February 2009

[Sweder]

After the turn west onto Cabo de Gata once more the lead car, presumably with a new chauffeur on board, appeared heading east on the other side of the road, closely followed by the two leaders. One looked Spanish, the other African. Whilst both ran beautifully, barely rising and falling, gliding towards me, I couldn’t help thinking my money, were I the gambling type, would be on the man from across the sea. He had that look – the look of a man who has the measure of his opponent; upright, relaxed, eyes cast slightly down – he looked within himself, and that spelled serious peril for anyone around or against him.

The organisers threw in another surprise on the way back to la Rambla; a detour via Avenida de Juan XXII and Calle Zamora. I spared a thought for Bobby of that name, currently suffering a goal drought at Craven Cottage. Should have stayed a Hammer Bobby, or even a Seagull:

When the ball hits the goal
It’s not Shearer or Cole
It’s Zam-mora!

The Withdean melody was gone on the breeze as I reached la Rambla for the second time. Oh boy, was this a different story! Try as I might I couldn’t grasp that brutal sub-5 pace. I got there now and again only to slip back, fatigue rising in desperate limbs. The penny dropped; I was pushing too hard when in fact there was no need. I could make up the shortfall on the down slope in a few minutes; best to grin and bear the small losses and recoup on the return. Swings and roundabouts dear boy, swings and roundabouts. All good mental toughness – bravo! Except . . . I’ve run this race a few times and there are no easy sections; the bullies have tied up the swings and they're hogging the roundabouts, gathered in gangs armed with withering leers and billyclubs. Sure enough I barely bobbed under 5 on the drop. I had to knuckle down yet again on the flat to, as I saw it, make up lost ground. It was a fool's errand.

Just past the lady soldier – she’d dropped her arm by now so I threw her a cheeky salute of my own, rewarded this time with a lovely smile – reality bit. And it was quite a bite, too; a big, snarling chomp, right in the heart of my hamstring. The right leg went stiff, that familiar knot in the back of the thigh sending cold fear flooding through me. Nooooo . . . I eased off . . . and so, mercifully, the pain subsided. The leg stayed tight but I managed to keep going. A glance at the watch: 5.15 minute pace. OK, stay calm, evaluate . . . I turned my right toe in a tad, a trick I’d employed during the Reading Half in 2005 when I carried a similar injury. After no immediate or obvious dividend I relaxed back into my natural gait. As part of my mind raced, working out how far I had to go and the minimum speed needed to bag a sub 1:45, down in the murky basement of my brain-box soiled drapes were drawn, tatty chairs eased back and lights switched off as a miniature home movie flickered and rolled. It showed an empty stadium – empty that is aside from a rain-lashed track and a lone, doleful marshal. The finishing line bereft of bunting or balloons, signs drooping. An old man hobbled into view, twisted in pain, right arm thrown back to clutch his stiff, trailing leg. He winced with every loathsome stride, dragging himself to a desperate, lonely finish . . .

Lights please. OK: time doesn’t matter, I need to finish. No Derek Redmond nightmares/ heroics needed here, thanks very much. By trial and error I found my optimum pace without pain – around 5:10 klicks – and stuck to it, even as what seemed like the entire starting line-up seeped steadily past me. I had to shake off the feeling of going backwards and trust my protective instincts. When I lapsed – to look up for faces in the weather-defying crowd or, more frequently, urgently seek the solace of another K marker – the pace dropped, so I redoubled my efforts to stay ‘in the moment’, swollen ambition shoved rudely aside by grim determination.

The last three kilometres were as hard as any I’ve run in the past twelve months. I set my jaw and dragged myself up that blasted, never-ending, Avenida de Mediterraneo, the cruel, battle-scar pot-holes of Jardin a Los Molinos and the final twisted agonies of Camino de la Goleta and the evil industrial estate. At last the blessed towers of Estadio loomed overhead, the distant roar from within calling muffled finishers' prayers. I’d love to have hammered up that last unkind hill, to have flown down the rain-slick ramp, to have completed a triumphant, arms-aloft circuit for the clammering hoardes, but in truth there was none of that. Only lip-trembling effort, teeth-grinding will and the support of a good friend – Ladyrunner, bathed in the glow of her own superb effort, waiting at the bottom of the ramp.
‘Come on Sweder!’
We high-fived and blow me if I didn’t manage a tiny increase in pace. The leg whined and I tried to ignore it, but with the line in sight I let my head rule my heart to run steadily through the line.

1:42:05, a monster PB for this circuit and an official best for the distance by over four minutes. It’s tough to carp at that and I don’t intend to. To see Julie elated at her time and to have been a few short minutes behind her I’m chuffed to bits. More so after I’d gingerly walked the danger out of my quaking legs, nursing the hamstrings, now tight as Tom’s wallet, through the queues for the finishers’ packs and back to the van.

On reflection a number of things contributed to that near-fatal twinge.
First and foremost a combination of pushing harder than usual in unexpectedly cool, damp conditions. We jest about it being warm rain (compared to our home-grown ice and snow) but in truth my legs – and I – were pretty cold over those closing kilometres. Steady rain stayed with us throughout, and whilst I run in those conditions (and worse) most Sundays it’s never that close to full throttle. That's when the risks of injury are at their peak, and I was probably fortunate not to have seen my right foot coiling wildly around my ears.

A gentle lope back to the digs revealed no lasting damage, as did the delightful Monday Mountain Plummet 24 hours later, though I’d be lying if I said that was easy. This week’s soreness – knees and hamstrings – has me pondering my road-running future and turning ever more towards my beloved, muddy hills.

Safest, perhaps, to whisper . . . Ameria: to be continued