Have observed that the RC diarists are partial to the occasional jelly baby, especially on long runs. So, on my last visit to the UK I purchased a king sized box in Morrisons (Bertie Bassett’s finest are not yet available in Spain) and have been tentatively experimenting with them ever since. Not sure if they make me run faster but they’re damned tasty.
Last Sunday morning’s route was to be a long one and it was whilst packing my rucksack on Saturday night that I received a phone call from Wild Oscar who announced his intention to accompany me. I was more than a little relieved to have company on the high peaks and I doubled the dose of jelly babies.
The route involved a summit, a long, slatey path, a couple more summits thrown in for good measure and a long, final descent, runnable in places and excellent training for the Aquilianos.
We set out at dawn from the monastery of Montes and ran inversely along the first section of the Tebaida Berciana to Peñalba where the Mare’s Seat rises into a murky sky. This climb never fails to terrify me. There are no technical difficulties, just a relentless trudge upwards to the antenna at 2100m. There are few distractions or redeeming features. We filled our water bottles at the village fountain and ate our jelly babies. Wild Oscar has never had a jelly baby before.
The ascent was as expected, tough and joyless. At about 1800m we came up through the mist. Snapped a photo of my companion near an accumulation of snow. Somewhere out there fell the lone mountain runner a mere 2 months ago, a story of obsession leading to tragic errors of judgement and one which will be told another day or never.
At the top it was blowing a gale as per usual. I decided to avoid a chill and wrap up warm, putting on gloves and an extra layer. Wild Oscar didn’t bother. After the previous two hours of slow progress the next few kms invited intermittent if not exactly comfortable running. Underfoot the way is full of stones and portruding roots and I was glad good old Ron Hill protected my legs from the thorny gorse. Wild Oscar suffered silently in his shorts.
Alto Berdiainas and Pico Tuerto (the old one eye) followed, a line of gentle peaks culminating in a longer pull up to La Guiana. This is perhaps the tamest summit on the Aquilianos range, easily accessible for a 4 by 4 or even a sturdy car. Some bloke was fixing a radio mast at the top. It was the first person we’d seen in 4 hours.
There ended the middle section of the Aquilianos. The route continues along faster forest trails to Ferradillo but we descended back to Montes along the inevitable firebreaks, almost vertically in places.
Sometimes I think that the machine-mangled debris of these firebreaks is the very worst of surfaces. The sharp stones are bigger than natural scree which you slide down and smaller than rocks and boulders which you can hop across. It’s bone shudderingly, knee jarringly uncomfortable but it’s also terrain where the mountain runner can gain ground while those less familiar with the surface and gradient, will descend eyes a-bulging and arms a-flailing and cursing the mother of whoever designed the course.
At the end of the firebreaks we reached the calm oasis of green meadow that rests beneath a curious rock formation nicknamed “the 12 apostles”. Here we stopped to drink and make a phone call in one of the few places where the mobile phone isn’t out of range.... we’ll be home soon.
We had company, briefly, of a couple of white arsed roe deer and of one hairy arsed motorcyclist. He took a photo of us in front of La Guiana. Then unknowingly he took another one as we descended the last stretch of track back down to Montes, posted it on a biker’s forum and sent me the link. It’s a great shot, 2 little specks dwarfed by the landscape and with the church tower of the monastery in the background, the beginning and end of our journey.
About 2000m total ascent. I’m unsure of the distance but it must have been at least 20k.
(12-05-2010, 01:50 PM)anlu247 Wrote: Congratulations, B.B. You seem to be quite fit for the Aquilanos.
Saludos desde Almería
Quite a few people from Andalucia came for the 101 peregrinos last weekend, I wondered if you knew any of them Antonio?
Ultras seem to be the order of the day.
Last weekend was the “101 peregrinos” (101 pilgrims) in El Bierzo. This is an offshoot of the famous Ronda ultra-distance trail race organized by the legionnaires in Andalusia and that a bloke called John wrote about on the forum a few years ago... I wonder what happened to him? This year the Ronda event wasn’t held as most of the legionnaires were in Afghanistan. Instead a northern version was staged and more than 1000 hardy mountain bikers, runners and walkers embarked upon 101 hilly off-road kms which were to be completed within 24 hours.
I didn’t fancy it, too far, too long, bordering on the masochistic... mmm, maybe?...no, don’t even think about it!
Anyway, I had another section of the Aquilianos on the agenda so at 7 am on Sunday I was parking my car in Toral de Merayo and setting my sights on Guiana, the last and most accessible peak we visited on the previous week’s excursion.
