CHAPTER 38
We had enough resources between us, and independence, to take rooms of our own rather than be tied to the halls of residence.

The city lies in a trough between two ridges, with the University on the one to the North West. Tom had found us a place on the Holyhead Road, not far from the Uni, and I was amazed one day to realise how much I took for granted his quiet and reassuring presence. The nightmares still came, especially when Emily wasn’t there with me, but the simple act of getting to sleep in the first place became so much easier with him around. He was like a child’s security blanket.

It had taken a little persuasion before the college authorities had agreed to let him do his job, but a couple of promises from Brian, and some photo-opportunities for the suits (or, rather, gowns) had gained us the green light. We got the place set up two days before our fist appearance was due on campus, which was at the Fresher’s Bazaar, where all the various student societies hold out for fresh blood. We wandered about, hand in hand or arm around waist as the space available allowed, eying up the obvious, the strange and the truly perverse. Em signed up for the swimming and literary societies , and I put my name down for the mountaineering club; I mean, there are toilet habits of ursines to consider, and the religious affiliation of some bloke in the Vatican.

It was the athletics society that brought the first little quiver to my cheek, as the spotty tosser behind the desk addressed both of us as ‘ladies’ before asking what distance I preferred.

“10,000 metres or so, but more cross-country and fell-running”

“Unusual for a woman. I’m Simon, club secretary”

“Stephen. Stephen Jones”

His eyes did a funny little dance, his thoughts lagging only slightly behind.

“Sorry…”

“Don’t worry, the three A’s* still consider me a bloke, and I can still run.”

He smiled, and he looked a lot nicer that way. “Oh dear, I feel a few scalps coming your way and some delicious piss-taking!”

We took our leave, and I spotted another stand and perhaps it was the fall-out from being ‘ladied’ several times but I couldn’t resist it, and so arm in arm we ambled over to the Bangor Gay and Lesbian Students’ Association. A seriously over the top individual in jeans and workboots smiled at us. “Hiya, girls, come to sign up?”

I looked at my lover. “What do you think, Emily?”

She kissed me, as the person smirked. “But I’m not a lesbian, Stephen my love”

Now, I know, it was cruel, it was nasty, it was unfair, and we later got to know the people n the society and persuaded them to add that ‘T’ to their initials…but it was so damned funny! We were in that first euphoria of being a fresher in that great big world of academe, and there are sound reasons for the term ‘student humour’.

The lectures began on the Monday, and that was where we split each day, as Em went off to pursue some hidden meaning or other in Austen or Bainbridge, and I buckled down to the first sessions on something that would have had Mr Calvert salivating: sources, bias and veracity.

It was a good life, a damned good life. Each Wednesday afternoon was set aside for sport or other activity, and each Saturday was the same. I trained over the hills of the golf club on the Wednesdays, and on the Saturdays, as my fitness settled back in, either with the club on a longer run or off with the climbing club to explore the wonders of the Ogwen Valley or, when Summer came around, the incredible sea-cliff climbing on Anglesey.

Before we got there, though, there was the cross-country season to enjoy. One race, that was all that fucker had let me run, and now was my chance to try and make my own mark. I was well off financially, now, I had a beautiful girlfriend, an even more beautiful (sorry, Em) stepmother, but I wanted to do something that was all mine. There is nothing purer than running. All it needs is space, and we had that in the hills around us, and so I persuaded Simon to let me take a representative place n a 10km cross-country event to be run up near Deiniolen, to the Marchlyn Mawr reservoir and back again. It would be partly on roads, so knees could suffer a bit on the descent, but it was my sort of race, a classic Cumbrian up as hard as you can then tumble back down to the prize.

I settled down at the start, looking once to the top so I could see where it went, in a mixed pack of men and women. Once again, we had a team of ten men, and another of eight women, only six of each group counting for the team result. We jostled a little at the start, and at the gun there was a short sprint between those who wanted to grab some room to start setting their own stamp on the race. It would be an out and round, then a fast downhill to finish, seven km to the top and a quick 3 down, and I remembered Nana’s instructions at the rescue and watched my breathing, settling into a little world of calm as I ran uphill.

True cross country running is all broken pace, stride length changing and chopping as the terrain dictates, whereas a steady uphill is a meditation in rhythm. Find that place in your head and sit in it until the slope eases. I did that, finding dreams of good times to distract me. Em’s comments about marriage gave the seed, and I bathed in worlds of domesticity, of children and family holidays. I didn’t worry about the ‘how’ of children, I just ran the dream until suddenly we were there, and our strides lengthened as the road took us around the edge of the reservoir. I was looking up now, trying to spot the architects of the race, the lads who were seeking to make it their own. There was nothing like the two incredible runners who had dominated that race by Maryport, and I was well up with the leaders. We turned for home, and I let the slope and gravity draw my body downhill as only about ten competitors lay ahead of me.

As the final three km unwound and the valley drew me home I was watching the other men as they watched each other, and I suddenly realised that none of them were watching me. I wasn’t in their race; I was a woman, no threat to their team or individual placings, and I could have run past them and been ignored. A woman, eh? I started to pick off runners and easing my way towards the front. Just as the last klick was hit, three of the leaders attacked each other in sequence, and as they went, the heads of the others dropped. This woman quietly inserted herself into fourth place, and as I saw the finish I attacked properly, remembering all Iain had told me. FTW indeed, and none of the buggers was coming past me. Into the funnel and fourth place, and as it turned out the second of our team to score.

My number was taken, and I joined Rhodri, my teammate, as we awaited the rest. Our main opposition had been UMIST from Manchester, who had one of the three in front of me, and as they counted the runners in we had four of ours and five of theirs, at which point the first UMIST runner went “YES!” and went to shake the hand of Rhodri, who just smiled. The Mancunian was a little puzzled.

“We got our six home first…why are you so pleased?”

“Because you didn’t. Me and Stevie here, and four of our boys, before your fourth runner was in. That means we have it.”

“But she doesn’t count…”

“He. Stephen Jones, meet Alastair Wells. Ali, Steve. Our win I believe, Ali”

Ali’s confusion was even greater when my darling came hurtling across to plant a great wet smacker on my lips. I broke free long enough to tell him to do some research on Stephen Jones and Carlisle, and then settled into enjoying what my girl was so determined to give me.

That was a pattern repeated for a while till the clubs got word out about me, and then it started to get a little physical as the elbows and spikes were used just as they would be for a male, for now it was clear I wasn’t a precocious but unthreatening woman in a parallel race but a man whom they needed to beat. I honed my instincts, and my body hardened to the task.

I might never be a real man again, but I could run like one, once more, and I could beat them.

Fuck you Mitchell!