A Christmas Cross-Country Carol
A timeless tale of the Birmingham League Cross Country Race as experienced by Ebenezer Burdus-Cook-Scrooge.
The starting hooter was dead to begin with.
There was no doubt whatever about that.
With a lack of “parp”, a dull “pfffft” carried through the crisp foggy air, and a ghostly figure materialized beside me – The Spirit of Cross Country races past. In its ethereal presence the memories of races gone by flooded my mind. With a surge of energy, I charged forward, reliving the exhilaration of past Welcombe Hills Races and the feeling of invincibility among the front runners.
The spirit guided me along the course, invoking the essence of former glories and the thrill of the start, igniting a spark of nostalgia that fuelled my steps through the first lap.
As I ventured into the second lap, a new apparition emerged – the Spirit of Cross Country races present. This spectral guide unfolded a disheartening scene. I struggled on the ascents, losing ground, places and momentum. The hills and soft mud, once conquered with determination, now proved insurmountable as my pace faltered. The presence revealed a runner grappling with fatigue and a lack of strength, casting a shadow over the race.
Then, in the midst of my struggles on the third lap, the Spirit of Cross Country Future materialized. I fell further and further back. A revelation that hinted at a future where the thrill of the off-road race had waned, replaced by a strangely comforting premonition of discarding my trail shoes.
As I sulked over the finish line, the Specter’s warning hung heavy in the air, urging me to reclaim my passion for running before it was lost.
The Stratford team ran splendidly, not merely upon the terrestrial track, but upon the very fabric of camaraderie and shared aspiration. The very mettle of these runners, each embodied the indomitable spirit of the club.
I awoke the following morning with newfound determination.
The muddy memories of the past, the slippery struggles of the present, and the ominous glimpse of the future fuelled my resolve. I flung open my chamber window, calling out to a fellow runner passing by, “You Sir, yes you! What training session is it today?” To which the runner cheerfully responded, “Why sir, it is 1 kilometre road efforts times three with 1 kilometre jog recoveries!”
With a renewed sense of purpose, I joyously left my house, ready to tackle the training session with the same vigour and enthusiasm that had once defined my love for running. Each stride echoed with the lessons learned, transforming a haunting cross country experience into a triumphant return to the simple joy of running (on the road).
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