February 2009

[Sweder]

So, a new month starts.
Then, an hour later, it starts again.
I mean, talk about your all-time jaw-dropper . . .

. . . but enough; more soon.
First: rehydration

[Sweder]

I awoke this morning, fully clothed in jeans, shoes and faded Hawaiian shirt, flat on my bed a-top the bedclothes, oesophagus raw from continued and pronounced Olympian snoreage, in the midst of the post-running carnage one might reasonably expect after a record-breaking weekend. To the untrained eye this room appears to have been ransacked, at least twice, by the FBI. Only I know, with a wobbly degree of certainty, that the horror is of my own making.

Last night saw the climax to a veritable orgy of running and rehydration, selfish indulgence that might have raised a flush of chagrin on the indefatigable cheeks of that Great Rehydrationalist Oliver Reed. Whilst our fellow countrymen and women have struggled against debilitating Arctic elements we have, in all honesty, revelled like hogs in the hollow. Yesterday’s mountain plummet was a highlight, tortured limbs hurtling wide-eyed bodies from the Canaveral of the Banos de Sierra Almahillas to shatter the tranquillity of Pechina. It was all I could have hoped for; damp, slippery, that imposter the riverbed, bereft of a body of water yet slippery with recent rain, offering a tough challenge to balance and sensibility. Gillybean continued to show resilience beyond understanding, bounding from rock to scree to boulder, leaving your corpulent correspondent floundering in his own personal sauna (having elected to run in his FLM 2007 Rejection Jacket whilst processing the sweaty aftermath of double-digit post-Half pints) and giving the redoubtable Ho-man a run for his money. Behind us Niguel cantered as only he can, following hot on the heels of the Sheekster. By the time we reached the labyrinthine weave of the outer cobbled streets we’d lost the Guildford Straggler, leaving we four to jostle good-naturedly for position as the town square loomed. Steve stepped on the gas, nudging past me with a determined grin. I responded, legs like raw hamburger finding the resolve to battle back. We passed Gillybean who, as one might expect from a fighter, was having none of it, proving the sharpness of her elbows fuelled by the fire in her belly to shrug off our ungallant advances. This unsightly jousting took us past Simon, who must have wondered what in the Sam Hill had gotten into us before firing the boosters to roar passed us all, blazing into the snug town square at what must have been close to terminal velocity.

The rehydration has, for my part at least, been spectacular. To the defining point that, having returned last night to Molly’s, we were informed by the rueful staff that we had terminally depleted their Guinness reserves, leaving some of us to ruminate over pints of Murphy's Red. Worse things, I am assured, happen at sea. It's a tale worth telling in itself, if only to reveal DiO's attempts at bar-surfing . . . but enough indiscretion for one post; surely our tale must begin, as Enrique Doubleglasias would have it, at the begin . . .

[Sweder]

Popped in to say that despite the best efforts of our fellow countrymen to collapse under a light dusting of snow we made it home as scheduled this evening. Weary, bleary-eyed, tired and emotional, we're back with hearts full of memories and heads stuffed with tales. A rushed 'thank you' to my fellow Almerians - you all combined to make this another truly memorable year. It was an honour and a priviledge to fight and fall by your side.

For now I must pack, pack and away. Salvador de Bahia waits for no man and I am no exception. I leave within the hour for a dark and snow-patched Heathrow, to meet the red-eye to Lisbon where I hope to connect to a Brazil-bound airliner. It doesn't get any uglier than this Bubba; barely enough time for a shave and a splash, legs filled with lactic, heartburn to spare. Race reports will have to wait, unless my hosts play fast and loose with the free time and I manage to unearth some form of internet connection on the rim of the Amazon basin.

I'll leave the tales Rude and Glorious to others of our number, these words of sober guidance ringing in their ears.
Spare no-one: publish and be damned!

[Antonio247]

I´m very glad that you all arrived safe home. We had a very good time with all of you. I wish you rest well and enjoy your trip in Brazil, S.

Saludos desde Almería


Antonio

[Sweder]

Thanks Antonio. My evening went/ is going something like

'Land at Gatwick, picked up at 21:30; drop SP and C off at 22:00, home by 22:30. Unpack/ re-pack for Brazil, log on, check e-mails, pfaff about till . . .
02:30, car to LHR arrives; 04:00 arrive at LHR terminal 2; 04:05 - 04:40 try to pursuade the TAP attendant that I really don't need to re-validate my ticket at the TAP ticket desk (which is closed); 06:00 take off for Lisbon; 10:45 take off from Lisbon to Salvador . . .

