Jadis lay in wait for me this morning, her cruel hand evident in the piercing ice-wind sweeping off the hills to cut through my jacket and leggings. Winter has arrived, belated, without apology, Blackcaps’ trails adorned with frozen mud pools and the livid scars of freshly cut hoof-prints. Churned mud lay under a frosted crust to reduce slippage yet retain the welcome yield of the earth beneath; a perfect January blend.
I crunched my way westward below skies crowded with bustling cloud, occasional sunlight cutting through to light up patches of downland. Within ten minutes I’d warmed through, hot blood pumping through lazy legs. Despite a tough Sunday run I felt pretty good, a 'thumbs up' to my policy of total rest on Mondays. The hounds bounded through the gorse, ducking under or leaping over fences, their search for quarry as endless as their tongue-lolling, tail-wagging enthusiasm.
Planet Rock thawed my ears with a fine soundtrack, the pick being a quite wonderful Stevie Ray Vaughan cover of Hendrix’s Little Wing. I galloped up Wicker Man Hill and was halfway down the far side when I realised how, well, easy this all felt. Not to say I’ve speeded up – this outing was no more than an average session, but it seems to hurt a good deal less. Of course the wind was a shadow of last week’s storm force, barely thirty mph at best. I’d like to think persistence is a factor, too. Weight wise I’m hovering over the 90 kilo mark (actually dipped below at the weekend, cause for a minor celebratory jig around the kitchen). Still much heavier than I’d like I’m now as light (or ‘less heavy’ as at any time since I started running in 2003. Dietary control and my dogged refusal to bow to the elements might just be paying off.
Home in around 49 minutes – a relaxed pace – this appalling aside from Alice Cooper ringing in my ears;
When you need to go to the bathroom you’re Russian.
When you get there European.
Don’t give up the day job Alice.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yesterday’s snow lay welded to the frozen ground, shiny as glass, slippery as jellied eels. Happily enough of the powdered variety remained, offering a satisfyingly crunchy surface for my morning lope.
The eastern hills slowly revealed a blood-soaked sun, a layer of bruised cloud hovering above, the outer edges a deep brooding purple. By the time I turned for home the sun had risen behind the cloud, the gap between heaven and earth glowing like hot coals on a cold dark night.
An easy-ish five miles for me today, fear of falling and deference to this, my highest weekly mileage since February last year, urging caution.
I’ve fished some stats on last year out of the forums. I’m a confirmed ludite, preferring estimated times and distances, more of a time-on-my-feet sort of chap. It seems ‘less is more’ certainly was the order of the day, at least pre-Paris. For those stat monkeys amongst us (sigh) here are the monthly totals (kms in brackets). Sadly I have no cross-referenced weight/ distance ratio pie charts or spreadsheets to share. Altogether now . . .
2006
Jan: 92.1 (147) Feb: 77.1 (123) – includes one week at 33 (53)
Mar: 91.5 (146) Apr: 66.2 (106) – includes Paris Marathon
May: 63.5 (102) Jun: 18.1 (29)
Jul: 93 (149) Aug: 104.1 (166)
Sep: 89 (142) Oct: 76 (122) – includes Jog Shop Jog
Nov: 65 (104) Dec: 68 (109)
Eight dark, wet, chilly road miles to Falmer and back tonight.
No wind to speak of, which may go some way to explaining how I covered the same distance as last Friday in seven minutes less tonight.
Another reason would be my i-pod, spitting out a collection of anthems from Motorhead, Girlschool, the Kaiser Chiefs and Tom Petty, the latter kicking in just as I started my homeward leg on the downwind, down hill section. Runnin' Down A Dream has always been a favourite running tune for me; tonight, as the half-moon peeked out from behind a scuttling cloud, the rhythm picked me up and hurled me home.
For a few glorious, timeless minutes my grim surroundings faded. I ran as perhaps I might have had I run in younger years, light feet, straight back, arms pumping, an easy smile on my face. Just as suddenly the music changed, the swooping lights of the traffic once more grabbing my attention, my tread heavy again. But I was running well and I let the crashing, driving beat of Girlschool's Never Say Never carry me on. Even the long hard climb to Lewes Prison, it's jagged Victorian austerity looming, menacing, couldn't completely sap my spirit. The Kaiser Chiefs belted out Oh My God
It don't matter to me
It's all I wanted to be
Is a million miles from here
Somewhere over there
Oh my god, I can't believe it
I've never been this far away from home
And strangely I do feel far from home on these man-made trails.
Far from my rolling Sussex hills, my beloved mud and sweet, soft turf, hammering my joints across this cracked and unforgiving cycle path, sucking down car fumes, wincing in the electric glare of the headlamps and street lights. Still, this is a necessary evil; acclimatising the bones to the jarring impact of road drill in readiness for six everlovin' hours of it in April.
For now it's a hot shower, some frantic bag-packing and as much shut-eye as I can grab. I'm picking Andy up at 5 and Niguel at 5.15 - barely six hours from now, actually - before we slump aboard the good ship Stelios, taking the red-eye to Almería.
