The Lesser of Two Evils: The Cross Country
Run
Peter Douglas writes:
On winter afternoons at school, we were often spared the miseries
of rugger and told to go for a cross-country run. This is actually a
double misnomer, for much of the course was on the streets of the
town, and, unless there were exceptional circumstances, we rarely
ran.
For this afternoon of fun we were dressed as for rugby, except
for plimsolls in place of boots. Even that small change brought
certain pleasures for we non-sporty types, for it represented the
release
 from
the brutal antics of the rugger field and the predations of the
games masters. On a run, we were at least free, and it fitted in
neatly with our generally bolshy aversion to anything that smacked
of The Team. For the keen types who loved the virile world of
jockstraps and changing rooms, the cross country run was an unsought
interruption in their manic devotion to rugger, but for the rest of
us, the useless shirkers for whom the dreaded thwack of boot on
leather and the shrill whistle blast bore natural terrors, it was
something of a blessed relief.
I don't think we gave it a thought at the time, but sending us
off on a run was probably a sweet thing for Messrs Grimshaw,
Matthews, and Gibson, the PE masters, for that meant that they could
retire to the staff room for an hour or so for tea and a smoke
instead of running up and down a rugby field barking orders. As just
about anything was better than rugger (the cult of games at its most
oppressive), it was preferable to most of us too, for on a run you
were free and could generally go at your own pace, along with the
opportunity to skive off and not run at all and treat the whole
thing as a nature ramble.
We developed ways of making the ordeal more bearable, and took a
certain pride and pleasure in subverting what was imposed on us.
Normally, on the rugby field and in the gym, that was a thorny feat,
whereas when we were out for a run, we were strangely emancipated
and unsupervised. By and large, we made the run a gentle, civilized
stroll while chatting of this and that, and deriding our absurd
fellow athletes who had raced ahead. There were some fortunate
pupils (I later learned) who lived on or near the route; they ran
home and enjoyed coffees and listened to records and then ran back,
making sure to pick up some mud on the way. That was exceptional,
though we all had ways of making the best of the time, turning what
was intended to be a slog into a decent amble.
The only time we actually had to run was when we could be seen
from the school, and many a careless pupil fell foul of Grimshaw's
eagle eye, being berated on his return for a too leisurely pace,
leaving or returning. The only time we ran all (or most of) the way
was that awful time when Mr. Matthews accompanied us on his bike. It
was all very well for him, wobbling and clanking comfortably along
the rutted path, or with his tyres hissing on the wet road beside
us, weaving gleefully in and out of knots of panting runners. It was
an imposition for us, and we were rarely able to slow down, and
constantly being scolded with his Welsh vowels for taking a
breather. As soon as he overtook and pedaled ahead to chivvy some
slacker in front, we could ease up until we were in his sights
again. He accompanied us ostensibly to show us the route and make
sure that no one took a short cut home, yet it was plain that he
loved to harry the laggards.
The route took us down Trinity Avenue and right on to Kingsley
Road, by The Romany pub. Then it was up the rise and a left on to
Fairway, and sometimes that's as far as we went! Before the houses
were built on the north side of Fairway, we could access the dell
where a stream flowed beneath the screen of trees and shrubs that
separated us from the Kingsthorpe Golf Club. This provided enough
cover for us to sit in hiding and wait the necessary time before
returning to school. It was often wet and dirty and full of insects,
but that was better than busting our lungs on the course. We would
sit and chat, and perhaps pass around a packet of Woodbine or Park
Drive, or go splashing through the stream in search of newts or golf
balls. After the requisite amount of time, when we judged that, had
we actually gone around the course, we would now be coming down
Kingsthorpe Grove on the last stretch, we would emerge and return to
Kingsley Road, maintaining a suitably weary pace.
Before that, we would have besmirched ourselves with dirt and
splashed about in the stream so as to appear sufficiently
bedraggled.
 Some
skill was necessary for the next important step as it was essential
that we slipped back into school the right way. It was vital that we
avoided returning among, or even just after, the keen types. Had we
done so, we and our ruse would have been easily spotted. No one
would believe that we losers had actually run that fast, so we had
to time it right and join the stragglers, where we naturally
belonged. If there were few enough of us, and the timing was a bit
off, we could wait in the bus shelter until we saw the pack of
stumbling wretches descending Kingsthorpe Grove and slip into the
mob as they entered Trinity Avenue.
Naturally, we pretended to gasp and limp and anything else that
went with the general playacting. If we were surprised, coming along
Kingsley Road, by the sudden appearance of a master, or if one of
the keen types wanted to suck up and squeal, then we would simply
say that we had gone around the course in the other direction, which
was unusual, but an option.
