I’m writing this in Geneva airport, on my way home from a weekend of mountain air, trail running, far too much melted cheese and an amazing race. This was my second year in Chamonix for the Beat the Sun race – a crazy idea dreamed up, clearly, after too much melted cheese, in which teams of runners attempt to run the entire way around Mont Blanc between sunrise and sunset on the longest day of the year.
I’ll be writing a lot more about the race later this week, so in the meantime I’ll just focus on the fact that I’m forswearing fondue for a long old while, that my quads are in small hurty bits from excessive amounts (for me) of downhill trail running, and that theoretically when I eventually get home I’ve got to do 17 miles. Berlin marathon is suddenly not all that far away and I need to up the mileage. If anyone has a pair of legs I can borrow, drop them off at Gatwick please.
I like to think I am a reasonably fit person, but running in the mountains makes me realise that fitness only helps when you are going up the hills. Downhills, particularly technical, twisty ones, are a whole different sport. One that I am truly rubbish at. A fear of heights doesn’t really help, and nor does living in London, which gives little opportunity for practising descents of more than about 50 metres. Possibly also stopping to go “Wow!” and take photos every 10 minutes might not help my split times, should I ever enter a race in this terrain.
So, back to London and nice, smooth tarmac for me. It might be infinitely more beautiful out in France/Switzerland/Italy (all of which the race encompasses), but my runnings legs like a bit of boring old road.
