Welcome back, BB. It´s a pity we couldn´t meet when I went to Galicia to do St James´s way on foot. It was a really great experience. I met people from all over the world who started "el camino" from a lot of places. I saw Pon ferrada at night from the train and on the way back in the afternoon from a coach. We even stopped at the bus station to change the driver. I noticed that there is a part of the university of León in Ponferrada. I had a look at the Aquilanos range of mountains and saw Villafranca del Bierzo. I liked the landscape. It is mountainous and green. Perhaps one day I can do the Aquilanos trail race.
Don’t know how Sweder manages to churn out reports so quickly. I’ve been trying to write this one up for over two months. My race reports obviously take me a bit longer.
September’s race took a little longer too. In fact the 15 or so kilometres of the “carrera de montaña de Villamanín” took me nearly 3 and a half hours. But then again it was over a circuit that could only have been concocted in the twisted mind of a one eyed rock climber. Or a madman.
This one wasn’t about fell running or mountain running or any other kind of running if you like. It was about hauling your body 1500 metres upwards, sometimes with the help of your hands and then choosing the safest way down. Sometimes there was no safe way down.
The man responsible for the Villamanín race is definitely no madman. He’s an official mountain running official and he’s got the fluorescent yellow padded jacket to prove it. He’s also a rock climber. Oh, and he’s only got one eye.
I’d bumped into Cristino a few times over the last few years but only discovered his visual impairment whilst stumbling down the wobbly rocks of Truchillas in May. It was hard enough for me to stay upright with 2 eyes. Four, if you include my glasses. I made some flippant remark about us being equally crap descenders and he humbled me somewhat by revealing that being one-eyed he found it hard to judge the distance between boulders. Just try rock hopping with one eye closed and you’ll soon find out why. Anyway, Cristino is a fairly laid back geologist and an experienced climber who has been organizing this small-scale, “word of mouth” sort of race for several years. And any English fell runner who considers European mountain running to be a watered down version for “Johnny foreigners” should pay a visit to Villamanín. I’ve never run any Lakeland fell races so I can’t compare, but I can’t imagine any of them being worse than this one. Or better.
We filled the car again. Mad dog Jorge repeated and so did Oscar. Miguel Mushroom wisely decided to miss this one, so the quartet was completed by one of the Capello brothers from Molinaseca. Now “Capellín” ( the “ín” at the end is a Spanish diminutive which translates his name as “little Capello” is perhaps the hardest man I know. He’s even harder than Roy Keane, but with more of a sense of humour. Only his brother, the ex-legionnaire who blew off his own arm with a hand grenade is marginally harder. Capellín is probably the best suited of the brothers for this kind of event being less accident prone.
Villamanín is located in the north of the province of León not far from the Pajares mountain pass which leads to Asturias although the race actually starts in a village named Fontun about 2 kms further on. We stopped for breakfast on the way and only arrived about 15 minutes before the off.
“Bloody hell” said Capellín as we cruised up the village’s main street/only street looking for a place to park.
“Look at that bloke’s legs”.
And indeed the parade of legs is the first thing you notice. Legs which are barely human, stretching, bouncing, shimmering in the early morning light. Calf muscles sculpted from climbing impossible gradients and bulging quads cultivated from interminable descents.
The field was small with 30 or 40 runners but I recognized a few of the hardcore head-bangers of the mountain running fraternity. Recognized “the bald saviour,” (which is the literal translation of his name) the recent winner of the Great Wall of China Marathon and some other ultra distance race in the Gobi desert. Also recognized a guy with an unpronounceable Basque surname who has climbed a few of the 8000 metre peaks in the Himalayas including K2 and Everest.
We were the last ones to sign up and they seemed pleased to see us. We’d just boosted the field by 4. A bloke with a felt tip pen scrawled a race number on my hand and Cristino gave a briefing which I should have paid more attention to given what was to follow.
The Race
We set off and immediately headed upwards through a grassy meadow and then a path fringed by vicious little rose bushes that clawed at your arms and legs. The path petered out at an isolated church (or hermitage) and the first of two rocky peaks of craggy fossil-strewn limestone lay almost vertically ahead. I was soon working my way back down the field after having made a futile attempt to keep up with Capellín. Capallín was born on Mars. I was born in Dudley.