If we chose to (or were obliged to) do the whole course, then it
was at a leisurely pace, meaning a walk, or perhaps the occasional
easy trot for a few yards here and there just for show or for a
change. The route took us up Kenmuir Avenue, and at the corner of
Kenmuir Crescent there was a shop where we would stop and buy some
Tizer, a Mars bar, or some crisps, and linger near the comics for a
while. Then, refreshed, it was up the road and left at the Golf
House roundabout along Kettering Road.
There's a big Safeway/Morrisons there now, but at that time it
was just the rolling green vista of the Northampton Golf Club, with
occasional dark clumps of trees and shrubs. (In the winter, this was
the perfect place for tobogganing.) Just before The Avenue and
Spinney Hill we turned left into Holton's Lane, a broad track of red
dirt that took us north between back gardens and, eventually,
allotments on the right and a thick hedge of hawthorn and gorse on
the left with the golf links beyond.
Where Spinney Hill Road is now the track split. One fork narrowed
and carried on up towards Boughton Green Road, and through the
"Trenches" and the "Foxholes" where we used to play, and passing
close to the "loony bin" in Moulton Park. We took the other fork to
the left, skirting the golf course and into an area that's greatly
changed since those days. Back in the late 1950s it was wilder and
not built-up, and was still basically countryside, with broad views
over the town to the south and west. On the left there was Lackey's
farm (on the map as Glebe Farm though never called that) and a
ruined farm known as "The Haunted House," where, at the right time
of year, we could scale the crumbling brambly drywall to pick fruit
from the damson trees. This is around the area where Fulford Drive
is today.
Somewhere farther along the route we descended into a dip in the
landscape, sometimes known to us jocularly as "The Valley of Death,"
whose bottom was always wet and provided the local residents with a
convenient rubbish tip, for it was always full of the rusting
skeletons of prams, mattress springs, eviscerated fridges, and such
accumulated detritus of urban life. After rain or a thaw, this place
was flooded with a couple of feet of water, and we would usually
pause to splash through this, cooling off our feet and wasting more
time.
Eventually the path led to the long straight stretch of Eastern
Avenue South and our plimsolls hit concrete again, and we knew that
we were almost home. At Kingsthorpe Grove we headed left, down the
hill, and The Romany came into sight again. At this point we had to
assess ourselves, adjusting each other's appearance to fake our
having survived a long, hard run; a little mud here and there, a
tousling of the hair, a scuffing of the shoes, and the pulling down
of one soggy sock, perhaps.
And now we had to actually run, for again we were coming within
sight of the school and its real or imaginary hawk-eyed sentinels.
Whether it was rugby, PE in the gym, or out for a run, the
changing room was inevitably an unpleasant and frequently
humiliating experience, and this was the next ordeal to be faced.
This awful area was characterized by a rowdy and malodourous
camaraderie that I could never be part of, nor did I ever aspire to
that. By now, the keen muscular types, those loud, aggressive
devotees of scrums and touchlines, would have returned and showered.
They would be parading about in towels or unselfconsciously naked,
full of boisterous clamour about their time for the run and such
nauseating braggadocios. The room rang with shouts and
protestations, and stank of sweat, BO, dirty wet clothes, and mud,
all mixed with soap, steam, and raw, hot, scrubbed bodies.
The cardinal rule for games, ever in our minds, was: Keep a Low
Profile. We subversives hoped to just be able to sneak in quietly,
keep our heads down, change quickly, and get out, attracting as
little notice as possible. And it was important to avoid the
indignities of taking a shower or, worse, being made to get into
that disgusting communal bath, slopping with scummy grey water
perfumed by feet and armpits. This was hard or easy to accomplish,
depending on the proximity and general mood of whichever games
master was around. If moved by the spirit of superiority and
malevolence, he might pass some unkind comment on the lateness, lack
of keenness, and the general and irredeemable sloppiness of we
stragglers. As this was all true, it wasn't so hard to take, and
we'd developed thick skins. But sometimes the urge to belittle and
punish the sin of indifference to the sporty world would come with
the hoarse order to "Go get in that shower, boy!" This sometimes
even meant making someone who had just dressed strip off and get
wet.
If you were lucky enough to avoid such attentions and changed
fast, you could be out and free, euphoric and thankful to have
survived another games period, and in a not too painful way. We
counted ourselves fortunate. After all, it could have been worse. We
could have been playing rugger.
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