Solitude

I quite like running.  In a perverse sort of way.  Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I like running after I have done the running and most certainly not when I am battling a headwind, with my feet being blown from under me, as I cross the viaduct.  Despite this love hate relationship with the activity, I have always fancied getting into trail running; the idea of getting out into the countryside, onto the moors and away from the conurbations, is just my cup of tea (mmm tea), but until now, I had never done anything about this.

But the other day, someone suggested how running could be combined with climbing - climb until pumped then run on the moors.  Sounded eminently sensible to me. I live on the edge of a village, adjacent to the Bronte Way, so I thought I would make use of this resource and see what this off road malarky was all about. Moving slowly through a wet and muddy field, I was in my element and although not moving quickly, it was quite a different experience to plodding along tarmac, trying not to trip over yet another crapping dog. Granted, 3 km uphill straight into a F7 was not a pleasant experience, but the track was soft on my feet and I didn't see a soul. I didn't really see the view either - I was too busy trying not to fall over. The return leg was excellent, sunshine, a following wind and downhill 95% of the way. Even the part on the road was quite good.

9.95 km later, I certainly felt like my legs had had a workout and although walking backwards might have been quicker, I somehow didn't care. Something odd has come over me in recent months and I no longer feel the need to chastise myself about my running - at least I go out and at least I do something. More to the point, it's actually much more enjoyable when I don't think I am about to have a heart attack and I'm also sure that running slowly still burns more calories and makes me feel much better than if I sat on the couch watching TV all day.

As fun as this excursion was, my feet were skiting about in the mud and so I thought investing in the right sort of shoes may be prudent (and everyone loves new shoes). Having sought advice from one who knows of these things, I trotted off to Leeds and purchased myself a pair of truly hideous, and therefore utterly brilliant, new trainers. Psyched from a meeting I was dreading, but which turned out to be massively positive, no wind and bright sunshine, I had to get out, so I headed to Ilkley Moor.

As the low sun shone in my eyes, I struggled to find my way to where I wanted to be. I also struggled to run up hill (as in I had to keep slowing to a walk). But I plodded on, reaching the Twelve Apostles just as the sun started to set. I passed two dog walkers and nearly tripped over one of their dogs, but otherwise I was alone on the moor. Bliss. Running down the peaty path, through puddles and jumping between stones, I could have just kept going, but the realisation struck me that it was now getting dark and that I was alone in the middle of Ilkley Moor without a phone. I turned round. Slogging back over the summit, the lights of Ilkley were laid out below me, the landscape shrouded in an inky blue veil. Making my way across the flag stones, I suddenly realised I was enjoying myself - while I was still running! Perhaps it was because I was going downhill, perhaps it was because of the environment, perhaps it was the solitude, maybe it was all of those things and others too, all I know is that after that 8.73 km induction, my hideous trainers and I will be plodding slowly over another moor sometime very soon.