Medio Maratón de Almería 2013

[Sweder]

Part One: Arrival

'Travel broadens the mind and shortens the temper' - Sweder

With eighteen hundred metres to run, I glanced at my watch and hit the gass.
Nothing happened. C'est finis, la comedie. Nothing left in the tank, old boy. Time to hang on in quiet desperation. It's the English way ...

Well? How did I get here?

An early start, scooping up runners from Lewes and Brighton until the Rookmobile was stuffed to the gunwales with slowly awakening bodies and their luggage. Louise, Cam, Julie, Gill and Marian. A bevy of beauties! Bags dropped, credentials checked and customary Costa coffee slurped, we boarded our flight. I'd found my copy of the Hydrogen Sonata (having convinced myself I'd lost it en route to Chez Gordo in Zurich. Just goes to show how much toot I trapse around with me. It's a hefty tome). I settled into my seat, not much bothered if I read or snoozed. If only. No sooner had we departed the gate and commenced the round of 'what to do if we crash' instructions than an irked pilot popped up on the intercom. There was a Gremlin in the in-aircraft communications. They were re-booting the system to see if that would fix it.

They did. It didn't. We needed an engineer to find out why. The stricken vessel crawled back to the gate at an apologetic rate. Oh well, I had my book. So long as we got there before race HQ shut. An outrageously sunbed-tanned gentlemen straight out of TOWIE, located two rows back, evidently did not share my sanguine approach. He raged, a voice honed by late night drink and many, many cigarettes, through bright pink, blood-shot eyes, bellowing about diabolical liberties and suggesting that our fatherless hosts would have trouble arranging an enthusiastic beer tasting in a beer manufacturing facility. He was decidedly chuffed when, a good hour after re-docking, we were told to abandon ship. A bus tour of Gatwick's underbelly followed, leading to an identical (in all-but-one small but apparently critical detail) aircraft.

Dreams of leisurely breakfasts and sweet Andalucian coffees had long since faded. I purchased and scarfed a 'Healthy Box' on board, a collection of tasteless, snap-dry goods related in some way to someone's concept of 'healthy'. Dear Marketing People, putting a blueberry on a packet does not make a thing 'good for you'. Holding hungry people captive for four hours the day before a half marathon, however, will shift a lot of onboard merchandise, no matter how hard it, and the price, might be to swallow.

Touch down Almería: 14:30 local time. Passports, baggage reclaim, then warm hugs with our 'host with the most', the incomparable Antonio, a warm smile spread across that chiseled visage. I introduced our newbies, Louise and Simon's companion, Andrea, before boarding cars to the digs. This year's hotel proved to be a winner. The NH, opposite the train station in the heart of the city, served up free wifi, comfy furniture and an impressive sustainability policy. Breakfast was a triumph, unlike the lobby bar which, during my truncated stay, was never open.

Race HQ was located in the sports hall adjacent to El Stadio. There's a wonderful frisson of excitement, a bubbling wellspring of bonhomie at this part of the event. Friends meet and chat for ages in corridors lined with stalls flogging the latest gels, shoes and running paraphernalia. Talk is of war-wounds, details of aches and pains traded like picture cards. 'Getting your excuses in early' as we golfers like to say. Of course we had our own chips to bargain with. The delay, lack of/ horrible food, various enclaves of muscular discomfort, a long winter of snowy discontent, hail, apocalypse ... It's all good fun. N o-one takes it at all seriously. Each runner's tale is greeted with wide-eyed incredulity and no small measure of sympathy behind smiling, knowing eyes.

Numbers safely pouched we made to leave when Antonio steered us to one of the side tables. This one was adorned with garish orange technical shirts and guarded by a phalanx of fit looking people wearing the same. At the centre stood an impressive woman. Legs of oak, a tanned, determined face, a beaming smile and an open, welcoming hand. This was Alex Panayotou, a runner reknowned for remarkable endurance in aid of childrens charities. On Friday she completed an 82 kilometre run.

We stopped to chat and I could feel my jaw slacken as she told stories of running in England.
'We ran from Gloucester to Norwich, non-stop. It took around 50 hours. We had a right schedule because I wanted to arrive at Carrow Road (home to Norwich City) at halftime during a premier league match.'
Holy hell. She also ran 2011 kilometres in 30 days. Tomorrow she would complete the half 'in my own time'. We bought shirts and bade her farewell, Julie and Antonio pledging to wear theirs for the race. Not I. For me only my well-worn, trusty RC vest would do.

We walked back to the hotel and set off in search of tapas. Everyone was pretty wiped out and no-one fancied the planned, semi-formal sit-down. Tapas sounded quicker, more flexible, so we hunted down a local bar. Good choice. Russian salad, 'Torres' a tasty-looking yet not-quite-as-good-as-it-should-be local ham (chuckle), mushrooms and calamari. Simon, Andrea, Julie and I indulged in a couple of glasses of delicious Alhambra beer. On the TV Lionel Messi was bagging tour goals against a hapless Osasuna. By the time we'd paid and got up to leave I was shattered. We strolled back to the digs and bade each other good night. Just as I wondered if I'd managed to get doze off I collapsed into bed where I slept the sleep of the Dead.