It'll be my third visit in as many Januaries.
Odd then that I feel like a kid the night before Christmas
8 miles, 1 hour 5 minutes.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I absolutly agree with SP. I hope that you didn't understimate the essencial and indispensable rehydratation session. According to World Health Organisation, hydratation could be hard, but compulsory for life.
I’m a big fan of the Blues Brothers movie.
There’s something about ‘putting the band back together’ that appeals to me, and here we were, putting the 2005 RC Almería team back together, albeit minus two very important members, Andy’s wife ‘M’ having been part of the original crew, and of course the incomparable SP. As re-hydration specialists go SP takes some beating, though it’s fair to say the 2007 team had a pretty good run at it.
As much fun as the post-race festivities undoubtedly were we need to start, as is customary, at the beginning. Or at five am on Saturday to be precise, which is when I arrived in the sleepy, leafy streets of Crawley to meet Andy. We exchanged Neanderthal salutations before rumbling through the pre-dawn murk to hook up with band member number three, Niguel. Truck parked and taxi hailed we three stout fellows, well met if still bleary-eyed, set sail for London Gatwick and a rendezvous with our fourth musketeer. Stood in line at the EasyJet check-in, shoulders hunched against the incivility of the hour, we were cheered by the arrival of Suzie, our Canadian friend, hot off the Gatwick Express, looking more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than anyone many hours out of their time-zone has a right to.
We chatted excitedly all the way, through the endless drudgery of security, the ritual departure lounge coffee, cattle-style boarding and an uneventful flight on the Big Orange Bus. The fields, hills and mountains of southern Spain yielded to the Mediterranean sea as we descended upon the city of Almería and our good friend Antonio. And then we were five, reunited at the airport gates, crammed into Antonio’s car and heading for breakfast, more catch-up and running-fuelled banter.
Five go Mad in Almería?
We’ll see, we’ll see.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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)
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A swift return to my local ridges on a crisp, sun-drenched winters’ morning. My legs rejoiced, responding well to the embrace of soft earth after the brutal hammering on Almería’s hardened streets. The dogs bounded across the downs as a trio of race horses tore up the south side of Blackcap. The wispy white grasses, as soft and blonde as the hairs on a young Senorita’s arm, bobbed softly on the gentle breeze. Home again in 48 minutes, another wobbly movie pouched along with a snapshot to share.
Five miles banked today and seven on Monday (more to come on that soon), my monthly total reaching 122.1. On then to February, the North Face, the Yellow Brick Road, Brighton half and plenty of road and rough miles in between.
We’re into the serious stuff and no mistake.
I can’t wait.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Wow, good video, and great Almeria report, Sweder. Thanks.
My new laptop isn't far away. It should allow me to join all these new RC film makers.
I'm part way through my Almeria report. It won't be too special. I need to get on with.... with certain other writing projects -- as discussed in Spain.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Hmm . . . I just viewed that video for the first time - best with the sound off I'm afraid. I'm not sure where that bizarre 'attack of the Giant Squid' sound that haunts most of the footage came from but I'm not bright enough to edit it out. I'll work on speeding up the film before uploading. And adding an Ace of Spades soundtrack of course
I'm going to write up last Monday's excursion sometime soon - in some ways far more interesting than the Half itself. I have to say what a privilege and absolute joy it was to run part of Antonios Sierra Almahilla race route though to be fair calling it a route would be to do the fabulous adventure an injustice.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I am impressed. Great having the commentary at the end and actually seeing you in it.
And good Almeria report, once again.
You mentioned it was a little chilly in your run on the video - you'll be happy to hear its a balmy -17 here today! I landed in a horrible wind and snow storm yesterday...welcome back to Canada!
Was an absolutely wonderful weekend in Almeria! I'm hoping to be able to do it again next year; and seriously go for a PB!
Hey Suzie, thanks for letting us know you're home. It was great to see you again, and I know we'll see you in Almeria or London or even Calgary sometime soon.
I didn't have the sound turned on for Ash's vid. I'm not ready for it....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Excellent video, although I'm not sure about those bell-bottomed trousers which you (or at least your shadow) seemed to be wearing, all the way up the climb.
And was that really the sound of the kettle boiling, right at the end ?
. . . or, the Englishman who went out to Almería for a half marathon but came down a mountain.
Following a reasonably modest post-race celebration, involving several pints of Guinness and one or two bottles of an excellent, if youthful, Rioja, team RC came together once more to break fast and chew the fat over the morning papers.
Niguel and Suzie were all for a late morning seafront plod, a sort of Phoenix-from-the-flames homage to the Great Plodder who had partaken of this recovery lope back in ’05. I’d already agreed to run in the afternoon with Antonio but decided a couple of lazy miles followed by coffee and some form of sticky pastry would do no harm. Andy declined the offer of a run but accompanied us for the stroll down the Avenida de Mediterraneo.
