Haven’t abandoned the running completely. Since the last of the February frolics I’ve been running between 15 and 25 miles a week. Anything “pre-planned” on the lines of “Monday 10k, Wednesday 5k, Sunday a long one, etc..” is nigh on impossible so I get out (sneak out) when I can. This might mean an hour or so on a Wednesday morning, nothing at the weekend, a quick half hour here and there. And all with the football at the weekend. And what about the football? Well, it’s been nowhere near as destructive as I first thought. In fact I’ve come to the conclusion that for running hills it’s actually a plus factor with the “explosive” nature of sprinting and kicking a ball around strengthening muscles in the right places. I hope .
Took a couple of knocks in the last game though (knee and hip) and will probably sit it out for a couple of weeks. So in the meantime …it’s back to the running. Did my first race of 2006 yesterday afternoon. It was the Cacabelos 10k. A report to follow…. (a bit shorter than Sweder’s I suspect ).
The first race of the season was in the unfortunately named town of Cacabelos, “caca” being Spanish for what is popularly known as “cack” in the Black Country. This is a good point of departure for linguists wishing to investigate similarities between contemporary Spanish and Black Country English.
Cacabelos enters my own shortlist of inappropriately named towns and villages along with nearby Calamocos which in Spanish sounds a bit like “falling bogeys". A journey through Andalucia a couple of years ago also revealed 3 gems. The village of Cabra (“goat” was followed in quick succession by Guarroman (this sounds like some sort of “Spanglish”. Translates as “dirty old man” and then my favourite, Venta de Pantalones (“sale of trousers”. In fact Cacabelos could easily be twinned with a place that I seem to remember from my Devon days, the quaint little Dartmoor village of Crapstone. Anyway….back to the plot,
the first race of the season was in the unfortunately named town of Cacabelos, a lively agricultural town on the St James way in the midst of some of Bierzo’s most productive vineyards. At first I treated this 10k with a certain suspicion as the last time I’d run here in the 2003 Cacabelos half marathon the finish line packed up and went home once the first ten runners had passed. But as it happened my dad was over for a visit and Miguel mushroom also fancied a run and so after a hefty Maundy Thursday lunch we all made the short journey over from Ponferrada and collected our race numbers. And we weren’t to be disappointed. Excellent, flat 3-lap circuit, well supported, reasonably well organized and with a top goody bag…..all for free. Wow!
An enthusiastic man waving a red flag started us off from just outside the town sports hall. About 150 runners were taking part. Miguel mushroom, Bierzo Baggie and Bierzo Baggie senior (now “the Ludlow loper” made a cautious start at the rear of the field as it was the hottest day of the year and my dad’s first race since the mid-90s. We ran through the centre of Cacabelos and through the older part of town where wooden balconies overhang the narrow streets. Then it was out through the agricultural peripheries, green and lush at this time of year and where we joined the butterflies who danced alongside a little stream. BB senior the Ludlow loper struggled in the heat and complained of the proximity of lunch. Why do they programme these races for the afternoon? No surprises then when he pulled out at the end of the first lap which was a shame as he would have been top-3 in his category. Me and Miguel mushroom upped the pace a bit but were soon lapped by the front runners which included local hero Chus Alonso. Finished in a respectable 54 minutes after a highly enjoyable race. And how about this for the goody bag? (and which they also gave to dad despite not finishing).
1 bottle of Cacabelos wine.
1 running gladiator t-shirt (the gladiator being a reference to the town’s roman origins).
1 wooden garlic crusher.
1 bottle of flavoured welsh mineral water (Radnor hills…which by weird coincidence is just up the road from Ludlow).
2 chocolate cakes.
1 cereal bar.
Will try and race once a month from now on. Next on the agenda is the Truchillas- Vizcodillo mountain race on May 21st.
Thanks BB, yet another race report that makes me think I'm missing out on the real stuff.