Set off and immediately crossed with one of the tail enders of the 101. Covered in thick, sticky mud from the waist down, the guy was trudging along, barely walking and with big glazed eyes fixed on some indeterminate point on the horizon. This must be what battle fatigue is like, not surprising as he’d been on the trail since 11 am the previous morning. He stared at me blankly and asked if he was going the right way. I said yes and calculated that he was on for a 21 hour finish.
Took the steep road to Ozuela and left the 24 hour madness below. My target would be a shorter, sharper one than theirs.
The great advantage of the Guiana route from Toral is that I can ascend from 450 to 1850 metres virtually from my doorstep. It’s a straightforward journey, mainly along trails and firebreaks to the summit, followed by the long, long descent off the Aquilianos and back to civilization.
And it was an atypical May morning, damp, unseasonably cold but not unpleasant for run-walking. Whisps of cloud stroked the foothills and the mountain streams bubbled and roared, swelled by rain and snowmelt from higher up.
I had no human company on this occasion although I was never alone. Nearby, a rustle in the undergrowth, a bushy tailed fox slunk into the shadows, a deer darted into the conifers, a solitary cuckoo chimed and 2 lanky dogs came out of the abandoned village of Santa Lucia for a quick sniff. Behind them, the ruined church stood forlornly in a well watered meadow. Once when I had investigated I found it was full of goats.
Just after Campo de las Danzas I glimpsed Guiana briefly. Then it was gobbled up by mist, blown across from the south where the snow-capped Vizcodillo would be next weekend’s destination.
It was cold at the top and I’d left my gloves at home. So as quickly as I could I wolfed down some jelly babies, tightened the straps of my rucksack and braced myself for the descent. It felt like I was preparing for a parachute jump. My plan was to run for as long as I possibly could.
Swiftly I reached the meeting point of the Aqilianos short and long routes. Here I had stood with my dad last June as the lone mountain runner stormed past and raised a hand as I took his photo. Only I will make the return journey next month...incredible, we are like almond blossom in the wind.
Just above Ferradillo a posse of longhorns stared at me disconcertingly as I passed through the middle of them. They didn’t seem at all bothered by my presence. Fortunately I’m yet to meet an aggressive cow.
After 45 minutes descending, tired legs and an increasingly clumsy gait reduced me to walking again with the confirmation that prolonged downhill running is just as knackering as climbing.
Arrived back in Toral de Merayo nearly 5 hours after I’d set off and came across the man from Ozuela and his family dismembering a pig. The man from Ozuela is a slow, cumbersome figure on the road with the shoulders of a prop forward and the heart of a lion. But he’s no slouch on the hills and has certainly left me behind a few times (Alto Sil, Truchillas, Los Aquilianos...) I ventured into the basement under his house and in the murky half light nearly tripped over a dog.
“This is authentic” he said to me grinning and gripping the poor porker’s ears.
1500m ascent.
Distance; difficult to calculate without a map and a piece of string. Probably between 20 and 30 k.
Truchillas this Sunday.
Hooray! More madcap tales from the Spanish hills.
I love this stuff, find it truly inspiring. No Aquilianos for me this year but I'm not ruling out a visit in 2011.
Sounds very much like the ultimate moveable feast, right up my avenida
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(13-05-2010, 01:23 PM)Sweder Wrote: No Aquilianos for me this year but I'm not ruling out a visit in 2011.
I'll remember that...
Early start tomorrow for Truchillas, the pass is blocked by snow and I've got to take the long way round.
Never know what to wear for this one. Sometimes it's hot, sometimes it's cold but looking at the panorama on the race web site (2 blokes marking the route on Friday) a woolly hat might be required....
Part 3 of the Sergio Leone inspired jelly baby saga.
Must admit that I thought twice about going to this one. First there was that photo on the race web site. Truchillas-Vizcodillo with bad weather is dangerous. In 2008 I decided not to race for that very reason and I’d ventured only just above the lake and taken some photos which Sweder descibed as like something out of Extreme Prison Break. Here they are. Blokes scrambling over rocks in a gale. http://www.runningcommentary.net/forum/showthread.php?tid=348&pid=13602#pid13602
The day before this year’s race it looked even worse. After a week of cold, damp weather the mountains were buried under a mantle of impenetrable mist.
Then I got up early on Sunday morning, looked out the kitchen window and, oh my God, this is it....
The sky was cloudless. The mountain tops were painted white like icing on a Christmas cake. The light was set to one thousand mega-pixels revealing a crisp new spectrum of amazing colours. This was too good to be true.
