🌙 Mum's Wild Night Out

Bike, run, home by midnight

Hello Restless Peeps,

I hope you’re having a stellar week,

We’ve been enjoying settling back into full family life here after Jamie and Storm came back from being in Italy for four days. They had a blast!

This week’s post is an open post — meaning anyone can read / listen to the whole shebang. It’s a tale of an escape that FILLED MY SOUL on up to the brim.

The written version is edited down, and the audio version is a slightly longer, fuller tale.

Take your pick, and please let me know if you have any other ideas for cracking adventures I can have between bedtime and midnight, before winter sets in again?

Lorra love and catch you next week,

Anna xx

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Mum's Wild Night Out: bike, run, and home by midnight

It’s been a long time coming, this little plan of mine. From our house on the outskirts of Gloucester, I can see the Malvern hills. Although ‘only hills’, they are quite sharp in places, triangular, even, and they cut an aesthetically pleasing silhouette across the skyline.

If I’m out walking on my local hill and I look over at the Malverns, I feel a little tug inside my chest. A gravitational pull that says I want to be up there. To be dancing along them. Along that line, that separates the earth and the sky.

More than that, I want to be there at sundown. On my own — elevated high enough above the craziness of daily life so that the weight of the mental load feels lighter, and far enough from home so that I’ll look forward to returning there when the adventure is done.

And so I hatched a plan. Which went as follows:

• One evening, drive to the north end of the Malverns with my bike in the back of the car (drive time, approx 50 minutes)

• Park up, hop on my bike, pedal 11 miles south to the other end of the Malverns.

• Lock my bike to a tree / a fence / stash it in a bush.

• Run the 10 miles along the tops of the hills back to the car.

• After finishing the run, drive south to pick up the bike whence I had stashed it, bundle it in the car and make it home, hopefully by midnight (after which I may turn into a pumpkin).

The plan was simple(ish) but trying to find a night when it was logistically possible proved logistically impossible for many weeks.

I kept marking it in the diary as HAPPENING on a certain date, then moving it — because one kid was sick, I was sick, or one of us had to go away for a speaking event.

But then, in mid July, there was a window. A glimmer of hope! A night when Storm was on her weekly sleepover at Nannie Annie’s and Jamie was at home to put the twins to bed.

It was GO Time…

At 5.30pm on Tuesday evening I kiss the twins goodnight, wish Jamie good luck with bedtime and head out the front door amid some toddler protests.

I hop into car, fire up a podcast, slot the key in the ignition and Vroooom! I am off — heading out of Gloucester along the M5, bound for North Malvern.

It’s a warm summer’s evening but the wind is up and the sky is thick with clouds — some of them white but many of them grey and heavy.

I’ve got a fuzzy feeling in my tummy —  it’s been there for most of the afternoon. It’s been such a long time since I’ve done something a bit mad, on my own, and I’m nervous.

‘It’s only the Malverns Anna.’ I remind myself. It’s not like I’m heading out into the wilderness, but when I turn off the motorway and those Malverns are now in front of me, they fill up the windscreen and look bloody enormous.

My brain takes this new perspective as a cue to shout at me: ‘You’re going to be up there in the dark, on your own? What the heck are you doing?! What if you slip off the edge in the dark? Or fall and break your ankle and it’s the middle of the night and no one finds you. The kids need you in one piece. Go home.’

I recognise these thoughts, or a version of them at least. I have had them many times before. It is as if all the thoughts I would have previously had when heading off on a six month adventure through some gigantic mountains are now being condensed down for a 21 mile jaunt through the Malverns. Same intensity. Same feeling. Same physical reaction. Smaller scale.

How interesting. I think.

I remind myself that this is sensible. I am sensible. I’ve packed two head torches (in case one breaks/runs out of charge). Plenty of snacks. Water. I’ve told Jamie where I’m going, and sent him a scene grab of the intended route. ‘In case you wake up in the morning and I’m not next to you.’ I say. I even have a survival bivvy bag with me, and a whistle with a compass on it — just in case.

I have done all of these things because when I became a mum a new part of my brain lit up which sees danger EVERYWHERE. Neurologists call this the Amygdala. But I call it Amy for short. 

