Day 102 – Scratcharse Hill and the High-Stakes Heart Rate

The Easter holidays have officially begun and for once, the morning didn’t begin with the dulcet tones of my alarm trying to convince me I’m a morning person. I rose at a sensible hour and managed to wave off Kelly, Daisy and Polly on their grand expedition to Old MacDonald’s Farm in Essex. Emilia, meanwhile, was deeply entrenched in the land of GCSE English Literature revision—somewhere between Macbeth’s ambition and Scrooge’s four ghostly visitations, I imagine.

This left me at home with pretty much just myself for company. After a relaxed breakfast and a bit of reading, it was time for the inevitable: the run.

A Sensible Man Wouldn't Have

Given that my back is still staging the occasional rebellion, I took no chances and lathered on enough Deep Heat to alert satellites. Despite this, I decided that a VO2 Max session was somehow a good idea. Now, VO2 Max efforts are designed to push you to around 90-95% of your maximum heart rate, which is generally the sort of level most people only reach during bear attacks or surprise visits from the tax man.

To make things more achievable—a term I use here in its most ironic sense—I headed towards the infamous local incline, known in hushed tones as Scratcharse Hill. The name, according to legend, derives from the inevitable friction encountered when one sledges down it too enthusiastically in winter. It is, for all intents and purposes, a footpath that takes the shortest possible route to altitude.

I tackled it eight times. Two minutes up, one minute to recover, and repeat. By the fifth interval, my legs and lungs had entered into formal protest. By the eighth, they'd stopped filing paperwork and simply gone on strike.

The Body Always Knows

Despite the punishment, my back held out through the run. It wasn’t until post-shower that it realised it had forgotten to complain and started doing so with gusto—almost as if it had read my calendar and noted that I had an osteopath appointment this afternoon.

Said osteopath poked, prodded, clicked and even treated me to a go on the ultrasound machine. I’d never had one used on my back before, but I assume it’s meant to do more than make it feel slightly damp and slightly sci-fi.

I left the session feeling a little straighter and a little more optimistic. If backs had personalities, mine might be described as one of those old men in pubs who will tell you they’re fine, then complain for two hours about their knees. Still, it’s hanging in there.