Autumn Idyll

 

Russet leaves and rose-hips, conkers and acorns, fresh dew and an early frost – harbingers of autumn and the cross-country season. An early morning tang heralded a perfect day with a little give in the ground. Shoes surprised amidst the dust of the outhouse floor and a hunt for the spike key spiced with curses fired at unhelpful offspring and ‘er indoors.

 

After a Sherwood-esque journey, Worden Park proved a gentle re-introduction; all the more so after an October of blessed weather. Our secretary was on hand dispensing his ready wit and numbers. He could perhaps have been forgiven an irascible moment or two as members stopped to ask where he had pitched the tent – but that is not his way. He pointed to the grassy knoll alongside the Wesham marquee that had been reserved for BWFAC changing with a cheery wave.

 

The early races provided good cheer for the Fylde. Young colts and fillies (am I allowed to say that) strode forth and conquered. The Betmead dynasty looks set for world (or at least Mid-Lancs) domination for another generation. The Everson twins (why could they not be brothers – it would have fitted so much better) brought home the bacon. Youthful Carolyn Robbins bounded home Bambi-like defying her veteran tag – that had so mysteriously dropped from her vest on the way to the start. Elsewhere among the ladies the order is rapidly changing, as Bob Dylan had it, but never mind xxxxxx it is taking part that counts!

 

To the men’s race. All life is here simple and fair – well simple anyway - and murmurs of strife lost in the air. Deflation; the race itself was a little dull. There was not even the excitement of being lapped. Had I taken a little more care tying my laces, I might not have found myself next last and all alone after 800 metres but working myself, Lewis Hamilton-like, through the field (well to fourth last, anyway) I found myself passing our secretary once more. “Get a move on”, he called breezily “there are old men ahead”. And, shortly afterwards there I was painting on a smile for our official photographer snapping away course-side.

 

By the second circuit I was finding more interest in the football on adjoining pitches (indeed I might even have found the football at Bloomfield Road more interesting) than in the course and I was almost longing for the contours of a Blackburn saucer or the squelch of the Lancaster mud trench. There was a brief moment of excitement in the woods where I was badly baulked by a prostrate Derek Wilson just as I was about to flash past John Winters. Frustrated in this manoeuvre it proved a slog to the finish all the while pursued by a young person calling repeatedly “Come on, Dad”. (I must make clear to any representatives of the CSA reading this that I do not know the lad.)

 

It was not quite dark when I finally completed the course – though I shall have to hurry at Burnley as the nights close in – and I was grateful to people for waiting. Meanwhile, publicity seeking Ron Bray posed for photos in his Pudsey-bear gear after going ten rounds with a piece of greenwood on the forest trails. He may just make the paper this week.

 

David Twizell