. . . arrive Salvador at 20:30 UK time, spend close on 2 hours going through customs in 32 degrees (no air-con), check in at Hotel Othon Palace (admire long strip of white sand and crashing waves), call home, throw bags onto bed and head out for supper with President of the FDI and the local organising committee; 22:30 - 01:30 attempt to stay awake over a stunning supper of fresh seafood - with Bohemia cerveca plus a tumbler of sugar-cane rocket-fuel chaser - and a technical grilling on event logistics and customs procedure; 02:45 return to room; 03:05 . . .

. . . shut-eye.'

G'night Mary-Ellen.
G'night Johnboy

[Nigel]

Glad to hear you survived your travels safely, Sweder, and many thanks for all your organising in Almería.

As you've got your hands full at the moment, here's a swift race report to be going on with, from a slower run than yours:

Almería Half Marathon 2009.

A few pictures still to add in later. Look forward to reading all about your trip very soon!

[Sweder]

Gracias, Amigo; a beautifully considered view, as always.
It was a pleasure to run with you again old friend.
Here's to many more.

[Sweder]

I fancied a crack o’dawn start this morning but awoke, deeply refreshed, to see the sun climbing high above the rooftops, modesty preserved by a veil of heavy cloud. Yesterday I’d opened the shutters to a familiar scene, vaporous leviathans queuing up like fluffy white battleships to cruise across the rippling Atlantic. Impossibly slow, gun-decks stacked to the heavens, bearing a precious payload for the inland rainforests.

And so this morning; warm, humid, overcast, calm sea reflecting brooding skies, a sense of anticipation – precipitation – in the heavy Brazilian air. I throw on my Hammer vest and blue shorts, pull on my road shoes and head for the lobby. On the street runners, walkers, amblers and ramblers, nut-brown, laconic, economy of effort to be envied. Urban poetry in motion.

On the hilly oceanside streets preparations are well under way for Carnival. Scaffold towers grow out of the pavements, temporary structures casting giant shadows across the grubby, pot-holed streets. Raucous music blasts out from huge speaker cabinets as the workers emerge blinking into the sunlight, a background of hammering and the clang of steel on concrete in curious harmony with the thumping salsa beat.

My legs feel like they’re wrapped in barbed wire. Week-old Almerian acid sloshes deep in the muscle, aches and pains chattering noisily as I loosen the grease. The old knees are iffy, another hard-top outing not what the medicos ordered. Selah; it’s my first run since Monday’s mountain plummet and, though reluctant to face the music, I’m grateful for the opportunity to shift a belly spoiled with a week of culinary marvels and excise some of the dead cells.

After a couple of klicks I reach the celebrated Salvador lighthouse. Stubby by comparison with its Northern Hemisphere kind, this black and white beacon is more than just a dis-used shipping tool. You can just make out the structure in this photo (it’s in the distance . . . )



São Salvador da Baía de Todos os Santos, or "Holy Savior of All Saints' Bay", is known as Brazil’s ‘city of happiness,’ in part due to the easy-going nature of it’s inhabitants but also for the Carnival. Compared to its famous cousin to the south Carnival here is an ‘interactive’ event which, I’m assured by the locals, is an apocalyptic five day party. They ain't been to Almeria for the half, it's all I'm saying . . . The whole thing kicks off next week – timing, dear boy, timing! I’m told I can expect rock-all response to my follow-up e-mails until it’s all over. There’s something refreshingly honest and deeply satisfying about that.



I flog myself around the base and past the lighthouse, reflecting on how the black and white stripes signify the gently layered, mixed society of Bahia today, wondering just how bloody was the struggle when those first Europeans landed. I stay on the coast road, heading for the Bahia Yacht Club, home to the restaurant first visited after my epic journey from Almeria to Murica, bouncing in a pinball blizzard via Gatwick, Heathrow and Lisbon. That first night I was treated to a vast platter of outrageous seafood, all manner of sea monsters grilled and severed, legs and antennae all over the shop, octupus tenatacles the size of a childs' arm draped casually across the feast.

