Cross Country
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If you have ever been a spectator at a cross country meet before, it probably amounted to something like this:  you stand at the edge of a large field, across which are lined up, shoulder to shoulder, a hundred or so scantily dressed skinny kids.  All hubbub lies down, a gun fires (at which point the loudest single moment of cheering erupts), you watch the field of runners bolt around the first turn, begin to dissipate, and vanish behind some trees.  About twenty minutes later your runner reappears, and you cheer as he collapses across the finish line.  Cross country is not much of a spectator sport, nor does it lend itself to individual glory.  Oftentimes the only thing that motivates a runner is his own mind, and it is in a constant struggle between the tired flesh that says, " I can not" and the disciplined mind that says, "but you must."  Our cross country team spends months subjecting themselves to agony, exhaustion, nausea, dread and only finally, satisfaction; they laugh, they run until they cry, then learn more than most care to know about mortification of the flesh.  And in the end, when you ask them why they did it, they will say, "it was fun."