As Nativity 2’s Angel Matthews said, ‘wow, wow, wow; in other words, game over’. This was certainly the atmosphere following the Cambridge women’s historical win at the BUCS XC championships in Cardiff on Saturday. Before this date, the succession of victories had alternated between Loughborough and Birmingham, with the last respite from this an Oxford win in 2000. We have broken that streak: 25 years later, the trophy is in Light Blue clutches for the first time ever – this is a serious feat and testament to the club’s breathtaking rise in recent years.
But let us briefly swirl down the temporal vortex, going full Hermione and time-turning it back approximately three days and 20 hours before the gun cracked. Let’s rewind past happy scenes, before the porridge pots; before the cups, the marmalade, the tea; before the porcelain, before some talk of race numbers and hotel keys, before the tears and shouts that swept Blackweir Fields. It is Tuesday the 28th of January. A group of around 30 runners are on the Cambridge towpath, splattered with mud, warding off the swans, consternated and harried; and their state is exacerbated by a stampede of ponies who are bambi-ing their way along the muddy banks. We break camp, crossing the river, and the rest of the session is a war of single-filing, cattle grid slip ‘n sliding, apex-cornering and the mild chaos symptomatic of a group too large in a space too small. Phil O’Dell watches in anxiety from the sidelines, he who has been visualising this BUCS weekend for the 12 years of his time in office as club coach.
Cut forward to Saturday, with a Hitchcock-ian flourish of jarring trumpets and fanfaronade, and if you stand outside the Leonardo Hotel in Cardiff, you will see a steady dribble of Hareys wandering out of the doors, like ducklings blinking in the fresh sunlight of a new day. But as we were about to prove, despite our bookish demeanours, we are ruthless warriors.
There is something raw and primeval about a Cross Country race. Nothing else can quite evoke the feeling inspired by the stampede of 700 colourful vests rolling towards you across draining mud; by seeing a tidal wave of spectators take off en masse across a field chasing after loved ones and friends; nothing like the sweaty hugs, the joyful tears, the ecstatic highs and the abject lows of the sport. Cross country is vehemently corporeal, demanding the ultimate abandon of comfort and distraction, and a heart and soul’s worth of dedication. But it is also psychological; you are alone, wrapped up in your own pain cave, like Geraint Thomas on his sweltering shed-based turbo, or presumably, like most Tory politicians on the night of Thursday 4th July. Cross country is positively neanderthal in energy; whether the stakes are low or high, you leave every race a slightly changed person – changed by a win, by a defeat or by the sordid experience that is an XC race portaloo.
The day began with the womens’ B race, who secured a brilliant team bronze by dint of their collective performances across the 5.6km course. Aimi Weightman was the first Harey home, placing a fantastic 8th. Maia Hardman was next, coming in a strong 22nd. She was followed by double-act Niamh Thompson and Ella Colbourn, who placed 41st and 42nd respectively, having twinned it the whole way round – something Niamh likely finds all too familiar by now. 18 Cambridge women ran the B race, donning the light blue vest in style.
The men’s B team also ran well, with Lawrence Hollom, Rob Doorly, Max Walk, Cameron Deverill and Tim Bongaerts all placing in the top 50. We had a great turnout of 24 men comprising the B team, an impressive showing in one of the most densely packed races in the calendar, nearing a staggering 770 participants.
An hour later, our womens’ A team clinched a resplendent gold – not only the highlight of the day, but the zenith of the club’s history at the championships full stop. Composed of Niamh Bridson-Hubbard, myself, Poppy Craig McFeely and Milly Dickinson, we placed 4th, 5th, 8th and 12 respectively over the stacked 7.6km race. The juice, as the cranberry-coloured text on our bilberry-hued t-shirts reads, was certainly worth the squeeze.
The final race of the day was the men’s A, another top quality race, with Joe Massingham and Thomas Dugré making the top 20 in 13th and 16th. Terry Fawden placed a strong 28th, and Ewan Spencer rounded off the top four scoring athletes in 34th. These four men, along with Niamh, myself and Milly, earnt full-blues for their performances. George Ogden and Dillon Hobbs also raced the mens’ A, placing 51st and 87th.
The day was still young, even if the looming Welsh clouds painted the sky in the colours of the night. A raucous all-you-can-eat buffet was only ever going to end with some culinary atrocities, such as the single-mouthful conglomeration of roasted aubergine, grapes, some duck, an apple and garlic bread in one final bid to ‘get your 28 quid’s worth’. As the lyrics to Love Story floated out of the collective consciousness (but remained ringing in our ears, you can be sure), my typical disinclination towards Taylor Swift was put on hold, as I felt the wisdom of her words – ‘I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run’. Quite right, Taylor. Forget a ring and a white dress – ‘Cambridge University’ will be engraved upon the BUCS chalice of champions for decades to come, and who could possibly want more…
The next day realized Super Hans’s astute social observation: Saturday afternoon’s festivities were the good times, after the initial nausea had passed, but before the grinding comedown. (Needless to say, he was describing a very different experience to BUCS XC, but the timbre is apt). A coach-load of runners hit the motorway, the majority tacked onto their laptops in frantic attempts to salvage their supo essays, coding projects, and – well, whatever it is you mathmos do. I would love to say that Cambridge’s spires loomed up against the horizon in an Evelyn Waugh-ian flourish of dreamy turrets and annals of historical intellectualism, but that would be romanticisation – nay, falsification – of the facts. Pins-and-needles sufferers disembarked and trudged homeward, in my case, to an essay and some sub-par tuna pasta. But, as many of our adolescent counterparts (almost) used to say, the temporary CUH&H tattoos will fade, the blood will wash off, but the memories will last forever.
A final thank you must be extended to the Cambridge University Sports centre, whose UCAPP provides support for many of our runners. Huge gratitude also goes out to our C&C friends, spearheaded by Mark Vile, whose advice is always invaluable; and to our wonderful John Eves, the calmest and sagest team member out there. A massive thank you to Phil O’Dell, who has gone one step further than the Jesus and Mary Chain and actually withstood nine million rainy days, watching us slip around fields all around the country: a constant friend and pillar of support.
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