Arrival
Persistent rain greeted Team Running Commentary’s arrival in Andalucia. Just as we Brits react poorly to the first sign of snow, so the good people of Almería seemed ill-prepared for an excess of lluvia. On the eve of IX Medio Maraton Ciudad de Almerias umbrellas sold like hot cakes in the sheltered doorways of department stores.
A most significant and welcome change from last year was the decision to host the pre-race meal at the Estadio del Mediterraneo, venue for runner registration and the Expo. 12 months earlier we were obliged to register at the stadium only to travel across town for the meal.
Surprisingly few Atletas took the opportunity to register the night before. SP sneaked a peek at the entrants list as we left and reckoned no more than 25% of names were ticked off. Our merry band enjoyed easy passage from check-in to Expo and upstairs to the dining area. The stadium’s hospitality suite, overlooking the floodlit track and football pitch, made an impressive venue for the pre-race meal.
The three RC runners were joined by our cycle support team, José and Seafront Plodder, together with Carmen, one of Antonio’s teaching colleagues, her son Paquito and her friend Encarna. Paquito seemed slightly in awe of the event, surrounded by a collection of chattering lycra-clad running folk. He perked up when I suggested that in a few years time he too may be standing here with his Atleta pass preparing for his first Half Marathon.
After a tasty and filling supper, served with enthusiasm by whirling waiters intent on clearing the decks for the next sitting, I took a saunter over to the glass wall of the lounge. I studied the glistening running track. Raindrops danced defiantly in pools reflecting the glare of powerful floodlights.
In a few hours I’d be pounding those lanes towards the finish, my race run.
How would I be feeling?
Would the finish line bring elation or simply blessed relief?
You never know, certainly not the night before. I’m a ‘glass half full’ sort, but a week of unspeakable nasal foulness and a dearth of quality preparation had me in a more pensive mood.
Our group descended through the building, exiting the sheltered warm-up area into the chilled night air. We snapped a few photos of the drenched running track. Antonio remarked that, should the rain continue, the race may offer one or two extra challenges. I looked at the steep drop from the perimeter fence to our trackside position. I’d not enjoyed juddering down the slope in Nigel’s wake last year; the thought of descending the rain-slicked concrete on tired legs added substance to my burgeoning goose-pimples.
Modern Barbarism: a Defensive Englishman writes
Returning to our hotel, the recently opened Tryp Inadalo, I quietly reviewed what had turned out to be a pretty long day. Following a 3am start the three Englishmen had taken very different approaches to the afternoon’s tapas tour; Andy L, on the back of four flawless tee-total weeks, remained stoic in his abstinence. SP, free to drink as he chose, did so with increasing gusto, holding court with Antonio’s friend Juan Pedro on all manner of topics. I wavered between these two very different paths, finally taking a glass or two of Rioja with my tapas, content that one or two would help me sleep without harming my prospects for the race.
Our tour took us to the excellent El QuintoToro, a small, perfectly formed neighborhood bar nestled in the shade of the fruit & veg market. The patron, a spritely, attentive fellow wrapped in a green apron, son of a famous local Matador, bade us welcome. His bar was suitably adorned with all manner of Bull Fighting paraphernalia arranged in a baroque montage. Preserved bull’s heads sat silently next to framed photographs of their kin suffering various implements of torture and death.
Soon after our arrival at the Fifth Bull Carmen embarked on a passionate description of her experience of ‘English binge drinking’. She explained how such behaviour was alien to her countrymen, that taking tapas with a little cerveza or rioja was considered a gentle, sociable pastime. Both Andy and I attempted to explain the impact of restrictive licensing laws, but we lacked real conviction. I mean, how can one defend such uncouth behaviour to our genial, civilized hosts? I gazed at the images looking down on us from the walls of the taverna and shrugged.
It’s a fair cop; we’re barbarians.
Interview with an Athlete
Rarely a sound sleeper the night before a race I could hardly believe my luck. As the theme from Goodfellas – the piano bit from the end of Layla – sqwawked from my flashing cellphone, I realised I’d slept through. Nine hours straight! My decision to down a couple of riojas seemed to have paid off. As had the heartfelt prayers offered up to the weather gods last thing; a tug of the curtain revealed pavements drying under clearing skies, the merest hint of pink sunrise kissing the wispy clouds.
Hmm . . . red sky in the morning . . .