As I stretch out in the shadows I spot another runner – dark, swarthy, fit-looking, though equally bathed in sweat. He has a number on his shirt. I’ve seen no others around – weird – and we pass without speaking, our flaccid Shearers acknowledgement enough of a shared suffering. I’m really very hot now, running back into a fully-engorged, unveiled and quite merciless sun. My vest and shorts are soaked, top almost translucent, which I know must be a treat for the ladies. An ebony woman in her mid to late twenties moves down the hill towards me, barely-tethered impressively large jiggling jubblies glistening with perspiration. That excuse for a leopard-skin bikini top will surely give way . . . but she passes without mishap to leave me with my thoughts . . . and the road.

Once more around the Lighthouse (for luck!) and onto the burning road to joust with ancient, smoke-pluming buses filled with dark, fan-waving faces. These growling beasts tear-arse around tight, blind bends with homicidal disregard for life or limb. I'm soaking it all up, this wealth of living, an organic expression of what it means to be alive, to interact with the world. Everywhere easy smiles on contented faces. Not much money if the worn clothes and ancient flip-flops are anything to go by, but as someone once said, why care for money when money can’t buy you love? These people have love, and, it seems, time enough to enjoy it (apart from the bus drivers).

Back on the tarmac the runner's ahead of me. He’s slipped by as I staggered around the lighthouse – the swine! Has he no heart? I reel him in along the Avenida Oceanica, raise my pace, feel my hamstring groan at these unreasonable demands. On his shoulder, my rasping breath loud in his ear, he turns; a shoulder-twitch, nothing more; he knows I’m here. He ups the anti and we’re running in tandem, feet beating out a rhythm all their own, pounding the kerbside. I pull alongside as we hit a steep incline - a hill! Carpe diem . . . I kick hard, leave him for roadkill, strike for home which (I hope) can’t be far away.

At last the Othon hotel appears above the garish shop fronts and I lurch right, onto the impossibly steep access ramp and into the blissful embrace of the cool shadows. I grind to a halt, an ugly ball of sweat, beet-red, chest heaving, hands on creaking knees, drool hanging from trembling lips. Yet I grin, sad man that I am, happy with my puny victory :o

Thirty minutes later I’m stuck into breakfast on the 12th floor of the hotel. Semolina crepes stuffed with melted cheese, mini bacon and egg tarts, fresh mango juice, fresh pineapple, white and delicate as coral, sweet as candy cane . . . White walls and windows frame a light blue sky joined to a darker sea. A tiny yellow boat bobs in isolation on the vast ocean, its lone occupant slowly pulling in his piscine bounty. I doubt he feels as lonely as me right now. Here I am, in a city swarming with three million busy inhabitants, drinking fine coffee overlooking paradise but seeing only home and loved ones, soon to be embraced yet still half a world away. I watch the man pull in his catch as the minutes slip casually, carelessly into hours, and dream of being home.

I didn’t rate Sao Paulo but I fell in love with Salvador.
Don’t think twice EG (it’s alright).

[El Gordo]

Marvellous stuff.

By contrast, I'm stuck in my tiny eyrie of an office, struggling with work on this chilly grey Sunday.

Perhaps the one thing I have you might envy at this moment is the television, showing West Ham - ManU. (Only a couple of minutes in.) Apart from that, I can't see much in my current existence you'd want to trade.

Well done on the run. The first one back after a lay-off is painful, as I've just discovered.

[Sweder]

It’s a tough job, bringing so many disparate souls to the party, but we carried it off pretty well. I was given a T-shirt for Christmas that bears the legend 'It's all good fun until somebody loses an eye.' We didn't reach that point, but there were times . . .

Many walks of life made the start line in Almeria courtesy of Running Commentary; logistics specialist, financial advisors, teachers, civil servants . . . even, dare I venture to suggest, a couple of runners. Such a redoubtable combination of experience could not have prepared us for the twisted madness that unfurled on those slippery Spanish streets. Dark clouds gathered to rain on our parade, a chill wind shrinking resolve as we huddled under the giant inflatable arch outside Estadio . . . at five before ten on Sunday, first of February.

