Medio Maratón de Almería 2013

[Sweder]

Part One: Arrival

'Travel broadens the mind and shortens the temper' - Sweder

With eighteen hundred metres to run, I glanced at my watch and hit the gass.
Nothing happened. C'est finis, la comedie. Nothing left in the tank, old boy. Time to hang on in quiet desperation. It's the English way ...

Well? How did I get here?

An early start, scooping up runners from Lewes and Brighton until the Rookmobile was stuffed to the gunwales with slowly awakening bodies and their luggage. Louise, Cam, Julie, Gill and Marian. A bevy of beauties! Bags dropped, credentials checked and customary Costa coffee slurped, we boarded our flight. I'd found my copy of the Hydrogen Sonata (having convinced myself I'd lost it en route to Chez Gordo in Zurich. Just goes to show how much toot I trapse around with me. It's a hefty tome). I settled into my seat, not much bothered if I read or snoozed. If only. No sooner had we departed the gate and commenced the round of 'what to do if we crash' instructions than an irked pilot popped up on the intercom. There was a Gremlin in the in-aircraft communications. They were re-booting the system to see if that would fix it.

They did. It didn't. We needed an engineer to find out why. The stricken vessel crawled back to the gate at an apologetic rate. Oh well, I had my book. So long as we got there before race HQ shut. An outrageously sunbed-tanned gentlemen straight out of TOWIE, located two rows back, evidently did not share my sanguine approach. He raged, a voice honed by late night drink and many, many cigarettes, through bright pink, blood-shot eyes, bellowing about diabolical liberties and suggesting that our fatherless hosts would have trouble arranging an enthusiastic beer tasting in a beer manufacturing facility. He was decidedly chuffed when, a good hour after re-docking, we were told to abandon ship. A bus tour of Gatwick's underbelly followed, leading to an identical (in all-but-one small but apparently critical detail) aircraft.

Dreams of leisurely breakfasts and sweet Andalucian coffees had long since faded. I purchased and scarfed a 'Healthy Box' on board, a collection of tasteless, snap-dry goods related in some way to someone's concept of 'healthy'. Dear Marketing People, putting a blueberry on a packet does not make a thing 'good for you'. Holding hungry people captive for four hours the day before a half marathon, however, will shift a lot of onboard merchandise, no matter how hard it, and the price, might be to swallow.

Touch down Almería: 14:30 local time. Passports, baggage reclaim, then warm hugs with our 'host with the most', the incomparable Antonio, a warm smile spread across that chiseled visage. I introduced our newbies, Louise and Simon's companion, Andrea, before boarding cars to the digs. This year's hotel proved to be a winner. The NH, opposite the train station in the heart of the city, served up free wifi, comfy furniture and an impressive sustainability policy. Breakfast was a triumph, unlike the lobby bar which, during my truncated stay, was never open.

Race HQ was located in the sports hall adjacent to El Stadio. There's a wonderful frisson of excitement, a bubbling wellspring of bonhomie at this part of the event. Friends meet and chat for ages in corridors lined with stalls flogging the latest gels, shoes and running paraphernalia. Talk is of war-wounds, details of aches and pains traded like picture cards. 'Getting your excuses in early' as we golfers like to say. Of course we had our own chips to bargain with. The delay, lack of/ horrible food, various enclaves of muscular discomfort, a long winter of snowy discontent, hail, apocalypse ... It's all good fun. N o-one takes it at all seriously. Each runner's tale is greeted with wide-eyed incredulity and no small measure of sympathy behind smiling, knowing eyes.

Numbers safely pouched we made to leave when Antonio steered us to one of the side tables. This one was adorned with garish orange technical shirts and guarded by a phalanx of fit looking people wearing the same. At the centre stood an impressive woman. Legs of oak, a tanned, determined face, a beaming smile and an open, welcoming hand. This was Alex Panayotou, a runner reknowned for remarkable endurance in aid of childrens charities. On Friday she completed an 82 kilometre run.

We stopped to chat and I could feel my jaw slacken as she told stories of running in England.
'We ran from Gloucester to Norwich, non-stop. It took around 50 hours. We had a right schedule because I wanted to arrive at Carrow Road (home to Norwich City) at halftime during a premier league match.'
Holy hell. She also ran 2011 kilometres in 30 days. Tomorrow she would complete the half 'in my own time'. We bought shirts and bade her farewell, Julie and Antonio pledging to wear theirs for the race. Not I. For me only my well-worn, trusty RC vest would do.

