Medio Maraton de Almería XX
Sunday 5th February 2017
Well, that was different.
I've lined up for this race on ten previous occasions. Every time, I've gone out inwardly determined to give it everything, to hunt down the best time I can. Sometimes that's worked, like
the year I chased Julie for 10k with my lungs in my throat before 'detaching the glider' and coasting home to a PB.
Or my first attempt, alongside Niguel, once of this Parrish. We'd sung 'Ici nous alons' to the watching locals as we'd scampered up and down the central shopping spine, followed by 'La la la la la la Rambla!' to the tune of 'La Bamba', 'Don't Stand So Close To Me' and 'Football's Coming Home'. He's a funny old stick, is Niguel.
I've run this race
with the mighty Moyleman, seen Simon Ho tear into the first 2k only to be brought back after a false start (the lead bike had taken the wrong route) then lose a shoe at the restart. I've fought
battles with Bag-Drop Crones, I skated round the year it rained and the hard, marble-like roads ran lethally slick as inadequate drains gulped and spluttered in vain. I even
received a pewter plaque from the good Burghers of Almería, to mark my tenth consecutive perambulation.
Not this year. I had a different head on this year. Yet, this 2017 race, preceded by possibly the least training and completed at little more than a leisurely jog, sits proudly amongst the best. Why?
People. Every one of those races has been illuminated by the company of wonderful people. A mixed bag; locals, the far-flung, artists and artisans, some I've known for decades, others I've only just met. MLCMMan writes about the company of runners, and he's right. It doesn't matter a jot if you're Haile Gebrselassie (I raced him here, you know. He won, by any number of streets) or highly underprepared, if it's in you, you're my kind of people. I was surrounded by them; from the creator of this fine forum to my Moyleman comrades, to the Brighton posse and friends from as far away as Sydney and Vancouver. Bliss.
The Medio Maraton is famous for it's organisational eccentricities. False/ late/ uncertain starts, an ever-changing route, a 9k that once measured closer to 13, the only true constant are the generous punnets of tomatoes and the warmth of the welcome. Memories are legion and the stuff of legend. This year was to be no exception. With the 21k start ready on time, projected finishing times up to 2 hours pinned to roadside trees, all looked well set. Until we saw the 9K start, immediately behind the last 21k pen. Ah, a staggered start. But surely, those 9K whippets would be weaving through the slow-coach Halfers. It could get quite messy ...
If only it were that simple. Rumours spread, the usual pre-race murmurs carrying improbable news.
No staggered start. Parked at the back of the long run peloton, behind teams of Legionnaires replete with banners, faux pikes and decked out in colour-coded squad shirts, our small, nervous band glanced back at the massed hoards of lithe short-track racers. Bugger ...
And, we were off. And so were the 9Kers. They trotted up to us, bunched, eager, necks stretching to see what's what. Sharp-eyed runners spied the gaps along the flanks, narrow corridors of fenced off pavement, and took off at speed. As we slowly shuffled towards the start, hundreds of runners poured around us. Antonio looked on, a gentle smile etched across his chiseled jaw. I glanced at Duncan, Graham and Rob.
'See! Ha ha ha ha! Madness ... '
Finally, two full minutes after the gun, we reached the start-line. Chip-readers chirruped and we were off.
Once more, unto the streets, dear friends, once more!
* * * * * * * *
Four klicks in, I slowed to a walk.
I'd decided long ago that this would be a calm one, a stroll. No bug-eyed, frothing madness this year. A slow start, take it easy, see how it all unfolds. This wasn't so much unfolding as unraveling. My recent dabbles in Heart Rate Running and the work of Dr Phil Maffetone had me glancing at my Adidas watch every few seconds. A combination of anxiety and a fairly hilly start had me up into the 160's, so I slowed to a walk on one of the climbs. This was like London in 2004; too frenetic, too hectic.
Chill out, man, slow it all down, enjoy the ride.
Any number of gently jogging runners past me as I talked myself down. I glanced back and there was MLCMMan, moving well, cap set square, leaning forward. He caught me with ease.
'You OK mate?'
I smiled.
'Yeah, all good, I'm just slowing things down so I can enjoy the ride.'
Antonio had set off like a rat out of an aqueduct, barely behind Charliecat5 and OATR, both of whom were shepherding the chanting Legions as they clattered through the city. I couldn't believe he'd left me for dead. I've no doubt herding us lot from pillar to post and the excitement of such a large and diverse Armada had sent our host's adrenaline coursing. I felt sure we'd see him again and said as much to Graham as we cruised through the streets, hi-fiving youngsters, enjoying the scene as we chatted about all things running.
Sure enough, a familiar figure appeared on the horizon. We'd just passed the halfway mark, heading west on Avenida de Cabo de Gata before the U-turn and the longest section, east towards the airport before the long climb home. Antonio was in trouble. Hunched, run-walking with a pronounced limp, he was slowing down. We reached him, chugging gently alongside. He smiled his greeting and explained his calf was in some pain. We ran together, Three Amigos, around the turn and into kilometre twelve. We'd spotted a few of our gang on the way. Brian and Naomi, half a world ahead and cruising. Duncan, then Rob, looking a little less comfortable, both a good kilometre or two ahead of us. We were into the meat of the race and, in all honesty I was feeling pretty good.