Amy is well meaning and there to protect me, but she is somewhat controlling and prone to panic. And she can be very loud at times. I do hear her out, but I can’t let her have her way, always.

And so, these precautions, they are a bargaining tool. They say ‘Okay Amy. I’ve done my duty. I’m being as safe as I can be. Now pipe down and let me have some fun will you?’

At 6.45pm, I park as close as I can to the end of the trail in North Malvern and get my bike out of the back of the car. I’ve selected the worst bike we own just in case it gets nicked while I’m out running.

It’s an old white hardtail mountain bike, featuring many loose parts, a chain thick with gunge and a spattering of rust. Jamie and I affectionately call this ‘The Crap bike.’ The Crap Bike is so crappy that it has a wobbly back wheel, but that’s okay because yesterday, I dusted off my wheel truing skills (last seen in 2016) and made that wheel nice and straight again. In fact, I was surprised at how fast I was able to straighten it.

I leave a packet of dark chocolate-covered almonds on the seat of the car as my treat for the drive home and, as I pedal off, I’m feeling chuffed with having made it to this point. I am soon distracted from my feelings of delight and smugness by a rhythmical, rubbing sound. Looking down and I realise quite why I was able to true the wheel so quickly. Because I had trued the front wheel — which was of course, the wrong wheel. The back one is still wonky as hell. Oh how I laugh. At myself.

‘Oh well, I think. I’ll be riding 11 miles with a wonky wheel then. Let’s hope a spoke doesn’t snap.’

The bike ride takes longer than expected but after an hour of pedalling, I find the start of the Malverns ‘End to End’ trail near a place called Chase End Hill.

I lock my bike up to a fence opposite a house and glance over at the house to see if anyone’s home. I notice a sign that says ‘This carpark is private property of the estate — it is only to be used at the discretion of the estate.’ It’s an angry-looking sign and discretion is such a grown up word. I feel like a naughty child and I wonder if that rule extends to me parking my bike here for a few hours.

At 7.45pm, I set off for the run. Well, it’s more of a fast hike because the trail goes UP through dense woodland right away. I huff and puff my way towards the top of the first hill with my mind still in overdrive and my legs doing their best to keep up.

I had spent the bike ride thinking that I would be less nervous once I started on two feet (and relieved that the bike hadn’t broken) and yet, for some reason, now that a broken bike is no longer an issue, I still feel anxious. Rushed. It’s as if my Worry is looking for something new to attach itself to.

What happens if the people in the house find my bike and aren’t happy with me locking it to the ‘estate’ fence?’ I think. ‘Maybe they’ll be waiting for me in the dead of night when I return, watching out of the window, ready to tell me off? And what if I’ve set off too late?’

These thoughts spin and spin until I reach the top of the hill. I pop out of the woods and suddenly I can breathe.

I stop.

I look around and I think Anna… Chill. Your. Boots. Here I am, wishing my way through this adventure. This precious escape. My thoughts hopping from one worry to the next, always something to be worrying about. And yet I know that when I get to the end, it will all be fine. It will be fabulous, in fact. And then I will want to come back to the start and do it all over again with much less worry. And so I can’t help but feel that tonight’s excursion has become a neat metaphor for life itself.

Up on the breezy tops, I sink into a groove. I’m enjoying having a 360 degree view of the surrounding landscape as I follow the trail up, down, up and down again.

There is very little flat running and the peaks come thick and fast — starting with Raggedstone, then Midsummer. When I reach the top of Swinyard Hill, it’s 8.45pm. I stop for an apple and date bar (which I nicked from the kids snack cupboard), a drink and to take in the view.

Eastnor Obelisk is on the horizon to my left — a tower of stone in the shape of a needle. To my right, I can see all the way back to Gloucester cathedral, close to home and I wonder what Jamie might be doing right now. The twins will be deep in their slumbers and I decide that he’ll likely be watching some Korean Zombie movie on Netflix.

I swallow down what’s left of the bar, stash my water and set off again. It’s a muggy evening and sweat is pouring off of me. My back is soaked and the sides of my face are crusty with salt. It’s been ages since I worked this hard on a run, I think. I both love it and wish it was easier all at once.

I flit between thinking about how far there is left to run and marvelling at the hills themselves. I don’t think about daily life at all and now I’m fully immersed in the surroundings.

