What the Watch Doesn't Track

Thoughts from the Scottish mountains

I’ve not written for looks like 6 days, last Tuesday in fact, and I’m wondering where I lead off again. I wonder if knitting is like this. The needles wound around a piece of hard effort left in a corner for a few days. Can the knitter just kick off where they left off, or do they need a few runs before they can get going?

My brother-in-law got in touch to ask me if I wanted to go ski touring at the weekend. Short notice, the weather looks good, I’ve got all the equipment, I need a buddy kind of thing. I’m a hill walker, so no stranger to the Scottish mountains and a pair of walking boots. Putting a pair of skis on and walking up one is a different matter. Skiing down a hill that hasn’t been pisted is also another matter. So to say I was a little hesitant was an understatement. At the same time, Monday to Friday I’m at the PC putting the world to rights on a data transformation project. Desperate for the days to get longer and some open space.

A couple of texts back and forth about pace and nervousness, I popped round with my ski boots to check they fitted the touring bindings, discussing where we’d be going. The boots gave a solid reassuring click which cemented the idea that I was in.

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Starting off from Edinburgh in the dark, my overnight oats in hand, I was waiting for that last stretch of road that was straight before eating and the slow climb into the hills. We hit a town called Blairgowrie, an offer of a stop. I wasn’t interested - I was keen to get into the mountains. Wondering when I’d get my first glimpse of the white stuff. As we passed through farms my driver pointed out last weekend this was all covered in snow. Now green and ready for spring, there was a sense of foreboding. He assured me though - he’d checked the cameras - there was snow higher up.

We got there about 8:30, guided into the car park. I’d only seen it in summer when it has an eerie, ghost town feel - just a few cars admiring the view before moving on. Today though, it was packed. Mountain enthusiasts from far and wide, all trying to get a few runs in before the snow disappears. A constant stream of cars, being guided in as if at a county show. Oddly reassuring.

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First we checked out the canteen and comfort facilities. Just that bit early for the bacon rolls. The square sausage came out, the fat still bubbling away from the grill. So a square sausage it had to be and a coffee! It was time. Changing into my thermals in the middle of the car park. Putting my ski boots on for the first time in over a year was an effort in itself. As coach and mountain mentor, my brother-in-law insisted we do a few strides on a patch of snow. Just to get me into the motion of sliding rather than picking my foot up. I was keen to get going, but his wisdom made a lot of sense. It wasn’t too long before I hit an angle where I just couldn’t get purchase. A combination of the brain not used to the magic of aligning the ski flat rather than on its edge and my ski boot digging into my foot, preventing me from aligning at the required angle. I did that thing you’re not supposed to do - took the skis off and climbed to another section. Too far on to turn back, not that I wanted to, at some point you become committed, a tipping point so to speak and the day has you, the moment has you and the words start.

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Back to picking up where I’d left off. I’d not skied for 12 months and my first run that day was on mountain snow that over the course of a few weeks had turned more into layers of crusty ice, that would give to the crampons and my weight but a far cry from something we might call powder. Skins off, crampons in my rucksack, my heart in my mouth. I pointed the skis down. I’m used to more resistance from snow, something to at least make turning a possibility. Today though, I needed that muscle memory from 12 months ago. Be, more confident, attack the hill, move the hips, bend the knees, think...you can do this. Shattered from the uphill, my body vibrating, I hit a patch of grass and came to a very abrupt stop and in slow motion collapsed in a heap. I dusted myself off, got back onto the horse and carried on.

All in all, we covered about 8km and 700m ascent, which doesn’t seem that much on paper. My watch went a little berserk on daily habits I busted through - something like 15x the stair record, 3x150 minute heart rate, 4x daily steps. What didn’t get tracked was the sense of freedom, that blue sky feeling and a day of forgetting that powerpoint report or that update that needs completing.

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A few days later, and my body is still aching, muscles and joints put to their limit. It’s akin to those first days in the garden when the season starts. What started as a short stint of weeding and planting turns into a few days of aches and pains that one never knew they could have. In some way, it’s a comfort, a recognition for the effort that was put in. Kind of rewarding. In another way, it’s a sign of ageing, a lack of use perhaps, and I need to do better so I don’t feel like this again!

I share this in the hope that it gives someone the inspiration to start, re-start and keep going. Get back into something you love. Enjoy the air, enjoy the freedom. Click those needles, pick up the pencil and do it for you.

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