And almost immediately, my vow of silence is broken. But then I didn’t
expect to run a race today. Sometimes, you just run a 20 mile
cross-country race by accident. Tim of this parish, our 175-Mile Race
Running Correspondent, will be reading this with tears in his eyes.
I’d forgotten about this one. Then last night, I remembered it.
The Compton Downland Challenge has been rebranded this year, in line
with the trend to put a beaming smile on the face of heartbursting
athletic martyrdom. The 40 miler is now the Full Fat 40, and the wimp’s
version is the Bare Bones 20. Today, I was that wimp.
In truth, as a physical challenge it wasn’t too bad at all. The
cross-country secret is that it’s perfectly OK to walk when you fancy
it. The great thing about this is that hills move from being objects of
fear to objects of ridicule. Big hill? Ha ha! I do not care. I spit on
you, big hill. I spit on you one thousand times, and I just walk up
you, using the opportunity to natter with the person next to me about
their hydration system.
In honour of a minor tradition in this household, one hour before the
race I was still sitting in front of this computer in my dressing gown.
Panic then hit me like a thunderbolt, and I jumped from my seat. 40
minutes later, I had made and drunk a cup of tea, showered, dressed,
collected race essentials from all corners of the house, discussed
dining arrangements with sleepy wife, visited the village cash machine,
driven 21 miles, found the race HQ and a parking place, registered for
the race, pinned number to chest, made myself another
cup of tea, and was standing in the corner, sighing, grumbling about
having another 20 minutes to kill. I could have trimmed the hedge
before I left, I thought.
I hadn’t been quite sure what to wear for this one. Normal race gear?
Or post-nuclear holocaust survival equipment? My hunch, to go for the
former, turned out to be right, though there were a few lurking
self-conscious types with bulky rucksacks and protruding antennae,
ticking items off extensive lists, and making last minute examinations
of what they would call their survival ration pack, but what you and I
would call a bag of boiled sweets.
Race HQ was the Compton Village School hall. Here I met up with 4 or 5
other members of the famous Reading Joggers, the region’s
paramount athletic association, to discuss race strategy. They were all
calloused veterans of this great event. Their kind advice to me could
be distilled down to just six words: “See you at the finish, sucker”.
Following a commemorative snap, we set off around the school football
pitch, and away up a steep bank into the adjoining wood, where we
immediately stopped to a crawl as we squeezed through some brambley
bushes in single file. Out the other side, and off we streamed across a
broad field, dipping down to a stile, then up the other side of the
shallow valley.
The fifth day of spring was sunny and cool. About as perfect as you can
get for a 20 mile jog around the Berkshire countryside. Much of the run
was across fields, some ploughed and soft; some rutted and rocky. Long
tranquil stretches took us along soft tracks through hilly woodland.
There was the occasional hedged lane. We passed through farmyards, past
rows of cottages, and through picturesque villages like Hampstead
Norreys and Aldworth (home of the Bell, best pub in Britain). Fine
views were available to anyone who could lift their heads long enough
to appreciate them, the best of which is probably the ridge above
Streatley and Goring, two adjoining villages built around the Thames.
Around Mile 14 I fell in with Corrina, a South African runner with an
enthusiasm for marathons bordering on the obsessive, though I suspect
she’ll never catch up with her husband who’s managed the 56km Two
Oceans Marathon 10 times and the Comrades (87km) a, quite literally
staggering, 17 times. She was great company, and helped me get through
the last 7 miles or so with a collection of tales about their marathon
exploits. We ran-walked the final third of the race until the last mile
and a half when suddenly we felt too guilty to walk anymore, and set
off to jog to the finish. It was painful, but I had to tell my body
that there was more of this to come in a couple of weeks, so it had
better get used to it.
Back at the finish, eating home-made cake and drinking tea with the
rest of the famous Reading Joggers, I reflected that this had been a
great experience; one of the most enjoyable races I’d ever taken part
in. Of course, it wasn’t really a race at all — at least, it didn’t
feel like one — and this was the key to the pleasure. The Compton 20
isn’t a hierarchical, competitive “I’m better than you” affair. It’s a
tour of some beautiful English countryside in early spring. It’s a
celebration of running, of companionship, and a reminder that the best
things in life really are the simplest.
Thank you.
Here are some Pictures
from the day.
