January

[Sweder]

Another cracking trip to Almería. Great company, a superb, self-less host, the unbridled madness of Spanish race organisation (spot the oxymoron). What a pleasure to come to a city where everyone is happy to welcome you and the local half marathon is celebrated as a major international sporting event.

There's more than local enthusiasm at work here; team RC is assembled from very different corners of the real world, gathered once more in Andalucia. A gentle camaraderie born in cyberspace, as natural and abundant as the warm winter rain. Nigel summed it up (he has a knack, you know) during a recovery lope along the seafront. He noted how lucky we are to have found this place (Running Commentary) in the mind-bending vastness of the internet, and, through it, each other.

Stop Your Grinnin and Drop Your Linnen

The tenth running of the Medio Maratόn de Almería was remarkable for two reasons. First up, full-on, heart-stopping madness of the bag drop. Most races have a bag identification system, based on a luggage tag or sticker issued with your race number. You peel off your pre-run togs, stuff them into a bag tagged with your number and hurl it in the general direction of the highly-valued volunteers.

Nothing so simple here. Having stamped my feet about post-race shivers, I was rightly nominated team RC bag man. After a leisurely breakfast we strolled to the Estadio Mediterráneo, casting nervous glances towards the moody clouds gathering above the peaks of the Sierra Almahilla. It seemed the breeze, occasionally gusting to 'wind', hailed from seaward, meaning any race-day rain would be blown north and away from the city.

Reaching the stadium some twenty minutes before the start we jammed sweatshirts, windcheaters and jackets into a bag. I trotted into the stadium halls to find the bag drop . . . and stumbled into a war zone. Frantic, wild-eyed runners clutched their bags of clothes as they swarmed around a collection of frail trestle tables, behind which cowered three sun-dried crones. Bemused, I pressed closer and, to my horror, realised what was going on.

The grand plan of the organisers to 'streamline' the bag drop was to pre-print runner numbers onto slips of white paper. Rather than distribute these to runners before hand it was deemed easier to match numbers to runners in the moments before the start. As each runner arrives at the drop,they reveal their race number and a lady locates the corresponding tag. They then move aside, the runner staples the number to the plastic bag and another volunteer takes the bag and places it in the store room. OK, not the simplest system but it should work, right?

Wrong. Some bright spark had separated the numbers into individual slips . . . and piled them up on the counter. As the number of runners grew and the race start approached, tempers frayed and panic set in. Hands appeared from behind the front line, scattering the numbers across the tables in a desperate search for that one corresponding tag. Slips of paper flew everywhere. The ladies clucked and tutted, gathering the slips up and spreading them in smaller, entirely mixed up piles. The racers became more frenzied, eyes bulging, cries of desperation ringing through the stadium halls.
Vamos! Arriba!!
Ever-more anguished cries from the rear grew louder, more urgent. The sea of athletes became decidedly choppy and I was jostled to the front as the mood turned ugly.

'Err, tres, tres quatro?' I enquired as fingers dug into my ribs and trainer-clad feet scuffed across my own.
The wrinkled lady looked at me and smiled, a small enclave of surviving teeth peeping out from behind her pursed lips.
'Cluck-tut' she said. 'No se . . . 334 . . . Tut-cluck'. She swept an ancient paw through the stack of paper, sparking another frantic surge and more wild grabbing from the mob behind. It was almost race time and this really wasn't happening.

Just as I felt myself drowning in anguish, destined to remain behind as my comrades took the fight to La Rambla, a white knight rode into the heart of the melee . . . Antonio! Wholly familiar with this carnage, our genial host flashed a biro through the air, firing instructions to the besieged women. I watched him scrawl my race number on the bag and realised he'd just told the woman to find my number and affix it to this bag. As this sank in Antonio grabbed my arm.
'Come on Ash, we have to go'.

We jogged out into the cool morning air and up the ramp to the street above. Hundreds of runners gathered near the start.  Somehow, we found team RC, loitering at the back of the field. There was barely time for a hurried photo before the starter called us forward.

Start?

An electronic reader/ mat had set our chips as we entered the start pen, but as we lumbered forward behind the mass of runners I realised something was missing. El Gordo voiced the question.
'Hey, where's the start line?'   
'Err . . . dunno . . .'’
Quite simply there was none.
No second bank of mats, no chirrup of mass chip-readings . . . just a stampede of runners heading away from the stadium and into the long descent towards the ocean.
'Bloody hell! No start line!'’
'Tally-Ho!'’
We stared at each other, incredulity writ large on our non-plussed faces. Those with Garmins reached to start them, looked in vain for a sign that the race had indeed begun, shrugged and hit 'start' anyway. What chaos! Nigel giggled madly, throwing his hands up as we chugged along. Seven hundred souls, pounding the pavements in the search of glory; we were off, officially or otherwise.

Aquí vamos ahora!