Kendal XC: Welcome to the Hard Shoulder

2 hours ago

6 min read

An honest review of my first cross-country race. I'm probably not selling it.

By Emily Whelan

I've been asked to write an honest review of my first cross-country race at Kendal. Which is awkward, because by the end of it I'd done something I'm not proud of.

Well. I'm a bit proud of it.

Cross-country was invented in the 1800s by people who'd seen the countryside and wanted to get it over with quickly. I've decided it's basically the M6. Everyone's on foot, the surface is somehow worse, and I'm in a Nissan Micra with the handbrake on.

The warning signs came the day before. A girl who used to run cross-country asked me on a Teams call if I'd got my spikes ready.

My what?

Spikes are like trainers, but for people who've been told about spikes. I had not been told about spikes. I had trainers. With laces and everything.

At the start line, everyone looked so athletic. Lean, fit, proper runners. The sort who do squats while the kettle boils. I looked like I'd come to collect a parcel.

Now, I do run. I'm happy plodding round the hills for hours with a backpack full of snacks. You've got all day, you can have a think, enjoy a sandwich. Cross-country doesn't allow for sandwiches. You run much faster for much less time, and I'm not sure who thought that was a good idea.

And here's the bit I didn't expect. I turned up thinking I was a runner. I've done ultras. I've spent whole days on my feet in the hills. Within the first few minutes it was very clear none of that counted for anything here. Turns out you can call yourself a runner and still get absolutely found out by a field.

Before we set off, I overheard someone explaining the course. Big circles, then little circles, then it's over.

Lovely. Big one out of the way, polish off the little ones, home for a brew.

So off we went, and after what felt like ages I was convinced I'd done the big circle. Hard bit done. Mentally, I was already in the car park.

Then the overtaking started.

You know when you're on the M6, happy in your lane, and someone comes flying past? Now imagine they wind the window down, give you a lovely big smile and shout "WELL DONE!" as they disappear.

That's cross-country.

"Well done!"

"Thank you! You too!" I'd say, because I was brought up properly.

Inside? How have you still got that much in your legs? Are yours rechargeable? Did you bring a spare pair?

Some of these women must have extra organs. There's no other explanation.

I want to congratulate them. I really do. But there's a part of me, and it isn't that small, that thinks about sticking a foot out. It crosses my mind every time another of the approximately forty-seven thousand gazelles goes bounding past. Gazelles in club vests, with unlimited lung capacity and lovely manners, every one of them shouting "Well done!" over their shoulder.

Thanks, Usain. Send us a postcard.

And they're all so NICE. If you're going to overtake a woman who's clearly fighting for her life, the least you can do is look a bit ill. A little wheeze. Something to show we're doing the same bloody race.

After a while I accepted it. I wasn't racing. I was a mobile overtaking lane. I should've had a sign on my back:

SLOW VEHICLE. PASS WITH CARE. DRIVER EMOTIONALLY FRAGILE.

Before long I heard a popping and snapping behind me. I nearly ducked for cover. It was more runners, lapping me now, in those bloomin' spikes. Everybody else had got the memo.

A lady taking photographs called out, "Be careful, they're coming through!"

Cheers, Maureen. They've been coming through for twenty minutes. I've practically moved onto the hard shoulder, love.

I've no idea if she was called Maureen. But Maureen, if you're reading this, thanks.

The daft thing is, I was having the time of my life. Grinning away while my insides held a meeting about whether breakfast should come back up. I didn't know you could be that happy and that close to being sick at the same time, but there we are.

And the snot. Proper runners do snot rockets. Finger on one nostril, a good blow, off it goes. Disgusting, but impressive.

So I had a go.

Mine didn't launch. It just sort of… dribbled.

Tried again. Still dribbling.

Even my snot won't bloody run.

Which brings me to the walk. In ultras you're allowed to walk the uphills. We call it power hiking, which sounds much better than admitting you've had enough. Cross-country has other ideas.

I wasn't giving up. Just having a little walk. Bit of mindfulness. Then a little wave and a cheerful "Come on!"

"I'm going, I'm going!"

Which I was. Just not very quickly.

In an ultra I'd have been praised for my pacing. Here I was being moved along like an old lady blocking the aisle in Tesco.

Hills are a feature of the landscape designed to be run up twice.

Then came the marshal at the gate.

By now there wasn't a crowd. There wasn't anybody. Everyone else was halfway down the M6, showered, fed and putting a wash on.

And that's the bit nobody says out loud. Not the mud. Not the hills. It's knowing you're one of the last ones still out there, and that people are stood in the cold waiting for you so they can go home. I've never felt so grateful and so mortified at the same time.

Sorry, lads. Hope your tea wasn't ruined.

"Give it everything on the hill," he said.

Right. Everything. Got it.

And I did. Lungs screaming, legs complaining, the lot. I'd have given him my car keys if he'd asked.

Over the top, back down, and there was another marshal. Pointing right.

Right?

No. Left is the finish. Left is where this nonsense ends. I've done the big circle. I'm on the little circles now.

Oh God.

I'VE BEEN DOING THE LITTLE CIRCLES.

All that time congratulating myself on getting the hard bit done, and I'd been going round the little ones like a goldfish in a bowl.

Off I went. What else could I do? Round, up a bit, down a bit, and would you believe it.

The same hill.

I ALREADY GAVE THAT HILL EVERYTHING.

That's what everything means. All of it. I haven't got another everything tucked away somewhere.

The first marshal could've mentioned I'd be back. That would've been handy.

Eventually came the actual finish. I'd started to think they'd made it up.

My competitive side had spent the whole race at home with its feet up and a brew. But suddenly, there it was. Because just ahead of me was a bloke who, by my reckoning, was at least 80.

And something awful happened in my head.

Not today, Grandad.

I know. I KNOW.

After forty-seven thousand gazelles, a nose I couldn't blow and the same hill twice, I'd found my moment. And from somewhere I found another gear. An actual sprint finish. Apparently all I needed was a pensioner between me and the line.

And I beat him.

Was I pleased with myself? You bet I was.

In fairness, he might have had another ten miles in his legs. He might, for all I know, have been 54. It's hard to judge someone's age when you're trying not to be sick while chasing them down a field.

A win's a win.

Officially, it doesn't count. He's in a different league, so the results don't even show it. But I know. And now, so do you.

So there it is. Cross-country: perfectly normal adults running themselves sick round muddy fields, shouting encouragement at each other while secretly hoping to beat them, then standing around afterwards saying what a lovely time they've had.

I'm not selling it, am I?

But do you know what? I bloody loved it. I smiled nearly the whole way round. The people were brilliant and the encouragement was lovely.

To the speedy women who kept flying past me: you were fantastic. Just be a bit less fantastic next time.

I went to Kendal not knowing what to expect and came home with a massive smile, a bruised ego and the scalp of an elderly gentleman.

I'll be back. With spikes, a packet of tissues and, hopefully, the handbrake off.

As for the poor bloke at the finish, I hope he had a lovely day.

Still.

Not today, Grandad. Not today.