Coming to a muddy field or park near you, cross country is back

It is New Year’s Day. I am trudging across an open field, decorated with wind-harassed red and white tape. The ground has slid away; the floor is a molten conveyor belt of liquidised mud. It writhes beneath the slap of ineffectual spikes. I am 15. I think I am in love. Love has brought me…

Bog of Doom

If, as an event organiser, you boldly decide to call part of your race the bog of doom, it had better live up to its billing. The name is given in irony. As far as I know, no-one has actually died in the bog of doom. That would lead to one hell of an insurance bill for…