Mid-Lancs XC –
Chorley (10th February)
On arrival at this event, held at
the SPECIAIST LANGUAGE ACADEMY (one ‘ell of a school apparently), the main
focus of attention, it must be admitted, was once again the Wesham marquee. To
the strains of a sea-shanty, nine calloused Wesham runners manned the capstan
(a nautical expression) to pitch it. Some smart alec, or possibly alan, asked
innocently whether they had planning permission but it was too late to complain
– the footings had been dug.
It was shortly after the ladies
team arrived, I observed, that the erection of this magnificent edifice reached
its climax. The call went out to all hands (that’s
enough nautical expressions, Ed), and every available Wesham member stood
by his post where, pulling and pushing as one, they brought the great structure
upright. And went inside.
We changed in the rain!
It is a function of the timetable
at these events that we men are not able to watch much of the ladies race, so
your reporter is able to provide only the bare bones of a commentary. But three
features are worthy of comment. What price experience… How I admired the
audacious Andrea Smith who in the final yard of the race snuck by her seriously
irritated rival at the false finish to gain a place for the ladies team; how I
marvelled at the determination of Bev Wright who sprinted home strongly despite
appearing to have taken up mud wrestling somewhere out on the course (I gather
you can get tickets on eBay for the rematch with Kath Hoyer at Blackburn); and
how I smiled at the craft of young Hilary Goorney and Eileen “I’ll do anything
for a man” Swallow who by slipping to the rear of the field found themselves
running into the arms of the onrushing (and very attractive) leaders of the
men’s race. No wonder Jono finished with such a broad smile. (I guess winning
may have had something to do with it, too.)
For my part, I welcomed the
better going at this venue – ‘good to soft’ according to Dave Heaton (who
dragged himself from the bookies to join us) but I do feel the course would
benefit from a handrail on the descent to the stream. (No, not a Stannah
stairlift, Peter). Heading onto the flat after the mountaineering section, I
wondered whether it was only me who failed to solve the riddle of the randomly
scattered letters around the course. Was this some ghastly word-game? At one
stage, I imagined fondly that I was following the letters alphabetically and I
looked forward to reaching a well deserved zzz; until I realised that rather
like Alice I was locked into a macabre nightmare of infinite regress - from “U”
to “K” and thence around and around like a maze-entrapped rat.
Escaping at last, I underwent the
rare experience of overtaking several competitors on the run-in. I was able to
surprise them (and indeed the world of athletics) with my sprint finish. A deep
joy was dampened only by the knowledge that Dave “nearly 60” Wood was way out
ahead. Well, there is always Blackburn. See you there.