Three years ago I went for my first run without my watch and its built-in personal trainer. I ran in defiance of its order to rest that day. It was drizzling outside, the trail was covered in fallen leaves and the air was full of the scent of autumn. I only meant to run as far as the junction roughly halfway up to the ridge. But I didn't stop there and kept going. To the next junction. And then further still. All the way into the fog that had swallowed the ridges of the Jeseníky Mountains. Not a soul anywhere. Still an hour's run back down.
My digital coach had prescribed recovery. And I came back after 2.5 hours. An unacceptable breach of the training plan. So that was the end of it for me. By the next day, the bossy watch had been sold second-hand.
Is it better to watch numbers jumping on a display, or squirrels jumping through the trees? For me, the latter. Some call it being present; I'd call it undisturbed enjoyment of life out there. I sold my watch, took the computer off my bike, and outdoors I switch my phone to flight mode and stash it in my backpack. When will I be back home? No idea. When I feel like it, when I run out of steam, when I've had enough. That's freedom.
I have a brain and I listen to my body. I speed up when I feel like it. Not when a box on my wrist tells me to. I know whether I'm sitting or lying down without a gyroscope. And I can tell a storm is coming from the clouds; I don't need to wait for a barometer alert. Technology only distracts us from what's going on inside us and around us.
In the morning we get off the train at Bílý Potok. First we cross meadows, then dive into the forest and climb a wide gravel track. Sometimes we chat, sometimes we just stay silent and take in the granite boulders rising out of a forest carpet of moss and fallen leaves. It's drizzling, the temperature just a few degrees above zero. It's windy. A true Jizera Mountains autumn. We carry on along a breakneck rocky path, and at the junction below Frýdlantské cimbuří we leave the marked trail for the steep slopes above the Černý Potok stream. On the opposite bank we can see our goal. The highest rock face in the Jizera Mountains – Nos. But now it's pouring. We shelter under the trees and wait. We don't want to give up that easily.
And it pays off. Below the rock we boost morale with a can of Kozel beer and go for it. The first pitch flies by. Frozen fingers, but it's going fine. The fourth ring bolt is in sight, but I can't figure out the overhanging corner crack. I try once, twice, three times... I'm scared. I struggle to find footholds on the smooth wall. After the fifth attempt I feel like giving up. I rest, gathering my last reserves – physical and mental. All I'm aware of is the problem above me. The cold, the rock, the fight.
Sixth attempt and... "Yes! Yes! Yesss! On the verge of falling, I clip the ring. Hard, really hard. But it's behind us; the scramble to the top of Nos is easy. We sign the summit register, gaze out over the landscape, abseil down. "What? It's half past three already? Blimey!"
When you're fighting for your life on the rock, you're living to the full. You don't notice time. And that's the beauty of it. "Right, let's hurry down."
I weave between roots, hop from stone to stone, run across wooden footbridges. At this early hour the Bílá Opava valley is deserted. It's chilly. My fingers are freezing and the cold air licks my bare calves. The sun won't reach down into the valley for a long while yet. I savour the graceful movement. And the fact that I have the energy to run on terrain like this. I feel like a chamois. As I run up to Ovčárna, the first rays of sun start to warm me. It looks like a beautiful autumn day; I can't turn back now. I keep going. My feet seek out the easiest line between the stones. It's only a short way to the ridge now. I pick up the pace. I overtake the first morning hikers. And it doesn't go any higher.
I sink to my knees. I gulp down every mouthful of cold air. I pull myself up onto a wooden barrier and gaze at the outlines of Keprník, Králický Sněžník and Dlouhé Stráně. Somewhere back there, during a temperature inversion, you can often see Sněžka. I just sit there. Looking. Enjoying it. I have no idea what time it is, so nothing is rushing me back down. I don't know how long I ran for, but I know it was a lovely run. I haven't a clue how many calories I burned, but I feel I've earned that cauldron of pasta carbonara.
I get up, leave the ridge behind me and run back down into the valley. I'll find out what time it is when I unlock my front door. And that's the beauty of it – not keeping track of time.