And once on my journey when I looked across towards Vizcodillo from the motorway the great sierra stetched out before me with a tidy line of snow above 1800m. Almost half of the 23km race would be above this height.
And I just kept on staring across at those mountains.
This was the tousled haired surfer boy staring up at The Big One.
This was the tornado hunter closing in upon the mother of all twisters.
This was the train spotter finding a pre-war Hornby box set in a jumble sale...
This may never happen again.
At the race start 200 or so pairs of eyes were also fixed on that range. Some runners put on gloves and jackets. I decided to do the opposite. It was already warm but my trackie bottoms would be essential. Running in deep snow cuts and chaffs exposed legs.
Spotted a few faces I knew. Pedro the lumberjack was smoking havanas. Isaac the engine was strapping on a mini-rucksack. The mighty Susana was warming up knowing that this was her best terrain.
A minute’s silence followed in honour of the fallen mountain runner. He was a member of the Teleno mountaineering club who organize this race and from this day onwards the race will always bear his name.
Truchillas-Vizcodillo 2010 began at 10:30 sharp. I got my walking in as early as possible. I wanted to enjoy this. The snow by the lake was already oozing into the turf and the rocky curtain beyond had sent forth a magical waterfall which I’d never seen here before. But as we got higher the snow deepened and hardened. In normal conditions the area above the lake was a vast open section of cross country with no discernible path or trail. Today, however, we runners followed a thin line of compressed snow stretching out in single file, slender threads against the whitescape, like spyrogyra under a microscope.
Overtaking meant breaking rank and sinking to your knees whilst performing an energy sapping high stepping motion. Once ahead of one of the threads of synchronized walkers I ducked down and took some photos.
Most passed with grim, contorted faces and some barely noticed me. Then I recognized a familiar double act. It was German and Angel (German’s no German and Angel’s definitely no angel). Amazingly they had both completed the 101km race the weekend before and these guys are well into their 50s. Angel was snapping photos too and German was diving around in the snow like a big kid. I took a photo of them both. They were the only ones smiling.
Reached the summit in an hour and a half, gulped down a bottle of icy water and a couple of jelly babies and then slid down the other side on my arse singing “let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”. Even that didn’t provoke much reaction. Everybody was very focussed on the task ahead.
After some 10km of never to be forgotten snow running in an eerie, other worldy sort of atmosphere, we crossed a road and hit some wide forest trails where the snow turned to mud and the better runners stretched their legs. Then a firebreak took us back down to the valley and we crossed the river. Here Angel lost both his balance and all his photos as he sank up to his neck in the icy waters. I crossed more prudently. The water was deeper than last year and there was a strong current in places. Waded across to the other side and walked the last 50 metres to the finish line.
My finishing time was 3 hours 7 minutes, 20 minutes slower than last year which seems to be the standard fare for this year.
The post-race presentations took place behind Ye Olde Village Petrol Station where Stan the paella man toiled over a steaming pan (there’s a Stan every pueblo, I reckon they’re all cousins). A succulent paella was shared by all and the tall tales grew taller as the wine flowed in abundance.
And as I left, Pedro the lumberjack, the dog-end of yet another handmade Cuban cigar
clenched between his teeth, was trying to return his prize.
“It wasn’t me in third place,” he mumbled sheepishly. And do you know what? Anybody who didn’t know him would have believed him!
I was laughing all the way back to Ponferrada.
The Good: 10 kms of glorious snow running on May 16th. Bliss. A mid-winter wonderland set to a Spanish summer morn. Much of the snow had gone by the afternoon. As I said, this may never happen again.
The Bad and the Ugly: The badlands of northern Spain is a landscape increasingly scarred by man. Only the snow disguised the reality of mountains ravaged by decades of forest fires, criss-crossed by fire breaks and wide, ugly dirt-tracks and often crowned by the new generation of monster windmills, each one as high as Nelson’s column.
Los Ancares. Not quite as high as the Aquilianos but more isolated and more interesting in many ways.
Highlight of the morning was observing a herd of Pyrenean chamois.They seemed to be watching us at times, safe in the knowledge that it would probably take a couple of hours for us to reach their lofty vantage point in the snow just below Cuerno Maldito (Damned Horn.. one of my favourite names for a mountain top).
We tried to guess what they were thinking.
“Clumsy 2-legged no-hopers...”
To run like the chamois, we can only dream, they are the true kings of Los Ancares.
