Ford ‘Cross The Mersey

 

It was, I suppose, too much to hope for cake and a candle. So I celebrated quietly to myself the anniversary of my first foray into the field of cross-country. And I mused that this was the first occasion on which my resolution to clean my shoes after each race had been broken – although I took refuge in the excuse that they were still in the back of the car where I had hidden them from Mrs T.

 

For Saturday was indeed one year on since my XC debut at Sefton Park. Just as last year, many BWFAC regulars had been importuned by the delights of the Wesham 10k goody bag – among them that Simon Mason who, if there is no foreign food to hand, will sell his soul for a box of Thornton chocolates, as if he hadn’t had enough already. So it was a modest but select group that made the rain-drenched journey into the wilds of Greater Merseyside.

 

Notwithstanding heavy rain in the morning, the going was (I’m pleased to report) no worse than good to soft – a welcome improvement on my initiation race when I recall that I compared the glutinous consistency underfoot to WW1 trenches – not that I am quite old enough to remember them. On the other hand, the ravages wreaked on my body this past fortnight (report passim, as they say in Private Eye) meant that getting round was about all I could hope for. And so it proved.

 

Tony Croft, armed with his Box Brownie, has captured me smiling my way around (see web site) and has wondered what I might have had to smile about. In short, I was just pleased still to be standing and not to be last – as I was for the first 100m. Of course, I was also determined to look cheerful for the photos and to banish what can only be described as the “camp” pose of last year. Having seen the shot however, I realise that the leggings will have to go. Had they been around a few years ago, I reckon I would have put Max Wall out of business.

 

It is satisfying, in a perverse kind of way, to participate in a race alongside so many top performers – much the same, I guess, as it would be to sing with Pavarotti, or even our own Alfie Boe. After watching Hayley Yelling  (pictured) power (and that’s really the only word for it) around the course, it was no real surprise to be lapped by quite a number of England’s finest, among them our own Antony Ford racing in unaccustomed black but scoring well for the BWFAC ‘A’ team and heading the Mid-Lancs league race. He will, I have no doubt, soon be back in tangerine, black and white, taking advantage of the much improved club vest so fetchingly modelled on Wednesday evening by our very own Daniel Craig look-a-like, Stuart Robinson. Ah yes, a new career beckons for that man.

 

On my return home, shortly before falling asleep in my chair (and little did my slumbering passengers realise how close I cam to nodding off on the drive home) I looked out the results for last year. I was reminded that this was the race in which our dear friend Malc Sherwood had made his XC comeback. At the time I recall he claimed to have finished last but the Mid-Lancs website is kinder to him and he appears there in next-to-last place. As I fell into the arms of Momus, I recalled fondly the many happy times I have spent in his company this past year. I am sure that I am not alone in hoping that very soon he will be back among us, for he is much missed.

David Twizell