“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.”
― Kurt Vonnegut
The pop was audible and my stomach lurched at the sound of it. I regained my balance gingerly, the pain was sharp but not overwhelming. It wasn’t broken. I tried a little jog, not horrific, probably not sensible though. I walked, then I stopped and had a look at it, not swollen or red.
After a couple of hours this was still the case, no swelling, no bruising. I presumed that, given I am hypermobile in many of my joints that it was just going to be business as usual; a few days rest and back on it. A week later and it was apparent that that wasn’t going to be the case, so my first race of the season – High Cup Nick – was a no go. Trouble with it is; it hasn’t really gone but it was never really that bad in the first place, just sore and achy and obviously objecting to doing much on it.
Time to sweat about the Highland Fling in April? Probably. With the clock ever ticking? Definitely. Sometimes, life gives you lemons and the juicer is broken. I threw myself into doing a lot of calf raises, pistol squats and anything else I could think of that would make walking up two flights of stairs in the Wildlife Trust office painful! Lesson: If the juicer is broken, fix it, then make lemonade.
Fast forward six weeks and after some heavy duty ankle strapping with some seriously funky biohazard print Rocktape, I found myself on the start line of one of the oldest fell races – Rivington Pike. I had planned on doing the Dungeon Ghyll fell race which was steeper and offered me the chance to finally make it to the top of Harrison Stickle after the Stickle Grind diversion cut it out, but then I discovered the route was not quite the one I expected and I don’t trust my ‘on the fly’ nav skills. Cop out or what?!
As a kid I used to walk up Rivington Pike with my grandad and cousins and I always liked to imagine that the square tower atop the hill was home to a large Pike, from which the hill would take its’ name. Alas, the tower is just a tower – albeit a listed one built in the late C18th – no fish resides therein! However, it does have some sentimental attachment and as it was also my nannas’ 94th birthday the following day it meant I could knock out a fell race in Horwich then swing by Preston on the way (not really on the way!) back to Darlo.
Fell races are great, you turn up in your club vest – in my case looking like a fish out of water in my Durham colours on the wrong (some might say!) side of the Pennines ;o) – pay a small fee (£5 this time) pick up a number and then run as hard as you can, there’s usually a drink and sometimes soup or hotpot at the end. The ‘S’ category races are short (less than 10km) and the first letter – ‘B’ this time – denotes the climb per km (25m min per km for B).
This was the hardest 5km I’d ever done, the first part up the tarmac was fine, but it got steep in the last part of the fell climb. Legs jellied, lungs bursting, and then it’s the down. I admit I held back on the off-road section, it was cobbled and rutted in places and I didn’t want to take a tumble on the still healing ankle, but, it’s mentally good practice for ultras letting myself be overtaken and being ok with it. I actually really enjoyed the downhill on the road, it was such a good feeling to run fast without the fear of turning the ankle on the smoother surface, final time; nothing special – 31mins on the nose, bottle of water and done! Also free; a massive adrenaline dump afterwards – you don’t get that high on an ultra!
I actually really like the short ones, the legs just have so much to give that climbing really hard until you are gasping is amazing and you don’t (normally!) need to hold back on the downhill it’s just full pelt down! I think I might have found a new addiction :oD !
Jess the Running Lynx 