There’s a wonderful smell to the outdoors around sunset during a rainy summer — when the cool air collides with heat rising from sodden earth. I love that smell, and tonight it’s stronger than ever.

The trail moves away from the tops and through a small patch of woodland. I pad onwards through hip-height ferns, enjoying being surrounded by so much green, and the odd flash of magenta foxgloves.

After passing Millennium Hill, I begin a long slow slog to the top of Herefordshire Beacon. I have seen no one so far in the run, but I know this is a popular spot in the hills, so I pass a few dog walkers, and a family out with their kids — presumably hoping to take in the sunset.

The trail dips down again to meet a main road. It’s now 9.15pm, I’ve made it five miles and the light is starting to fade.

When I reach the top of Pinnacle Hill, I get a closer look at something I’ve been trying not to think about — The largest peak in the Malverns.

I don’t actually know what that hill is called. I haven’t looked at the map in too much detail (so as not to freak myself out) so I simply settle on calling it ‘The Big Bugger’ in my mind. It is tall and dark and intimidating, and I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to muster the energy to run all the way to the top of it.

Between Pinnacle Hill and Jubilee Hill, I pass a few more people. Each of them alone, staring wistfully out across the horizon or smiling as I pass.

One woman intrigues me.

Her long, grey hair is wild and windswept. She’s wearing a red jumper, jeans and a pair of brown boots. She’s carrying her car keys in one hand and when our eyes meet, there’s a sadness there. It looks like she’s been crying. I wonder whether she comes up here often. Or whether today she was just having a rough time and needed the Malverns to soothe her. I hope that she’s OK.

By the time I make it to the top of what I now know is called Worcestershire Beacon, the moon is bright and the sky has turned a mesmerising shade of indigo. Streetlights and house lights twinkle far down below. I spot a patch of wildflowers, just off to the side of the trail — I guess the flowers would be blue in the daytime, but under the light of the moon their petals are a translucent lilac. They match the sky beautifully.

At the top of the hill, I finally allow myself to check the mileage on the map. I’ve run eight and a half miles and there is only a mile and a half to go — this is a turn up for the books!

My joy is short-lived because the wind picks up and it seems to get very dark, quickly. I pop on my head torch, pull a jacket out of my bag and struggle to wriggle into it as as it flaps around in the wind. I carefully pick my way downward over rocks, away from the peak of the Big-Bugger-Worcestershire-Beacon.

Just shy of North Hill, I take a wrong turn. I’ve got carried away in the darkness and when I pause to the check the map I’m on a trail heading around the side of the hill as opposed to going up and over it. By this point, my legs are shot to pieces, and the bottom has dropped out of my stomach.

So instead of backtracking and going up and over that last hill, I just keep running on that beautiful wide, easy trail. I don’t regret my decision for a second, because the trail still ends up at the same place, back at my car, and who’s making the rules here? I decide I am.

It’s pitch black as I pick my way along the remaining half a mile — guided by the beam of my head torch and I am relieved to see the car on the roadside.

It’s 10.45pm. I am soaked in sweat, my legs are burning, and my mouth feels claggy and dry. I clamber into the car and begin peeling off layers of sweaty clothing. Performing finely honed car change manoeuvres to wriggle out of my sweaty sports bra but not expose myself to anyone who might look out their living room window at that moment.

I make the return journey home, via the bike — which is still there (and no one is waiting in the house to tell me off) and by the time I clamber into bed next to Jamie, it’s midnight. The twins will be awake in five and half hours and I feel too buzzed to sleep, but I hope I will.

I know I’ll be knackered in the morning. But I figure that I’m knackered all the time anyway, so I may as well have even more of a reason for that exhaustion. And besides, this is a different type of tired. It’s full-body happy kind of tired.

The entire Mission Malverns drive-bike-run adventure had taken just six and a half hours from start to finish. Physically, it was it was hard and hot and hilly and beautiful. Mentally, it was very uncomfortable — the amount of nervous energy I conjured up was completely out of whack with the scale of the challenge, but maybe that was the point.

Because I feel like I have blown off some cobwebs.

And I cannot wait to do that all over again — somewhere new, just as soon as I get the chance…