I say goodbye to the Principal’s secretary and walk back through the deserted hallway enjoying the rush of giddiness that follows an interview. The squeak of my footsteps adds to the sense of absurdity. Rows of teal lockers line the corridor, punctuated by water fountains and doors, through which I get snatched glimpses. I push through the double doors and step outside; even with a covering of clouds the light is different and the paving stone path glows white against the grass. Reaching the car park, it takes a second glance to locate the hire car[i] amongst the rows of unfamiliar American models. I sit toying with the promotional key fob thinking about the answers I gave and the ones I should have given; ‘Why didn’t I mention the enhanced studies project and why did I say I liked the music of Johann Strauss[ii]?’
In front of me, the athletics field is framed by the windscreen (if I stay, how long before ‘windscreen’ becomes ‘windshield?’) and pockets of activity create a Brueghel-esque scene[iii]. A group of student’s jogs into the picture wearing matching red and yellow athletics kits and the Principal’s questions are replaced by thoughts four thousand miles and twenty years away.
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A cold damp February morning in the Midlands in 1989; twenty-odd 13-14 year olds, who make up Class K, huddle outside of the gym block in a loose uniform of white t-shirts and black shorts. Arms are clasped around bodies for protection against the cold and awkwardness. The pasty skin on exposed arms and thighs is beginning to take on the appearance of mace covered nutmeg[iv] as we wait for the P.E.[v] teacher to emerge from the warmth of his office with a mug of instant coffee.
The three hours of P.E. every week in the autumn and winter terms consists of football, rugby and cross country running. Today is cross country and we wait at the start with a lack of alacrity. It would take around forty five minutes for those of us running the length of the course. The rest; knotty groups of girls and boys would slope their way around through either indifference or incapacity. The occasionally fearsome gang of brazen girls with hair sprayed fringes would wait in the thin bushes just outside the school grounds ready to re-join the back markers.
The P.E. teacher appears, accuses me of wearing my nan’s socks, gives a warning about taking shortcuts and blows the whistle. Mark ‘Hooky’ Peters (who has the fatal combination of being short, slight and inarticulate) reprises his tactic of setting off at full speed across the school field. Four hundred metres later, Hooky would be caught and passed, puffing out his blotchy red cheeks and settling into walking the rest of the distance. Today, he disturbs the mist that has settled across the playing field and as we pass, he mutters incantations, chin pressed into his chest.
Those first few minutes, running alongside brightly lit class rooms bring on a rush of freedom as we make our escape from the school grounds, expressly forbidden at all other times. Covert dinner-time journeys would occasionally be made to stand in line at the bakery to buy sausage rolls and vanilla slices. Others revelled in the escapade, but those sausage rolls, eaten walking the surrounding terraced streets were tainted for me by the fear of capture and punishment.
Only three of us were running today, which offered the comfort of guaranteeing a finish in the fictional medal positions. One of the usual leaders was off school (ill or truant, I don’t remember) and another had decided to hang around at the back with the girls, an increasingly regular concession made to a budding girlfriend.
Outwardly, we weren’t interested in racing; we just wanted to get back as quickly as possible to play football or jump the canteen queue. I was short-ish for my age and carrying something my brother called ‘puppy fat’[vi]. Compared to my friends’ long lean limbs, conducive to long distances and changes of pace, the only weapon I had was attrition. Aged thirteen, after perhaps twenty odd races over the last three years I had never won the cross country. Third, second, fourth, second again, fifth and so on every week. Sometimes I was allowed the luxury of leading but I was always overhauled and arrived back to ask who had won. Today, I have the opportunity to attack.
We reach the border of the school field where the grass gets longer to become a trap for crisp packets and drinks cans. My trainers and socks are damp from the wet grass. Two stone posts mark the exit and the start of a ten minute climb along a cobbled bridleway. It’s a grey scene; the overcast sky merges into the clay earth of the ploughed fields which sit either side of the path, showing no signs of what might be grown there. I settle into my rhythm; breathing in through my mouth (four paces) and out (four paces). Half way up hill, Paul ‘Belly’ Bell pulls away a step at a time. On some days he’ll be out of sight and back in the changing room knotting his purple striped tie when I arrive back shattered, but on others he’ll show no form and give up, waiting for the girls lagging behind to catch up. I’m running alongside Steve ‘Ste’ Slater, in silence we watch him disappear over the brow of the hill. As we approach the top, Ste says ‘shit’ and stops. I carry on, looking back to see him knelt down tying his shoelace. Ste is a steady runner who rarely leads and is happy to take his chance with a sprint finish. Behind him, white shirts are strung out along the bridleway.
I hit the plateau. Across a triangular road junction is an old sandstone house with an outside tap and a dog is drinking from what looks like an old ice cream tub. The owner strides on. I run for a short distance on the pavement alongside the empty road, my breathing heavier from the effort of the climb and turn sharply right through a narrow gap onto a downhill path surrounded by thorny hedges. Unconsciously picking my pace up as my legs run away with me, I get the sharp stabbing pain in my midriff; a stitch. It’s only fifteen years later when training for the Great North Run[vii] that I find out from my training partner that this is the stress on my diaphragm of the combined weight of my liver, spleen, stomach, small intestine and colon. The pluck[viii].The pain stabs with every step. Slowing down, I jab my hand into my stomach and hold it there. In a few minutes the prodding subsides and I settle back into some kind of rhythm; breathing in through my mouth (four paces) and out (four paces), saliva pooling below my tongue. Later in the year the hedges will be loaded with sloe berries[ix], blackberries and blackcurrants. When I was younger I was sent up here to bring back carrier bags full.
