Heartbreak Hill

Just once I wish someone in the army would show a bit of imagination.

Surely just once we could have run around the hill. Or maybe along the valley floor admiring how big it was from the bottom. But no we had to run up the bloody thing. It doesn't really matter where you are posted there always seems to be a hill nearby.

The hill in Northern Ireland was quite bad as far as hills to run up went. On a scale of one to ten it was bordering on a nine.

It would lull me into a false sense of security with its' gentle angle and appearance of not actually being that big. Then as the lactic acid began to build up in my calves it would unleash hell. The angle would increase and false horizon after false horizon would dash all hopes of the end ever coming. With lungs bursting and legs wobbling I would arrive on the ridge. As the acid began to settle in my calves and my legs feeling like they had doubled in weight it would hit me again. Once on the ridge the way 'back' involved maybe a mile along the ridge. It was an undulating ridge and in profile could have been a sine wave. Short steep bursts of downhill followed by short steep bursts of uphill did little to stop my legs complaining.

Eventually the path to the bottom would appear in sight. A loose shingle path that had more than once sent me skidding down on my arse in a most undignified manner. That didn't matter - we still went hell for leather on the way down - whooping and shrieking like children. Levelling out at the bottom and a slow jog trot back to camp.

I had a love/hate relationship with that hill - I loved to hate it. Cracking view from the top though.