweaty eyeballs, feeling like I’d been stabbed (my surgeon said that I might feel like I’d been kicked by a horse: he wasn’t kidding).
Last month I swam a 42:50 mile which is lousy. I had an operation 5 days later, and have healed a lot since, though, so I’ll have another go.
When I started this post I was going to write about how I’m burning with energy, how I can’t wait to get started and am really looking forward to this strong and exciting-blah-blah stage in my forty-something life. (Forty-five is the new twenty-five?) How revoltingly smug — how very social media — would that have been. But I’ve just done the run now and need to concentrate on breathing, so I’m going to abandon my blog and go and faceplant with a large wedge of Brie, until the sweat stops sticking my face to the floor, or school phones to ask why I haven’t picked up my children.
I might never blog about this again.
(I’m not giving up. I’m hoping that eventually I’ll get everything done and it will all look a bit inevitable, or effortless, and people will say, “Oh, you’re so lucky!” at my successes, and not realise how many times I fell on my face, or got it all wrong, or made a sweaty fool of myself.)