LAST MONTH IN this space my esteemed friend and colleague Jeff Hollobaugh, our Managing Editor, got me thinking. Not for the first time or the last. For decades by now, Jeff has been nudging my noggin with astute observations, and when called for, the rapier of his succinctly cynical wit.
In case you missed it, Jeff is no fan of record-chasing paced and wavelighted time trials on the track. Nor am I. I far prefer a real race sans predetermined outcome or dashing of hopes when the targeted time is missed.
I assume we all prefer to see athletes run on inspiration — no matter their individual strong suits — be they grinding, jumping the field for a long kick or playing the game of, “You know when I fire the finish rocket, join me if you dare.” Nah, I assume wrong. Some fans can’t get enough of races with the clock and that’s A-OK with me. We can all be friends.
But yeah, I see eye to eye with Jeff. However, in the autumn, and right into December, it’s cross country racing that sets a spring in my step — though purely as a spectator these days.
Yes, some of the appeal arises from more organic settings than a 400m oval — as much as I adore what happens on ovals. My own first official harrier race happened on a warm Southern California weekday afternoon in a suburban park. Even there the smell of grass, fallen leaves, soil, dust and the signature aroma of bridle trails stimulated the senses. Hey, we were out of school, or at least off campus, early!
And don’t get me started on the rich experience of Saturday morning cross country, a chill mild or major in the air, perhaps fog curling out of low spots on the course. Or light rain, downpour, drifting snow or mud-meets-ice-bowl.
But there’s a lot more to recommend harrier racing than just one’s senses. There’s that jittery line up on lawn or trail behind a chalked start line, or just between two cones. Then there’s that break from the gun, the initial breathless jolt that the race is on, the settling into rhythm against the challenge of undulating terrain, and sooner or later on any course worth its salt those implacable opponents that refuse to be bargained with, hills. Getting up them, the self-reminder to push over the top, and the oft-elusive search for the sweet spot of reeling free as possible on the descent.
It’s a little like rinse, repeat and hang tight if you can through what feels like a spin cycle in the latter stages.
From a spectator’s point of view, there are few rewards to match looking on as well-prepared rivals trade surges over the country, each successive volley an ounce or a pound more akin to lifting a manhole cover than the last. Or, as sometimes transpires, watching a runner glide into “the zone,” that exalted state which an eloquent observer once distilled as, “He simply couldn’t run hard enough to hurt himself that day.” It’s available free to any runner who trains, long, hard and smart enough to be cross country racing when a magic moment visits.
Having laid on my leadup too thick, what I started out to celebrate was/is racing like what we saw (alas, not in person for me, but thank you, ESPN) at the NCAA Champs. That meet is chronicled in this issue. No heats, albeit with formidable Regionals races just 8 days before, let’s all line up and shoot for the moon for the team or individually. We get both with XC.
Parker Valby dared herself to make ’em come get her with about 5K to go, broke the rules (of caution) and won. Weeks before his race Graham Blanks picked his divot in the terrain some 800m from home and closed victoriously on a carpet of fear. The team battles, too, wow!
Dave Smith feared his reloaded tie-break runnerup squad of ’22 got “out over our skis” against Northern Arizona — but Oklahoma State stayed upright. The NC State women needed every last scorer and prevailed by the thinnest-possible margin over NAU. Bravo.
As Mr. Mackey once said of fingerpaintin’ (obscure South Park reference time), cross country racing is cooooool.
And track season is rolling up fast, here before we know it.
