My small nemesis
I’m still aching. When I walked down to the shops at lunch, the tops of my thighs were burning. It’s not as bad as yesterday though: after I finished the race, I couldn’t really talk and the tight, nauseous feeling in my stomach left me fighting the urge to throw up.
This messy state of affairs was the result of my taking part in a Boxing Day run of 3.2 miles, or 5 and a bit kms. Whilst everyone else slept off Christmas hangovers and industrial quantities of turkey, I put aside my festive jumper and pulled on my lycra leggings, ready for the muddy pathways of North Herts.
At just over three miles, there’s not too much opportunity to get into a rhythm, you peg it right from the start. It’s not really my style of running, I much prefer a few more miles, where I can just space out and plod along for a while longer than most people care to do.
Runners gathered on the damp, flat recreation ground on the edge of the village, while in the low wooden buildings of the football club tea and mince pies were served. When the starting whistle blew at 10.30 I started the race in the first five runners, but after a couple of laps of the ground I had already been overtaken by a bunch of stronger runners.
The run is fairly simple, we run a mile and a half up one grassy path between two ploughed fields, turn left along a muddy bridleway which soon turns back towards the village where we finish with a final lap of the rec. I’m a third of the way up the first path before someone tries to overtake. �Noooooaahh’, I think and manage to accelerate away. This takes me into the heels of a small person in a white running shirt. He must be about 12 years old and he stands way below my shoulders.
Shouldn’t be too hard to leave him splattered in my muddy tracks. �Hmm,’ I think �he seems to be matching my increase in pace. Strange.’ Soon we’re on the small 150 metre hill, �great, being quite contrary, hills are my strength.’ I overtake. As soon as we get over the crest of this merest of slopes, he shoots past me.
Now we turn left and the ground is wetter, muddier and more slippery. My small rival is still ahead of me. We turn left onto Hambridge Way and towards the village, I manage to overtake. We’re neck and neck for the mile and a bit back to the village, each constantly overtaking each other. To prevent slipping on the mud in my trainers I run on the saturated grass to the side of the main path and dodge around muddy puddles, while my rival uses his cross country shoes clatter down the path.
By the end of the path my 12 year old nemesis overtakes me for the final 50 metres to the final lap of the rec. �This man is going to be a fearsome athlete as an adult’ I think, and �well, I don’t suppose he went to bed half cut’. In reality, I’d tempered my drinking in preparation for the race the next day.
We enter the playing field with 150 metres left. �Gah, he cannot win’, and by some superhuman effort I pass him. On the corners, I somehow maintain my lead all the way to the finishing post.
Lying curled up on the sodden grass I can’t imagine what pushed me into finishing within the top 20 runners. Now that I’ve just about recovered, I’m sure he’ll be a great Olympian.