I'd love to say "I'll do that race next year" but I have a vague intention of doing the South African Two Oceans ultra which is also about this time... but it does sound like the sort of event that I'd like to do.
Those Spanish goody bags are just amazing. Sigh. The Zurich marathon one was rubbish, frankly. In fact, it didn't exist. I'd like to say more but I'll leave that to the race report. That also doesn't really exist, just yet, either.
I watched the Baggies play Arsenal today on dodgy live internet TV, by the way. Arsenal are a class act of course, but to be honest, I thought that West Brom did well. Sadly, as you'll know, Pompey won, and are looking to have the momentum to stay up ahead of Birmingham and West Brom just at the moment.
Anyway, we'll see. More race reports please BB. Team RC really must get over to see you sometime.
Cheers
Andy
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I wonder why it was Welsh water?? Sounds like a good event, are there lots of smallish races to enter in your neghbourhood? Might be interesting to enter one.
BTW- looks like Pompey are a leeetle more vulnerable now;-)
If I was only able to do one race during the year, this would be it. No doubt about it. Truchillas, little trout. Great name for a village.
And its not just about the race; its about the journey there as well. I can take the long way around, first via the motorway, or I can go straight over the mountain. And this can only mean one thing. The lonely Morredero road (a place to die) which continues ever upwards past the ski station until it becomes the most god-forsaken windswept road known to man.
Theres a section of 3 or 4 km where you follow a crest which extends from the base of the Mares Seat until Teleno. Teleno was the sacred mountain of the Asturs (pre-roman Celt-like geezers) and you can amazingly trace the thin lines of ancient roman canals near the summit. All of this takes place at around 2000m which by my reckoning makes it one of the highest true passes in Spain (true in the sense that the road doesnt just stop at an antenna). If its windy, as it is today, my little Renault Twingo will be in danger of being launched into a session of in pronto hang-gliding.
The road then zig zags downwards into the lost world of La Cabrera, probably the most isolated parish in the whole province of León. The first village is Corporales where a road sign instructs you to treat the village church as a roundabout! (see photo) Then, Baillo, Truchas and finally Truchillas follow. All have the feel of semi-abandonment although restored houses intermingle with the tumbledown structures and their primitive thatched roofs (once typical in the north-west). And finally, a field, a stream, loads of parked cars, a starting line and a race. 8 kms out, 8 kms back, 1 km up. As simple as that.
The following is a brief summary of the race. It involved running, but not as we know it. It resembled Lakeland fell running I guess.
The start was scheduled for 10:30. It was windy and there was a slight chill but the sun threatened to make an appearance and eventually it did. I decided to take the small rucksack with the broken strap which Ive been using in my Aquilianos jaunts. Enough space for a kagool, gloves, woolly hat and a camera. Noticed that of about 100 starters only one or two others carried rucksacks. Im also one of the only ones with trackie bottoms. Long live Ron Hill!
A bloke started the race. 3km of gently rising track which I ran easily. Then a narrow stony path which I mostly walked. Then a muddy bog, a lake, a stream (which we ran up) an ocean of rocks, a section of open moor-land and a mountain (Pico Vizcodillo at 2122 metres). The top of the mountain consisted of a pile of rocks which looked as if theyd been left by God Almightys dumper truck. It was blowing a gale up there but strangely enough I was reluctant to leave. It felt like being back in England. Took a couple of photos and then started handing out alms as if I was Mother Teresa. One bloke with cold ears got my woolly hat and I lent another fellow my gloves. That earned me a couple of beers in the post-race paella!
The descent. Got a bit cocky and tried to go too fast. Two twisted ankles later and I realized that it was time to curb my euphoria. The priority became to get to the bottom in one piece although for the first time ever I think I passed more people going down than going up. Fell over in the bog and came out looking like some creature from a swamp. Crossed the finish line in reasonably good shape with a time of 2 hours 12 minutes and probably in the bottom third of the field. Washed in the icy waters of the stream (which chilled my swollen ankle) and then joined Pedro the lumberjack and company for the mentioned post race paella. Great stuff!
