With calf muscles like piano wires after the weekend’s shenanigans with BGG, I’d planned a nice easy three miles through the streets of Edinburgh this evening. A bit of exploration, a few tentative inclines and the chance to spot where I might go for tea afterwards.
However, I made the mistake of announcing my plans on Twitter, and lurking in the virtual shadows ready to pounce was OALR who suggested, I’m sure very innocently, that I could run up Arthur’s Seat.
I chuckled to myself, but had a quick look on Google Maps anyway. I chuckled again when I realised it was 3 miles away from my hotel. Back to plan A. It’s a good plan.
When out in the wilds, I have a pretty good sense of direction. Put me in the city streets and my sense of direction heads west… particularly when I’m meant to be heading east. Adding to my natural navigational hopelessness, my phone (and hence google maps) was down to an unsustainable level of charge – meaning that I had to leave it behind.
So out of the door and down the street went Charliecat with only a rough idea of where I was heading. I’d start with the castle… it’s on a hill… you can’t miss a castle on a hill. And I didn’t. I then found the golden mile and it was all downhill. Perfect. So having resisted a detour down Grandma Green’s Steps (there has to be an innuendo in there somewhere) I headed downhill to the Scottish Parliament.
And here's where things started to go off-piste. The Scottish Parliament sits at the bottom of Arthur’s Seat. I didn’t know that. I looked up. I looked further up. And eventually my eyes focused on the top. And with OATR’s words floating around my head, I thought “I’m having that” and foolishly set off.
Within half a mile I had left the hustle and bustle of Edinburgh behind me and was running up a beautiful valley. But boy was it steep, and long. Every so often I would look up and the top still towered menacingly above me, teasingly getting no closer. Unsure of which way to go I followed some runners who looked confident in their endeavours and direction.
Eventually the gravel turned into rock, and rock turned into a scramble until the top finally appeared. The views were out of this world… the city merged into the Firth of Forth and then into the landscape beyond. But whoever Arthur was, he hadn’t left his bloody seat for a weary runner to rest his scrawny arse on.
Having admired the view for 5 minutes it was time to head back. Once I cleared the rock, it was a fast descent downhill. Full speed ahead, picking my way over boulders and the occasional flurry of scree, hitting a 6 min/mile pace in places. As I reached the bottom my calf muscles were screaming… dogs across the city where turning their heads in the direction of the high pitched whistle emanating from the backs of my legs. A quick stretch and I re-traced my steps back up to the Castle… remembering how nice it was to have run down the Golden Mile now I was pushing my aching body back up it. From the Castle it was downhill again, a fair pace achieved, stopping only to ask for directions.
Three miles had turned into seven. A few gentle hills had turned into an epic 300 metre climb. But boy it felt good. I fear I’m starting to turn into a proper runner… and that is scary.
Stats for July: 78 miles; 2.5 miles a day.
My life, I realise suddenly, is July
