The descent from 12 to 16 is running heaven in this 20K. A long, gently curving slope towards the beautiful Parc de Woluwe, replete with silent, soothing pools and heaps more leafy trails. As we runners know only too well what goes down must eventually go up. The 17 kilometre marker, wreathed in indecently strong sunshine, heralded the start of a kilometre-long ascent towards the finish. I slowed for the lone Isotonic drink stop, aware that for once my Hammer Gel hadn’t had the desired effect. Once again and as with all the drink stations the whole pack slowed, only this time it was much harder to get going again. Simmering nicely I felt my pace fall away as if two of my four outboard engines had simply switched off. All around me people showed signs of fatigue; many stopped to walk as they gulped from the orange or yellow branded tins. Others plodded on as if knee-deep in porridge and I have no doubt I blended perfectly with these. The isotonic drink was, as expected, harsh on the throat; I discarded mine after a few desperate swigs.
Several lithe competitors flew by, hardened bodies glistening in the sunshine as they worked the hill, arms pumping, heads forward to embrace the rising road. I looked on in envy. Despite no sign of the niggle I’d been throttling back a little in deference to my knee; any attempt to follow these real athletes might awaken the patella-monster and besides, I was cream crackered. I chugged and chugged, fiercely determined to at least keep running though in truth this was now at best a lumbersome jog. My inner author paraphrased Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now; Some day son this hill’s gonna end.
And, or course, it did. Finally Avenue de Tervuun evened out, bringing blessed relief to my straining calves and a murmur of hope from the flagging field. The sea of bobbing heads seemed as one to lift a little, smiles replacing grim application. With the end, that magnificent arch, literally in sight it was as well to remember we were still two klicks from a medal, a good ten minutes plus short of relief from this lung-burning torture. I had to dig in pretty hard to maintain a modest cadence, averaging over nine minute miles on the run-in. We negotaited the last roundabout, crowds thickening as the line approached, flags waving, children, faces shaded by sun hats, mouths plastered in ice cream, cheering wildly as we scuttled by, wide-eyed and sweat-drenched. Hmm, good name for my autobiography that.
As the shadow of Autoworld, one of two impressive museums guarding the finish line, fell upon me I reached for the Garmin. 1:48:53, barely a minute inside my modest projection of 1:50. Still, given the unexpected conditions and elevations I’m pretty happy with that. This being my first road-run 20K it’s a PB and that’s always a good thing.
I took on a few bottles of water and pouched the melting mars bar proffered by a liveried distributor, certain only of my dire need for sugar and liquid. I stumbled about on the slippery cobble stones seeking the medal station where a young chap sliced off my chip and a lovely young lady handed over my medal, a thing of undeniable golden beauty adorned by a red yellow and black ribbon. It now rests, as Sir Alex would have it, consigned to history in the depths of my suitcase. Onward, ever onward: chasing the mighty Moyleman through the hills of Seaford is only a week away.
One by one our merry band of newly-made friends assembled with their own tales of the race. To a man we agreed a) it was mercilessly hot and b) that last hill was a killer. Leo bagged an impressive 1:33. Christa, the languid Swede, hit close to 1:40 despite some serious achillies issues. Lorenzo pipped me by a minute and Steve came in a shade over the two hours. Ronan, having picked the toughest conditions in which to realise his sub-2 dream, crossed the line in 1:58 and change. He was so happy that, despite obvious fatigue, he immediately declared his intent to take on the full 26.2 in Paris next April. Bravo! As for the late night revellers they survived in a creditable two hours twenty-something. During the après-run festivities Pierre-Rive did a wonderful impression of John Wayne on his way to the bar. I sense there may be some stiff legs out there this week.
Before the pub I had a strange episode on the Metro. Standing on the carriage heading back to Ronan’s apartment I felt a little off colour. Leaning forward I tried to suck in some air but the feeling wouldn’t go away. As we disembarked to change lines I felt a strange, wave-like sensation rush from my feet to my head and I blacked out, coming too a nanosecond later as my left knee hit the deck. My colleagues helped me up thinking I’d stumbled but in truth I’m not sure what happened. I do know I’ll be off to the Docs* in double-quick time to check this out. A moment sat on a plastic seat had me fully restored and I can only think perhaps either low blood pressure or low blood sugar was the culprit. We’ll see. Suffice to say it didn’t restrict my enjoyment of or participation in the evening banter or reduce my appetite for blanche beer, red wine and a laden platter of delicious mini spare ribs accompanied by the obligatory frites in Place Bethlehem in the St Gills district. Lieven, our dedicated chauffeur and most knowledgeable and interesting guide, joined us to while away the meal discussing possible business ventures involving our professions (travel, logistics, events), luxurious destinations and beautiful women.
As we sat outside the restaurant sipping drinks and patting our full stomachs Ronan ventured the question ‘So how did we get here to this place in Bethlehem?’
I indicated our host. ‘We just followed the star.’
We are, as Ronan modestly pointed out, all stars. And, for the record and judging by the lowbrow nature of our conversation, probably none too wise.
[SIZE="1"]* Just back from the check-up.
Apparently I’m an old duffer, otherwise nothing to worry about.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