Weather forecast for tomorrow: 15º minimum 32º maximum. Not ideal conditions.
This morning I strolled 100 yards from our flat and watched the Toral de los Vados marathon runners pass the 25km marker.The expressions on most of their faces brought home the suffering one must endure in road marathons, especially on a hot day and with very few spectators to cheer you along. Watching England apart (or Italy, or France...) I can think of no other event that drains you more.
The Aquilianos in comparison was a walk in the park.
This was my experience of the Aquilianos on the first Saturday of June, a unique event held in a unique little region.
It’s always been billed as a non-competitive event. Non-competitive my arse! In fact it’s getting more competitive every year and now they get us to stick a chip in our trainers, just like in the road races.
6am. 500 hardy souls in front of a Baroque town hall going through the familiar rituals. Here we are again, but familiarity does not yet breed contempt. We set off. The first few kms are in darkness along the comfy forest trails of Monte Pajariel and most people are chatting and joking.
Pajariel descent, the Roman bridge near San Esteban, a banana at Villanueva, up and down to Valdefrancos, through the woods along the Oza valley, the old Roman way to Montes de Valdueza, onward to Peñalba, the names roll off the tongue like Visigoth kings. Run-walk-stop-start-quick-quick-slow...
8:25am. Reached Montes in good time and by Peñalba we’d already clocked well over 1000m ascent. It wasn’t as hot as expected but the humidity was draining. The Silla de Yegua is as always the defining section. For years it has invoked fear in my subconcious. Now it’s just another obstacle. To imagine this ascent you’d have to think of scaling Ben Nevis in the middle of a more than undulating 66k. Here each one fights their own private battle.
At this point I teamed up with one of the regulars. Everybody calls him “pasteles”(cakes) as he works for the town’s finest cake shop. Cake-boy is a giant of a man with a big T on his t-shirt. Usually he’s near the front of the field but today he was struggling.
“This is inhuman” he muttered, slipping on the shale as we trudged upwards.
The gradient is at its cruelest at the beginning and then becomes only slightly less cruel. Once through a section of twisted holm oaks a rocky promontory becomes visible hanging from the sky ahead. This is roughly the halfway point of the climb and forms an essential part of the mind game I employ to get to the top. Here I always stop for a 5-minute breather.
Someone called me but I couldn’t see who until we got closer. It was my old friend Paco the Andalusian perched on a rock taking photos with a swish new camera. So I took his. Stopped for a chat. I was still feeling surprisingly good at this stage. Asked Paco about his job. He’s been working for the local mining mafioso in a cement factory for the last few years. Not any more. Another redundancy statistic for the economic crisis. But Paco doesn’t seem too worried about it today. Today he’s taking photos of the Aquilianos on a rocky promotory.
11:15. Reached the antenna at the summit. In distance this is probably about half way round the whole route. The feeding station is well stocked with melons, energy bars and aquarious. Food intake is usually important but my stomach isn’t designed to assimulate some of the ingredients from the plastic sachets that they were dispensing at the foot of the big climb. Maybe the 2 gels had helped me to shoot up La Silla in record time but my stomach was soon a crazy acidic tumbledrier sending waves of discomfort through my body every few minutes. Is this siclky flavoured gunge just another performance enchancing drug? I really wouldn’t know the difference.
Descent off La Silla (2143m). Cautiously jogged down and walked up the second peak.
Alto de las Berdiainas (2116m) and then…
The old one-eye (2051m)
And finally the long pull up to La Guiana (1849m)
1pm. Had an ecological crap behind the hermitage on La Guiana. I lack the literary devices to express this in any other way but it was a great weight off my mind and body. Covered up the nasty business with a large slab of slate and hoped that nobody would be up here fossil hunting in the afternoon.
Feeling much better again I caught up with cake boy on the descent down the firebreak Now we were in the final third, the fastest section of the Aquilianos, all fast trails and speedy descents. Those who have kept something in reserve will produce spectacular times. But I’m not up for it and cake-bay isn’t either.
1:30pm. Ferradillo and the second rucksack drop-off point. Water-melons and oranges. Changed trainers as my feet were on fire. The Mizuno Wave Harriers may be great for grass and rainy days in the Lake District but the Aquilianos trails are baked hard this year.
Sat under the same tree where I’d rested with dad 12 months ago. Took the replacement trainers from the old rucksack he’d used that day and saw some of the same people passing through at exactly the same time. This is just after the point where the long route meets the short route. Felt very emotional. Cake boy called me but I decide to stay here 5 minutes more.
