Caught Out!

I was a pupil at a boys' grammar school in the early 1970s. Like many such state schools, the grammar tried to ape the public schools in many ways. There were competing school houses, rugger and cricket, a cadet corps, a prefectorial system - and worst of all there were regular cross country runs.

Having to take part in a cross country run was my idea of hell. I was quite good at short distance running but I was just not built for long distances. After completing less than half the course I became doubled up with the stitch. Even worse were the after effects: sore feet, aching legs and a thumping headache - and the obligatory cold shower for being among the slowest runners. Naturally I objected even more to cross country running in the winter, when the horrors were compounded by icy cold winds, mud and rain, and the cold shower became a freezing cold shower.

One purpose of the fortnightly cross country was to train boys for the big annual run, when the entire school took part en masse. There were two courses, the 'Junior' and the 'Senior' and both courses were much longer than the standard route and therefore even more gruelling for boys like myself. To tell the truth, the Junior course was not too bad and could just about be managed in an hour with plenty of rests along the way, but the Senior course stretched for miles up hill and down and was absolute torture.

I ran the Senior Cross Country for the first time when I entered the fourth form and hated every minute. The only compensation was that it was not raining and there was no compulsory cold shower for being amongst the stragglers.As I wheezed and panted my way around the course I asked myself just what was the point of the exercise. There were some boys who excelled at cross country running and to them the whole thing was a breeze. But to a boy like myself the exhausting run was a painful ordeal which served no useful purpose at all.

I was not alone in my resentment, but despite the general dislike of the annual school run most boys accepted it as a fact of life, like having to visit the dentist. However, when I came into the fifth form one of my classmates, a boy named Morrison, told me that he had made last year's run a lot easier by taking a shortcut. His home was close to the route and he knew the area well, including all the obscure footpaths. To cut a long story short, Morrison said I was welcome to tag along with him on the next Senior Cross Country. The shortcut would shave about one third off the distance - something not to be sneezed at.

Come the day of the annual cross country I took Morrison at his word and kept close by him. He was an even worse runner than me and kept stopping for breathers. 'I hope this shortcut of yours is as good as you say,' I panted. 'Otherwise we're going to be the very last ones back.' In fact the shortcut was very effective, taking us along a narrow footpath through woodland and cutting out two steep hills. When we emerged from the woods we waited for a gap in the runners and then rejoined the course, reaching the finishing tape well within time. Our names were ticked off the roster and we strolled across to the changing rooms for a welcome shower, feeling extremely pleased with ourselves.

Following afternoon registration the next day, our form-master asked Morrison and myself to wait behind for a few minutes, since he had some questions to ask us. 'I note that both of you completed yesterday's Senior Cross Country in a reasonable time - in fact in a much better time than you achieved last year. Congratulations.' 'Thank you sir.' 'You may not be aware of the fact that this year a roster was kept at the farthest point of the course and that your two names were not ticked off. Do you have anything to tell me?'

'They must have missed us sir,' said Morrison, poker faced. 'It would be much better for both of you if you told the truth,' said the form-master, sternly. 'You took a shortcut, didn't you?' We both stood dejectedly, staring at the floor. It was all too obvious that our ruse had been uncovered. 'Well - what do you have to say for yourselves?'

Once we had admitted the truth the form-master sent us off to lessons, saying that he would have to consult with the headmaster about our ultimate fate. 'Bloody hell - I hope we're not up for a swishing,' said Morrison. It was quite a while since I had been caned and I shared my friend's anxiety. Even running the Senior Cross Country was not as bad as a caning.

At the end of school we were called back to see the form-master who informed us about our punishment. We were to bring our running kit the next day and run the entire course again. The last two periods in the afternoon were private study periods, normally spent in the library. We would spend the time on the run. Just to make matters worse, we were informed that we would be caned upon our return, with the first boy back receiving three strokes and the last boy six of the best, the swishing to be given across running shorts.

I spent a miserable evening, unable to concentrate on my homework. All I could think about was the wretched run and the inevitable caning at the end of it. Never had I felt so dejected. When the other boys in the class learnt about our fate they seemed to find it quite amusing, especially the fact that we would have to compete against one another in order to avoid a more severe swishing. It was two thoroughly dispirited schoolboys who shuffled into the changing rooms that afternoon to don running kit. The skies were overcast with rainy weather loooking very likely, which only added to our gloom.

We were seen off by the PT master, who told us that he would be driving around the course and would be stationed at the furthest point to make sure that we did not try to take another shortcut. We set off at a steady trot, but before long I saw that Morrison was pulling ahead. Since it was his scheme that had brought this trouble on us, I thought that he deserved the double case of the cane, not me. On the other hand, if he proved the stronger runner I would have no choice in the matter. To make matters worse, it now began to rain and before long my singlet, shorts and running shoes were soaking wet.

I let Morrison stay ahead, although keeping him in sight. He was setting a stiff pace which I found quite exhausting and I longed to take a rest but did not dare. I guessed that my rival would not be able to keep his pace up and was proved right, for he began to slow, almost to a walking pace. The respite was very welcome and I took the chance to regain my breath before putting on a spurt which took me past Morrison. The next part of the route was downhill and I put even more distance between us.

Panting like a hunted animal I finally made it back to school, threading my way though the throng of boys on their way home at the end of school. As instructed, I reported to the PT master's small office next door to the gymnasium. A thin whippy cane lay across his desk and picking it up he motioned me into the gymnasium proper. 'Well, I want to be getting off home so let's get this over with. As the last one back you're due six of the best.' 'But I'm the first back, sir!' 'Then who was that I thrashed a few minutes ago? It looked very much like your pal Morrison. Now, bend across that vaulting horse if you please.'

I stretched down across the heavy vaulting horse so that the damp cotton of my running shorts was pulled taut across my buttocks. I now realised that Morrison must have taken another shortcut and not been detected. It was a very mean trick to play. I found myself resenting my rival's underhand tactics even more as the thin cane bit into my backside. The thin shorts offered scant protection and the sting was agonising. Three excruciating cuts, which should have been my punishment, would have been more than enough, but I received double that and as I staggered out of the gym my eyes were welling with tears.

I stripped off my sweaty kit and stepped into the shower, directing the soothing water onto the pulsating ridges etched across my buttocks. Just then I heard a chuckle and saw a smiling Morrison peering around the door. 'You've got some nasty marks there. I got three which was bad enough, but six must have been murder.' 'It was you who should have got the six,' I said, with feeling.

'You're just a bad loser,' said Morrison, grinning even more.