Somehow it didn’t seem right running across hallowed ground. Corpses resting in the graveyard could hardly welcome the pounding of Reeboks of a morning for the music lovers from the night before and the eccentrics with their bat detectors had all been guilty of causing disturbed slumber – well into the early hours. Location, location, location, but don’t expect a peaceful lie-in from a cathedral graveyard.
Each day the steep slope and 40 severe stone steps had risen from the nestling St David’s cathedral to taunt her. They had challenged her to run from bottom to top in one foul swoop. Jonah-like she’d faltered, and jackdaws laughed down from the Gate tower finish line above.
Then Bank Holiday weather had conspired against her. It was a challenge enough to spill out of a warm holiday cottage, let alone defy screaming calf muscles, when fair weather running companions conspired to stay duvet bound.
On the first day she took a circular run at her challenge, dropping down in the cathedral valley via a circuitous but level route to try and fool her defeatist running demon. Gentle jogging is best. Grateful shin splints ease. She stops to stroke some inquisitive Welsh ponies dripping in the morning rain. Yet, as she drops down to run across the cathedral ford, she meets her challenge face on; a vertical path ahead climbing into a ladder of stone steps, with the awaiting cottage and the promise of breakfast at the top.
Stamina wilted, but pride in the face of an early tourist, forged a half-hearted and half-way attempt to the bottom quartile of the steps. Legs groaned and stomach retched.
The next day didn’t count. She decided to ignore the challenge altogether and turned her back against the church to run along the coastal path, down to the harbour wall, barnacled and sheltered.
“Bless me today O Lord and enlarge my territory.Take me by the hand and keep evil away, and prevent me from causing any pain...” Her morning prayer formed easily into a reassuring running chant.
The endomorphins engaged and the warm drizzle refreshed her way back to the waiting cafetiere and warm Swansea loaf. She had avoided looking at the cathedral by choosing this route.
On the second day she psyched a fresh attack and fuelled her inner motivator with positive self-speak. She focused on a higher prize than the cottage – ‘Chapel Chocolates’ perched at an even higher position on the hill, above the cathedral steps. Chocolate rewards fashioned in the shape of white chocolate dolphins and dark cocoa hearts. Aim high, and then if you falter, you’ll hit your original target by default, she reasoned.
But that imaginary chocolate nauseated as she clenched up those stone steps. She stalled in the final stages, and, ignoring the cathedral gardener who had clocked her faltering, sat on the wall to catch her breath. She praised herself mentally for the steps she had covered rather than the steps she had yet to conquer.
And on the third day she was on a mission. She could feel it as she ran along the coastal path past St David’s burial place and flew on winged feet down the valley to confront her challenge. She passed the Bishop’s Palace, admiring the arches and waking the rooks; she challenged them into spectatorship.
Arms pistoned her ascent, head down, concentrating on one step at a time. No eyes on the prize. Slowing, she heaved to the top without stopping and raised her gaze to see her husband sitting in the early sun, hugging a morning cup of coffee.
“Took your time,” he smiled.
