'Finally, proper cross country, this is more like it' some of the more hardy types were rejoicing. Cold, wind, rain and grey skies in one of Manchester's more challenging areas, Wythnshawe Park...essentially a grim day, unless you were one of the many chanting 'bring it on'. There was the usual discussion of what to wear. 'Are you wearing your hat, what about your gloves?' Pete asked me. 'They're not wearing gloves, should I wear my gloves?'
Another guy chipped in that we didn't need to wear hats or gloves, we were men. It was cold, my hands were cold...I wore my gloves. And that's pretty much how it went until the gun. Everyone winding everyone else up until the business of the day starts. In fact, before the gun went for our race, I saw a couple of lads from the U20's, the 2nd and 3rd placed guys in a punch up once they'd cross the finish line. Park rage. Funny, sort of. We take shelter in the club gazebo, marked by a flag. This little piece of Cheshire, a pseudo solace from the surrounding rough and tumble. The girls go out, we warm up and make last minute toilet stops. The three minute gun goes. All the final layers are discarded to reveal vests and shorts as we stand on the line. The rain starts again. We are all men...huddled together.
Then a drive to Stratford for a Christmas do. A good lemon meringue rounded off my evening and then up and out this morning to run along the river, watching the sculls and swans share the early morning water. My shoes, in the car from yesterday, were still wet and curiously warm. I didn't run far, maybe 4 miles or so, nothing more. So what of running for the week ahead? Pete came round for cake and announced he's got a coach to guide him to Eilat next April. He has a plan. If I want that sub 1.30 Wilmslow, I too need to plan. I gave it some serious thought over a second slice of ginger cake.