After a bit of laboured uphill walking we reached the first part of the route which could be considered dangerous and for about 5 minutes I only felt secure when using my hands. The occasional rock dislodged by the runners further on up and sent bouncing down towards my head provided incentive not to look back and admire the view. Got through this section as quickly as possible. The first control post was wedged between two colossal pillars of rock just below Pico Currillos at 1950m. Locally they call it “the oxen´s rock”. I certainly felt like a lumbering ox by this stage as the gazelles danced away into the distance. In fact I’d already lost sight of the next runner and I couldn’t see anybody else behind me either. There must have been at least 3 or 4 but perhaps they’d all turned back. Lucky sods.
It was a wonderful sunny day and I spent the rest of the race on my own and if it hadn’t been for the number scrawled on the back of my hand to remind me, I might have forgotten that I was in a race at all. After a long knee-jerkingly uncomfortable descent I crossed a road where there was a drinks station and an ambulance and another meadow of long grass as a prelude to the second big climb. This is where things got really tough.
I was up for one big climb, but not two. This one wasn’t quite so steep but all the strength had already been sapped from my legs. A bubbling mountain stream led out to a vast expanse of exposed mountainside and here I did have company. Lizards scuttled under stones as I approached and griffin vultures screeched somewhere overhead. I didn’t actually see them but I knew they were there.
Now there must be dozens of analogies to describe a wildly accelerated heart beat. I tried to compose a dance track to mine as I climbed. At some point I started to do zigzags, quadrupling the distance I’d have covered if I’d followed a straight line. At one point I considered whether this was the worst I’d ever felt during a race, but this moment was soon forgotten and it only exists now because I’m writing it down. I approached the absolute minimum of what could be considered as movement. From run to walk to sideways shuffle, any slower would be considered stationary to the human eye. But the great thing about these races is that you can’t pack it in half way up a mountain. You either go back the way you came or you carry on. I’d passed the point of no return long ago.
So on I went.
The climb finished at a tricky looking knife-edge of jagged limestone which separated me from the bloke perched on the top of Pico Fontún and the last control point. I suspect you were expected to walk the tightrope but with sheer drops and instant death lurking on either side I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead I moved in a crab-like fashion a couple of metres below the ridge, embracing the mighty wall of rock as if my life depended on it; which of course it did. This was probably trickier than going over the top because I had to look for footholds as well as handholds but at least I didn’t have to look into the chasm. When I finally reached the hombre-vulture he was scouring the landscape with binoculars looking for other runners.
“Take care going down,” he called.
The next bit wasnt actually as bad as it looked as Id done the section before a few years ago. You literally drop back down the mountain to the village of Fontun and once you get used to sliding down scree slopes on your arse it can even be quite enjoyable. At a certain point halfway down I saw a fellow striding up towards me. It was the guy with the unpronounceable Basque surname. Lets just call him Echogachaggi. Well Echogachaggi had already finished, had a wash and was heading back up the mountain to see his mate who was presumably the man-vulture with the binoculars perched at the top. Now Id met this fellow about 8 years ago doing the Aquilianos and Id sort of followed his progress since then as hes become a bit of a star in his backyard. Just had to stop for a chat and being so far behind I couldnt really give a toss about losing another 5 minutes. Asked if he remembered me running with him at the Aquilianos in 1999. He didnt, which isnt really surprising considering that our man Echongachaggi has in the meantime broken the speed record for climbing Mount Aconcagua, scaled Everest up its north face without oxygen and has lost his girlfriend and most of his toes in an avalanche. Nice bloke though. And very unassuming.
I took the opportunity to empty the stones out of my trainers before letting gravity run its course once more and falling into a couple of gorse bushes. Ended up running a final section of dusty trail with the village of Fontun always in sight. I reckon that Id spent as little as 10% of the time actually running and so my running muscles were still fairly intact even if the rest of me wasnt. The finish almost took me by surprise as I sped around a corner and there it was. At that moment the prizes were being handed out and Cristino announced me as the last runner home so I stuck my arms out like Ronaldo celebrating a goal (the porky Brazilian one) and flew across the imaginary finishing line. With the wild rose bushes and gorse bushes leaving their mark I looked like Id just been attacked by a family of exceptionally wild wildcats but finishing last meant that for the first time in my life I received what can only be described as rapturous applause.
Having chosen to host the race in the only village in Spain without a bar the alternative prize giving and post-race focal point was a large stone trough of murky water called el pilon. This is a communal clothes washing facility that you still find in some of the villages and as there werent any showers everybody was dangling their legs in. I suspect that clothes will not be washed here again for a long time. While I was soaking my battered legs Mad dog Jorge, the third lady runner and Oscar all finished but that didnt take the gloss away from being officially announced as the last man in. Capellín was the only one of the Bierzo four to finish in a respectable position up the field but he mumbled something in the car on the way back about the race being too dangerous for someone with three kids to feed and he had a point. Doubt if Ill be back either. I was way out of my depth up there.