We’d gathered in the breakfast room, wearing our bravado beneath glimmering new RC shirts, filling the room with noisy banter as we stoked the twin fires of hope and expectation. Honey cakes, toast, fruit juice, coffee . . . coffee . . . coffee . . . we consumed, we chatted, we waggled bare legs as the heavens dumped their load on the unprepared Andalucían pavements outside. I offered a silent prayer of thanks; rain is my domain, far preferable to heat. It was all looking good for my planned assault on a PB, my avowed intent from early in this campaign. Post breakfast a number of us – Gillybean, Simon, Jeremy, Hootsyboy, Ladyrunner, Gary – elected to jog to the start line, as much to stave off the chill as to loosen the legs. Hootsyboy was lucky to survive a horrendous scything manoever by no less a fool than I. With no regard for a) the treacherous conditions, smooth pavements running slick with warm rain and looking for all the world like polished marble, or b) HBs freshly purchased (at last night’s expo) road shoes, I took off down the hill from the Tryp Indalo. The pace was reasonable, barely a jog. At the first left turn (after the Peter Tables Football pub) I duly turned left . . . straight across HB’s path. He did well not to take me with him as he went down, a startled cry followed by a bone-shaking thud causing me to turn back. Happily any damage was short-lived; an inauspicious start on what was to prove a day of days. We arrived thirty minutes before the scheduled start, the stadium perimeter bubbling with swarthy, slim-line runners clad in rain jackets, exchanging raised-eyebrow glances as if to ask how this terrible injustice (cold and rain) had come to pass, and suggesting there may be more than a little discomfort felt in such conditions.

The balance of our number rocked up in one of the minivans and the excited breakfast banter resumed. There’s nothing quite like a big race start; anticipation fills the air alongside the waft of Ralgex and lofty ambition. I took great pleasure from the wide-eyed looks on the faces of our newbies, not least Down In One (hereafter referred to as DIO), making her full debut in any form of organised running.

If recent years in this neighbourhood have taught us anything it’s that our gracious hosts always have a little something up their sleeves, a little local spice for the occasion. The start line was clearly delineated, a monstrous inflatable arch wobbling in the breeze. By using one of the vehicles we’d negated the need for the desperate angst of the last-minute bag drop. The absence of chip-mats was a rouse designed to distract but I wasn’t falling for it. Whatever unique challenge awaited us this year it was not readily apparent at or before the start.

As in previous years when the going, in the form of softly falling rain and chilly temperatures, gets tough the would-be tough huddle in the stadium entrance. The bubbling excitement grew as we wove through the shivering throng, Jeremy and Gary keen to eye up the track to get the race juices flowing, priming the adrenal glands whilst storing a mental snapshot of the finish line to review over the hard yards. For my part it all felt wonderfully familiar; a home from home. A few minutes before the appointed hour the assemblage broke to stream up the entrance ramp, spill out into the street and line-up – in the form of a fidgety mob – behind the archway. Decked out in our fetching new glad rags team RC took our places, bouncing, twitching, chatting and wriggling. Now, all the talking was about to stop; time to run.

My Garmin had the good grace to acknowledge the satellites just before a short, sharp retort announced the start. Cheers rang out, we shuffled forward, stopped, lurched forward again like some anarchic human tube train, until finally the bodies ahead pulled away to leave gaps in the sea of humanity. I ploughed across the start line (also, it turned out, marked by a clear blue line), seeking a clear path. Ladyrunner and Gary (he running the 10 K in deference to a string of injuries, she the half) appeared to my left; I could make out Steve and Jeremy ahead, the redoubtable Niguel adrift having remained true to his adage about not running before the start line. No sign of the Mighty Plodder or his protégé.

We bobbed and weaved through the early twists and turns, legs splashing through gathering puddles as the rain. not more than a hard drizzle, persisted. After a couple of minutes I spied a group coming in from the left, apparently joining the start late-on, pouring out from behind decrepit warehouses at a rate of knots. They looked lithe and a little desperate as they streamed across, leaping concrete bollards and treacherous kerbs to join the peloton. The locals greeted them much as we prolls do when the celebs join the FLM in Greenwich; pantomime hisses, whistles and cat-calls filled the air. This was odd; I can’t remember runners slipping into the race like this before. Just then I looked up to see a car – marked Vehicular Official – parked askew, slap-bang across our route, driver wild-eyed, pure horror writ large on his moustachioed face. The significance would be revealed; for now it was all I could do to force my way around this unexpected obstacle . . . and yet still the body of the race slowed until we ground to a bewildering halt. The discontented caterwalling intensified, runners looking back and around for some sign of what was going on. Cries of 'Vamos!' and 'Cajones' rang out, their desparate edge increasing as the hundreds of runners bunched up behind, forcing us forward. There was clearly a problem. Was it flooding? Was someone injured? My thoughts flew to the Garmin and I hit ‘stop’, thinking selfishly that this would bugger up my race data. Runners ahead were turning back, pointing behind us in the direction of the stadium and obviously trying to herd us that way. What on Earth was going on? I looked across at Steve. He grinned, shrugged and turned tail. There was nothing for it; we’d have to go back. Three minutes forty-eight on the watch and our race, apparently, was run. All around us chaotic burblings rang out, all in Spanish and none of them giving a hint to what may have happened. I spied Niguel’s white hat some hundred metres (and a thousand runners) back. He might be my best hope of finding out what was going on.

