Back in my hayday I used to run 50 miles a week, with two, maybe three, runs a day. I was slow (I got beat by my prom date in practices- but hey! she was like, the fastest girl on JV) but eventually I built myself up to getting a second place JV finish at one of the biggest invitationals in Montana.
Football brings with it glory. But Cross-Country brings with it friends- true friends, with complex personalities, who don't think that locker room jokes are the heighth of intellectual discourse.
Here's a great article which sums up the differences. November 2, 1973
By: Bill Lyon
This is the season of autumn Saturdays, when a thousand stadiums explode in noise and all pay homage to the great god "Shoulder Pad."
But this is the season , too, of another sport, the lonely sport, the thing they call cross-country.
The glamour and glory are for football. Guts are for cross-country.
Football Players get the ink and the adulation and the Homecoming Queen.
Cross-country runners get leg cramps and seared lungs and blisters and the dry heaves.
Football Players hear the screaming, shrieking urgings of 70,000 fanatics.
Cross-country runners hear their own rasping breathing, the pounding of blood in their head; the monotonous crunching rhythm of their own footsteps and a little voice asking maddening questions:
"Three more miles, only three more miles, spaghetti legs, and then you can rest."
"Just one more hill, now, one more hill. Are you gonna quit? C'mon, lie to your legs, tell them just a little further, just a little further and then we'll lie down.
Football has it's X's and O's and blitzes and bombs and zigouts and hitch-and-go.
Cross-country has its strategy, too. Simple. Pure. Brutal. You go out and you run.
You run until your stomach is churning with nausea. You run until your chest is on fire and there is a hornet's nest in your head. Your run until your legs weigh 400 pounds each and you run until your eyes burn and you run until your heart is a jack hammer and you run until you have the blind staggers and you wonder, why in the name of exhaustion did you ever answer the starter's gun in the first place, and you...well, run until all of this happens...and then you run some more.
Football players get helmets and pads and tape and whirlpool baths and ultraviolet rays and flashing scoreboards and TV cameras and cheerleaders and carpeted dressing rooms and a playing field that looks like it should be covering somebody's living room. Cross-country runners wear worn, baggy shorts, a shirt with holes, some floppy tennis shoes, and if they're really jazzy, maybe a sweatband around their head.
The only spectators cross-country runners attract are startled birds and squirrels and a frightened gopher or two, who watch curiously these antics of the two-legged creatures in their underwear.
The cross-country runner's stadium is a golf course and a plowed field, up the hill, down the hill, around the briar patch, through the creek and watch out for the uneven wet rocks.
Everybody knows about touchdowns and field goals and safeties, but when they announce a cross-country score and the local team is listed 18 and the visitors 43 the crowd groans because most of them still don't know that it's like golf - the low score wins.
Football players get war-sized headlines. Cross-country runners get a sentence and the agate results back there near the obituaries. When it's the third-and-one on the one yard line, with 30 seconds left in a tie game and everybody's paying attention, the PA will tell you the Michigan-Ohio State halftime score. When it's halftime and everybody's left for the restrooms and 76 trombones are blaring, the PTA will tell you that morning's cross-country result.
Why, then, ever run? Why punish and push and force your body to do all of these things before a crowd that is about the same size as the one you see when you shave in the morning?
Well, cross-country runners will tell you, when you run, you get to know yourself...the hard way.
You run and you get tired and you get a second wind and then pretty soon you're just going on guts and you're making yourself do things you never thought you could, and then it gets tougher. And when you feel like you've had the spit kicked out of you, well then it's almost euphoric.
It's as though you are no longer part of your running body. You are up and above and looking at yourself, way down deep inside, because everything has been stripped away, clear down, some say, to your very soul. It's all there for you to see.
So, if you like to look, it's simple. You keep running.
"Your entire base belongs to us."
"It would be highly appreciated if someone would set the bomb up for us"
"Launch all of our ships, christened 'Zigs', to insure that justice will be achieved swiftly and powerfully."