Diary of an injured runner

[Bierzo Baggie]

December 1996; zero, zero, zero, zero....
until..
Sun 29th: 40 minutes (Monjuic) 8km

“Monjuic” (misspelt) is Montjuic, a hillside rearing up above Barcelona city centre. Overlooking the busy harbour amongst other things you can find old fortifications, the Olympic stadium and Joan Miro’s museum of modern art where every second exhibit was entitled “Woman and Bird”.

At some point I ran up Montjuic and back to where I was staying and it took me 40 minutes. The distance of 8k would have been based on an estimated average speed of 5 minutes per kilometre. I might have been faster or I might have been slower. The running notebook times may be as relative as truth itself.

With Barcelona sadly in the news this summer the miniscule reference to Montjuic suddenly magnifies and although I have no recollection of this run it triggered other long forgotten memories. A couple of days previously, we had ridden the Shanghai Express, a bolt-squeakingly rickety old train that had started its journey in Vigo and 16 hours later arrived in Barcelona Sants railway station. The motive of this trip was to spend the New Year with Mrs BB’s mad uncle who had just been released from prison. Let’s call him uncle Abby.

Uncle Abby had been receiving free board and lodging in “El Modelo,” a crumbling 19th century gaol etched into the annals of modern Spanish history. Within those walls slept political prisoners, prisoners of war, trade unionists, gypsy folk heroes, celebrity delinquents, corrupt politicians, ETA terrorists… At some point Britain’s very own celebrity drugs smuggler Howard “Mr Nice” Marks paid his respects here.

The grim structure cast its shadows just across the block from where we arrived at the railway station. It looks like an extremely severe Catholic cathedral. And just below Montjuic lies the Poble Sec neighbourhood (“barrio” sounds more appropriate) where uncle Abby now lived a mere stroll away, as was Las Ramblas and the Gothic Quarter. Everything was nearby and cosily accessible. Even the prison.

The following days involved a lot of walking. Uncle Abby led the way, speeding around the city as fast as a racewalker, spinning legs fuelled more by anxiety than athleticism. We visited the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s wacky Parque Guell, the botanical gardens… but we never stayed anywhere for very long.

We also visited bars. Lots of them. We visited a quaint Beatles tribute bar called El “Cavern Club de los Corts”. In another, Spanish TV personality Moncho Borrajo improvised an impromptu early- hours jazz concert of real quality. But many of the bars were insalubrious to say the least.

We met a string of bizarre cinematographic characters. They seemed straight out of that peculiar genre of Spanish film called “cine kinki”. These were films from the 70s and 80s often based on real events that are difficult to define. Think Michael Caine’s “Get Carter” version Flamenco.

Wish I could remember more about this incredible procession of loveable lunatics. For now I only recall a ghostly man called Pencil-face and a short stocky fellow nicknamed “El Peque” (the wee man) who had a face full of scars. Uncle Abby himself was short too with a thick Groucho Marx moustache, large slightly off-centred eyes and a mischievous cackle. He had worked on oil rigs in the North Sea, a fishing boat in the North Atlantic and on being released as a porter in the Boqueria market where 21 years later the young brainwashed terrorist took refuge seconds after performing his hideous deed.
Uncle Abby told stories late into the night often in an indecipherable Galician dialect. Such a shame I hardly understood a word he said.

We watched Pulp Fiction and listened to Jethro Tull.

And more than 21 years on I surprise myself recalling details of those days whilst not even remembering a moment of that Montjuic run. Perhaps my running was and is such a reflex action that it doesn’t even register half the time. I was in good shape back then though and I remember that it was pretty shocking to see some of these people who you just knew wouldn’t make it to their 50s.

Early this summer a brief report on the news announced the closure of the historic Modelo prison in Barcelona. It will remain open for guided visits for a short season until being pulled down and replaced with spanking new flats. I’m sure uncle Abby would have liked to have shown us around and tell us a few more stories.