Last weekend, in Bathurst, Australia, I did something I thought I would never do again: I ran once more in the World Cross-Country Championship. Not the main men’s open race, in which I competed for England in 1966 and New Zealand in 1977. Not at age 83. But for the first time, the World Athletics federation added Masters championships, and—almost like a dream—I not only participated again, but raced at the front of the M80 field and managed to outlast a stubborn Australian for the win.
If you believe that running after eighty is about leisurely slow toddling, wait till you’re up there, racing to your limit, and you make the sharp u-turn at halfway and see that you are being closely stalked by a lean lanky Aussie with M80 on his bib and a threatening scowl like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon.
He is called James Harrison, and he made me work for it. I have won and lost many hard races over the years, and this was one of the hardest. The only possible tactic was unrelieved pressure. I finally broke him three-quarters through the four-kilometer…
