Almeria Half Marathon Report - I

[Sweder]

The flat proves tougher than expected. A swirling wind plays cruel tricks, appearing to be against us Eastbound yet strangely against us on the return loop. Runners paranoia? Perhaps, but my colleague is suffering the same delusion as we ponder the anomaly. All such thoughts evaporate as we hear then spy the leaders' motorcade. The front runners have completed their second lap of the Rambla. Unlike us they will proceed on past the roundabout and up the last hill to the Stadium and rapturous applause.

‘Here he comes’ I pant. ‘Lets move over the get a better view’.
We move over, brushing the traffic cones that divide the street into East and West bound lanes. There’s the lead car, full of race officials, bizarrely accompanied by a second vehicle blazing disco music from loud speakers strapped to the roof. I respond with a less than dignified jig, drawing the finger-wagging ire of officials. I cease and desist, however, as the pace car draws closer. For here he is. And there he goes; Haile Gabrieselassie, feet flying inches above the ground, face the image of focus, floating along on a beam of endless energy and superlative, matchless class.

‘Go on Haile’ I yell. N joins in, and we watch as The Man flies past. The moment infects us with renewed enthusiasm. This man is a living running legend, and he’s just flown by on his way to, as it turned out, a 61 minute half marathon. Not too shabby. More than that, we are in the same race, albeit around 45 minutes behind at this stage, but technically on the same course. It's a privilege to see an exponent of the art you embrace as your own at such close quarters, in his office, doing the business. Suzie and I ran in the 2003 Flora London Marathon (we discovered we had shared the experience in conversation following this race) when Paula Radcliffe shattered her World Record. On that day I didn’t see the First lady of Distance Running, but the buzz created by her finishing time lifted the masses trailing in her wake. Seeing Gabrieselassie pass us on his way to victory (at the point of passing he is no more than 15 feet away) is nothing short of awesome.

Inspired we kick on, headed for round two with the Rambla. Onto the upslope and we are serenaded by The Police; not, you understand, a barber-shop quartet from the local constabulary, but a clear broadcast of the popular late 1970’s three piece band headed by Sting. N joins in; ‘Don’t stand so close to me’ he growls, uphill gears engaging. ‘All we need now is Message In A Bottle: “Sending out an SOS . . . “’ he sings. We push on.

The best thing about inclines in races is that a lot of tail-enders struggle, giving people like me the opportunity to reel them in and overtake. We indulge in some overtaking on this second circuit, steadily catching then passing a succession of local runners. M is there again, on the North side now, camcorder traded for a stills camera. ‘Come the English boys’ she hails. We wave, a little less robustly than on our previous encounter, but I manage a weak smile.

Its about this time I start my Snake mantra. N tells me later that day this is most disturbing. I recite lines from ‘The End’, the Doors number used to stunning effect at the end of Apocalypse Now. This mentions The Snake (verse printed in a previous thread), but to the unprepared hearing it out of context it can sound a little disturbing. My associate attempts to keep my sanity intact. ‘Control’ he demands, referring to an earlier conversation about keeping your running within the narrow band between apathy and exhaustion. He later confesses that this is less directed at my ramblings and more designed to slow me down, as the second attack on the Rambla is taking it’s toll.

Despite N finding the going tougher we both dig in. Focused on discarding this incline as efficiently as possible I fail to notice, and it is to his credit that N keeps his dark thoughts to himself and stays with me. Finally the turn arrives and we wheel around onto the downhill section for the last time. Football, it would appear, is still coming home. At least N believes it is, and he wants to share this news with our supporters and a group of portly contestants now in our sights.

Jose, Antonio’s brother and a damned fine chap, appears on his bicycle, free-wheeling past us as we thud down the Rambla. ‘Jose!’ we cry in unison. He grins, balancing his digital camera with one hand as he contorts his body on the cycle to capture the moment. I am concerned that he will lose his balance or career into the traffic lights, but he maintains posture and snaps away. This proves to be another boost to moral, and we kick on again. M appears for the last time, having crossed the central Rambla area, to deliver a send off and another welcome beaming smile.

Back onto the straight with its fickle winds. I am flagging. There’s no doubt I paid my dues on the Rambla, and we’re still on 2 hour pace, but the grind of the straight coupled with the occasional slap from the gusting breeze is knocking my resolve. N seizes the moment and once again presses on. I slip nonchalantly into his slipstream and shamelessly take a tow for a couple of klicks. I’ll be needed on the run for home, I tell my wriggling conscience, and continue to shelter, running easier now.

We reach the roundabout and – oh merciful joy – we slingshot North on the last climb, the run for home. Again, figures appear ahead, and they are not doing well. By the time we reach the turn East for the last k or so we have passed around 25 runners, many walking, some hobbling. So it goes with these events. We weave through a number of turns and then – a glimpse! The Stadium, so close yet we still have work to do. 'El Stadio!' I yell. We’re at the top of the rise and N is again driving the pace. Alongside the Stadium compound now, and heading for a wonderful sporting moment enjoyed by Olympians and runners of a pedigree few can aspire to.

Right turn – and there it is, the steep drop, the tunnel, the running track, swathed in watery sunlight, the sounds of a fair crowd greeting the finishers ahead. N races on, more due to my reluctance to hurtle down the slope than his desire to break away I fall behind. Onto the track and I find an ounce of energy, rejoining my partner. Then the penny drops; it’s a 500 metre finish – a full lap with a hundred metre dash for good measure. Looking to the right I see a patchy yet vociferous crowd, mostly finishers and their supporters. I wave, but attention is reserved for the locals. Round the top bend, down the back straight, round the bottom bend and into the home straight. A group of finishers flounder just ahead. ‘We’ve got to catch this lot’ I grunt, and reach for the last drop of reserve for a sprint finish. It’s there (of sorts), and I surge forward. N is with me, we pass the last group and, spying the official photographer lining us up, strike a suitably cheesy finishing pose. The stadium clock reads 01:54:50 as we finish, comfortably inside 2 hours, a most acceptable time.

I slap N on the back, he shakes my hand, grinning. ‘Well done’ in unison.
I realise I have to remove my chip – this involves some serious unlacing of my left boot – and I crouch on the grass to attend to it. A minute later I’m still down there, wondering where all my breath has gone, staring at the partially laced shoe. Spent. Knackered. Happy. Relieved. Chuffed. All these and more.

Championships exchanged for finishers packs and a drink we hobble along the inner grass towards the entrance to the stadium. We cheer our companions home; the incredibly fresh-looking SuzieQ, bang on her 02:08 projected time. Antonio, hampered by injury yet determined to finish. Seafront Plodder, looking as fresh at the last as he did at the first, and the DA, yellow Hal Hidgeon hat in place, running in easy style, shattering his PB by some 5 minutes. ‘Hills?’ he said in the post race analysis, sometime later. ‘What hills?’

Well done one and all.