Sunday March 14
My only running to date had been the occasional Sunday morning jaunt accompanied by Roel the Dutch wine taster, a recent arrival to the scene on the payroll of a local bodega.
January and February flashed by and before I knew it the first race of the season was looming frighteningly on the horizon.
Carrera de Montaña Alto Sil; 29kms of paths and trails with 1500m ascent and an extended section of river running. Ridiculously short of mileage for the task ahead I signed up, hoping that a combination of experience, knowledge of the terrain and blind optimismo would get me around painlessly. I was very nearly right.
Went with Roel who was to join me for the first 10k but not the whole hog. My Dutch friend is a veteran of the “Zevenheuvelenloop” the Seven hills race in Holland and I’d encouraged him with stories of
last year’s race. These were not Dutch hills though..
The Race.
300 plus mountain running enthusiasts packed into the little village square of Santa Cruz del Sil for the 9am start. At 4 degrees below zero the accumulated warmth of the running masses was to be welcomed. There was a higher than normal percentage of elite athletes. One of them was the brother of Roberto Heras, an ex-chaperon of Lance Armstrong and three times winner of La Vuelta.
Me and Roel aimed to start as far back as possible.
The procedings were delayed slightly by a minute’s silence for number 57 who had disappeared underneath an avalanche in the Aquilianos range two weeks previously. This is a highly unusual event, but not impossible, especially when one chooses to train in the craziest of conditions. A short homage was paid to the unfortunate mountaineer followed by a moment’s reflection on this most romantic and pointless of occupations, the extreme sport of mountain climbing.
The grim reaper had reared its ugly head once more. By coincidence I am number 56.
The race began. We left the village and tackled the first climb immediately. Most people walked, some with poles. On the steep descent that followed I picked off several runners and caught up with a few people I knew. Slipped on ice a couple of times but felt quite good.
The second climb was longer but ultimately not so taxing and we soon reached a section of lingering snow and some wide forest trails. Blasted downhill at a faster pace than last year when I was probably fitter but more wary of injuring myself (calf muscles in particular). The drinks station in the abandoned village of Primout was well staffed by local hunters and then on to the defining section of the race, the river. No puddle dodging here, you must run straight down the middle of it, knee deep in places, for several hundred metres. One guy I passed stepped into a hole and sank up to his neck. He swore in Galician but seemed to be enjoying it.
Struggled up the last long, long climb. Once at the top I thought I was home and dry but there was a surprise in store on the final descent through the woods. For the first time in my life I suffered terrible cramp and at one point I couldn’t even take a step forwards. Sensed that my quad muscles were about to pop out of my legs and run off without me. Even tried walking backwards for a bit. Lots of people steamed past me; some offered help and some laughed. Rubbed my legs, jingled them around a bit and strutted like a pidgeon for the final 3 or 4 kms.
A spectacular post-race paella awaited us that surpassed last year’s meat-fest orgy in both taste and quantity.
My finishing time was 3 hours 50 minutes, 226th out of 290 finishers and 22 minutes slower than last year. Heras won in 2:17.
Took a few
photos amongst which is this one of Stan the paella man..
Next race April 1st Cacabelos 10k.
