Mountains and Mojo.

A change is as good as a rest, or so they say. After a few weeks of cranking up the mileage in preparation for the Grantham Canal Ultra race and then the Bob Graham, I needed to do something different.

So, for my change I abandoned the running shoes and headed off to the French Alps for a week’s skiing and snowboarding with the family, plus Daft B and Mrs Daft B. Well, to say I abandoned the running shoes entirely isn’t strictly true. I took some running kit and a pair of fell shoes, just in case the piste conditions were poor. I needn’t have worried. The snow was much better than expected.

The week was a change, but certainly not a rest. The journey to the resort was long and tiring due to flight alterations, and then delays at the airport. Once there, four of us shared a family room, which was nice enough, but I didn’t realise just how fidgety and noisy our children are in their sleep. They slept, grumbled and mumbled while Mrs RTS and I lay awake wishing they’d shut up. I’d have been tired without doing any skiing.

The weather during the week was glorious – blue skies, blazing sunshine and comfortably cool temperatures.

The skiing felt like excellent training, especially as we were now exercising and recovering at altitude. The height certainly makes a difference. Up at 2,500 metres above sea level shortness of breath came more easily, and in the evenings the hotel seemed to sway ever so slightly, as if it were a boat rather than a building.

The kids had a great time, and whizzed around the mountains like nutters. I’d follow five-year-old William down blue runs, occasionally having to scoop up the bits when it got too steep for him. Then I’d chase eight-year-old Hannah down red runs, occasionally having to scoop up the bits when she got too enthusiastic. Daft B and I would challenge ourselves down mogul black runs; it was a toss-up as to who would end up doing the scooping.

My thigh muscles certainly got a good workout, and thankfully my still-grumbling ankle didn’t suffer. The fell shoes only got used for walking around the village, but my Garmin went out on the mountains with us every day, accompanied by a newly acquired altimeter watch. The figures recorded on these gadgets were pleasing. Without much effort we could knock out 40 miles in a day, with 6 – 7,000 metres (20,000 feet plus) of ascent and descent, and still fit in a pleasant lunch break in the middle. Worryingly, however, these numbers are still a long way short of the Bob Graham, despite having cable cars and chair lifts to do all the uphill work!

But problems started when we returned home. Motivation to run was gone. My soul feels like it belongs in the mountains, and coming back to flat, grey England proved to be a depressing comedown. I had got used to high-altitude sunshine, high octane excitement and high quality food. Oh yes, the food. We stuffed ourselves silly in that hotel - buffet breakfasts, five-course evening meals, wine and lots of French coffee. I need to reign in my new found gluttony to prevent serious weight gain.

The holiday had been good fitness training, and I loved every minute of it but my running mojo had disappeared completely. I usually return from mountains feeling a bit low, but this was worse than ever. For three days I pined for the mountains and had no desire to pull on my trainers. I even began to wonder why I ever bothered running. Should I cancel my races? Bag up the running gear and stash it in the loft? Things were that bad.

Something needed to be done. On Tuesday I pushed the thoughts to pack it in to the back of my mind and set off to run to work as I normally do, but I was not looking forward to the five-mile commute. The first few minutes were agony – more mental than physical. My legs were working fine but my mind was still high in the Alps. But then, very gradually, it happened. A smile spread across my face. Natural rhythms of heart beating, legs bouncing and arms pumping clicked back into place. Things felt right again. Things felt good. I remembered what it was all about.

After a couple of miles the mountain home-sickness that had blanketed ‘normal’ life had been blown away like a fog in a warming breeze. I can still remember the brilliant holiday, and would grasp at the chance to rush back if I had the opportunity. But my running mojo is reignited as bright as a bonfire. It feels good again; revived and revitalised.

None of us live for running (not even me). A change can be as good as a rest, provided it doesn’t become a permanent change for the worst, as mine could have done. So, if you lose your motivation, just set yourself the task of going out for a ten-minute pressure-free fun run, with the emphasis on ‘fun’. That might just do the trick.

Maybe the change I really need to make is to move and live in the Alps.

Vive les montagnes!