It is Saturday 18th February. I have just dropped Fiona off at Sheffield train station for a weekend in London. I now am driving to Crowhole, Commonside, for another lonesome day out. A PhD funding interview in two days dominates my mind. I need to clear my head. Open the boot, secure the hydration pack, shoes on, where should I put the keys, go. Tarmac to start, thankfully downhill but this doesn’t last long. Disinterested dog walkers don’t return my call of morning. I run through Broombank Plantation, creaks and groans in the aftermath of storm Otto. The distinctive crack of splintering wood brings me on edge as a downed silver birch blocks my path. I climb over, annoyed it has broken my rhythm but glad to be putting distance between me and the twisted, broken limbs that lay overhead. I pass over the Unstone-Dronfield By-Pass, spiralling may way up onto the bridge, peering onto the traffic below. The recent rain and uncharacteristic heat have combined to make for a humid day. I stop. Sleeves and waterproof are removed before I cook myself. Again, I have only brought 2 litres of water so today is a lesson in preserving resources. I am not going for speed. I am going for a day in which I can let go of my anxieties. I have quit my job. I am picking up shifts here and there when they make themself available. I want this PhD.
Taking in the views, I am taken back by the beauty of the landscape. I had not expected such a scene so early in the day. The path lies straight ahead but there is nothing stopping my feet meandering either side. A breeze embraces me. This isn’t to last. A railway footbridge and I am behind a dilapidated building. Broken glass, old equipment, the smell of something untoward. A narrow alley, suffocating. The dichotomy between these areas is stark and sudden, as if a curtain has been drawn. Open, free, inviting; confined, dark, repelling. I run to escape these feelings, to be liberated of the weights that drag me down. I am not always happy. I am often not. I run to fall into that tumbling space of mind where thoughts wash over you and perspective is clear. It can go by many names; flow-state, euphoria, the second wind, but most know it as the runner’s high. A flush of endorphins, from endogenous – having internal cause or origin, and morphine – a strong opiate painkiller. The act of running providing a little hit, no wonder it is addictive. These are released in response to the stresses of running, buffering against any pains to allow for the body to continue functioning. Add in some endocannabinoids and you’ve got a relaxed state of reduced pain for some first-class thinking time.
I am now looking at a sign. No public right of way. But, this is the way I am supposed to go? I mean, the arrows on the poles point this way, right? Right, and wrong. I am not to run up the dirty path reminiscent of every other right of way, but the pristine driveway to its left before diverging behind a hedge. No sooner have I gotten over this confusing bit of signage I am met with another conundrum for the ages. A gate straight into a pen practically full to the brim with horses. I spy the gate at the other side and formulate my plan. Soothing reassurance to my equine friends, nice horsey horsey. I take a victory selfie to celebrate my survival. I am feeling more positive now. Any encounter with nature like that will lighten my spirits. It is why I am enjoying work more now. Hours spent in the outdoors; wind, rain, sun, cloud, sleet, it doesn’t matter, I feel closer to nature and more at home.
I quite like farmland. Yes, its suitability for biodiversity is poor, yes, poor farming practices cause damage to waterways, yes, it leads to soil erosion faster than it can be created. I just think it is neat. It is what I think of when I think of the countryside. A patchwork on the undulating canvas that is England. Wheat, lettuce, onion, cabbage, oilseed rape, barley, potato. Greens, yellows, purples, delineated by history in stone. Running through these fields I feel a connection to the past. The effort I am exerting now in leisure, the effort exerted then in labour. I feel much more comfortable and at ease when I am active. Tensions are relieved and I am floating. A passenger to myself as I a submit to my bodies flow. My heart rate drops, I take pleasure in the ease of my actions, my heart rate rises, I relish in the work I apply. I am enjoying myself.
I watch a kestrel hover in the wind. Flap, glide, tilt, flap, tilt, glide. Eyes scan the grassland below. I compare it to myself. Its head fixed in place, mine too. It is focussed on surveying the land, looking for its next meal. I am focussed on the next landmarks, breaking the day into manageable progress. I look down again, a gate. Brilliant. I head through and run along the top of the field. It’s a dead end. I realise too late that in my distracted state I completely missed the sign conveniently located on the other side of the hedge. I back track and rectify my mistake, cursing nature and its allure, almost.
I have run through a lot of farmyards today, all without incident. Close the gate behind myself, don’t linger, don’t get run over by a tractor, don’t bother the cattle. I am now passing another farm. I am not passing through the farmyard, simply following the defined path that runs in front of its entrance on my merry way. I hear a bark, and another, two dogs. The farm gate isn’t closed, and I catch two shapes advancing on my right. A yappy chihuahua, no problem. A large golden Labrador showing its grizzled years, problem. They snap at my heels. With recent news on dog attacks, I am not taking any risks. Using the most colourful of language I shouted my defence, telling them to ‘please and kindly go away before the matter turned to fisticuffs’, as the Labrador took a lunge at my left arm. The message somehow gets through, and they back off. I love dogs, being described akin in temperament, energy, and hairiness; I am not about being their chew toys. Annoyingly, it seems here the farmer does not like the public being allowed to walk on a right of way. It is hidden away behind equipment, overgrown hawthorns, toppled stones, but it is there, a small wooden bridge to lead me to safety. The rain begins.
There is a squirrel in an ash tree. It scuttles down a limb overhanging the path and disappears into a decay hole, its bushy grey tale dissolving into inky black. I find a comparison once again to myself in nature. I am running as an escape, a way in which to control that I cannot control and push it aside. Am I taking that which is in the light at the forefront of my mind and putting it away into darkness or am I trying to change the light which is cast upon it; a change of perspective where there can be no change of circumstance. I am back at the car five and a half hours later, a bottle of orange squash and half of a lemon cake squished in my face. I am filled with more confidence. I have my interview, I wait over a week to hear back. Hedge planting in Yorkshire, ice cold rain piercing my face, I get the email. I didn’t get it. I am disappointed, sure, but I have a mind and body that can take can go out on these adventures on a whim, so life is pretty good.
Stats
Distance: 53.9km
Time: 5:36:49
Pace: 6:15/km
Elevation: 1227m
Calories: 4527
Heart Rate: 160bpm