We walked back to the hotel and set off in search of tapas. Everyone was pretty wiped out and no-one fancied the planned, semi-formal sit-down. Tapas sounded quicker, more flexible, so we hunted down a local bar. Good choice. Russian salad, 'Torres' a tasty-looking yet not-quite-as-good-as-it-should-be local ham (chuckle), mushrooms and calamari. Simon, Andrea, Julie and I indulged in a couple of glasses of delicious Alhambra beer. On the TV Lionel Messi was bagging tour goals against a hapless Osasuna. By the time we'd paid and got up to leave I was shattered. We strolled back to the digs and bade each other good night. Just as I wondered if I'd managed to get doze off I collapsed into bed where I slept the sleep of the Dead.

[Sweder]

Part Two - Race Day

'If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen' - Harry S Trueman
'You must take dead aim' - Harvey Penick

Breakfast at the NH. Tables loaded with morning tapas; delicate portions of fruit, chocolate-infused baked goods, cereals, yoghurt, toast and those ubiquitous Almerian tomatoes. Two unfeasibly complicated coffee machines (that insisted on over-filling your cup no matter what buttons you pressed) sat next to an aray of fresh juices. Plates loaded, we gathered about a large round table. Through busy mouths we agreed, without exception, to having slept like logs.

I returned to my room for the ritual Donning of the Running Garb. Lewes Ladies FC shorts, knee-length socks and my trusted RC vest. I'd pinned my number on last night, managing to avoid the usual farce of pinning my vest to the bedspread. Now, shoes. I'd brought my battered road shoes, veterans of the 2010 Connemarathon, Almeria 2011/12 and last year's Brighton Marathon. Comfy, a hint of spring left, yet decidedly past their best. On the other foot I had my brand new Wave Harrier 3s. I pulled on the latter. They felt snug. Moments later in the lobby I was greeted by gasps of disbelief. I thought for a moment I'd forgotten to put my clothes on.
'You can't wear those! Look at those aggressive soles! No, no ... put your road shoes on.'
The chorus of disapproval was unanimous. I felt like such a dumbass as I trudged back to the elevators. The streets of Almeria are paved with the hardest substance known to man. As soon as I strapped on the road shoes I knew this to be the right move. Sometimes we simply think too much about these things. Or, perhaps in my case, not enough.

Antonio arrived at 9.15 to cart those who fancied a ride up to the start. Julie and I jumped in along with Simon and Andrea. We parked and set off to find the others who had walked the mile to the stadium. I asked Antonio which direction they'd be coming from. He looked flustered and admitted he wasn't sure. There followed a comical game of text tag where Julie and I tried to track down Louise and Cam. At last we met, barely five minutes before the off, under the giant inflated arch by the chip mats. Cam was in a tizzwaz, muttering darkly about chaotic preparation and being 'not happy'. I avoided trying to humour her and sloped off to the back of the pack.

The pack, an impressive body of several hundred lean, tanned running folk. Louise, Simon and Andrea loitered there, happy to let others thrash their way to the front. We started more or less on time, at ten o'clock, a loud gunshot and a cheer heralding the moment. A minute or so later the sound of shuffling feet reached us and we started to move, walking then jogging as we reached what I assumed was the start line. There were several arches set up along the road. You're never really certain that you've crossed the official start line in this race.

Within a minute I was swept into the colourful human rapids coursing through the first couple of bends. The route took us around the stadium and along a dual carriageway, dropping gently towards the distant ocean. After several kilometres I spied the leaders heading back to us, at some incredible rate, too. This was effectively a straight out-and-back opening 9k. I'd opted to carry one gel in my pocket and no water. This might be the first year I've relied solely on water stations. Almeria usually gets in-flight hydration spot on, and so it proved this year. Despite a few wispy high clouds the run was making inroads and I started to sweat, delighted with my choice of singlet and shorts. The locals feel this is the dark depths of winter. Many wore leggings, gloves and hats, yet five kicks in I was cooking nicely. My pace was a fairly even, pleasingly comfortable 7'30" m/m. I would need to step this up to hit a PB but it was fine for now.