Eventually the tide turned. The chatter escalated as non-plussed athletas shuffled back towards the start, heads shaking, arms waving as tales were told and theories expounded. I caught up with Ana and Javier, Ana grinning madly, Javier shaking his head, a look of pained resignation mixed with horror on his palid face. They were non-the-wiser. Niguel said he was ‘sad for Spain’; I just thought it hilarious, apart from the bit where we all started to get very cold. One thing was clear; no-one had a bloody clue what was going on.

Turns out something remarkable and, perhaps, uniquely Almerian (in running terms at least) had caused the race to be stopped. The lead car, for reasons best known to the driver, had elected to take it’s own course, dragging the race leaders on a tour of industrial wastelands before, apparently realising their error (they’d picked up the painted red line, there to guide the 10K finishers back to the stadium; the half course was marked in blue) and trying to return to the main route. This is hard to comprehend; one must assume the people assigned to lead the race would a) be local and b) be at least vaguely familiar with the route. Once the error was detected (and the resulting chaos caused the inevitable traffic jam) the only reasonable solution appeared to be to stop the avalanche of adrenaline-fuelled runners . . . and go for a re-start.

As an explanation of sorts filtered back through the rapidly cooling and undoubtedly pissed-off throng I tried to make some sense of the information. I was left with the confused image of a portly bespectacled comedian being chased by scantily clad lovelies to the soundtrack of a saxophone in hyper drive colliding with a car full of garishly-dressed dwarves baring red noses and tumble-weed style curly wigs, at which point the car falls apart and a series of wild honking sounds fill the air as the ensemble wheel and tumble in a kaleidoscope of madness and mayhem.

Eventually the shout went up. The race would start – again – at eleven. Frantic calls were made, the air warmed by a hundred microwave signals despatched to re-schedule important lunch reservations. Many locals returned to their cars destined to head home, perhaps secretly pleased not to have to flog round in what most would accept were ugly conditions. Team RC assembled back at the minivan, grins and astonishment at what was construed as a new low exchanged. Those of us who’d been before attempted to convince the newbies that this was all somehow normal and half-expected, but in truth it was bizarre; the largest false start in history . . . ?

[Nigel]

Niguel said he was ‘sad for Spain’... the largest false start in history . . . ?

Well, not quite. The Grand National of 1993 comes to mind, as do a few of West Ham's more illustrious openings to the season... but after yesterday we won't mention football.

Great stuff so far, Sweder, and I mightily enjoyed your fab report from Bahia. Lonely in paradise, eh? The heart bleeds indeed.

Bahia sounds a fantastic destination. I love the way you turn 'em out to make me feel I've been there, and how lucky we are to be engaged in business which takes us to such wondrous places where others will rarely tread.

For every time I've visited a frozen industrial estate in Reading (including in that town's illustrious HM) there's a gem like Bahia or Bilbao just waiting to be found. And so much better for the traveller who can take the time to run and enjoy the view.

[Sweder]

And we’re back.
Back on the chain gang, back on the start line – a much-depleted start line, a goodly number of locals having abandoned hope and head for the beachfront Tavernas. The re-start – 11:00 or there abouts; another cheer; another lurch/ stop/ lurch – and we’re off – again! A hundred nervous glances exchanged as we thundered through the shadowed streets of the industrial estate towards Camino de la Goleta. The air filled with communal relief as we passed the point of divine comedy, free at last to run like Pamplona bulls through the narrow, gently sloping Ctra de Ciudad Jardin a Los Molinos. Jeremy cruised past me, looking all too comfortable. A glance at my Garmin showed 4:25 minute kilometre pace – way faster than my aggregate target of 5 minute klicks. His running style appeared effortless, and I let him go (not that I could have done much else). At the bottom of the slope we parted company with the adjacent railway tracks, they carried via the statuesque viaduct to the ocean-side breakbulk port as we wheeled right, under the bridge and right again onto our first ascent of La Rambla.

