Life's A Beach.
I used to have a T-shirt with that slogan writ large. Yesterday was a day off for me, a day free from the madness of the World Dental Congress and the sand-storm of idiosyncrasies that have plagued my working days this past week. I’ve sought solace in cold beer and cheeseburgers but Saturday offered a chance to spend time with that great cathartic mistress, the long run.
First, a sortie in Guinness boxers and Motorhead T-shirt to the breakfast bar to fill my coffee jug. Since day one I’ve been left no supplies for my in-room coffee machine. I'd had enough. Such is the surreal nature of this place my attire drew not one bat of an eyelid. I then pfaffed about on Twitter for a couple of hours. The sun rose high over the Centro de Convencoes da Bahia, warming my shoebox of a room at an alarming rate. Running garb donned I wondered at the wisdom of a midday run under the southern hemisphere sun. They’re rather short on ozone around these parts. To make matters worse I had somehow failed to pack proper running shorts, choosing to lump in my padded cycle pants (used for spinning) instead. They’re nice and baggy, except for the heavily elastic gripping my thighs like vicious tourniquets and the 'freshly-filled nappy' lining designed to protect one's nether regions from the ravages of a pointy cycle saddle. Importantly they are blue and so don’t clash too terribly with my trusty RC vest.
Garmin alligned, iPhone strapped on and set to shuffle, I loped off towards the ocean under a clear blue sky. After pausing to watch some highly technical football, played by locals on a gritty, sandy pitch behind high wire fences, I navigated through narrow streets lined with decrepit domiciles and precarious lean-to food shacks. We’ve been told to avoid these at all costs, certainly after dark, but I figured a large, sweaty man thundering along makes a less than attractive target for would-be muggers. I arrived at the dusty promenade unmolested, turning left (north/ east) to run along a green tarmac trail. To my right great ocean rollers raced in like wild beasts, charging across the shoreline to die a foamy death on flat, sun-baked sands. Dark skinned locals cavorted in the surf, playing impromptu Samba soccer featuring occasional sprints into the waves to cool off. I chugged along, enjoying an eclectic blend of Deep Purple, Kaiser Chiefs and the Buzzcocks. Following MLCMan’s excellent
100 minute report I'd downloaded Love Bites. Pete Shelly is, appropriately, a poet, cursed with a light, slightly effeminate voice, yet his tales of love and angst from the heady days of New Wave still resonate.
I ploughed on as the sun bit deep into my exposed shoulders and arms. Being a bear of very little brain I’d failed to slap on any sunblock. Roadside flora offered occasional shade and I resolved to follow this longest of hard-topped green miles to it’s uncertain end. This came at around seven point five kilometres. The trail performed a sharp slingshot around an unruly collection of cacti surrounding a large-breasted mermaid. I took a break, wandering into the shade to watch the locals drink beer and hack into fresh coconuts beneath garish parasols and wind-bent palms. I had, at least, remembered to stow a ten riyal note in my shorts, affording me the luxury of a chilled bottle of
agua purchased from a toothless, lizard-skinned roadside vendor.
As I stood fumbling with my phone to snap a few pictures a fine specimen of a man, all oiled muscle and lithe limbs, bounded past, running barefoot along the surfline. This seemed like a splendid idea, so I set off in hot pursuit (still fully shod). The eye-watering nipple chafe on the restart caused me to pull up. The offshore breeze had sprayed me with a fine layer of salt. This conspired with my sodden vest to grind into my chest, leaving my teats glowing like fag ends in a dark pub doorway. There was nothing to do but whip off the vest. I felt sorry for the bystanders as I flogged my jiggling moobs along the beach, but there it was. Or, rather, there they were. In consolation I considered my impromptu unveiling a service. How else should the locals appreciate the parade of chiselled torsos and wonderfully upholstered, long-limbed females without such pale, flabby horror with which to compare and contrast?
I managed a manful three kilometres along the soft sand during which, distracted by yet another Brazilian beauty stretching for a misplaced volleyball pass, I received a thorough soaking from a violent, inrushing wave. I trudged off up the dunes to rejoin the hot green path, sweat dripping steadily off my furrowed brow, undercarriage sore from the ill-suited cycle shorts, legs a sorry mess of hot sweat and pooling lactic acid.
After another half hour my legs started to tighten horribly. Days of walking ten kilometres around rock hard exhibit halls had left my calves in some distress. I’d woken up in the night to find an unseen spectre stabbing my legs with cruel, thick-bladed knives. Those familiar with cramp will know all too well the desperate, sweaty scrabble to find a solid object against which to press your toes and so alleviate the torture. Now, battling into a headwind as the afternoon traffic showered me with hot smoke, soot and dust, my skin broiled, nipples a-blaze, I felt the inexorable hardening of my legs as they slowly turned to stone.
I finished in a walk-waddle, donning my rank vest once more to spare the inland inhabitants as I climbed the hill back to my hotel. A total of seventeen point four pedestrian kilometres banked in a whisker over two hours. As an added bonus I now have a wonderfully white, vest-shaped imprint on my lobster-pink body, something that, along with my freshly-peeled nipples, makes tackling my piping hot, body-pinning jet-wash of a shower something to fear.
Link to Beach Run Photostream