I scarfed the two bananas kindly provided by Andy before we’d turned in. With breakfast scheduled for 8 and the race start at 10, bananas at 7.30 seemed like a good idea. SP knocked on the door and we set off for the breakfast room . . . and of course it was open for business. And packed. Normally I’d say ‘with athletes of all shapes and sizes’, but in truth there was only really one shape; horribly fit. A group of sharp-featured Kenyans hovered in the lobby, chattering nervously (at least it seemed that way to me. Perhaps they’d heard about us from Haile). Toast, honey, coffee and orange juice safely stowed I wandered out to join them. One of the lady athletes had drifted away from the pack.
‘Hi you guys racing today?’ OK, not the insightful grilling of a Coleman or even, to be fair, of a Gunnell.
She didn’t seem to mind.
‘Yes, and you?’
We exchanged banter, me trying to learn her target time, she wondering if the Flora London Marathon 2003 badge on my trackie bottoms was genuine. Her name was Tegla Loroupe, a Kenyan professional. Tegla planned to race here in Almeria, move on to Germany for training before taking part in the Rotterdam Marathon. She delivered this news with modesty bordering on the bashful, all swinging arms and flashing smile. I readily confirmed that I had indeed run London, leaving details such as pb's & position in the field for another time. Sadly there was to be no quid pro quo; her target for the day remained private.
As we chatted Tegla continued with some impressive stretching moves, twisting her legs and back to engage muscle groups I may have read about somewhere. I lamely lifted one leg, bringing my foot up behind my knee, killing the motion the instant I became aware of it. SP gleefully told me exactly how sad that looked as the VIPs were lead out to their fleet of official Renault Meganes.
‘Niguel’
Antonio arrived as Andy joined us in the lobby.
A short car ride to the Stadium followed, SP trailing behind on Antonio’s mountain bike. SP had elected to join José on a tour of the course to film as much of team RC as logistics would allow. On arrival Antonio issued instructions to SP.
‘Please don’t leave the bike anywhere, there’s no lock.
And please take the car keys, but be sure to lock it.’
After several repetitions, affirmations and reminders my attention turned skyward.
‘Er, it’s raining chaps.’
The first few drops soon became a steady stream, and we sought shelter in the lea of the stadium. As we jogged around the perimeter SP spotted Tegla going through a few warm up paces. She was almost buried under a collection of jackets, scarves and a rather impressive woollen hat.
I grinned and offered greeting in the customary manner. To my great delight she smiled back, raising her left arm in reciprocal salute.
‘She Shearered! Did you see that – I got a Shearer from a Kenyan professional!’ Andy and SP smiled, as much at my childish enthusiasm as for the unlikely spectacle of a former London Marathon winner emulating Newcastle’s favourite son.
SP: ‘We should set up Niguel.’
Ah yes, Niguel.
I’ve mentioned before how I’d miss my 2005 running partner. SP struck on the idea of setting up his Garmin as a virtual partner. This way I could set a target time and keep tabs on my progress throughout the race. This surrogate partner was duly christened Niguel in honour of our missing fellow forumite. Sadly SP’s sojourn into the world of rioja was not helping him with the buttons. Eventually (after a mercy intervention by Andy) Niguel was prepped and ready to fly. A target time of 1:50:00 – a smidgeon under my pb- was entered, together with interval beeps at mile markers.
‘You can glance at it any time to see if you’re ahead or behind’ offered SP. Worry over operation of a new gadget proved just the ticket. By the time I’d been over it all for the third time we were called to the start. I joined a throng of expectant racers sheltering in the main entrance to the stadium proper, stripping off my sweatshirt and trackie bottoms.
[SIZE="1"]to be continued . . . [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Race
Perhaps it was the eagerness of the runners to get going, desperate for warm bloodflow through chilled veins; we started on time. A muted roar greeted the hooter. I (just) remembered to start the Garmin as the incessant beeping of 800 champion-chips announced our crossing into raceland. Niguel managed to steal a few metres on me, obviously more adept at weaving through the meleé – there’s no substitute for race experience, you know.
The first couple of klicks took us downhill from the stadium towards the seafront. As the viaduct approached Niguel reported the first mile marker: 7:54. I’d made up the ‘gap’, the VP showing us even Steven.
One or two runners took evasive action as numerous puddles turned to small lakes and rivers in the steady rain. Here in southern Spain the requirement for quality drainage has passed quietly by. Comfortable in such conditions I happily sploshed my way through, aware that a few of my cohorts were less than impressed by the horizontal dousing.
La la la la Rambla
No sooner had we hit the main road we turned right once more – into the Rambla. I glanced at Niguel. He had me slightly ahead – and I realised I had no clue how far. 600. 600 what? Seconds? Doubtful; minutes? Don’t be silly . . . metres then? Or feet, perhaps?
The long road ahead carried its colourful bounty up the steadily increasing incline. A smattering of spectators offered applause, struggling to combine quality clapping with control of their new brollies. I spied a familiar figure weaving and wobbling along the sidewalk.
