February 2009

[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 . . . ?