To hell and back again: a day of Oxfordshire XC

Woodstock Harrier Ed King writes for the Clarion on the dubious pleasures of the Oxfordshire Cross Country League.

‘Why the hell are we doing this?’ A heavy fog hangs over rolling farmland near Hinton-in-the-Hedges, a village 2 miles west of Brackley. I’m warming up for the first race in the 2026-2027 Oxfordshire Cross Country League series with fellow Woodstock Harrier runner Iain – a lean 70-year-old Scot. It’s 11am on Sunday 1 November. It’s cold, muddy, misty and heavy wafts of cow manure hang over the hill we’re climbing. Iain mutters again: ‘Why the hell are we doing this?’

Cross country is roughly 200 years old, dating from the early 19th century, when ‘hares’ dropping strips of paper were chased by human ‘hounds’. These days runners are not expected to hurdle fences, wade rivers or dodge cows: tree roots, deep mud and the spikes of fellow runners suffice. The Oxfordshire league sees 27 clubs in the county, also including the likes of Reading, Swindon and Newbury AC, compete across five races on the first Sunday of the month from November to March.

Why are we doing this, I repeat at the start. ‘I love the cold,’ says Lizzie. ‘I love the mud,’ says Jonathan. ‘What other way is there to enjoy yourself,’ says Vicky. As the gun for the men’s senior race goes I can think of a few, but the field of 297 is off. The start of a cross country resembles one of those WW1 charges you might have seen in a black and white Sunday film in the 1980s. There is no turning back or stopping. Else you fancy getting run over by a flock of spikes.

Most clubs erect a tent and a flag so runners can locate their pre-race base. The result is not unlike a medieval jousting tournament with a riot of colours stretching across a field. You’d be surprised how many sane folks turn up to thrash round a field in November. The black and gold of Woodstock. The blue and gold of Headington. The royal blue, red and white of Oxford City. The blue and white of Eynsham – the tents stretch off down the hill. 

Abingdon, Swindon, Kidlington, Witney et al. A modern-day re-enactment of ancient beef – although it’s unlikely the Field of the Cloth of Gold meeting in 1520 boasted blue portaloos and a bacon roll-cum-coffee van. Nylon vests, vaseline, smart watches and lashings of Deep Heat replace armour, spiked maces and roasting hogs. No warhorses, just hundreds of shivering legs pumping up and down in a vain attempt to stay warm.

Lap 1 of the cross country kills the lungs. Everyone always starts too fast. A mile in I’m cursing my lack of strategy, but a fellow Harrier is just ahead and we’re now in a life-and-death race-to-the-end. Already streaking ahead in the green and gold of Abingdon AC is the eventual winner Jack Shayler. He’s a triathlete who has represented Great Britain and ran the 2026 Manchester half marathon in 63 minutes. He won’t be caught. Truth is, in cross country the battle is mainly against yourself. And your head. 

Running in Oxfordshire feels like a growing sport. At Woodstock Harriers alone club numbers have risen from around 60 in 2020 to 140 in 2026. The summer ‘Mota-vation’ racing series, which travels from Charlton to Summertown to Combe (twice) to Kidlington, is rammed, as are local Park Runs. You can race the Ridgeway for 100km (if you’re crazy), take part in the Grand Prix Series or just do it for fun. But the best thing for many is doing it as a pack.

‘I do it for the cake,’ says another Harrier Matt. Cake is a core part of cross country. If only Mary Berry could make it to a race – she’d see an assortment of glorious creations on offer. Woodstock’s Sue Cantwell sends her husband – club stalwart Dave – armed with lemon drizzle. Soft inside, crunchy on the top (that’s just Dave). Fellow Harrier Caroline Johnstone brings fudge. A club WhatsApp riot breaks out later when it emerges all this is eaten by the men, with the women still running. 

Lap 2 of the race works the legs. The course – laid out by Oxfordshire running legend James Bolton – is a mix of gentle climbs, a little deep mud and some faster drops. But the bounce you get from running on the road doesn’t exist on fields. Lactic acid builds, legs stiffen, the heart rate notches higher. Two miles on the road is a breeze. In mud it’s a lifetime. The only way through is to imagine you’re running to save your life. Which – says the NHS – you actually are.

It’s entirely possible some readers may find the idea of running round a muddy field in a nylon vest unappealing. In truth, cross country is a little like camping – a pursuit designed to remind us all how nice our houses really are. I like to think it touches our inner troglodyte – a reminder of times our ancestors ran across muddy fields from a sabre toothed tiger, marauding Roman legions or Barbour-decked gamekeepers post a poaching mission gone wrong.

But sometimes it’s the taste of a little pain that reminds you that you're alive. Though there are few actual injuries in the race, one Oxford City runner limps off in agony, clutching his calf. But nearly 300 finish. Ages in the men’s senior event ranging from late teens to early 80s.  

The final mile is all about hanging on. Your correspondent eyes a Headington runner further ahead, decides to overtake him and (to deep irritation) fails. After 30 minutes of running there is no fourth gear. There’s barely a third. The roar of the finish beckons – a baying nylon mob of 100 runners and supporters cheers home their champions. Terrifying for any pheasants that survived the Saturday shoot. It feels like I’m sprinting. The reality is different. Fortunately there’s no video.

‘I do it because of the high it gives me,’ says Woodstock Harrier Rob. The day passes 12. The sun has barely risen. Hundreds of men and women are still out on the course. Cheers, shrieks, groans, moans are all around. But there’s something else. People are genuinely happy. They’re smiling, joking, joshing. Britain is apparently broken; the majority of Oxfordshire's runners are not. Five miles in a cold mist dodging cow poo does wonders for the soul. The final 50 metres feel like a death. Finishing delivers euphoria. Only one race remains: to the tent, for Sue’s lemon drizzle and a cup of tea.

For more on the Oxfordshire XC series, see here. Join Woodstock’s best running club here (we do great cake) or find your local running club here.