Not long or arduous enough to break ones' spirit, but sufficient whiff of Feet In The Clouds to wet the most arid of appetites. I'd really like to do this one next time around.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Not long or arduous enough to break ones' spirit, but sufficient whiff of Feet In The Clouds to wet the most arid of appetites. I'd really like to do this one next time around.
That’s a fair description. To tell the truth I was trying to sell the Aquilianos route on the other thread as a possible future Running Commentary outing. It’s accessible for just about everybody (you can run it or walk it) there are 2 routes to choose from (a demanding long route and a demanding short route... both would classify as ultras and both go through some wonderful scenery) and there's a T-shirt, a certificate, a shower and a healthy selection of bars at the end (unlike Truchillas).
Truchillas is more of a race but it’s also a low key, low budget sort of get-together. The complete opposite to the macro-races you guys seem to do. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea but if you’re serious about wanting to run it one year then I reckon we’d make a great team!
A couple of sections of the Aquilianos route to do before June 3rd… stage 7 tomorrow morning.
This one was worth a decent write up and although it probably wont sound like a race report at first, please bear with me.
The last person I expected to see at the II Subida a el Morredero was El Chepas (the hunchback). He slipped to the back of the field almost unnoticed seconds before they released the tape. In fact everybody seemed so focussed on the long haul ahead that perhaps I was the only one who saw him. El Chepas used to be the official drunken neighbourhood buffoon whose scandalous antics around town were tolerated because he was well, he was El Chepas. Hed scream obscenities at passers by, hed piss in the street and then walk around with his knob hanging out, hed lurch about with wild eyes and scare the shit out of tourists. Id assumed at first that the guy was mad until one day I stood behind him in a shop and realized that he was quite coherent in between sessions of whatever it was he drank (distilled rocket fuel maybe?) Occasionally the police would arrest him for his own protection but I got the impression that more often than not theyd find him work. Id seen him doing a brief stint as a bin man or working on the market.
But Id more likely see him clinging to a lamppost spitting out personalized insults at anybody who made eye contact;
Hijo de puta! (son of a bitch)
Cabrón (billy goat actually quite insulting in Spanish).
And in the case of an ex-flatmate who still sported a Terry the Scouser perm well into the 90s
Platini!
Curiosity got the better of me one day and I deliberately looked him in the eyes to see where I fitted in in his little game of word associations. El Chepas stared back at me, narrowed his eyes, pondered for a moment and scowled Marricón (big poofter) before staggering off. I spent the next week wondering what hed meant.
For a time El Chepas was as much part of the scenery as the clock tower or the castle or the big bronze statue of the templar knight in the town centre. The kids laughed at him and ran away. Their parents seemed to pretend he wasnt there and strangely enough nobody local ever complained or reproached him for his antisocial behaviour. Later I was to hear different stories; that he was once a top cyclist; that he had suffered a terrible personal tragedy; that he had lost his wife and child in an accident; that he took to drink to deal with the demons of his past. Lots of talk. Lots of tales. Cotilleo.
And then he disappeared. Or perhaps he simply became one more anonymous face in the crowd. His legend diminished and he was replaced by a new official drunken neighbourhood buffoon (Pilufo, a crusty with a Viking helmet and a posse of dogs on ropes). Many, me included, suspected that El Chepas had died. He hadnt. Hed become invisible.
But it was definitely El Chepas standing near me on the start line with the rain dripping off his nose. He was somewhat greyer than he had been 10 years ago but the wiry, slightly hunched figure and the angular features were unmistakeable.
This time he didnt call me marricón.
