Apparently, Storm Bert brought snow, wind and rain, and cut the power to parts of the UK and Ireland. Someone asked our team captain Rob whether the race would be called off. He just laughed.
The only times I’ve known a cross-country race be called off was when there was not enough parking space due to water-logged fields. Had there been a way to get the people there, the race would have gone right ahead – water-logged fields or no.
I suppose if the winds had picked up so much that they were picking up the trees, we may have been released from duty, but for Liverpool this time, Bert turned out to be a damp squib.
In the morning, when I was taking out our grandson’s car seat and putting an old shower curtain into the boot of our brand new Toyota Yaris as a little protection from the mud, I had expected to be soaked, but the rain was very light. Perhaps, I thought, it would be a fun afternoon out in the park.
Alex came to mine and then we picked up Jo and John en route to the tunnel for Liverpool. Alex is the kind of crazy young woman who thinks that because the race is in the afternoon (12:45 for the women), that she could pop out for a gentle Parkrun in the morning. She’s also a vet, so Jo was able to ask about the wart on the end of her cat’s nose, and John was able to get a bit of reassurance about his older cat’s inability to use her back legs.
As I’m not all that keen on furry friends, I could only empathise with these people up to a point, so I was pleased when the subject of conversation changed. To musicals! Seriously? Can you believe that I’m the only gay in the car!
The good thing about having a small car is that there are more options for parking, and we found a space very close to the start which was good because the rain had started yet again. Rob had pitched the club marquee close to the Obelisk at the northern entrance to Sefton Park, so we were sheltered quickly.
The main regional and national races have had a long history of making the men run farther than the women, once they let the women in at all. It used to be about 8K for the women and 12K for the men. But for this race the men also ran 8K which was nice because although the apocalyptic weather hadn’t materialised here it was still wet and cold, and it meant we didn’t have to wait around for the guys to finish their race as long as we once did.
I honestly don’t know the arguments for and against the changes and I’m not sure that all the XC bodies are making the change. I was a bit surprised that they didn’t meet in the middle and make everyone run a 10K, but hey, given the amount of slop that I travelled through today, it was okay by me.
It was a three-lap course, so of course I started getting lapped by the gazelles on second lap. How is it that as I’m squelching through, trying to pick my legs out of the ankle-deep quagmire, these fleet-footed women seem to glide over the top of it all! If I hadn’t been busy trying not fall flat on my face in the mud, it would have been wonderful to watch.
At least though, the course was pretty flat. There was that. But getting purchase on the ground was a rare occurrence. I only had baby spikes on my shoes, but I don’t think it would have made much difference having longer ones, given how deep my leg went down. There was also a downpour midway just to give us a good soaking top to toe. I was able to pip Cath to the post – probably because she was still recovering from her recent trip to Peru, and by the end my legs felt like jelly. Yet I still felt exhilarated.
And that, my friends, is why I, and the hundreds of other runners who aren’t in with a shout of winning medals or getting picked for the England team, turn up on murky afternoons like this. Because we love it. Although sometimes we hate it, maybe on that middle lap. But when we’ve finished and compared our layers of mud to others, and eaten cake, and balanced on one leg to try and get our trousers back on without them getting dirty, then we love it.
theleadlesspencil 
Inspirational!