Medio Maratón de Almería 2013

[Sweder]

Part Two - Race Day

'If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen' - Harry S Trueman
'You must take dead aim' - Harvey Penick

Breakfast at the NH. Tables loaded with morning tapas; delicate portions of fruit, chocolate-infused baked goods, cereals, yoghurt, toast and those ubiquitous Almerian tomatoes. Two unfeasibly complicated coffee machines (that insisted on over-filling your cup no matter what buttons you pressed) sat next to an aray of fresh juices. Plates loaded, we gathered about a large round table. Through busy mouths we agreed, without exception, to having slept like logs.

I returned to my room for the ritual Donning of the Running Garb. Lewes Ladies FC shorts, knee-length socks and my trusted RC vest. I'd pinned my number on last night, managing to avoid the usual farce of pinning my vest to the bedspread. Now, shoes. I'd brought my battered road shoes, veterans of the 2010 Connemarathon, Almeria 2011/12 and last year's Brighton Marathon. Comfy, a hint of spring left, yet decidedly past their best. On the other foot I had my brand new Wave Harrier 3s. I pulled on the latter. They felt snug. Moments later in the lobby I was greeted by gasps of disbelief. I thought for a moment I'd forgotten to put my clothes on.
'You can't wear those! Look at those aggressive soles! No, no ... put your road shoes on.'
The chorus of disapproval was unanimous. I felt like such a dumbass as I trudged back to the elevators. The streets of Almeria are paved with the hardest substance known to man. As soon as I strapped on the road shoes I knew this to be the right move. Sometimes we simply think too much about these things. Or, perhaps in my case, not enough.

Antonio arrived at 9.15 to cart those who fancied a ride up to the start. Julie and I jumped in along with Simon and Andrea. We parked and set off to find the others who had walked the mile to the stadium. I asked Antonio which direction they'd be coming from. He looked flustered and admitted he wasn't sure. There followed a comical game of text tag where Julie and I tried to track down Louise and Cam. At last we met, barely five minutes before the off, under the giant inflated arch by the chip mats. Cam was in a tizzwaz, muttering darkly about chaotic preparation and being 'not happy'. I avoided trying to humour her and sloped off to the back of the pack.

The pack, an impressive body of several hundred lean, tanned running folk. Louise, Simon and Andrea loitered there, happy to let others thrash their way to the front. We started more or less on time, at ten o'clock, a loud gunshot and a cheer heralding the moment. A minute or so later the sound of shuffling feet reached us and we started to move, walking then jogging as we reached what I assumed was the start line. There were several arches set up along the road. You're never really certain that you've crossed the official start line in this race.

Within a minute I was swept into the colourful human rapids coursing through the first couple of bends. The route took us around the stadium and along a dual carriageway, dropping gently towards the distant ocean. After several kilometres I spied the leaders heading back to us, at some incredible rate, too. This was effectively a straight out-and-back opening 9k. I'd opted to carry one gel in my pocket and no water. This might be the first year I've relied solely on water stations. Almeria usually gets in-flight hydration spot on, and so it proved this year. Despite a few wispy high clouds the run was making inroads and I started to sweat, delighted with my choice of singlet and shorts. The locals feel this is the dark depths of winter. Many wore leggings, gloves and hats, yet five kicks in I was cooking nicely. My pace was a fairly even, pleasingly comfortable 7'30" m/m. I would need to step this up to hit a PB but it was fine for now.

After a series of roundabouts we completed a slingshot just shy of the seafront, heading back up a slight gradient towards the stadium. I kept a look out for friends coming the other way, spying Julie not far behind. We greeted each other with a raised palm and a smile. Working hard I reached the 9k turn-off, wheeling away left towards the city. Here the route started to wriggle through suburban streets before turning onto Avenida Medetteraneo and the climb north over Aqualung bridge. The eponimous bar is still there, unvisited by our clan since El Gordo, Seafront Plodder and I spent a few surreal hours in the joint some years back. I passed one of several 10k markers, my Garmin showing 47 minutes. Decent, but the toughest half was yet to come.

On over the bridge to the fountain, a left hook and off toward La Rambla. I started a game of tag with a young lad dressed in yellow, hair like a 1970's Brazilian footballer. He'd push on and leave me on the flat sections, I'd reel him back in on the climbs. We turned right onto La Rambla, about halfway up. I passed a few strugglers, no doubt some of those who had raced off at the start. Locals lined the street, clapping and yelling 'Vamos! Venga, Venga!' as we streamed by. The wide-eyed look on the faces of the little children made me smile. They must think, for this one day of the year, that the world had gone quite mad.

