Cross Country

There were a lot of things about school life which, most of us disliked. Given an opportunity, each one’s list of ‘most hated’ aspects of school life will run into several pages. I also had my own, starting from the morning P.T. and ending with the often ‘foul smelling’ dinner at night. However, they were moderately bad, when compared to the thing that I hated the most – The cross country race!

Lest readers think I am a nerd, let me clarify that I was into several sports and 100 meter sprints were my favourite. But then I just couldn’t stand cross country races, the dusty rural route across villages and the occasional ‘check points’ where teachers would put stamps on my hands, and in the end, the depressingly sour oranges distributed to the participants.

Our green school bus used to follow us from the rear, throughout as a monstrous ambulance. I was always running close to it, trying to stage a collapse and get a joy ride all my way. However, my school had its way of injecting pride into the self, and there I ran year after year, close to that bus. However, it never failed to surprise me, to see many more arriving the finish line long after me, as I watched them chewing on the sour oranges.

Given the nature of the run, there were a few known good runners, who would eventually get to wear that gold colored medal with the red ribbon. Cdt. Monowar Hussain (3374) was one of them. Now it was really difficult to stand out amongst the worst runners, much more difficult than being known as a ‘good runner’ simply because so many of us were bad runners without doubt. That’s where Cdt. Nicholus (3334) stood apart, undoubtedly one of the worst runners during our times.

Its 2001, and we are in our XIIth standard. Many of us had gained weight (or simply lost stamina) with our self-assigned freedom to walk around during PT hours and eat around during games hours. Then the countdown began for the D-day! the cross country! While many went for practice runs, I would often see it as a waste of precious energy, which I could probably accumulate for the final day. The probable winners would be practicing with alarming regularity, coming back dusty and smelling of sweat.

The D day: A swarm of participants from the four senior houses gathered at the athletic ground, shouting house slogans and songs. Some IXth students also had the additional burden of carrying the flag staff of their houses. Finally, the sound of the air gun led to a momentary madness, as people ran like mad bulls. I looked out for the green ambulance and having sighted it, I smiled with satisfaction of having found my partner.

The final lag consists of a cluster of shops, often termed as the PWD area. And that’s where supporters keep waiting to cheer and drag the dying runners in order to make it to the finishing line. Good runners having finished theirs often turned up there to help ‘bad runners’. Now lets recall the two names, Monowar Hussain (3374) and Nicholus (3334) – the good and the worst runners respectively.

Nicholus was sweating and looked on the ground, as he crossed the PWD region, to avoid the embarrassment of being the ‘last to finish’ once again. He saw Monowar beside him, and asked him, ‘whats your position this time?’
Monowar smiled, revealing his gaping teeth, ‘I am still running’.