For long stretches, the arched branches create a tunnel of hedges, where light is lost. Sounds are absorbed and I’m unaware of where my competitors are. I concentrate on avoiding the rocks, pot-holes, clumps of roots and dog turds that litter the path.
Running downhill can give a false sense of security in your legs, but I enjoy the last few easy steps and shoot out from between the bramble walls, turning right onto a wide path of black earth. The trees are thin, stunted and willowy and the leaves have a yellow tint. Large areas of boggy mud surround the path. From now on its faux flat, 15 minutes of visually imperceptible uphill drudge.
I get a welcome shock. Up ahead, Belly is bent double staring at the wet patch at his feet. I approach shouting my concern ‘y‘urate?’ but he waves me away with a grimace.
This is it. My best chance to win the race. The nervous excitement rises in my stomach and two options run through my mind; I can either carry on as normal, saving something for the finish? Or I can try to get as far ahead as possible?
I tell my legs to go faster and they groan: ‘what are you doing?’ I concentrate on landmarks I can see ahead; the tree with the overhanging branches, the pool of muddy water, the skew-whiff fence post and the tell-tale stiff carrier bags[x]. Each one is a finish line that I am first through. My personal victories are interrupted by jeering and withering wolf whistles from the girls standing indolently in the trees. I ignore them and wipe the saliva from my chin.
I start to fret about being in first place. The path twists gradually right giving a limited view behind me and I expect Belly or Ste to join me at any moment. A burnt out car, which is slowly being overrun by foliage marks the way back to the school. I try to pick up my pace and leap through the stone gateposts. For a second I am flying, but the leaden thump of my feet breaks the spell. Remembering my breathing I concentrate on evening it out; in through my mouth (four paces) and out (four paces). I risk a backwards peek and don’t see anyone.
Retracing my steps along the school field I approach the familiar sights of the school. The caretakers hut that we avoid, the back of the flaking pink canteen building, past the shouts and clatter of pans. On past the two temporary classroom huts that became permanent until they were set on fire. The mist has lifted in the forty minutes we have been out and I can see the P.E. teacher at the finish.
On past the blackened sandstone assembly hall with imposing arched windows, where I fainted with a moan on my first day at school.
On past the long jump pit, with sand as hard as cement, where split my lip open during a fight about a stolen football.
On past the deserted ‘smoker’s corner’, where the rebellious gathered at lunchtime as it gave clear views in all directions of any approaching teachers. I wouldn’t smoke a cigarette until I was 21.
The finish is around 200 metres[xi] ahead and I have the premature glow of victory. I can see myself at the end watching with hands on hips as the others trail in, commentary and applause ringing in my ears; ‘Against all the odds, this young lad from a small town in Nottinghamshire has defeated all before him, battling the appalling conditions and the limitations of his own body.’ I turn to survey the margin of my victory. I get my second shock of the race. The two of them are running side by side, eating up the ground between the long jump pit and ‘smoker’s corner’.
With just over 100 metres to go, I still have the race in my hands. For another 15-20 seconds I just need to keep going at the same pace and they won’t catch me. I take a gulp of air and my legs judder forwards. My bones are made of metal, surrounded by jelly. I look down at my legs, my feet feel like sledgehammer heads.
To my right Belly and Ste join me with smiles. I smile too. The comradely feeling lasts the few seconds it takes for them to slide off in front of me. I stare furiously at their backs willing them to slow down, to show some compassion for me. The gap grows.
Surrender brings relief and my eyes flit around small details; Belly’s double crown, the fluorescent patch on the back of Ste’s trainers and further down the field a crow hopping around on the cricket square. I reach Belly, Ste and the PE teacher, ‘What happened, you were miles ahead?’ I don’t answer him and he chucks the remains of his coffee onto the grass. Bent double with hands on knees I stare at the floor and close my eyes.
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I turn the key in the ignition and pull away, gliding over to the right hand side of the road as I exit the car park. Embracing the ridiculousness of being here, I pull off the highway at a ‘Denny’s’[xii] and the waitress gives me a sympathetic look as I hover by the till unsure of whether to sit down or wait to be seated. She directs me to a empty booth and comments on my accent. I order a coffee with a ‘Western’ burger.
I bring up the ubiquitous social networking site on my phone and cross the Atlantic Ocean. Belly and Ste are still living a few miles from the school. Both have kids and I’m shocked at how big both of them are compared to my memory. I don’t remember who won the race and I never came as close to winning ‘Class K’s Cross Country’ and before I left the school aged 18, an open cast mine ate away at the hill until it disappeared, to be replaced by a nature reserve.
The phone vibrates and I stare at it in momentary terror. Jabbing the green symbol I feel heat flush my cheeks knowing that there could be a lead fist in the stomach on the other end of the line.
The waitress returns with the coffee and I give a broad, eye wrinkling smile.
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