‘Sweder!’ SP yelled, swerving to avoid an elderly lady hidden beneath a Burberry parasol. Apparently surprised by my arrival he cycled on, no doubt seeking the perfect spot to capture this prime athlete on film . . .
This race is mostly about two things; control, and the Rambla on the second lap. My race plan had always been to maintain a target pace and see what occurred on lap two. Here on lap one I checked in with Niguel once more. Hmm: 0.12 ahead. 0.12 m. Miles? Am I 0.12 miles ahead of target? That must be it . . .
‘Sweder!’ SP, leant against a bus shelter, manfully struggling with Andy’s camcorder. He raised the camera as I chugged past, still squinting at the delicate buttons. ‘Bugger!’
I was past him.
Hunkered down as if to cut more efficiently through the rain-heavy air, I got back on track. A forlorn group of volunteers offered sopping sponges to the drenched parade splashing up the hill. Most kind. Some other time, perhaps . . .
At last, the ‘summit’. Water station, chip readers and a stall offering oranges. I remembered Andy posting something about the power of fresh oranges during a marathon. I gratefully accepted the fruit. Sadly I couldn’t recall how he’d managed to eat it, so I popped the whole quarter into my mouth and started sucking on the flesh. Not 400 meters past the stall I felt a surge from the natural sugars. Grinning, I remembered this section last year, where Nigel had started singing ‘Football’s Coming Home’ and our very own version of ‘La Rambla’ to the baffled crowds. The locals were a good deal thinner on the ground this year, and I felt less inclined to drive them away with my guttural wailing.
Halfway down the Rambla I was joined by a local chap. He had an easy gait, holding parity without great effort. In one of those unspoken moments we acknowledged each other. Well matched for pace and stride pattern, without a word I knew we’d be together for a mile or more.
Fans and the Flats
SP emerged from a cross street several junctions above the foot of the Rambla. Waving his camera he drew alongside as a maniac in a car tried to cut through the field, horn blaring. Despite the conditions SP was evidently enjoying his role as roving reporter. He grinned crazily as his bike weaved alongside me, camera held to capture my unique shambling style. I looked ahead and spotted Encarna on the pavement, deep in conversation on her mobile.
‘Hola! HOLA!!’ I yelled between breaths, waving like a loon.
‘Hola!’ She smiled, recognition arriving in the nick of time.
At the foot of the Rambla the route slingshots across the main road, back under the viaduct and onto a long, flat section of road heading east. I struggled here last year, relying on Nigel’s superior road skills to carry me through. I raised my wrist to see what Niguel ’06 had to offer; You are 0.16m ahead, he winked. Fat lot of good you are, pal. My newfound human companion strode on strongly and to my relief I matched him without too much effort. I still felt comfortable, running within my limits but well above training pace. At this rate there was a very real prospect of . . . oh, do be quiet . . .
We cruised past shops and apartments as the fit folk flashed past on the other side of the road. Great pools of rainwater caused us to dodge and swerve, at one point running gingerly along a precarious curb. I glanced up as Tegla flew by, an impressive second in the lady’s race but with little prospect of catching her compatriot. I offered a Shearer but to her credit the Kenyan kept her head down.
Almost 2K of flat road and we reached the roundabout. Next time we get here we’ll be off up the final climb to Estadio, I thought. But not yet. First it’s another gruelling couple of klicks to that Rambla rendezvous.
Rambla II – Niguel Fights Back
Up to this point I’d managed to slowly increase my lead over Niguel. At the second turn into the Rambla the gap had opened to a healthy 0.20 m; the old boy was struggling, but by no means beaten. This time around the incline seemed a little less gentle. I sensed my pace dropping, and sure enough, the evidence glared up from the Garmin: 0.19m. I knuckled down, trying to relax and concentrate at the same time. Another couple of intersections, another bleep: 0.18m. Oh-oh! Here he comes, the crafty swine! I smiled ruefully; Nigel would enjoy this. His electronic stand-in reeling in Sweder on the hill.
I gritted my teeth and for the first time this day I went to the well within. I felt a hint of response; nothing elaborate, no great burst of speed, just a gentle lift, a quickening. Reaching the turn at the top another beep drew my gaze: 0.19m. Great stuff! A timely boost – I’d hoped to eek out a few points on the downhill section – this was a bonus. The orange brigade once again offered a segment, but this time my effort to grab both fruit and water in one motion proved clumsy, my prize cart wheeling in the gutter.
Oh well, onward, onward. And downward.
