#off-road running

Run  Let me run freely through forests, And I'll give you my heart. 

Whilst running this morning in the gorgeous Durham woodland, sunshine pouring in through the still bare trees, I started to think of my transformation. My very particular transformation. I used to hate hills, I would try to avoid running them at all costs. My lungs would scream, my legs burn. I would get to the top and stop. Then, like a wheezing, bumbling, drunken elephant I would continue on the path. Until that fateful day a couple of years ago now, when, after dragging myself up a particular hill in Turin over a few weeks, I realised it was easier than before. So much easier. And I felt fantastic. From that moment on, I slowly began to enjoy running hills. I enjoyed the challenge, I enjoyed the discomfort, the message coming from my brain telling me stop, walk, go home, sleep, I enjoyed denying myself that. Perhaps because I now knew that I could go on, I could go on running those hills as long as it took to get to the top. But there's something else, something perhaps a little more profound that I realised on my run this morning. After many miles on my feet, running is fairly easy, unless I'm pushing for a certain time, so easy that I can distract myself from my efforts without blinking an eye. My mind wanders to abstract places or it creates scenarios or it plans what I'll eat when I get back. I worry about my usual worries. Running was supposed to be an escape from all that, precious stolen moments of mental freedom, quiet. The monotony of the movement of running brought a calm to my loud mind. No more. That is, until I get to a hill. If the incline is sufficient, all goes quiet, and it's just me and my legs and my breath and the hill. Then, with reckless abandon, I let gravity take me down the other side and I feel, if only briefly, totally free.