Ditching Mum Guilt for a Midnight Adventure

by Anna McNuff

From our house on the outskirts of Gloucester, England, I can see the Malvern Hills. Whenever I look at them, I feel a tug inside my chest that says: I want to be up there, dancing along the line that separates the earth and the sky.

Specifically, I wanted to be up there at sundown. On my own. High enough that the mental load might feel lighter, and far enough from home that I’d look forward to coming back. So, one summer, I hatched a plan: get Daddy and Nanny to tag-team bedtime. Drive to one end of the hills with my bike, pedal 11 miles along their base to the other end, then run 10 miles back along the tops, in the dark. Home by midnight, before I turned into a pumpkin.

As a mum of three young kids, the plan took months to wriggle into place. There was always a sick child, a work trip, or a bedtime I just couldn’t duck out of. But one Tuesday in midsummer, I saw an opportunity. It was GO Time.

Leaving guilt on the doorstep

At 5:30 p.m. I kissed the twins’ goodnight and shut the door on some toddler protests. The mum-guilt was surprisingly minimal, but what was left of it, I bundled into a neat imaginary bag and left on the doorstep.

I drove off with a nervous, fuzzy tummy. It’d been a long time since I’d done something mad, on my own. It’s only the Malverns, Anna, I told myself. But when I turned off the motorway, and those hills filled the windscreen, they looked freakin’ enormous.

Meet Amy

At that moment, my brain started shouting. You’re going to be up there in the dark, on your own? What if you fall and break your ankle? The kids need you in one piece. Go home.

Since becoming a mum, a new part of my brain has lit up. A part that sees danger EVERYWHERE. Neurologists call it the amygdala. I call her Amy, for short. Amy means well, she’s there to keep me alive, but she’s also controlling, prone to panic, and very (very) loud.

So, I bargained with Anxious Amy. I reminded her I’d packed two head torches, spare water and an emergency bivy, and that I’d texted my partner the exact route — just in case. Then I muttered: Okay Amy. I’m being as safe as I can be. Now pipe down and let me have some fun, will you?

Chill. Your. Boots.

At North Malvern, I got my bike out of the car, ready to hit the road. I’d deliberately chosen the worst bike we own, in case it got stolen from wherever I stashed it while I ran. It’s an old white hardtail we affectionately call ‘The Crap Bike,’ so crappy that its back wheel wobbles. I’d tried to true the wheel the day before and was feeling chuffed with myself for being organised. But as I pedalled away from the car, a rhythmical rubbing told me I’d trued the wrong wheel. Oh, how I laughed. At myself.

I rode the 11 miles to the other end of the hills and locked the Crap Bike to a tree. When I set off on foot, I was moving at more of a fast hike than a run. The trail went steeply upwards, through dark woodland, and my mind was whirring with fresh worries. What if I’ve set off too late? What if my phone runs out of battery? The unwelcome thoughts played on repeat until I popped out of the trees at the top, and suddenly I could breathe.

I stopped, looked around, and thought: Anna. Chill. Your. Boots.

Here I was, wishing my way through the very thing I’d longed for. Deep down, I knew the night would be fine. Fabulous, even. So, I exhaled, a long, slow exhale. I reminded myself I was on that line between the land and the sky, exactly where my wild heart wanted to be. Everything else was just details.

After that, I sank into a groove. I passed a few people, each of them alone. One woman I saw on the highest hill intrigued me — her long, grey hair was wild and windswept. When our eyes met, there was a sadness there; it looked like she’d been crying. I wondered whether she came up here often, or whether, like me, she just needed the hills that day. Because the hills are where you go to put yourself back together, when life is falling apart.

A full-body, happy kind of tired

After 21 miles of biking and running, I clambered into bed at midnight, too buzzed to sleep. The twins would be awake in five and a half hours. I was tired. But I figured I’m tired all the time, anyway. And besides, this was a different type of tired. It was a full-body-happy kind.

The whole adventure took six and a half hours. It was hard and hot and hilly and beautiful, and mentally uncomfortable. The nervous energy I conjured up was wildly out of proportion to the actual risk, but I think that was kind of the point. Our nerves don’t shrink just because the adventure does. So, we go anyway — not on some perfect, fully-prepped, guilt-free escape, but on the messy 21-mile mission we can squeeze between the kids’bedtime and our own.

I’m still hunting for adventure in whatever form it takes. Even if it feels complicated to get there, I keep going back. Because every time I do, I come home feeling like the most bodacious, badass version of myself. I come home, feeling like… me.

If this resonates

A few things I’ve learned about mini-adventures, alone or with the kids:

• Follow curiosity – it knows the way: This adventure came about because I wondered what it felt like to be up there in those hills. Following that inner tug has led me on some of the best trips of my life! That little excited kid-voice inside you deserves to be let out for a run around. 
• Treat your planned adventure like an important business meeting. Even if you have to reschedule it a few times. You have a date with yourself. It’d be rude to cancel. Let the universe know… It. Is. Happening!
• You get to make the rules: Take the easy trail. Change the plan halfway. Eat all your snacks in the first mile. No one’s keeping tabs, except you. Remember it’s your adventure, your rules.

In between escaping to the hills (and looking after small humans) Anna writes books. Her latest read is here: Bedtime Adventure Stories for Grown Ups 2: True travel stories about freedom, family chaos and escaping the everyday