Crackpots

“it’s not much of a hill”, my mum said, directing us over the Swale and straight up a gully to Crackpot. To walk, maybe not. To run, it was a killer: 100 metres up in 500 metres. I walked twice, at the steepest point and again at the top. Mr N did not. The man has calves of steel.

The hill was only 10 minutes in to the run and we spent the remaining 30 recovering. In the warm glow of hindsight, I enjoyed it. At the time, not so much. Running up these hills makes me feel like a novice. My heart is pounding, the lactic acid in my muscles is writing cheques my lungs can’t cash. If I don’t stop, I am sure I’ll be sick. Mr N feels none of these things. For him it’s purely a mental struggle.

Last run tomorrow and we might brave the Vale of Dead Rabbits again. I’m not crackers enough for another shot at the Crackpot.