015: My First Cross Country Experience

I’ve always been in awe of Cross Country runners. In high school, the top athletes would run 70km per week at breathtaking speeds, carry and routinely empty their ammo-case-sized lunchboxes and bound around school with legs so lean, springy and muscular it would make a Durban July-winner look chunky. Consequently, I could never relate to them. At that stage in my life, I preached Proverbs 28:

I once uttered this line to a top-athlete, and she, being a pastor’s daughter, stared daggers at me. Let it be known now, though, that underneath my humorous façade, there hid a green monster of jealousy. I too wanted to run like the wind and have strong legs with popping veins. Emptying the big lunchbox? Luckily, that has never been an issue.

Fast forward to May 2025. Fresh off the build phase for Comrades 2025, I had run 132km in 7 days and felt ready to ease off the big mileages that running an ultramarathon requires. After falling ill and/or injured in the last month before Comrades for the previous two years due to slight overtraining and under-recovering, I hatched a plan to keep these evils at bay. Rather than another big week, I decided to mix up my routine with a novel experience by halving my weekly mileage and focusing on a little bit of speed. I would try a round of Cross Country. Quality over quantity, as they say. After this experiment, I’d do two more weeks of Comrades prep.

My newer, but older running buddies had found a lot of joy in doing Cross Country and had even qualified for provincial colours and represented Athletics Gauteng North (AGN) with aplomb at the national event in 2024. Buoyed by the confidence and fitness of my Comrades build and enticed by the idea of finally gaining some external recognition for the 15,000km I’ve run over the last decade, I laced up my colourful ASICS Noosa Tri 14 takkies – or my “boogaloo” speed shoes (as my Comrades and Cross Country friend Michael calls them) – and toed the line to see what I could do over a shorter distance in a competitive environment. Would I manage to slay the green monster of my youth and become the lithe, galloping runner that I once envied? Here’s the story of my first Cross Country experience.

The day:

First, some exposition. Since Cross Country in AGN is held over multiple events during the winter months, the races don’t take place in picturesque countryside so much as it they are held in and around dusty schools, fields and parks. The first event of the 2025 season was hosted at Fleur Primary School in Lyttelton Manor, Centurion. It was co-hosted by my running club, Green Mile Athletics Club, and the church of which I am a member, Voetspore – member of the Dutch Reformed Church. Voetspore directly translates to English as Footsteps, apt for a running day.

The team set up an amazing event, with non-stop boerewors rolls and refreshments being supplied by church members. The running club members provided marshalling and assistance on the Cross Country (CC) course. Our pastor, Manie, and running club captain, Marius, took turns manning the Public Announcement (PA) system. From their prime vantage point on the second floor of the school building, they provided ample motivation for all age groups as they negotiated the course.

The course:

The race started on the main rugby field, where runners formed a massive line. As the gun went off, they bolted across the school fields, bottlenecked as they made their way around the tennis courts and charged down the hill into Fleur Park. There, runners negotiated a few short, sharp and steep turns, before a gnarly, energy-sapping climb back up the hill and into the school grounds. Two turns past the tennis courts and around the rugby field completed one lap. Different age groups completed different numbers of laps. The small under-8 kiddies, who ran until their lips turned blue and their little faces were white as a sheet, only did one lap. The distance scaled up to my age group – the 20-35ers – who were tasked with charging around the course a brutal five times for a 10km race at 3 in the afternoon. Older age categories (it goes up to an 80+ category!) completed less laps, but regardless of the age of the runner, the course ensured you left with an honest assessment of both your fitness and your relative ability as a runner.

The startline:

After a short warm-up, I arrived early for my category’s 3pm start at 2:45pm. I did some simple stretches, put my cap into the racing position (backward) and stood back to see what my competition would look like. By 2:50pm not many runners  had arrived. A fellow dad showed up and as turned around to hug his family, I saw that he was sporting a mullet. Next, I saw a youngster with flat feet that pointed in different directions, standing alone trying to seem inconspicuous. “Not too bad”, I thought. I knew I wasn’t going to win, especially being 32 years old and a senior citizen of the category, but based on visual evidence, I was starting to like my chances of springing a surprise result.