This turning point was marked by great puddles of rain water. Almeria, like so many movie stars of yore, is designed to soak up the sun, not to channel the tears of the gods. Water accumulation is anathema to this city. The unwelcome fluids flow freely to run riot in the streets, playing havoc with inadequate drainage, striking terror into the hearts of running folk for whom dry is more than just a sense of humour; it's a way of life. Local competitors danced and pranced to avoid the inevitable squelch; the RC crew, all too familiar with (and unfazed by) the ‘bootie’, plunged straight through, stubbornly, almost gleefully sploshing along the submerged, barely visible racing line.

Rambla The First was, for me, a triumph. I stayed under my target pace, hauling past any number of strugglers as I embraced the gentle climb. I felt terrific, somehow energised by the earlier shenanigans, fully committed to a hard race and now, after the expected jostling, unconcerned with whatever anyone else was doing. Soon enough the sling-shot turn arrived, a banked curve onto the downward slope. Having decided not to carry water I was keen to spot the first agua station. It turned out to be almost at the bottom, so I grabbed a hand-sized orange segment from a table halfway down, slurping greedily on the fresh, sweet flesh as Gary and Ladyrunner shot by. I grinned to myself – not rising to it! I had a game plan and I was determined to stick to it.

A minute later I was passing under the bridges’ spindly legs once more, head down, arms set in steady pumping motion as I drove myself to the required speed. I clawed a semi-sticky wine gum – my drug of choice for this race: no gels - from one of my shorts pockets, sliding it carefully into my mouth, enjoying the sugar kick as the hard jelly softened then started to come apart. On we ran, onto the debilitating Avenida de Cabo de Gata, for once mercifully free of brutal headwind in either direction. I’ve struggled badly here in years past. Once Niguel had to pull me along the seemingly endless miles of flat oceanside road like a recalcitrant railway carriage. He said it was in exchange for my tow up La Rambla, his own enfant terrible de Almeria. Quid quo pro, Clarice; but not today. I used the target pace to stay focused.

Just then I heard my name shouted from across the street – Mrs Antonio! I grinned and waved, heart lifted by this overt show of personal support. Furthe down on the right stood a uniformed soldier, a rather attractive one at that, in permanent salute to the passing throng. I grinned (without reward) then looked up to see the twin purple feet of Julie and Gary bobbing up ahead. The gap was up around 100 metres and holding steady. I had to resist the temptation to push on and catch up; that would have been to abandon my plan, the first step on the savage road to madness and an inevitable blow-out.

A few kilometres later I made the unexpected turn up the equally punishing Avenida del Mediterraneo. It’s bad enough having to haul your broken carcass up here in the closing stages, pure wickedness to force us here this early in proceedings, offering a devilish glimpse of the pain to come. I needed to dig in for the first time, get my head down, watch the splashing feet of the runner in front whilst keeping an eye on my watch. Approaching the roundabout I spied Jules heading back, alone, Gary having peeled off on the 10K route along Calle Tejares. We exchanged waves and smiles. Julie looked good, comfortable, tall in her confident stride. I took heart from that and lifted myself a little in response, promising a mini-cruise back down the slightest of slopes towards the sea. I saw the Mighty Plodder then. He called out that I was 100 yards behind (I knew who). I waved and smiled but stayed honest to my plan.

[Sweder]

After the turn west onto Cabo de Gata once more the lead car, presumably with a new chauffeur on board, appeared heading east on the other side of the road, closely followed by the two leaders. One looked Spanish, the other African. Whilst both ran beautifully, barely rising and falling, gliding towards me, I couldn’t help thinking my money, were I the gambling type, would be on the man from across the sea. He had that look – the look of a man who has the measure of his opponent; upright, relaxed, eyes cast slightly down – he looked within himself, and that spelled serious peril for anyone around or against him.

The organisers threw in another surprise on the way back to la Rambla; a detour via Avenida de Juan XXII and Calle Zamora. I spared a thought for Bobby of that name, currently suffering a goal drought at Craven Cottage. Should have stayed a Hammer Bobby, or even a Seagull:

When the ball hits the goal
It’s not Shearer or Cole
It’s Zam-mora!

