Slip Slidin’ Away

If the weather had been like this, we'd probably have gone for it

Having done a longer-than-planned run on Monday (11 miles), I decided that it would be acceptable to kick today’s long run into the long grass, and go for a walk instead.  Eight miles running, versus 20-odd miles walking (including Pen Y Ghent and Ingleborough) sounded like a fair swap.  Off we went, spending Thursday night in High Bentham so as to get off to an early start.

By tea-time yesterday, we had decided to do the two hills, but leave out the eight mile yomp across Black Dubb Moss.  By this morning, Ingleborough was covered in low cloud, and with snow forecast we cut our expectations even further, and set off just to do Pen Y Ghent, taking in a 5-miler over the Three Hares as a backstop on the way home.  This is where it all got tricky.

Having been married to Chris for over 20 years, you’d think I would know what he’s thinking.  But sometimes the man is complete closed book.  So when he said; “You just say the word if you want to turn back”, I really had no idea whether he meant; “Lord, this is ‘orrible, let’s call it a day”, or; “I’m thoroughly enjoying this invigorating climb up a mountain in the snow and fog, but if you’re too much of a wimp, I won’t hold it against you”.   In the end, I made the call, and about a quarter of the way up Pen-y-Ghent, with the snow blowing horizontally into my right ear, and no prospect of any sort of view, we turned round and headed back to the car.

Now, I’ve got a science background.  I know what happens when water gets very, very cold.  I also know that when a lay-by that is noted for its ruts and bumps looks smooth and inviting, there’s probably something wrong.  But did I put this knowledge into action?  I did not.  Instead, I landed up on my arse on a sheet of ice, in front of two newly-arrived walkers (one offered sympathy, the other was, I suspect, guffawing into his Three Peaks Buff).

All the way home, I planned my blog title.  “Black Bottom Stomp”, perhaps, or “Sky Blue and Black”, or “I Bruise Easily”.  Whatever; its aim was to celebrate the enormous haematoma developing over my coccyx.  I even wondered about posting a photograph.

Back home (via Tesco’s, but missing the Three Hares) and guess what?  Yep – nothing, but nothing to see.  Not even a slight reddening.  I can’t move, I can’t sit and I can’t stand, but absolutely no evidence of injury.

It’ll have to be Paul Simon again.