So the first 5K was a ball of hot frustration. My Garmin showed the pace varying from 7:33 (minute miles) to 10:28, partly due to human traffic but also thanks to a surprisingly undulating course. I know – in Belgium! What’s that? You thought it was dead flat? Me too, but brother we were wrong.
A gentle downhill slope from the park along the Rue De La Loi, past the EU legislature and parliament buildings, the daytime occupants of which seek to forge our destinies whether we like it or, as seems to be more often the case, not, got us started. A sharp left at Warande started a zig-zag around the Royal Palace, our first SPA-sponsored, sharpened-elbows-at-the-ready, every-man-for-himself drinks station (I declined to take part) and on to the magnificent Palais des Justice. Lets not beat about the bush here; the architecture in this city is fabulous. Classic and neo-gothic blends effortlessly with arts deco and nouveau, a riot of texture and design that works in twisted harmony to create an ambiance of cultures past and modern. The Palace rose like a mighty temple of truth, adorned with gold leaf and sturdy pillars capable of upholding the toughest edicts. Avenue Louise, scene of plenty of nifty slowbie-dodging manoeuvres (some of which involved running along a narrow curb and risking decapitation by the low-slung, sharp-edged wall lights) took us south through a series of tunnels reminiscent of the Parisian peripherique. Runners started clapping at the deepest point, the sound resonating back through the darkness like a rolling shock wave. Back into daylight, the 5K point then on towards the blissful relief of the heavily wooded park.
I was ready for some shade. My well-documented jousts with Apollo don’t seem to get any easier and so it proved here, sweat splashing onto my knees as I pulled heavily up the steady incline towards the cool embrace of the trees. Natures’ woodland perfume mingled with the scent of fresh sweat in a riotous olfactory carnival, the multiple crunch-crunch beat of heavy footfalls on cinder tracks our soundtrack. Sunlight danced in the upper branches dappling the runners around me like a crazy open-air disco mirrorball. Another SPA stop bobbed on the horizon - time for me to take advantage. It’s bottles this time; lids arbitrarily removed by the volunteers, though please don’t think me ungrateful; how they keep up with inhuman demand from an endless torrent of clasping fingers I’ve no idea. Heroes all in my book.
The cool, clear air and the merest hint of a breeze lifted my spirits. There seemed to be a little space in which to run, breathing room in which to plot a course through the rolling, tumbling kaleidoscope of corporate and charity vests. My own white tech shirt, ceremonially handed over last night, bore the inscription ‘IK LOOP VOOR DIABETES’ - 'I run for Diabetes'. I was running for the VDV – the Vlaamse (Flemish) Diabetes Vereniging (err, association?). The VDV had a ‘meet and greet’ tent near the start, though they were a little short on the ‘greet’ when our intrepid leader addressed them in French. This is apparently like a red rag to a Flemmish bull in Belgium though I don’t begin to understand the politics. It seems appropriate that much of the push and shove that is the modern EU takes place in a country divided by age-old differences. A lot of shrugging and eyebrow-raising ensued before we loped off for a meagre warm-up – hardly necessary in the conditions – and the obligatory last-minute bush-watering. Sometimes it’s great to be born a man.
The two kilometres of winding parkland trail was a delight. With a spring in my step (and a pill* on my tongue) I gained a few more places, even smiling at my fellow runners as the uncharitable darkness in my heart slipped into the shadows. Avenue de Gronendael twisted into Avenues de Boitsfort and de la Sapinere before a sharp right-hander set us onto F. Roosevelt and halfway. I still carried my SPA water bottle, though much of the contents had jiggled and sploshed over my legs and shoes. The liquid had warmed in my grasp so I traded at the next outpost (11K) in time to wash down a much-needed gel** before embracing a delightfully long descent past yet more impressive houses and tree-lined pavements. Brussels really is a remarkably green capital, boasting a full-blown forest (Foret de Soignes) within its boundaries. So many of my preconceptions about this place were being put to the sword, not least those regarding the weather which, without the merciful shelter of the park, had once again started to interfere with my running pleasure.
[SIZE="1"]* Ibuprofen, insurance against the dodgy knee. Lyric unashamedly assimilated from Spandau Ballet
** Not for the first time this appeared to have little or no effect[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