Sadly no more than a few tentative paces into our promenade plod Suzie pulled up with a painful twinge in her knee, joining Andy on a sunlit oceanside bench. Niguel and I loped eastwards for a mile or so, chatting about this and that as we passed the occasional dog-walker and fellow runner. We turned to westward, the great escarpment of the Castell del Ray lit up beyond the Puerto de Almería, passing Suzie and Andy with a cheery wave. We turned again at the Club del Mar, host of our inaugural post Medio Maraton luncheon in 2005, racing back to thrash the lactic acid out of our leg muscles before stretching modestly outside Café de Paris.
The promised provisions consumed, including some excellent racciones of chorizo and tortilla, we ambled back to the Trip Indalo where Antonio, fresh out of school, waited. I’d been fascinated with Antonio’s account of II subida a los Baños de Sierra Alhamilla, a wonderful tale about a local mountain race organised by some friends and the Mayor of nearby Pechina. Antonio had agreed to take me up to the Spa some eight kilometres above Pechina in the Sierra Almahila. We were to run the second leg of the Baños race, eight klicks down the mountain to the finish outside the Town Hall. Nigel kindly agreed to accompany us and to drive Antoinio’s car back.
As we drove up the winding road I marvelled at the rate of climb, the complexity of the turns and the breathtaking vastness of the terrain to our right and below us. Great desert plains fanned out like pleats in a dancer's skirts from the foothills of the mountains, the long folds of desert decorated with plants and trees. America's Horse With No Name sprang to mind (Nigel and I are both fans, it turns out) 'There were plants and trees and rocks and things' - the place was made for such a soundtrack. This would be some race to take part in, I thought. I really must come back for this – I’m not sure precisely when the race will be held this year but its going on my calendar ASAP. We arrived at the Spa at the same time as the first few spots of rain. The sun, friendly and inviting earlier, had scarpered sharpish and I started to regret my choice of a singlet and half-leggings for the run. The Spa itself was closed so after a brief inspection of the surrounding buildings and the obligatory in-line posing for photos we set off, bidding Niguel a hearty farewell and God's speed in Antonio's charrabang.
I realised I still had my road-running shoes on. I originally took my Brookes off-roaders to Almería for precisely this run. Now they were needed they were languishing at the bottom of my suitcase, out of sight, out of mind. Oh well. The terrain was, as Antonio had promised, most excellent. Loose scree, boulders, rutted pathways, plenty of scrub and the occasional tree looking desperately in need of a good meal. I confess I whooped and hollered as we careered down the first of many steep drops, hopping and bounding across miniature chasms, quick-stepping through wide, sandy river beds strewn with rocks and discarded branches. This was a desert – amazing really, only a few kilometres from Almería yet light-years away from the nodding palms of the Avenida Maritimo. I half expected to see bleached longhorn skulls and the occasional rattlesnake as we yee-ha'd our way down.
After a short while we rounded a bluff to find that the pathway, such as it was, had disappeared.
‘Which way Antonio?’
‘Well, mainly in that direction’ – a general wave toward the distant town.
This was fabulous! No discernable trail, just a vast open space with a variety of climbs and drops, gullies and outcrops, all to be navigated at as fast a pace as one could manage. At one point I rolled my right ankle (again cursing my stupidity at not changing footwear), yelping as much in surprise as pain. There was an audible collection of clicks, but everything seemed to pop back into place and it didn’t swell up so we carried on.
By this time the cold was no longer a factor; in fact I was working up a decent sweat. I felt like a kid, thrilled at the adventure, amazed at Antonio’s stories of cyclists trying to navigate this crazy landscape. We crashed through some brush and hurtled down a small cliff-face, across another riverbed and into the approaches to what appeared to be a deserted town sitting under a vast spindly viaduct. We pushed on, skirting the run-down buildings to locate the cinder track that would lead us back to Pechina. The houses we passed improved in décor and construction as we ran, and we attracted the attention of a number of apparently hungry guard dogs, luckily (for us) restrained behind chain-link fences.
The rain fell steadily. In fact it might have been raining for some time, I just hadn’t noticed, I was having so much fun on this wild ride down the mountain. A few muddy tracks later we entered the outskirts of Pechina, the town’s narrow cobbled streets glistening wet, windows hidden behind reflective shutters. Our route weaved towards the town centre where Niguel loitered in a shop doorway. I couldn’t get the grin off my face as we hailed first Nigel then the Mayor himself and a person who appeared to be the Chief of Police. Antonio explained the copper had been a shepherd and knew the mountain routes like the back of his hand. A useful man to know, and, if I have the strength in my legs when we return for the race proper later this year, to follow.
I’m so grateful to Antonio for giving up yet more of his time during our visit to share this unique experience. It was an unexpected highlight, a run to compare with any of my off-road excursions back home.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
as at any time since I started running in 2003. Dietary control and my dogged refusal to bow to the elements might just be paying off.
Without start line PB is not valid :mad: 