After a series of roundabouts we completed a slingshot just shy of the seafront, heading back up a slight gradient towards the stadium. I kept a look out for friends coming the other way, spying Julie not far behind. We greeted each other with a raised palm and a smile. Working hard I reached the 9k turn-off, wheeling away left towards the city. Here the route started to wriggle through suburban streets before turning onto Avenida Medetteraneo and the climb north over Aqualung bridge. The eponimous bar is still there, unvisited by our clan since El Gordo, Seafront Plodder and I spent a few surreal hours in the joint some years back. I passed one of several 10k markers, my Garmin showing 47 minutes. Decent, but the toughest half was yet to come.

On over the bridge to the fountain, a left hook and off toward La Rambla. I started a game of tag with a young lad dressed in yellow, hair like a 1970's Brazilian footballer. He'd push on and leave me on the flat sections, I'd reel him back in on the climbs. We turned right onto La Rambla, about halfway up. I passed a few strugglers, no doubt some of those who had raced off at the start. Locals lined the street, clapping and yelling 'Vamos! Venga, Venga!' as we streamed by. The wide-eyed look on the faces of the little children made me smile. They must think, for this one day of the year, that the world had gone quite mad.

At last the turn, the drop back down the far side of La Rambla. A quick mop with a wet sponge, a bottle of water, half that over my part-boiled head, before I let my limbs go loose and gravity play her part. My pace had dropped to 8'20" on the climb. Now it crept back below 8 minutes as the descent steepened and my stride lengthened. Just then, a familiar voice to my right.
'Alright Ash?'
It was Cam, looking relaxed, easily matching my stride. She'd had an eventful race so far, including two unscheduled pit-stops to 'take relief'. Even so she was making good progress. I had to hang on a bit to stay with her as we plunged seaward.

At the bottom of the hill we took two sharp left-handers, slinging us back up the other side to complete La Rambla loop. Although slight the incline bit into our pace. My breathing was quick and shallow as I dug in, elbows pumping. After half a klick we reached the road we'd come in on, turning right to retrace our steps towards the bridge. Up and over, down the Avenida Meditteraneo, all the way to the seafront this time. Left, left again and we were climbing towards the stadium once more.
'Three to go' breathed Cam. I glanced at my watch. Three? Ah, yes. Miles.
Three miles to go. Not much more than the return from Blackcap. Except this is mostly uphill. And I'm hot. And my legs hurt. And I can't get enough air.
'You push on if you want, I'm struggling'.
I laughed. Cam had echoed my thoughts exactly.
'I'm good, mate. Let's keep plugging away.'
We did. Plug, plug, plug, catching and passing distressed runners, eating up the hard road. These infernal streets were grinding my gears. My quads screamed and I could feel a small yet significant tightening at the top of my right hamstring. The 18 kilometre marker bobbed past. Closer. My breath was coming in short, hot gasps. It felt like I couldn't get enough fuel into my muscles. My legs tightened with every step. I straighted my neck, trying to hold form as we ploughed on. At last the stadium rose before us, floodlight towers looming over the curved fascia like Martian tripods from War of the Worlds. Uuuuuuulaaaaaaah ....

With eighteen hundred metres to run, I glanced at my watch and hit the gass.
Nothing happened. C'est finis, la comedie. Nothing left in the tank, old boy. Time to hang on in quiet desperation. It's the English way ...

As Cam eased away from me the numbers on the Garmin told me two things: my pace was dropping, nudging 8 m/m now, and I was going to fall short of a PB. Not by much, but an inch is as good as a mile in the PB business. I cursed softly and tried once more to accelerate. That twinge in my right hamstring became a sharp sting, a clear warning to throttle back. We left the road for a series of police-tape zig-zags around the outside of the stadium. This years' finish was on a running track set between the stadium and the sports hall. It dawned on me we'd still have to complete a lap of the track before finishing. I felt all-in, dragging myself round the inside line, inner demons giggling. I've seen video footage of this part of races past. It's an ugly sight, runners thinking they're giving it the full Eric Liddell, heads thrown back, eyes wide, gunning for the tape. The reality is more like dazed revellers staggering out of a nightclub. As I hit the final straight I saw Louise and Gillybean waving and yelling amongst the crowd. I flashed a grin and a wave of my own, stabbing a finger at my Garmin as I crossed the line. 1:41 and change, just a minute or two from glory.

