WHEN ONE IS TIRED OF CROSSCOUNTRY, ONE IS TIRED OF LIFE

The cross-country race had been in the diary for a while. The only problem was, I didn’t want to do it. On one level, it didn’t make any sense. It’s rare I get a Saturday free at home; there’s usually loads to do and, therefore, a temptation to savour all the stuff I don’t have to do: chill with the dogs; lounge on the sofa; eat biscuits; read a book. It was also raining, chucking it down, and it had been for ages. And this is cross-country we’re talking about – an invitation to suffer, to join a chain gang of heavy breathing, sharp-elbowed club runners on a never-ending surge into pain. It doesn’t actually suit me, as I’m more of a road man; I like rhythm and the glide of smooth asphalt. I just can’t seem to compete like I used to over country. I’m a bit timid with it; it needs a different mindset, a more animalistic, combative energy.

So I spent the morning dilly-dallying: If I don’t run, I’ll miss it. If I do, there’ll be moments when I regret it. But if I don’t, my no-show will still cost the club two pounds, so I’ll feel guilty. This is what the running life is. You do it or you don’t. You commit to that running person or you leave it till tomorrow. I’ve been getting faster; to get faster still I need to race more. So…I go.

Once you’ve made the decision, everything’s simpler. You’ve joined the tribe of people who’ve all made the same shout, and there’s a joy in that alone. There was a wonderful, twisted camaraderie as I registered and made my way to the club tent in the middle of the field near the start.

It was still raining, a continuous drizzle. But it wasn’t too cold; it was just the backdrop to the day. I checked in with old club mates as we pinned numbers on vests and checked spikes. Even for cross-country, it was a small field, about 200 or so. There was a gentle eccentricity to it, which I love, and very little gear involved, which always attracts me. If anything, it seemed more of a competition: who could wear the least clothing? Vest and shorts carried the day, with anyone wearing a T-shirt underneath viewed with suspicion. Why would you do anything to try to make this experience comfortable?

As the start approached and our warm-ups intensified, the rain cranked up, driving into our faces, and the air was turning colder.

For some reason, I was rendered ridiculously happy as we jogged at the start line. I was transported to cross-country at school, when we’d gather, shivering, in the rain as the PE teacher outlined the course. Perhaps it was on those mornings that I first realised I was a runner, because I loved it. The rain, the country, the sharpness of breath, the struggle. The fact that it was not about times, it was about beating the bloke next to you. A thought struck me – cross-country is hard, life is hard. Ergo: cross-country is life. I was slightly dizzy and freezing at the time but it felt profound. Maybe that afternoon was a reunion for all those kids who had found themselves on those cold mornings. There did seem to be a type amid the runners – gentle but determined; loners, perhaps.

The start was slightly delayed as the previous race finished. As one, the field massed under an avenue of trees, a futile attempt to shelter from the elements. If anything, it made things worse; the droplets collected and gathered in strength, falling off the leaves onto our arms and necks.

One of the tail-enders came in from the women’s race. She was drenched, body splattered in mud, head down, moaning with the pain of it all as she drove for the finish. We applauded, awed by her effort and also knowing we were witnessing our immediate future. Why were we doing this?

Then there was a whistle, we broke free from the trees and cantered off to the start. And then I realised something – we were all laughing. Check out Paul and fellow comedian

Rob Deering’s running podcast, Running Commentary – available on iTunes and Acast. @RunComPod