January

[Sweder]

I spent the first few hundred metres chatting excitedly with Nigel and Antonio as we passed through the industrial zone before the downhill run into town. Several eerily still figures stood on the rooftops to watch the writhing, multi-coloured snake weave through the narrow streets.
'Weird ... reminds me of Black September' quipped Nigel.

As I found my running legs I eased away from my companions, making gentle progress through the crowd. Ahead, a young fellow ran with a football, dribbling the ball easily along the route. He wore a race number and two things were readily apparent; one, he intended to dribble that ball all the way, and two, at the pace he was going, and as comfortable as he looked, he would finish way before me.

About a klick and a half in we reached the aqueduct, turning west under the high arches and onto the main coast road. My pace felt easy, no more than training speed, and I resolved to carry on this way at least until the second climb on the circuit. La Rambla is one of the city's main arteries leading from the seafront, up a hill and, if you carry on up, into the impressive Sierras beyond. Flanked by shops and eateries, the generous central reservation boasted palm trees and rest areas. The incline is at best gentle and I ran easily, acknowledging the applause of the well-wrapped Almerìans lining the street.

At the top of La Ramblas the route makes a left-hand horseshoe turn, leading back down the long slope to seaward. I took advantage of the water and fresh orange quarters on offer, grunting ‘'Gracias!'’ as I lumbered by. I resisted the temptation to give it the gun down the hill, preferring to keep a steady pace. Back on the sea road, now heading east, I knuckled down to some patient, flat-road running, possibly the hardest section for me. I like distractions; hills, corners, dodgy terrain, they keep my mind busy and make life more interesting. The sight of the leading runners gliding towards me on the opposite side of the road perked me up, and I offered them woolly applause as they sped by.

Woolly? Ah yes, the fashion faux pas.:o
I'd convinced myself that this would be a cold and windy run. I nipped out of the hotel early that morning to sniff the air and gauge the conditions, foolishly choosing full leggings, a long sleeved race top, windcheater and gloves. I was now cooking gently in this ridiculous swaddling, but, stubborn to the last, refused to shed so much as a layer. As I approached the large roundabout, our turning point last year, I spied Antonio's brother José, poised to snap a photo. I offered him my best cheesy grin and an open-armed salute.

This year, our turning point would be a kilometre further east. The organisers, presumably in an attempt to ensure faster times, had excised part of La Rambla (much to my displeasure) adding to the flat section. It was here I first noticed the wind as it gusted across and into the eastbound runners. At last the new turn (a smaller roundabout), my pace even and easy as I strode west. A chip mat appeared at 9K, an odd distance to have a checkpoint , except, of course, that it would catch out any wags who chose to take the 'old' turn in order to shave a few minutes of their PB. Forty six minutes for 9K; I couldn't quite work out if this was good or bad, so I plodded on.

Part of the joy of having a long flat section where the east and west traffic pass is you get to hail your mates. First up was Niguel, fairly close behind and looking loftily comfy, an easy half-shearer and a confident grin returning my greeting. Then Antonio, more workmanlike in his action, a compact bustling style, and again a grin of recognition as I called his name. I managed to miss Suzie but I did see El Gordo, resplendent in Blue and Yellow - 'Mr EU' as I’'d called him at the start - his steady tread well set. I thought he looked a little red in the face, but having heard of his concerns for my own lobster-like appearance it might have been the reflection of my own broiled visage.

Approaching the Rambla for the second time I reached into the pocket in the back of my windcheater for the first of two secret weapons; my I-pod. I've never engaged a musical device in a race before. I'd hit on the idea the previous afternoon as I'd considered my strategies. If I felt like cranking things up without a companion to run with/ against, (no Garmin this year), I'd need a way to measure my pace. There's no finer guide than rock n roll, so as I had last Friday I turned to some old friends to help me lift the tempo. As I banked hard right to meet the rising road Motorhead kicked in, an anthemic cacophony from Kiss of Death hammering into my ears. I felt a surge of energy, picking up the pace to catch and overtake a couple of flagging locals.

I fair flew down the southbound secton, stride lengthened, a big grin on my face as I hailed the crowds. I felt fantastic, but to be sure to maintain the effort I reached for my second pace-aid; the espresso Hammer Gel. I tore off the top and squirted a mouthful of thick coffee-chocolate goo down my throat, flushing the concoction with a few gulps of agua.
I've played my joker; now it's time to strike for home.

Back on the flat I pushed my pace, keeping sensors alert for any signs of pain as the crashing sounds of ACDC and Status Quo (early stuff of course, none of that Rockin All Over The World/ Chas n Dave rubbish) drove me on. I passed José once more, this time a gloved 'thumbs up '’for him, and onward, onward, toward the Big Roundabout and the sharp left-hander onto the Avenida de Mediterraneo for the long climb to Estadio . . .

. . .except of course it wasn't.
Camera shot: rapid zoom in/ dolly-roll backwards.
Subject enlarges whilst background appears to shrink. Add sliding violin strings as Sweder stares slack-jawed into the near distance.
The swine! It's double bloody bubble! We have to do the new extra flat bit again!
Calm down; it’'ll be 13.1 miles whichever way they paint it. Suck it up.

The checkpoint read 1:27. I did the math (badly as it turned out), reckoning a PB was just about doable if I murdered the last three and a half K. Except that those are all uphill, directly into a stiff wind. Oh well, perhaps next time. I hunkered down, as I've done so many times on my, hilly winter runs, ready for a scrap. The Avenida de Mediterraneo is one of those sections that has an infinite quality. That is to say, the bloody thing goes on forever. A procession of flagging runners staggered before me. I picked them off one by one. My i-pod blasted away, doing all it could to keep my legs pumping when all they wanted to do was collapse in a Peter Crouch, folding-deck-chair style. Pavement has never looked so warm and inviting.

We left the main road, ducking around a sharp right-hand bend and onto another hill, leading back into the industrial estate. Although clearly visible from the roundabout at sea-level, Estadio had taken to hiding in the maze of factories and warehouses. I should be able to see the floodlights at least . . . another few twists and turns, another cluster of ailing racers chewed up, and there: Estadio de Huegos de Mediterràneo. I gritted my teeth and hauled my weary bones up that last 250 metres. Just before the entrance to the stadium - a perilous plunge down steep, slippery concrete - sat another LED display.
1:44 something. Course PB still on! Get your skates on Sweder ...

I hurtled down the ramp at breakneck speed (well, you know . . . it felt very fast at the time) and into the 'outer' home straight. An impressive crowd of several thousand seemed to cheer my arrival (they were cheering constantly long before and quite some time after I flopped onto the track). I ran as fast as my poor legs could manage, arms pumping, sweat flying. I ran down several relaxed-looking locals, steaming past them and into the final straight. I sensed the camera crews waiting over the finish line and spread my arms in my customary salute. I had to look up; 1:46:55 . . . 56, 57, 58, 59 . . . finished!

As it turned out it was my best for a half by some margin. My previous, logged at Brighton last year in foul conditions, was 1:47:59. Nigel confirmed later that his 'gun' time (as shown on the clock) was exactly 1 minute 30 seconds slower than his Garmin time (the watch also showed precisely 13.1 miles), the difference due to our being at the back of the starting pack of seven hundred. I'm booking 1:45:39, a PB by two and a half minutes.

Gun Time Stats:
9K: 0:46:31 (Pace: 5.11 min kms) 21K: 1:46:59 (Pace 5.05 min kms)