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RE: Zegama-Aizkorri 2011
Couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t let me run. All the race official would say was that Mrs Woo’s rain poncho was a crappy plastic one that would lead to almost certain death on the exposed slopes of Aitzorri.
A moment of panic set in and then improvisation took over.
Plan A. Run back to the car and look for another kagool.
Plan B. Hide behind a bush and sneak into the race once it had started.
Ran back up the hill. I’m already out of breath. Meanwhile the pre-race rituals are well underway in the village square. Melodic folk music wafts across the valley. A “dantzari”(basque dancer) performs a little “aurresku” (dance of honour) in homage to the runners and a bertsolari improvises a few verses. Of course I miss out on all of this.
Find a slightly thicker but equally crappy plastic mac in the back of the car. Hope this will be enough to avoid plan B.
Then tear back down the hill yelling “CHUBASQUERO.”
An ambulance crew suddenly look shocked and go ssshhhhh!! in unison. Unfortunately my windcheater war-cry had coincided with a minute’s silence in memory of one of the race organizers recently deceased mother. Whoops! ...they won’t be inviting me again.
Anyway, the same bloke tells me that my replacement plastic kagool wasn’t plastic but was made of a fine technical fabric hand-woven by gnomes which was just fine by me. I pass through.
The Zegama parish church clock is barely seconds away from striking 9 o’clock. It’s all been pretty stressful up to now. No time to take in the atmosphere. No time to rub shoulders with King Kilian or to say hello to Lightfoot and Owens.
Everybody around me looks like they’ve been training for this race for months. Some look as though they’ve been training for this race all their life.
For one moment I ask the inevitable question, “what am I doing here?”
Come to think of it I very nearly wasn’t.
And then I meet the shepherd.
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