Coming home from Eryri was poignant; I’ve missed the mountains and wanted to stay up there a while, on the slopes, ridges and peaks, in the mountain air. I love the feeling of rocks beneath my hands and feet, love the way rock clings to its temperature, solidly cold or resolutely warm. My years of sailing have meant rocks are demonised in favour of an intact hull – watch out, a rock! But I live on a rock, it’s our foundation. I also love to move over the hills, every step carefully taken. As my children fell in love with the mountains, I realised how much hiking and adventuring is a part of me that I’ve had to give up over the last few years.
Now I want to take my children on some of the wonderful journeys I’ve enjoyed. I want them to know the joy, and to know me. But before I can take them on any more demanding hikes, I need to get fit.
If I want to take my family adventuring safely, I need to be able to carry a child down a hill, or tow a tired swimmer across a bay. I need to be fit enough to exercise for 5 or 6 hours and still be a cheerleader.
Before I had children, I routinely ran five miles in 32 mins (never broke that 30 min barrier!), swam a mile in 30 mins (breaststroke), and weighed about 115 lbs (BMI 20). Since then, I’ve had three pregnancies and a series of injuries/ops, and now I’m nowhere near as fast or strong. I’ve also put on weight (BMI 22.5).
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 slightly reassured by that time — it’s not good but it’s not desperate either. However, I came back with sweaty eyeballs, feeling like I’d been stabbed (my surgeon said that I couldn’t hurt myself by exercising, but I might feel like I’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Turns out he wasn’t kidding).
Swimming — I’ve yet to time myself but last month I swam a 42:50 mile (admittedly my weakest moment health-wise), which is lousy. I’ve healed a lot since, though, so I’ll have another go. Maybe aim for a 41-minute mile. (Really, 30 min.)
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.)