Manor Farm RR10 running in limbo

21 June 2017

In April, when the RR10 series began at Netley, Commando was looking forward to running every race. He loves a bit of cross country running. That first race was organised by his running club, so he had to marshal rather than run. The second, at Stoney Cross, happened when we were in Vancouver. After that he was too ill to run either Wilverley or Blackfield and the next race, at Fleming Park, was his club’s drop out race so he couldn’t have run even if he’d been able. Tonight, mid summer’s eve, was the sixth race, at Manor Farm. It was, according to the news, the hottest day since the summer of 1976. Even so, he was determined to run.

There was, I think, an element of getting this run in now in case the consultant tells him not to run at his appointment tomorrow. The steroid injection has had miraculous results but we both know it’s temporary, a quick fix to patch him up for now. Tomorrow the blood test results will be in. There may, or may not, be a diagnosis. We may, or may not, like the answer. This is limbo and Commando is running while he still can.

We picked young Sam up at the Feather. Chatting to him, asking after his mum, Rachel, who’s not been well, was a welcome distraction. It kept the demons at bay, the thoughts of all that could go wrong on a rough, log strewn trail through the woods.  It would be the longest distance Commando had run since the ill fated twenty two miles when he thought he’d torn his Achilles. Of course, we know now it wasn’t the running injury we thought it was, but the first sign of something more sinister going on. Tomorrow we may find out exactly what. For today we’ll be trying to pretend it isn’t happening.

The turn out was good. Commando was smiling, looking tannened and healthy. Although we were all boiling in our own skin in the sticky heat, there was a warm up of sorts, the hardiest running slow circles around the field. Afterwards, there were jokes, laughter, some friendly banter about times, sprint finishes and the heat. All the while I was trying to pretend this was just another race.

Soon they were off in a thunderous melee of trainers on grass. My camera whirred. Through the lens it was impossible to pick out individuals until later when I looked at the pictures but I was sure none of them were Commando. Later I’d discover I was right.

Then it was the usual waiting game. This time with a new, razor sharp, twist of worry. Along with a couple of other spectators I wandered down towards the toilet block and picnic benches at the top of the final steep hill. It was a good place for action shots but we soon discovered the eye watering pong that hung around there last year was still around, although not quite as strong.  In the end we left the smelly loos and headed further up towards the finish line. Before long the fast boys began to appear.

Next came the first of the girls. Around about then was where Commando would normally appear. Even though I knew he’d be running slower I couldn’t help looking for him in every face that passed after that. The more of them there were the more worried I got.

When, at last, I did see him I was so relieved I almost forgot to take his photo. He looked hot but determined, those long brown legs flying across the grass. It may not have been as fast as he’d have liked but he’d finished in one piece and that was more than enough for me.

What I wanted to do was run and hug him but he’d probably have been embarrassed, so I let him find me. After a quick, sweaty kiss, he ran off again to cheer the rest of the runners towards the finish. Now, at last, I could relax.

For Commando it was bitter sweet. He ran. It’s what he loves to do. It didn’t come as easily as it normally does though and it was hard being passed by people who are normally far behind him. Still, today he ran. Tomorrow can take care of itself for now.

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