Some conclusions
1. Lack of a good walking technique. To walk uphill for long periods you must practise walking uphill for long periods.
2. Lack of a good descending technique. To have a good descending technique you must practise suicidally launching yourself off mountainsides for long periods.
3. I neither have the time nor the lack of self-preservation to achieve either of the above.
4. According to my book of birds vultures dont screech. Who was screeching then? Probably Echogachaggi running downhill.
5. Never, never make flippant remarks to a one-eyed rock climber.
Holy sh*t BB, your man Capellín was spot on; far too dangerous. Personally I'd've been heading home around the time the chasm popped into view.
One thing (amongst many) intrigues me: I take it there were no sign posts or markers on the route. How did you manage when isolated from the rest of the pack? Was the route pretty much a fait accomplis because it was the only way you could go?
Great stuff, and really good to 'read you' again.
Oh, and I probably manage to post my race reports much quicker than you because I rarely if ever take my life in my hands on fifteen different occasions during a race
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:One thing (amongst many) intrigues me: I take it there were no sign posts or markers on the route. How did you manage when isolated from the rest of the pack? Was the route pretty much a fait accomplis because it was the only way you could go?
Hi Sweder!
The race was marked with bits of red tape stuck to rocks or branches. If you get lost you just go back the way you came until you find the red tape. The Aquilianos is marked in a similar way.
This is fine if the visibility's good. I came to Villamanín once before 2 or 3 years ago and there was mist. As you couldn´t see the markers the race circuit was reduced to a straight up straight down assault on the last peak which meant I hadn't seen most of it and I definitely hadn't seen the "chasm". An english fell race would probably have gone ahead as I'd guess a spot of orienteering is taken for granted.
And as for it being dangerous it's all pretty relative. For most of those guys this was a 15km stroll in the park. Sadly I haven't got much of a head for heights:o
Ponferrada without my car 10K
Back to normal, or near normal events. There were two of them in October. The annual “Ponferrada without my car” 10K is one of several events to mark the European Mobility week which in turn aims to promote cleaner, more environmentally friendly towns and cities. Ironic then that at 10 o’clock on a Sunday morning the only cars on the streets were those of runners on their way to the “Ponferrada without my car” race.
After Villamanín my left calf muscle went pop and I’d been hobbling around ever since so had to take this one carefully. Ran with Miguel Mushroom and enjoyed a pleasant city centre circuit with contrasting views of the Templar’s castle, the old part of town, the futuristic new bridge over the River Sil and the 30-storey skyscraper that has suddenly sprung up in the middle of nowhere like some demented toadstool. For sure, the place has transformed enormously since I passed through here for the first time in 1994 from a bleak, coal stained miner’s town ringed with slagheaps to some sort of Spanish “new town” full of new flats, roundabouts and fountains.
We finished together in 46 minutes and this was a personal best for MM by over 10 minutes.
Subida al Morredero
This was probably my best race last year. Didn’t see El Chepas this time but there was a good turnout from the usual suspects. Chugged steadily upwards and only really suffered in the last 2 or 3 kms where a merry succession of hairpins take you up to the base of the Morredero ski station.
Right at the end I noticed a lady runner doubling the final hairpin immediately below me and with another couple of hundred metres she’d have caught me. She had a funny running style, understandably so after 23 kms running uphill and for some reason I thought she’d taken up running quite recently, maybe after years of inactivity. She certainly didn’t look like a seasoned athlete and I hoped I hadn’t sounded patronising when I congratulated her for finishing so well. Anyway, when I was looking at the classification back home the name Ana Isabel Alonso rang a bell. Did a quick google.
Ana Isabel Alonso; Maratón 2:26:51 (15/10/95) San Sebastián; Record de España.
This record still stands.
She’d be in her mid-40s now and I suppose that now she just runs for fun.. but all the same, it’s the first time I’ve come in before a famous athlete. And the funny thing is that nobody else seemed aware that the Paula Ratcliffe of Spanish running was taking part in this event.
Congratulations, BB. It must e great to run with such great champions as Ana Isabel Alonso. By the way, she won the Rotterdam marathon one year after our dear Tegla Loroupe, whom we met at the Tryp hotel in Almería in 2006 the day after the half.
Not a lot to say about the race itself. Another half marathon came and went. Managed to chat to a few people and finished without too much discomfort.