By 2:55pm, the range of ages eligible to run in my age category became more apparent. With every passing minute, a leaner runner appeared. Some definitely weighed less than my left thigh and others were so short I’m pretty sure they’d be ineligible on most theme park rides. “Hmph, it might be a bit tougher than I thought”, I frowned. Finally, the fast girls appeared, with gleaming smiles, shiny hair and light touches of mascara – dazzling like unicorns in lycra.

As an endurance road runner, we make a fuss about a start line. Nothing beats Comrades, but other big races always have time for a prayer, the National Anthem and a proper countdown. With CC, the start doesn’t have the same sense of spectacle about it. The starter pitches up and shoots the clap gun without even looking at the runners. Bemused, my jaw dropped to the dusty rugby field floor as the leanest, meanest and toughest runners set off at a pace that I couldn’t even match during my fastest interval training sessions. Not having time to think about it too much, I bolted, making my boogaloo speed shoes work for their reputation.

Here we go:

As we exited the school, I looked at my watch. “3:30/km” it read. As someone who knows a thing or two about how to pace a good half marathon and 10km, I knew this was going to be unsustainable. My average pace over a pancake flat 10km course was, after all, only 4:29/km. Shrugging off the doubt, I set off down the hill. I saw my friend, Ernst, who was marshalling and shouted to him, “I don’t know what to do!”. And he simply hollered back, offering zero sympathy, “RUN!!!” So I did. As my watch beeped after the first kilometer, I looked down, and saw a scary sight, “4:08/km”. Seeing the dad with the mullet pulling away, I soldiered on back up the hill, denying the screaming in my lungs.

At the end of the first lap, Marius awaited with his camera. He always takes a lot of photos of Green Mile runners during races. Since I was the only Green Miler running in this race, I got the celebrity treatment and he took many photos of me after every one of the five laps of the race. He consequently documented my progress through the Five Stages of Grief (highly recommend this old YouTube video for a quick refresher of the five stages).

Lap 1, Stage 1 – Denial

Switching screens to see my Heart Rate, an even scarier sight than the pace faced me:“184bpm”. My Heart Rate can easily go up to 197bpm during a tough race, but it is usually a gradual “cardiac drift”. It never spikes as violently as it did now. The only thought in my mind, came from little Ralph Wiggum from The Simpsons:

With a slightly incredulous look of delirious denial, I turned the corner and set off on lap two, determined to make up some lost ground. And, naively, thinking that my ultra distance pacing would translate into CC, I said to myself, “I’ll catch them by lap 3.”

Lap 2, Stage 2 – Anger

As I exited the school, I ran past my sympathy-less friend Ernst, who’s only encouragement was, “GO!”. I spotted the youngster with the flat feet I had sized up on the start line. He was almost half a lap ahead. With his floppy feet that were pointing in different directions, he was kicking up little vortices of dust as he made his way towards the hill. “How?”, I wondered between ragged breaths. Ahead of him, one of the unicorn girls was running at a scarcely believable pace and – I kid you not – smilingand finding enough breath to have a leisurely conversation with a friend. “Well that’s just great”, I thought, feeling my mental resolve that I’d built so carefully over weeks of Comrades training starting to dissolve. The punches kept coming when a guy, probably 12 years my junior, bounded past in athleisure shoes, making me look like I was looking for parking. As I entered the school, Manie announced over the PA system, “Ladies and Gentleman, here comes Charl, a Green Mile and Voetspore member. Go, Charl! You’re looking good.” As I turned the corner at Marius, an expletive started forming. I might’ve looked good, but I definitely wasn’t feeling it.

Lap 3, Stage 3 – Bargaining

Exiting the school for another lap, I met the beaming, always-smiling face of Chris Koch – Green Mile’s chairman – and he motivated me with his most cheerful, “Mooi, Charlie!” Moving past my anger, I told myself that I could at least catch up to the dad with the mullet. He was probably 15m ahead of me and the gap was just starting to decrease. The guy with the athleisure shoes gave me hope halfway through the lap when I passed him clutching a tree for support and giving rasping, desperate breaths. I then saw the flat footed guy clutching at a wind in his side, more than half a lap ahead, and felt emboldened. “If I can catch the dad with the mullet, it’ll be a successful run and who knows, maybe I can start catching up properly”, I thought as I came up to Marius for a third time. I gathered a water sachet at the waterpoint, futilely trying to cool myself down with a spray of water and set off for round four.

