Medio Maratón de Almería 2013

[Sweder]

Where's the post-race celebrations in the dimly lit tavernas of deepest, darkest Almeria?

I can't remember too much about that, to be honest.
Judging by the state of the shredded, shambling shadow of a man shuffling through Madrid airport on Monday it was quite a party.

I know we enjoyed a wondrous five-course meal courtesy of the fellow that usually feeds us post-race. There was beer, wine, fizzy wine, speeches (Antonio, myself, Simon), salad, cheese, salmon, meat (served in a giant ravioli) and a dessert plate to keep the Sugarheads nicely hopped up. Then there was Molly's. There was Guinness, there was La Liga on TV, there were various visiting dignitaries, local characters and the ever-beguiling bar manageress who, I am delighted to relate, now pours a mean, slim-headed pint of the black stuff. Time after time. After time. Until at least 1am, possibly later.

I bailed out, crawling into a taxi early on Monday after shelling out a King's Ransom on a ticket home. The knife-missile aircraft that took me from Almeria to Madrid was a thing of wonder. Sleek, slim and, apparently, fired out of a large gun. I squeezed myself into the tiny compartment and clung on for dear life. The only thing I managed to keep down the whole day was a series of chocolate milk beverages. I highly recommend these when traveling with the mother of all hangovers.