Cross country and the good ole days
The Darlington Cross-Country Invitational on Sept. 1 brought together runners from about a dozen high schools.
I love cross-country season.
I know. To most sports fans, this is football season. But I’m a runner, not a “ball sport” kinda guy. That’s been true as long as I can remember.
And if I remember correctly, I didn’t always love cross country, at least not when it was my time to run. I was one of those scrawny kids who had learned to high-tail it from fights I was doomed to lose if I stuck around. So by the time I entered high school, I happened to be a better than average harrier at distances of one to three miles.
Cross country never came easy, though. About this time of year, every year – after three weeks of hill sprints following three summer months of lounging about – I’d invariably have shin splints and a recurring upset stomach from not knowing how to eat and train. The anticipation and dread that preceded each Saturday morning race nearly left me unhinged. Nightmares of jostling for position with scores of other gangly guys all wearing long weaponized spikes on their feet made it hard to sleep the night before each meet.
Oh, but if only I had known then what I know now. Well, I probably wouldn’t have peaked as a freshman on varsity, both on the track and golf courses where many cross-country meets are held. Back then I didn’t appreciate that I was running as fast as I ever would. Now, as I near 40, I’m left to wonder “what if” I had run faster still.
Over the past three years I’ve attended several of my young brother-in-law’s cross-country meets, like the Darlington (Wisconsin) Invitational held last Saturday. I yell encouragement, take pictures and generally revel in the glory days I never actually lived.
After this weekend’s meet, my wife called me “a very passionate spectator.”
“Do I embarass you?” I asked, suddenly made aware of my self absorption.
“No,” she said. “But I manage to stay as far away from you as possible while the race is on.”
When my eyes stray from the runners rounding the flags, I see our two toddlers, emulating their uncle and dad by careening around the infield.
I love that they run. But I know I can’t live through their running. Maybe they’ll run in high school, if their old man is any sort of role model. But ultimately they’ll have to run of their own accord because they, too, get some perverse satisfaction out of the pain of running hard and fast.
– Joel Patenaude