The anecdote of the day came just beore the start when I was chatting to Manuel who is a regular at these events. Manuel is from Quilos, a village famed for producing robust, country boys and fiesta animals. Anyway, he pointed out a peculiar figure warming up nearby.
“This one’s from my village.. he’s a funny old so and so,” said Manuel.
The guy warming up wore a big, woolly hat pulled down over his ears and baggy shorts over a pair of running tights. I couldn’t quite see his face but the slightly hunched shoulders and the head thrust forward reminded me of somebody. Hey, …it was El Chepas! Didn’t know he was from Quilos.
I hadn’t seen El Chepas at any of the races this year but I had seen him strolling around the “barrio” one day in his slippers. I’d assumed he’d been on the fizzy pop again.
Well, as I was waiting for the race to start at the back of the pack (about 200 people were signed up for either the 2-lap half marathon or an alternative 10K) I noticed that a couple of young guys standing behind El Chepas were laughing at his choice of footwear. And El Chepas’ trainers are unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. They are a pair of flimsy pumps, a bit like the ones fell runners use and they must date back to the 70s or 80s. They’re full of holes and have been coarsely stitched together in places probably by El Chepas himself. Miraculously they remain attached to the guy’s feet.
The two young smirkers behind were of course dressed in flash designer gear and brand new 100 euro nikes or mizunos or whatever sells these days. They probably had i-pods in the soles or something like that. Anyway they were having a right laugh at our man so I decided to do something I’d never done before. I spoke to El Chepas. He’d spoken to me before although he’d have been too pissed to remember (seem to recall that he’d called me a big poofter). I made a point of saying to El Chepas in a loud voice that I hadn’t seen him in the Morredero race last month and congratulated him for finishing like a champion the year before in atrocious weather conditions. Also mentioned that with much better weather this year he’d have finished well before a lot of people half his age. 23k uphill is hard enough for a young guy let alone a 60+ ex-alcoholic running in recycled ballet shoes.
El Chepas was surprisingly coherent. He explained that he missed Morredero because he’d had a few problems with his feet (bunions? Ah, that’s why he’d been wearing those slippers). I wished him luck for the 10k in which he’d probably win his category. Noticed that the chuckle brothers had gone quiet.
Ana Isabel Alonso was there too running anonymously. I actually passed her on the second lap. Tried to run with her for a while but she dropped back. She finished in 1:35 when ten years ago she’d have been running sub-1:15 splits for the marathon ! Still find it hard to take in that nobody in El Bierzo has even heard of her. Worlds apart from El Chepas but like him, she was another anonymous hero running in a little publicized half marathon in a place which many Spanish people wouldn’t know where to locate on a map. Both of them came, ran and went home without any fuss and without drawing any attention whatsoever (well, apart from the shoes!) Whilst pondering, a long lost tune came into my head.
Whatever happened to the heroes?
Whatever happened to the heroes?
No more heroes any more
No more heroes any more
When I was a kid I had a whole bunch of heroes. I had posters splashed all over my bedroom walls. In chronological order I admired Mohammed Ali, Big Daddy, Laurie Cunningham, Cyrille Regis, Allan Wells, Daley Thompson, Steve Jones.. even fancied Kathy Smallwood for a time. But now I know that the real heroes are the anonymous heroes.
December’s race will be an old favourite on the race calendar. The Lugo 10k next Sunday will bring 2007 to a close and will also round up this little race diary. Another running cycle complete and I’m still going round in circles .
Unlike others on this illustrious forum, Im quite partial to a bit of 10k now and again. I enjoy the short burst of sound and fury and it suits a low mileage runner like me just fine. And the Lugo 10k (or 9.82k this year as Im reliably informed) is one of my all time favourites. Everything about it is brilliant. Its superbly organized. You end up running on a world heritage site roman wall for the last 3 kilometres. Its free. And they even print your name on your race number. Now how cool is that?
A recurrent theme on my ramblings about running and something which never ceases to amaze me is the age of some of the folk who regularly beat me. Im talking about those sprightly young 60-somethings who churn out the kms at a pace marked by wisdom and a lifetime of experience rather than the bleeping of some GPS thingy. Spotted one of the breed as we headed to the start, Manuel, 67, from El Barco, who strung me along in the marathon of Toral de los Vados before leaving me in his wake at 30k. When the going gets tough .Well in Lugo I discovered that Manuel is nothing more than a snotty toddler. In Lugo I witnessed God, he wore shorts and a running vest hung from his withered, bony frame. More of that later..