At last the turn, the drop back down the far side of La Rambla. A quick mop with a wet sponge, a bottle of water, half that over my part-boiled head, before I let my limbs go loose and gravity play her part. My pace had dropped to 8'20" on the climb. Now it crept back below 8 minutes as the descent steepened and my stride lengthened. Just then, a familiar voice to my right.
'Alright Ash?'
It was Cam, looking relaxed, easily matching my stride. She'd had an eventful race so far, including two unscheduled pit-stops to 'take relief'. Even so she was making good progress. I had to hang on a bit to stay with her as we plunged seaward.

At the bottom of the hill we took two sharp left-handers, slinging us back up the other side to complete La Rambla loop. Although slight the incline bit into our pace. My breathing was quick and shallow as I dug in, elbows pumping. After half a klick we reached the road we'd come in on, turning right to retrace our steps towards the bridge. Up and over, down the Avenida Meditteraneo, all the way to the seafront this time. Left, left again and we were climbing towards the stadium once more.
'Three to go' breathed Cam. I glanced at my watch. Three? Ah, yes. Miles.
Three miles to go. Not much more than the return from Blackcap. Except this is mostly uphill. And I'm hot. And my legs hurt. And I can't get enough air.
'You push on if you want, I'm struggling'.
I laughed. Cam had echoed my thoughts exactly.
'I'm good, mate. Let's keep plugging away.'
We did. Plug, plug, plug, catching and passing distressed runners, eating up the hard road. These infernal streets were grinding my gears. My quads screamed and I could feel a small yet significant tightening at the top of my right hamstring. The 18 kilometre marker bobbed past. Closer. My breath was coming in short, hot gasps. It felt like I couldn't get enough fuel into my muscles. My legs tightened with every step. I straighted my neck, trying to hold form as we ploughed on. At last the stadium rose before us, floodlight towers looming over the curved fascia like Martian tripods from War of the Worlds. Uuuuuuulaaaaaaah ....

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 ...

As Cam eased away from me the numbers on the Garmin told me two things: my pace was dropping, nudging 8 m/m now, and I was going to fall short of a PB. Not by much, but an inch is as good as a mile in the PB business. I cursed softly and tried once more to accelerate. That twinge in my right hamstring became a sharp sting, a clear warning to throttle back. We left the road for a series of police-tape zig-zags around the outside of the stadium. This years' finish was on a running track set between the stadium and the sports hall. It dawned on me we'd still have to complete a lap of the track before finishing. I felt all-in, dragging myself round the inside line, inner demons giggling. I've seen video footage of this part of races past. It's an ugly sight, runners thinking they're giving it the full Eric Liddell, heads thrown back, eyes wide, gunning for the tape. The reality is more like dazed revellers staggering out of a nightclub. As I hit the final straight I saw Louise and Gillybean waving and yelling amongst the crowd. I flashed a grin and a wave of my own, stabbing a finger at my Garmin as I crossed the line. 1:41 and change, just a minute or two from glory.

My chest heaved as I sucked warm air. Runners arrived around me, hands landing on knees, apparently intent on stealing my oxygen. I hobbled forward, legs already horribly tight, wondering how I'd get down to release my race chip, never mind how I'd get back up. I found Cam and we hugged, a nasty, sweaty experience for her, I fear. The gel sat un-used in my pocket. I'm not sure it would have made much difference had I remembered to suck it down on route.
'Well done' she beamed.
'Gave it my best shot' I heaved. 'Left it all out there'.
True enough, I didn't hold anything back. As ever, my first thoughts were that I'd really rather not do this again, thanks all the same. My body felt empty, eviscerated. My breathing slowed, I grabbed an isotonic drink and munched on some fruit. Better. After swapping my chip for a goody bag I grabbed a plate of ham, crisps and nuts and a cup of coke. Better still. We joined the others at the finish to cheer our friends home. Julie, Marian, Simon (grimacing horribly, dragging a stiffening leg), some familiar local faces, Phillipe, Alex and her Orange team, the two Antonios, before taking a few post-run pictures for posterity.

Another one in the bag, a good effort. Not quite the sub-100 minute breakthrough I'd hoped for. A reminder, if one were needed, that as much as you might think you're making progress, there's always more you can do. Take dead aim, as Mr Penick tells us. This PB business is about fractions, about moments in time. Train that bit harder, run that bit faster. Ask yourself those tough, uncomfortable questions. Take. Dead. Aim.

As we took the long, slow walk back to the hotel, my thoughts turned to hot showers and cold beer.
And, if I'm brutally honest, my tenth edition of this January festival.
I'll be back.