Antonio dropped back as we passed the foot of La Rambla, under the aqueduct and, to our right, the Club de Mar. I hoped he'd be able to finish, despite his obvious pain. Knowing Antonio as I do, I felt sure he would give everything. We saw Carmen, Antonio's wife, waving and calling to us. We waved back, lifted by another friendly face, and I knew our man would be OK. Graham and I pressed on as the kilometres crawled by. We started to catch and pass a few runners, some walking. The breeze, mainly off the ocean, whipped and danced around the seafront buildings, offering blessed relief from the rising sun. Not hot, exactly, but warm enough for me. Graham kept a close eye on our pace as my RunKeeper voice chimed out of my Lewes FC shorts every five minutes. We were in the low 6's (per km). I figured that would slow somewhat when we hit the climb to El Stadio. We pressed on.
Around 15k or so we took a left turn. Perhaps we'd crossed a portal, time-travelled to arrive in the old stadium, before the mighty Mediterranean Games monolith rose to loom over the eastern end of town. Metaphorically, perhaps. For this was the Estadio de la Juventud Emilio Campra, indeed a much older stadium, regal, filled with whispers of past sporting deeds, now home to a keenly-marked American Football field, set inside a faded running track. We ran around that track as images from
Chariots of Fire swam in my head. Subconsciously I tilted my head back - '
when I run, I feel his pleasure!' - and ran a little more freely than I had in a while. I snapped a shot of of the pair of us as we banked around the bend.
Fifteen minutes later, into the 18th kilometre, climbing steadily away from the ocean along Calle de la Argentinita, Graham called it.
'Mate, you press on if you want to, I'm going to ease up'.
I thought about pushing him, but stopped short. I'd been slowly winding it up, from gentle jog to steady chug. As the road rose I'd started leaning into the hill, effectively speeding up, up hill. This wasn't in Graham's race plan. I was in danger of stuffing things up for him.
'OK mate, run well. See you at the finish.'
I set off and realised my legs wanted to push again. I felt elated. I'd been certain that lack of training would eventually catch me out. True, the impossibly hard Almerían streets had pounded my quads into mince. They throbbed in pain as I strode on.
These are gonna hurt later.
That's as maybe, but there are still three or more kilometres to go.
Suck it up, fella.
Around 19K I spied Rob's yellow shirt. Like Antonio, he was showing signs of pain. His calves had mounted a mutiny. Pounded by concrete surely forged in the cruel heart of the Earth, they were locked in silent protest. We exchanged greetings and I offered an easy slap on the back before pushing on. In truth, my own legs were now in rebellion. All so familiar, ten years of experience reminding me all at once that this was how it would be, so best get on and finish. I grimaced. The voices were right. Unless I fancied a rather long walk, my only option was to push on.
Right at 20k I spied a familiar orange shirt. Lounging on the roadside, propped up against a thin, tall tree; Charliecat5.
Top man, I thought. He's come back to see his mates in. I assumed he'd finished and jogged back to this point. I was wrong.
'I didn't want to finish alone' he grinned as he stepped in alongside me.
'So I waited for Rob. And then you appeared.'
I smiled. Typical of the man, it's more about friendship than results. Then I groaned. Oh no ...
'You swine. You're feeling fresh, aren't you?'
He chuckled, said nothing and stepped up the pace. I dug in. Oh well, at least he'll get me home quicker so this infernal stabbing in my legs can end.
I was working hard now, arms pumping, breath coming in rasps. I gulped water at an alarming rate, tipping the last of it over my head. I felt hot, in pain and desperate for the finish. I'd tried to avoid this, but in truth all I'd managed to do was reduce the suffering by a kilometre or two.
We snaked through the markers around the stadium finally, mercifully, onto the ramp that led to the adjacent warm-up track and the finish line. As we rounded that corner a cheer went up. There was Team RC, all the 9K finishers, roaring us home. This lifted me again, I managed a wave and a grin - grimace? - as I chased the Cat around the top bend and into the home straight, crossing the line in his wake in an acceptable 2:11:11.
What a cracking weekend.
A magnificent post-race dinner with Antonio (he finished, of course he did, thundering home to joyous applause from his mates), Santi, Felipe, Antonio Garcia, Paul, Carmen, not to mention our own international wabble of woudy webbles. Cerveza and Rioja flowed, plates of tapas, meat and fish appeared as the happy banter bounced around the Old Town restaurant. They're right, you know, Duncan and Graham. It's the people,
these people, who make this what it is. The beaming smiles, the glinting eyes, pain and achievement shared, glasses raised for spluttered toasts.
Absent friends,
Auld Lang Syne, so much laughter.
I'll be back.
