I won't even pretend to understand Cross Country. It is mad. A bunch of seemingly rational people running through knee deep mud in the stinging rain on the first day of an English winter.
The weather wasn't looking good, a howling westerly and "heavy rain" on the BBC's 24-hour forecast. After a short hop on the cosy train to Didcot Parkway, then wrapped up snug in suitably fit-for-purpose lycra, neoprene and other wonderful synthetic materials, I gently rode the easy 10km to Culham Park, the venue for the second round of the Oxford XC League.
The access road was a quagmire, and my bike soon looked more like a crosser than a roadie for all the mud. A precursor of what was to come.
I spent a while trying to locate the club tent only to discover that in attempting to erect it, the tent had almost blown away so race HQ ended up being the boot of Bill's car. After getting changed, but still wrapped up in as much synthetic wonder fabric as had with me, I decided to check out the course. Fortunately from the top of the hill nearly the whole course was visible, or so I was led to believe - all I could see was mud.
Before long it was time to warm up, shed layers and head to the start. As it turns out, the start area approximately comprised a sort of shallow muddy puddle about 1" deep. The gun fired and we were go.
I was keen to get up with the quicker runners, so I got up to speed quickly and moved my way up the pack. The opening stretch was wet but fairly solid underfoot, so I felt quite happy and got into a nice fast stride.
All too soon we reached the first turn and the start of uncharted territory; the solid sparsely grassed ground was swapped for a muddy cut up field. It was a soft, squishy sort of mud. It was mostly at least 200-300mm deep; or at least that is where your foot would stop sinking. Some had their shoes sucked off by the mud! It didn't feel like running, every step was a battle; trying to keep the pace I was rapidly heading for the red.
The course then turned to head along the Thames. The mud was just as bad, but fortunately a narrow grass border provided some respite; although slippery, it was at least relatively firm.
But now the new enemy was the killer headwind that we found ourselves heading into, and it was relentless. It was now about 1km into the race and I was burning. Trying to stay upright, trying to find some traction and push myself forwards, it was all killing me. It was nothing like running at all - not running as I've known it anyways. To add insult, I found myself just heading steadily backwards. I was putting in all I had and I was being passed like I was standing still, the old hands seemingly skimming effortlessly over the mud.
After what felt like an age, it was time to turn for a quick blast across a (thankfully firm) grassy meadow, then back onto a muddy track ready to run up a steep bank, back down again and then back up. For me the climbs, steep and sharp, were a respite of sorts. I think my power-to-weight helps a lot and with the banks being grassy, I was able to get purchase and drive my way up fairly easily. I was able to make up some ground and a few places but before long we were starting lap two (of three), I was back in the mud and losing ground badly.
And this is where I think I started to really experience what cross country is all about. The rain was lashing down, and into the headwind the drops mercilessly stung my face. My muscles were screaming, not just my legs but my whole body! Voices in me screamed, "Stop! Just stop! You can stop!" All I had was my will. I had to keep going. For me. I was completely out of my depth, like in those dreams when you arrive at the velodrome with a BMX. All wrapped up in my misery I was innocently nudged by another runner passing me and I fell into the mud. I dragged myself back up and willed my feet to get me back up to speed. Before long I was back on the steep climbs, and incredibly I found myself making up places.
Running in the mud still felt alien, but I was starting to get the hang of it. Heading into the wind for the last time I accelerated and felt the closest to a rhythm that I'd felt all through the race. The stinging rain didn't matter anymore, the mud didn't seem to be dragging at me quite as much. Turning across the meadow I sped up a bit more still, and took back a few more places. Accelerating up the climbs I was burning, but now it was like a drug. I couldn't get enough so I went faster still. On the final stretch some guys from the team were cheering me in, my legs moved faster and I picked off one, two, three other runners. Too knackered to note my position or stop my watch, I found a spot to squat down and catch my breath.
According to the results online (
http://www.oxonxc.org/), I came 82nd, in 39'17", and in doing so contributed to the club's first team retaining the top spot in the league.
I've never felt so completely hopeless or clueless in sport, but I've also never had such an acute sense of achievement. I still have a lot to lean about cross country running, and in the bargain I know I have a lot to learn about myself. What a wonderful journey.
