I'd over done it. I hadn't been out running for months, I was feeling the effects of the Christmas festivities, I'd set off too quick and climbed Clough Edge too fast. Now I was struggling across the frozen peat of Bleaklow following the Pennine Way. I can't quite put my finger on how I felt, but it wasn't good and somewhere near Hern Clough my run became a walk.
My memory of most of this isn't very vivid but a few things stay with me very clearly. The second is a grassy pit near Mossy Lea Farm, lined with dry grass that looked as inviting as fur and I had the strongest desire to curl up in it and go to sleep. But by then I already new things were bad. I have a vivid memory of my hand, gloved in thin fleece and covered in rivulets of ice where water had dribbled from my bladder hose, yet I was feeling warm and had taken my hat off and zipped my windproof open. I was only wearing a thin baselayer, windproof, leggings, gloves and bladder sack. The wind was blasting across the moor.
I also remember being determined to keep going, to get home. And the feeling of cold, grey, damp, immobile lifelessness, like a dead fish, that persisted for a surprisingly long time, even after I'd got back into our warm house and stumbled into the shower.
I'd bitten off more than I could chew and misjudged the balance between fitness, distance, conditions and clothing. But the interesting thing is that there was no shivering warning of impending hypothermia. Just a straight switch from vigorous activity to brain not working properly.
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