The Withdean melody was gone on the breeze as I reached la Rambla for the second time. Oh boy, was this a different story! Try as I might I couldn’t grasp that brutal sub-5 pace. I got there now and again only to slip back, fatigue rising in desperate limbs. The penny dropped; I was pushing too hard when in fact there was no need. I could make up the shortfall on the down slope in a few minutes; best to grin and bear the small losses and recoup on the return. Swings and roundabouts dear boy, swings and roundabouts. All good mental toughness – bravo! Except . . . I’ve run this race a few times and there are no easy sections; the bullies have tied up the swings and they're hogging the roundabouts, gathered in gangs armed with withering leers and billyclubs. Sure enough I barely bobbed under 5 on the drop. I had to knuckle down yet again on the flat to, as I saw it, make up lost ground. It was a fool's errand.

Just past the lady soldier – she’d dropped her arm by now so I threw her a cheeky salute of my own, rewarded this time with a lovely smile – reality bit. And it was quite a bite, too; a big, snarling chomp, right in the heart of my hamstring. The right leg went stiff, that familiar knot in the back of the thigh sending cold fear flooding through me. Nooooo . . . I eased off . . . and so, mercifully, the pain subsided. The leg stayed tight but I managed to keep going. A glance at the watch: 5.15 minute pace. OK, stay calm, evaluate . . . I turned my right toe in a tad, a trick I’d employed during the Reading Half in 2005 when I carried a similar injury. After no immediate or obvious dividend I relaxed back into my natural gait. As part of my mind raced, working out how far I had to go and the minimum speed needed to bag a sub 1:45, down in the murky basement of my brain-box soiled drapes were drawn, tatty chairs eased back and lights switched off as a miniature home movie flickered and rolled. It showed an empty stadium – empty that is aside from a rain-lashed track and a lone, doleful marshal. The finishing line bereft of bunting or balloons, signs drooping. An old man hobbled into view, twisted in pain, right arm thrown back to clutch his stiff, trailing leg. He winced with every loathsome stride, dragging himself to a desperate, lonely finish . . .

Lights please. OK: time doesn’t matter, I need to finish. No Derek Redmond nightmares/ heroics needed here, thanks very much. By trial and error I found my optimum pace without pain – around 5:10 klicks – and stuck to it, even as what seemed like the entire starting line-up seeped steadily past me. I had to shake off the feeling of going backwards and trust my protective instincts. When I lapsed – to look up for faces in the weather-defying crowd or, more frequently, urgently seek the solace of another K marker – the pace dropped, so I redoubled my efforts to stay ‘in the moment’, swollen ambition shoved rudely aside by grim determination.

The last three kilometres were as hard as any I’ve run in the past twelve months. I set my jaw and dragged myself up that blasted, never-ending, Avenida de Mediterraneo, the cruel, battle-scar pot-holes of Jardin a Los Molinos and the final twisted agonies of Camino de la Goleta and the evil industrial estate. At last the blessed towers of Estadio loomed overhead, the distant roar from within calling muffled finishers' prayers. I’d love to have hammered up that last unkind hill, to have flown down the rain-slick ramp, to have completed a triumphant, arms-aloft circuit for the clammering hoardes, but in truth there was none of that. Only lip-trembling effort, teeth-grinding will and the support of a good friend – Ladyrunner, bathed in the glow of her own superb effort, waiting at the bottom of the ramp.
‘Come on Sweder!’
We high-fived and blow me if I didn’t manage a tiny increase in pace. The leg whined and I tried to ignore it, but with the line in sight I let my head rule my heart to run steadily through the line.

1:42:05, a monster PB for this circuit and an official best for the distance by over four minutes. It’s tough to carp at that and I don’t intend to. To see Julie elated at her time and to have been a few short minutes behind her I’m chuffed to bits. More so after I’d gingerly walked the danger out of my quaking legs, nursing the hamstrings, now tight as Tom’s wallet, through the queues for the finishers’ packs and back to the van.

On reflection a number of things contributed to that near-fatal twinge.
First and foremost a combination of pushing harder than usual in unexpectedly cool, damp conditions. We jest about it being warm rain (compared to our home-grown ice and snow) but in truth my legs – and I – were pretty cold over those closing kilometres. Steady rain stayed with us throughout, and whilst I run in those conditions (and worse) most Sundays it’s never that close to full throttle. That's when the risks of injury are at their peak, and I was probably fortunate not to have seen my right foot coiling wildly around my ears.

A gentle lope back to the digs revealed no lasting damage, as did the delightful Monday Mountain Plummet 24 hours later, though I’d be lying if I said that was easy. This week’s soreness – knees and hamstrings – has me pondering my road-running future and turning ever more towards my beloved, muddy hills.