I noticed I’d lost my silent companion. Probably on the second Rambla climb, it didn’t really matter. At this stage it was me against the watch; other runners would have little bearing on the outcome now. Another timely boost at the sweeping left-hander; Carmen and Paquito had joined Encarna and this time they spotted me first.
‘Vamos Ashley! Bueno, Bueno!’
Paquito looked in amazement at the heaving, rain-plastered creature leering and waving as he thundered past. Dreams of future glories may well have evaporated right then judging by the look of horror etched on his young face.
Lifted by this partisan support I pushed into the last mile of flat road with renewed vigour. Niguel was slowly falling back, 0.26m behind now. I resolved to take yards off him on this last stretch; if I blew up in the last mile or so. . . Even as I thought this I laughed inwardly at my false pessimism; I was going to smash my PB, and I was going to enjoy it, too.
As if to reinforce my resolve the rain, which had decreased in volume in the last 20 minutes, finally stopped. It felt like the gods had thrown in the towel; I was homeward bound, soaked and happy; might as well shed a little sunlight on the grand finale.
Estadio
At last the roundabout arrived, an island of greenery in an asphalt-bottomed lake. I plunged through the water, passing a number of circumspect locals as they tiptoed ‘round the edge. The road ahead was speckled with struggling runners and I pushed on, keen to pick them off as the incline took it’s toll.
I remember thinking this climb went on forever last year. I told myself it was a good 3K and to keep it steady and all would be well. By the time the stadium appeared, the towering lights like Wellsian Martians peeking between the buildings, relief threatened to overwhelm me. The ramp down to the track was, as expected, slick with water. I slowed, almost walking the 50 yards to insure against eleventh hour catastrophe.
Niguel beeped, a final signal to send me on my way. 0.31m ahead. Thanks Niguel, I couldn’t have done it without you. Now it’s just me and this track. And . . .
‘Sweder! Go on, Sweder!!!’
Above me, to my right, in the stands, video camera waving madly, SP, his own epic journey almost over for the day. ‘Go on!!!’ he bellowed.
I ran into the stadium and into my last 500 metres. I could have sworn I stepped on the gas – I certainly caught and passed a number of runners on that last lap. The video evidence would cruelly exposed this illusion, but for now I felt supreme.
1:47 something as I hit the final straight. I ran through, eyes on the clock, elated. I forgot the photographers, strung out like an aggressive slip cordon just past the finish, dropping my gaze to the track as I crossed. C’est la vie.
As I stood in line waiting for my gold foil blanket I marvelled at how great I felt.
I glanced at the Garmin – whoops, better turn that off. Bleep.
‘Success! You finished with 3:09 to spare’
Gracias, Niguel; se hace nuestro trabajo aquí.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The Cuban restaurant on Houston's Main Street has done its job - ensalada mixta, dos Coronas, un tinto chileno y paella, all sunk amidst fine company.
Now, from a quarter of a world away, rich memories of Almeria beckon sleep to Texas, the travelling runner perchance to dream of Andalucian skies and the Rambla's relentless rise.
And so, one thing is certain. They'll be runnin' in the mean Downtown streets before dawn tomorrow.
Nigel Wrote:The Cuban restaurant on Houston's Main Street has done its job - ensalada mixta, dos Coronas, un tinto chileno y paella, all sunk amidst fine company.
Now, from a quarter of a world away, rich memories of Almeria beckon sleep to Texas, the travelling runner perchance to dream of Andalucian skies and the Rambla's relentless rise.
And so, one thing is certain. They'll be runnin' in the mean Downtown streets before dawn tomorrow.
Ah, Tejas, my old friend.
I'm destined to walk those same streets at the end of this month, Nigel.
If you get a chance have a pint in the Richmond Arms for me
Travel safe
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks Andy. There's plenty more to write about, just no darned time . . .
By the way, try a google for Tegla Loroupe . . . there's a couple of ways to spell the name, but I'm fairly certain it's all the same person . . .
'So, are you running today . . . ' for the love of God . . . (holds head in hands and sobs quietly)
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Here's a clue: the first result on a google image search begins "Tegla Loroupe and Paul Tergat"!
By the way, if I have understood the categories on the results page correctly, it seems Tegla won the women's race by a country mile. (What DO those categories mean, anyway?)
I believe the official website has the result wrong
Susan Tanuit won the race in 1:13 . . . Tegla trailed in in a 'lowly' 1:21. She said afterwards the conditions affected her badly. If you go to the results pages and click on 'diploma' you get each runners' finishing photo, complete with the clock time as they cross. Also SP and I poured over the local newspaper reports the next morning which confirmed Tegla in second place.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
IX Medio Maraton Ciudad De Almería - I
