February 2009

[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.