Safest, perhaps, to whisper . . . Ameria: to be continued

[marathondan]

Great report Sweder and an awesome effort -- 4 minute PB on an injury, fantastic work.

[Antonio247]

Muchas gracias for such a beautiful epic report, the view of Almería and Derek Redmond´s video, S.

Congratulations on that PB!

Saludos desde Almería.

[Sweder]

Oh what a beautiful morning! as the song has it; oh, what a beautiful day.
And it was, gorgeous; strong spring sunshine, a dusting of powdery frost in the shrub-shadow, ice on the puddles, a stiff, chill wind out of the west. I threw on shorts and a short-sleeved vest, determined to feel alive despite the grumbling depositions from various parts of my body. A stiff back, a wonky knee, two tight hamstrings and a sore calf for starters. Add to that general fatigue, jet lag and bear-with-a-sore-head grouchiness and you're half-way there.

No matter. It was a morning for running and that's what I did, leaving the earphones behind so as to better hear the louder complaints as I ran. It was, as expected, a tough haul. I teased the rust out of tight, sore limbs, cursing myself for not having run on Monday when I had the chance. Longer-than-usual pauses at each gate helped; stopping to harness the hounds through the populated sheep fields another rouse for grabbing a breather. I took a decent two-minute knee-clasper at Blackcap's summit, sweat dripping onto my muddy shoes, steam plumming of my heaving back as I sucked in clean, cold air.

I scampered home, head-long into the rising sun, breeze at my back, my thoughts turning to two friends. One is fighting an endless series of tests and treatments in a savage battle against cruel fate; another takes on the solemn duty of laying to rest someone he's known and loved for every moment of his life. My own minor worries faded as I ran and I thanked my lucky stars that all I have to worry about this morning is a little discomfort.

I stretched for all I was worth when I got home, yet I feel a visit to a sports physio may be the wisest course of action. I'm ten days away from the Terminator where I fully expect each and every weakness to be brutally exposed on a tricky, hazardous course.

Footnote: I too had burial duty today, though I'm almost too embarassed to mention it.
Scholesy, survivor of the great summer pond pump failure of '08, named after the Devils' ginger maestro and trusty early morning confident these past seven years, lost his long fight against fin rot. A couple of years ago his trademark colouring faded, turning a ghostly, milky white. I took this at the time to be a sign that United's timeless midfield general might join Tottenham or Fulham. Shame on me for ever doubting the loyal carrot-topped genius.

I went out to feed the boys this morning only to find his pallid carcass drifting on its side, eyes white, infected scales dull and lifeless. Not one for pet sentiment I scooped him out and, with a hushed word of farewell, wrapped him in an edition of the Sussex Express, tied that in a waitrose bag and dumped him in the bin.

Farewell then, Scholesy. You couldn't tackle for toffee by the way.

[Sweder]

HPTT Valentines Special
I threw down the gauntlet; Mrs S picked it up and slapped my slack-jawed chops with it.
Yes, following the disappointment of missing Almeria my good lady took part in her first HPTT 5K run, bagging a PB into the bargain. I'm immensly proud of her, not least because she knew that just about everyone I know at HPTT is quicker than me, and therefore would be a lap or so ahead of her, yet she still took it on. I lumbered alongside her, amazed at how well she maintained a decent pace, electing to walk on just two of the inclines as her legs stiffened.

35:12 is a very decent return indeed - that's a projected 10K time of around 1:15. Shayne was delighted with her effort, to the extent I reckon I'll pursuade her to come back next week. I'm hopeful that if she keeps at it she'll be keen to run in Almeria next year

A very pleasant outing for me. Apart from being the proud partner of a BHTT debutant I enjoyed a very easy few laps, letting the legs loosen, feeling the dodgy knee warm up and ease off. Congrats to Simon who cynically teamed up with some poor unsuspecting girl to enter the St. Valentine's Couples draw, only to romp off with the choccies and bubbly. Swine!

[ladyrunner]

Well done to Mrs S. A brilliant run for your first outing.

The training starts now for Almeria 2010!!

Julie

[El Gordo]

Hurrah! Aye, well done Mrs S, and we look forward to you wiping the floor with SP in Almeria 2010.

[Antonio247]

Congratulations, Shayne!

What a wonderful present for Sweder on St Valentine´s day. It would be great if she could do the 10 km or half marathon here next year. I´ll try to persuade my wife to train for the 10 km although I must admit it is going to be really difficult.

Have a wonderful day!


Saludos desde Almería