El Chepas was perhaps the only surprise amongst a field of 87 starters which otherwise consisted of lean athletes and grizzly mountaineers and with the race being on the road the athletes would inevitably have the upper hand. The weather was shocking. The rain lashed down and when they gave the off at 10 oclock sharp we all splashed through the puddles across the plaza and towards the looming black mountains of Morredero. But rather than fear I felt good about this one. The weather reminded me of the UK and I have no problem with running up hills slowly. I set off with a mixture of caution and optimism.
The Morredero road to the ski-station takes us through 2 traditional Bierzo villages, Salas de los Barrios and San Cristobel de Valdueza,. Long names for such small places. The steepest hill came just after Salas, an eyewateringly vicious 3km section which is 1 in 5 at times. We were well accompanied by cars, cyclists and even photographers and it felt a bit like a stage of one of the great cycling races albeit on an infinitely smaller scale.
At San Cristobel (10km?) there was a drinks station with isotonic drinks. I took one of those fiddly gel things. Mmmmm, tasty. Then the gradient steepened again and we rose into the angry clouds which shrouded the peaks of the Montes Aquilianos. The rain intensified and at times it felt like being under some immense waterfall. I found myself running comfortably in the middle of the field. Psychologically it was easy because I knew the road well and where to ease off and where to speed up. Inevitably tiredness kicked in though.
Above San Cristobel the landscape is bleak and awesome. It ended up crushing me as I turned into the hairpins which marked the last 2 or 3 kms. Id got the next runner in my sights and he was walking, yet he never seemed to get any closer. It dawned on me that his walk was faster than my run! The unrelenting Morredero wind tore into me. Instead of looking upwards towards the ski station I focussed on the names of the cyclists painted on the road for the Vuelta which passed through here in September.
Valverde, Pereiro, Landis dopado, Mayo, Sastre, Sweder ..eh? Sweder? Was I hallucinating? The plucky running commentators world of windswept Sussex clifftops had superimposed itself on this godforsaken little corner of northwest Spain. I leant into the final hairpin which had suddenly transformed into the snake.
The last 100 metres took me about a minute and I shuffled across the line resembling a drowned rat and feeling like one too. Felt dizzy on stopping but soon recovered and headed into the murkiness of the ski station hut where theyd laid on all sorts of tapas. It had taken me 2 hours 25 minutes, half an hour faster than Id expected.
Managed to cadge a lift back down to Ponferrada with somebody so I missed the prize giving and the goodie bag (the winner had finished in an amazing 1 hour 47 minutes and won 500 euros for the mornings work). And as I walked towards the car I was one of only 3 or 4 people to witness the arrival of the last (and oldest) athlete, a slightly hunched figure who lurched dramatically out of the mist, arms raised in triumph. Fookin ell its El Chepas !!
I found myself patting the worlds boniest back.
Joder, tío, eres un monstruo! El Chepas broke into a huge Cheshire cat grin and I observed for the first time that hed only got 3 teeth.
Words cannot express the admiration that I felt for the guy. This was more than therapy through running, this was a bloody resurrection and unexpectedly El Chepas joined my list of anonymous running heroes. And if any of you come and do the Aquilianos event next June you may well end up lining up alongside El Chepas, the little man with extremely large cojones.
But please, dont buy him a drink.
Reminds me a bit of Joe Fell, a guy I've mentioned here before. Julie Welch writes about him in "26.2". He was homeless for years; lived on a bench in a park in Brixton, chronic alcoholic, barely able to walk. Eventually got his act together and started running, becoming an ultra runner turning in very respectable times like 8 hours something in the London to Brighton race and around 3 hours in the FLM. Will check the facts later.
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Added:
He started running aged 48. Got his act together after a confrontation with a policeman who was himself a recovering alcoholic. Ran FLM in 3:06. Still runs it every year, plus heavily into triathlons now.
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But thanks for the tale. I love these characters. Does anyone know how/where he spent the intervening period?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Bierzo Baggie Wrote:He’d scream obscenities at passers by, he’d piss in the street and then walk around with his knob hanging out, he’d lurch about with wild eyes and scare the shit out of tourists.