This was the third time Id run the Lugo 10k (or thereabouts). Its always cold and misty. A thermometer outside a chemists marked -2º as we set off. Myself and my two travelling companions, Miguel Mushroom and Jose Maria, the man from Seville, had delayed the icy inevitable until the last possible moment by taking refuge in a nice warm café. But once the blood started to reach my fingers from the 3k point onwards the chilly winters morn lent itself to a faster than normal pace.
Two laps below the roman walls and one lap above took us to a slightly uphill home stretch and the finishing line next to the Town Hall. The clock marked 42 minutes which is about right for me and MM came in 4 minutes later. Then we waited for Jose Maria who only got into this running lark two weeks ago and being from Seville doesnt like the cold much. JMs refusal to shed a big, heavy tracksuit probably didnt help but 1 hour and 4 minutes seemed a decent enough effort and I thought our new running convert would be quite pleased with himself. But he wasnt. He seemed a bit glum.
The conversation went something like this.
I was running with an old chap called Julian and I just couldnt keep up. He had to leave me behind.
Now that sounded familiar.
Hey, chill out, thats normal, there are loads of really good veteran athletes here. As you get older you lose speed but gain stamina!
He was very old.
Well, Manuel from El Barco is 67 and he beats me.
This guy was 88. Hell be 89 in February.
Er, ..yeah, thats old.
In fact we had seen the gentleman in question break out into a semi-sprint a couple of minutes before JM had arrived. He was all skin and gristle and wed debated on whether he was a late-60s or early 70s veteran. On hearing that the super-veteran was 11 years and 2 months short of a century I must admit I was sceptical. Back home I googled.
Julian Bernal Madina. Born 1919. World champion for his age category at 5000m (and I ask how many over 80s run 5000m!!).
More fascinating facts. Julian started running aged 76 to help get over the death of his wife. Since then he has taken part in at least 450 races. He goes for a swim every day in the sea. He even fought in the Spanish civil war for crying out loud. I can imagine JM going home and telling his missus that one.
Hey, Ive just been beaten by a war veteran.
Which war was that darling, Iraq? Vietnam?
No, the Spanish civil war.
Youd think he was taking the piss wouldnt you.
And some pearls of wisdom from the veteran of all veterans.
Ill keep running until I start getting tired.
I never go to the doctors me.
I eat a bit of everything, nothing in excess and cakes only at Christmas.
Sometimes I ask myself what Im doing running, but then I just carry on till the end.
My son is my trainer. He is single and Im a widower. While he works I do the housework and then we go training.
Great seasonal tale BB. We get a few of those whizzy old geezers down my way, too. They never look particularly fussed about what they're doing, and always run easy, all the while flying past younger mortals. There's hope for us all yet.
42 minutes? Hmm . . . think I'll wait 'till you pick up a debilitating injury before I come over - like a reduction in the number of legs or something
Happy Christmas. Here's to a year of running and stories to keep us warm.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
This year Ive tried to do some sort of race/event every month although I never had any particular focus on times, schedules or specific personal goals. The aim was simply participation and observation and putting this into writing implied more self discipline than the running itself. Running comes naturally when its been part of your routine for 20 years and for me writing about it takes more effort. Both activities, I suspect, are excellent for the soul.
I managed to complete eleven races between April and December. Not a lot if you compare it to the 88-year old we saw in Lugo who ran 84 races last year, but its a record for me. The events ranged from rudimentary affairs where race numbers were scrawled on your hand with a felt tip pen (Villamanín, 35 competitors) to slick, customer friendly running experiences with personalized race numbers (at both Lugo and Vigo there were 1500+ runners signed up). There were 3 jovial 10ks, 2 hard-going half marathons, 5 mountain events and a torturously uncomfortable Toral marathon in the mid-summer heat which was the one I enjoyed the least.
The people we came across on the way provided all the inspiration needed for taking part in the races and then writing about it all. There was the amazing El Chepas the hunchback, Cristino the one-eyed rock climber, Mr Dixieland and his trumpet (a friend of Riazor Blue as it turns out), Ana Isabel Alonso, Spains forgotten Paula Ratcliffe, Julian, the big daddy veteran of all veterans and many more .
With races and training I probably covered between 1200 and 1300kms.
For 2008 it is likely to be more of the same although there could be a special race target on the horizon. In fact the race, which Im not mentioning, is The Race I Dare not Mention, not Even to Myself. Errr, better not talk about it then .
is perhaps the hardest man I know. He’s even harder than Roy Keane, but with more of a sense of humour. Only his brother, the ex-legionnaire who blew off his own arm with a hand grenade is marginally harder. Capellín is probably the best suited of the brothers for this kind of event being less accident prone. 