Lap 4, Stage 4 – Depression

Another sojourn around the tennis court meant another one of Chris’s motivational cheers, but their effect was starting to wear thin. By the time I’d reached the bottom of the hill the dad with the mullet was starting to pull away again. The athleisure shoe guy came bounding past again. I never saw him again. Going up the hill, I crossed paths with a running sage who shouted at me,

I’m still not sure if I hallucinated the man and his advice, but I tried my best to heed the call by pumping my arms. It was a vain effort and by the time I reached Chris as I entered the school grounds again, even he could only muster a defeated “Go, Beardy”. The unicorn girls were all gone. The young speedsters were all gone. I was alone. And I was starting to feel like I was not long for this world.

Lap 5, Stage 5 – Acceptance

Lap 5 held no joy for me. The dad with the mullet became smaller, my heart rate went higher and my yearning for respite became larger. “Only 2k to go”, as I turned the corner at the bottom of the hill. As I did so, though, the little part of my brain that could still do some rudimentary math, managed to do a quick calculation and reach the conclusion that the route was going to be a whole lot shorter than advertised. I wouldn’t have to wait 2k for the end to come, there was only 1k left. Sensing this to be my last ray of hope, I put my head down and stormed to the finish. The clock stopped at exactly 9km in a time of 39:58 (average pace of 4:26/km). I had faded quite badly by the end, but I could collapse on the grass and wait for death to come take me after having completed my descent through

the Five Stages of Grief.

 The aftermath:

Only problem is, death didn’t come and within minutes, an almighty runner’s high struck me. If I had run a normal road race, I would have been on track for a 10km Personal Best. And that on a truly testing route, while being in the throes of ultra training. I had a lot of reason to be proud. Who cares that a dad with a mullet ran away from me? Who cares that a floppy footed youngster with feet that pointed in different directions ran so fast that he had already left the venue by the time I’d finished? Who cares that the smiling unicorn girl made me look like a completely different species? I had survived my first CC experience. By my own standards, I had thrived. But by external metrics, I had failed: I finished 23^rd out of 26 finishers.

After a successful Comrades, and in the midst of preparing for an onslaught on my 21km PB, I gave CC another go during a 4km event at Pretoria Boys High School where I ran even faster: 4km in 17:59 at an average pace of 4:15/km.

The result? 26^th out of 26 runners in the 20 to 35 age category…

Conclusion

As I reflect on this experience, and the impressive way in which it has humbled me, my respect for those high school CC runners from my youth grows even more. Knowing what it takes to run so hard to finish last, I cannot fathom how those kids ran like they did to get provincial and national colours and still find the gumption to finish near the top of the class in academics.

I was also reminded that you should never ever judge a runner based on looks. Comrades teaches you this, when the shortest, widest auntie shuffles you and your nutrition plans and race-specific shoes into oblivion. This lesson translates into CC perfectly. The flattest feet can and will outrun you, even if it needs to take a breather against a tree along the way.

Seeing the friendly faces of Marius, Chris and Ernst (even though his words didn’t offer much sympathy) on the route and hearing Manie’s cheers on the PA system, helped to put a smile on my face. It has been shown that running with a smile can help with the release of endorphins and consequently mask a lot of pain. Given how broadly they were smiling, perhaps the fast ones were in pain too?

My final lesson is that I am not going to be emulating my friends by earning provincial colours for Cross Country anytime soon. The youngsters are simply too fast and too many. While a bit disappointed, and a bit wiser, this experience has blessed me in an unexpected way: I’m now really excited for my 35^th birthday. Then I’ll be able to move into an

older age category where I’ll be the upstart youngster. And when an even older dad sizes me up, I’ll take my boogaloo shoes for a spin that’ll leave him as flabbergasted as I felt with my first Cross Country experience.