I knew SP had been out running on the quiet.
An wonderful tale, BB, one to lift the spirits. Sounds like a cracking trail; so many of the Spanish runs sound brutal yet strangely enticing. For the record I've never taken part in a cycle race. I'm even more ungainly on two wheels than I am on two legs. Aquilianos is a very real prospect, though like Andy I'm starting to think the 'lesser' course might be a more sensible introduction.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
This was originally a training diary but its turned into a race diary.
The races are actually great training.
For what? For running I suppose. Err, Ill start again
When I knackered my ankle at the start of summer I bought a mileometer (or kilometremeter?) for my mountain bike and measured all my old routes. So now I know the exact distances Ive been running these last few years. Most of the routes turned out to be about a kilometre longer than Id expected. Did a few sums and decided that Id got a few hundred extra kms in the bank thanks to the handy little gadget. Great purchase that.
Thanks to the mileometer I know that since September Ive been doing about 20 miles a week and I also set the vague target of doing a running event every month. This didnt imply any goals, just an excuse to run a bit faster than normal, with like-minded people (or not) and to get out the house for a couple of hours!
The September event was a 10k which proved to be a little too soon and a little too painful. October was the uphill madness described above which I enjoyed enormously although I find it difficult to explain why (and how). And Novembers event was the III Ponferrada Half Marathon. Now I havent run a proper half marathon for over 2 years so I was curious as to how Id get on and guess what? Crossed the finishing line in exactly the same time as I did in the Tipton Half marathon 17 years ago. Now that might mean that I havent improved at all since 1990 although my inborn optimism counters by saying that Im as fit as I was when I was 20!
I suppose this is the glass half-full half-empty syndrome.
The race.
It was free and unadvertised. Me and Miguel Mushroom turned up 15 minutes before the start and were given a ticking off for not having registered earlier. Many of us only found out about the half marathon because they sent a letter to any potential runners which arrived (in my case) the day before the race. They let us in anyway.
Twas a 2-lap course around the outskirts of Ponferrada and we mingled dangerously with the Sunday morning traffic along a couple of the main roads. Occasionally we ran past a local policeman/woman strategically placed to wave down or stop cars. There were untidy red arrows painted on the tarmac to show us the way but in places it was fairly easy to take a wrong turning (and I did). Yes, this had all the hallmarks of a Chus Alonso affair, a great athlete, probably a great bloke but who couldnt organize a borrachera in a cervecería. Perhaps Im being a bit harsh
Despite being the best attended half marathon in Bierzo history there were only 79 finishers (although 50 or so more did a shorter 1-lap course). But just check these classifications out; http://www.championchipnorte.com/externo...ARATON.htm
Half the field ran 1:30 or faster! Only 2 runners arrived slower than 1:55. I reckon that the thing was badly publicised (as always) but a lot of fun runners are also put off by the apparent seriousness of it all.
Still, it was better than nowt. And just for finishing they gave me a bottle of Aquarius and something called a buff to wrap round my neck during winter. They didnt give me a prize although there were so many different categories that just about everybody else got one. El Chepas won the Vet-F category for the one lap race finishing just behind Miguel Mushroom. Well done El Chepas!
And finally some conclusions:
Running up hills prepares you for running up hills.
Running off road prepares you for running off road.
20 miles a week is a bit on the short side. In the past Ive run the same and felt stronger but I did other things as well (cycling, footie, subbuteo ) And now Im older.
I found it impossible to sustain a regular pace and ached more and longer than in the Morredero mountain pass race last month. My legs felt like theyd endured a right royal battering and I had difficulty walking up the stairs on Monday morning. I reckon my leg muscles arent up to flat road races any more (which might be a good thing).
I happened to come across yor result on chamionchipnorte a couple of hours ago while registering for the Ferrol Half. This year there's a two week gap between Ferrol and Lugo so with luck I'll be able to fit them both into my very slack running agenda.
Random running and remote races.
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