My chest heaved as I sucked warm air. Runners arrived around me, hands landing on knees, apparently intent on stealing my oxygen. I hobbled forward, legs already horribly tight, wondering how I'd get down to release my race chip, never mind how I'd get back up. I found Cam and we hugged, a nasty, sweaty experience for her, I fear. The gel sat un-used in my pocket. I'm not sure it would have made much difference had I remembered to suck it down on route.
'Well done' she beamed.
'Gave it my best shot' I heaved. 'Left it all out there'.
True enough, I didn't hold anything back. As ever, my first thoughts were that I'd really rather not do this again, thanks all the same. My body felt empty, eviscerated. My breathing slowed, I grabbed an isotonic drink and munched on some fruit. Better. After swapping my chip for a goody bag I grabbed a plate of ham, crisps and nuts and a cup of coke. Better still. We joined the others at the finish to cheer our friends home. Julie, Marian, Simon (grimacing horribly, dragging a stiffening leg), some familiar local faces, Phillipe, Alex and her Orange team, the two Antonios, before taking a few post-run pictures for posterity.

Another one in the bag, a good effort. Not quite the sub-100 minute breakthrough I'd hoped for. A reminder, if one were needed, that as much as you might think you're making progress, there's always more you can do. Take dead aim, as Mr Penick tells us. This PB business is about fractions, about moments in time. Train that bit harder, run that bit faster. Ask yourself those tough, uncomfortable questions. Take. Dead. Aim.

As we took the long, slow walk back to the hotel, my thoughts turned to hot showers and cold beer.
And, if I'm brutally honest, my tenth edition of this January festival.
I'll be back.

[Antonio247]

Congratulations, S. on the race and report. It has made me relive that wonderful weekend. You deserve an award for your constancy in coming here and doing the half marathon and encouraging other friends to come as well. I hope you get the award next year and a PB as well.

It's a pity you had to leave on Monday. We missed you a lot. I Hope your mum is better.

Saludos desde Almería

[marathondan]

Thanks for a great report Sweder. Another boys' own adventure added to the chronicles. I would say back luck on missing the PB... but you know already that luck has little to do with it. Commiserations, certainly. As I believe Moyleman said many times, it's all about consistency. If this can be the springboard for a consistent year, you can look forward to a very successful 10th anniversary. Then again, it sounds like life isn't getting any less complex for you, and priorities will have to be chosen. The main thing is just being able to get out there and do this stuff. This story radiates joy, despite finishing with "My body felt empty, eviscerated". On, on!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Afraid I couldn't get past "chocolate-infused baked goods" without having to dive into the kitchen, OM. And then I was looking for post-match re-hydration references, only to find there were none, other than for some goop called "coke" which must be a first for RC. Where's the post-race celebrations in the dimly lit tavernas of deepest, darkest Almeria?

Never mind about the PB, Sweder. Over-rated things, really. If you were only a minute or two outside, on an age-adjusted basis you certainly beat it anyhow.

As Dan says, the important thing is just getting out there and doing this stuff. And of course the Guinness afterwards.

Sorry I'm off to the fridge... but a great report mate, as usual.

[marathondan]

BTW I love the reference to staggering out of a nightclub. We've all been there.

In the running sense, of course.

[Sweder]

Where's the post-race celebrations in the dimly lit tavernas of deepest, darkest Almeria?

I can't remember too much about that, to be honest.
Judging by the state of the shredded, shambling shadow of a man shuffling through Madrid airport on Monday it was quite a party.

I know we enjoyed a wondrous five-course meal courtesy of the fellow that usually feeds us post-race. There was beer, wine, fizzy wine, speeches (Antonio, myself, Simon), salad, cheese, salmon, meat (served in a giant ravioli) and a dessert plate to keep the Sugarheads nicely hopped up. Then there was Molly's. There was Guinness, there was La Liga on TV, there were various visiting dignitaries, local characters and the ever-beguiling bar manageress who, I am delighted to relate, now pours a mean, slim-headed pint of the black stuff. Time after time. After time. Until at least 1am, possibly later.

I bailed out, crawling into a taxi early on Monday after shelling out a King's Ransom on a ticket home. The knife-missile aircraft that took me from Almeria to Madrid was a thing of wonder. Sleek, slim and, apparently, fired out of a large gun. I squeezed myself into the tiny compartment and clung on for dear life. The only thing I managed to keep down the whole day was a series of chocolate milk beverages. I highly recommend these when traveling with the mother of all hangovers.