Warts ’n’ Hall
After a recent ultramarathon in the mountains, I was asked on social media whether those of us at the front of such races truly appreciate the scenery we’re travelling through. ‘Of course we do,’ I started to type… Then I paused. Partly because my calf went into spasms of cramp and I rolled to the f loor yelping; and partly because I was questioning myself. Do I, really?
That moment of physical and existential agony illustrated the relationship perfectly. Nature can be spellbindingly beautiful. But those aesthetically pleasing lumps don’t half give me some bumps and other ouchy bits sometimes, too. At the risk of sounding unforgivably narcissistic, it can feel like nature has a long-standing mission to do me damage.
There was that time, while supporting a Paddy Buckley Round in Snowdonia, that I cartwheeled down a bit of the notoriously rocky Tryfan, redecorating my arm and upper torso. There was a slip (or did nature push me?) in the Black Mountains that directed the back of my head towards a sharp rock and changed the colour of my pillow that night. Never mind enjoying nature, I’m just trying not to get murdered by it. More generally, my knees and hips whinged aplent y during the 220-mile Tor des Géants, after some of the longer and rockier descents. After a few hours of a trail race, downhills still make my quads howl like a cheese grater has taken a liking to them.
This might sound like an abusive relationship. So why do I keep going back? Why don’t I pound pavements instead? At the risk of starting a culture war, when the choice is between traffic or trees, mountains or McDonald’s, well, that isn’t a choice (even if 95% of my runs are in rural Wiltshire rather than the Himalayas).
The thing is, nothing beats reaching a ridgeli