3pm. Rimor and a plateful of cherries. Linked up with cake boy again. Ponferrada should be three quarters of an hour away. We took 1 hour 45.
4:43pm. Finish line. Pasties and chorizo. Free massages and cheering from the terraces around the town square. Ever the local hero Cake boy grabbed a microphone and publicly thanked me for dragging him along fom La Silla and this wasn’t exactly true but it was nice to receive raptuous applause for once.
Noticed a non-competitive race classification pinned to the massage marque.
1st place man had arrived at 12:30
2nd was Gus the lottery seller.
3rd was Ignacio string bean and 10th was his brother.
In 6th place was a guy who had climbed Everest and 9th had just got back from Annapurna!.
And a final photo I tried to recreate a certain scene on the last hill alongside the Templar’s castle... one year on. Unfortunately a stray thumb blocked out the sky.
Nice work BB - thanks for posting this. An amazing event/race - and I seriously doubt there is a perfect shoe for that kind of running!
It's true though isn't it, that these "non competitive" events nearly always are. Even the humble fund-raising fun run for couch potatos ends up as a race. And why not? It's all good fun.
(10-07-2010, 08:22 AM)Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote: What's next?
Nothing planned. I'd prepared for the above event by doing long routes on the preceeding Sunday mornings (mainly walking) and the occasional race, but very little conventional running was involved. In fact running gives you an excellent base for brisk, comfortable walking. You really should try and do that trail you mention one day, either in sections or all at once ... maybe you could persuade Mrs MLCM?
Not a lot to report. Read a couple of books which I’d first heard about here.
What I think about when I think about running by Haruki Murakami.
A strange little book which made me want to learn Japanese more than take up running. Read it in 2 sittings and then gave it to my uncle Trev so I can’t quote from it directly but it went something like this...
“Why do I run? I just do. Why not? It might be a good thing. It might not. But hey, that’s life isn’t it? Or it probably is.. who’s to say?” and so on for 150 odd pages.
I can only suppose that some of the nuances would be better expressed in Japanese. Or maybe not, who knows?
Born to Run by Christopher MacDougall.
Feet in the Clouds for yanks. Brash, punchy and where the previous book relied very much on understatement, this one could make a very decent film complete with whooping ultra runners high fiving Tarahumara indians. A cracking read from start to finish but I still prefer Feet in the Clouds for the same reason as I always preferred Chigley to Sesame Street.
Incidently, the guy who finished second in Caballo Loco’s race against the Tarahumara, Scott Jurek, and who McDougall described as “the best in the world” was rather pissed off on being beaten by 58 year old Marco Olmo in the Mont Blanc ultra trail. So pissed off was he that he came back the next year ...only to be thrashed by 19-year old Kilian Jornet. I posted here about the truly epic 2008 race, I don’t know if
anybody ever read it. http://www.runningcommentary.net/forum/showthread.php?tid=220&highlight=utmb
Now that really would make a good book...
Glad you enjoyed the McDougall tome. I agree it's a lot more 'Rambo' than 'Sense & Sensibility', yet great fun for all that. It inspired me that a tardy, lardy herbert could haul his sorry arse all over those canyons and finish such an epic encounter amongst such exhalted running royalty.
The Murakami book is odd, I grant you, though I found reading it an almost zen experience, so simple & gentle was it's tone. It offered less inspiration for runners than it did aspiring writers. I read one of his novels after that. It was a steaming pile of confused crap, which just goes to show the world of Books and Bookmen is a tricky, fickle land where who you know counts for a lot more than talent. And that's what I think about when I think about Murakami.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(17-08-2010, 03:48 PM)stillwaddler Wrote: I am currently reading "Hen and the art of chicken maintenance" It has absolutely nothing to do with running so I'll shut up now.
Ha Ha, must read that one too.
Anybody ever read anything by Bruce Chatwin? For some reason Born to Run made me track down and rebuy "The Songlines" a book I last read 20 years ago.
Sweder, the race at the end was a tad longer than The Aquilianos, but with less climbing. If you like I could be your Caballo Loco ... it'd be worth it just to read your race report. First Saturday of June, 2011.
(17-08-2010, 09:45 PM)Bierzo Baggie Wrote: Sweder, the race at the end was a tad longer than The Aquilianos, but with less climbing. If you like I could be your Caballo Loco ... it'd be worth it just to read your race report. First Saturday of June, 2011.
Damn! I'm washing my hair* that day.
Wouldn't you know it ...
*my last few surviving grey hairs, SP, before you ask
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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