April 2012

[Sweder]

Some might say I’ve left it a little late. Warm weather altitude training (we’re a thousand feet above sea level) seven days before a marathon might actually be considered posthumous given that, in theory at least, I should be well into my feet-up, piling-on-the-carbs slothful taper. Such is life. An opportunity came along and I seized it greedily without much thought for chronology. Some would point accusingly at my dislike of spreadsheets, nodding sagely as they prepare valedictory pronouncements of the death of my marathon dream. But the damage was inflicted long ago, Bubba, and had little to do with badly timed trips to the Andalusian desert.

It’s been a shambling wounded bear of a campaign, a series of well-intentioned false starts crippled by workus interuptus and a conspicuous lack of steely-eyed focus. Chief amongst the distracters has been my new-found love, Lewes FC, in all its manifestations. Donning the feathered Rookmeister cloak has fed my inner Toad. I’ve parp-parped my way from poorly-attended Under 18 games on a cold wet Monday night to the dark wilds of Essex for cup games against East Thurrock to the unashamed triumphalism of the (still) unbeaten (in the league) South East Combination League Champions. Their reward next season will be to host the might of Tottenham Hotspurs, West Ham United et al. Exciting times at the Dripping Pan.

So here I am, shacked up in a Villa on the edge of the desert 45 minutes north east of Almeria surrounded by the most seductive hills under clear blue Spanish skies. Given that everything else in this assault on Brighton has happened arse-about-face, why not? Why not indeed. I snuck out early, having slithered silently into my running garb, and set off into the west. Not half a mile in I met a man with two strange, bug-eyed dogs who seemed intent on ripping me to shreds. Guessing my intent the raisin-faced chap pointed out a well-hidden trail ascending from the roadside up a vertical wall of rock and scrub. Here be trails. I scrambled up, feeling the heat of the rising sun on my back as I kept careful watch for critters of the venomous kind. The scorpions in this region won’t kill you but they’ll still give you a nasty nip, as will the spiteful, leafless plants that whip your ankles. They lurk amongst the soft grasses, slashing flesh as you skip by, feeding on the yelps that slip from unwary runners’ lips.

I reached the summit, breathless but relieved to be away from those slavering jaws, surveying the scene. A perfect miniature of the Bob Graham Round stretched out before me, circumscribing the ex-pat settlement of perfectly kempt villas and immaculate tiled terraces that form Los Carrascos in the shadow of Arboleas. My heart lept as I set out along the dusty track, plunging into steep swoops only to slingshot up the next sinew-stretching climb. Troughs and valleys lay below, some bearing the scars of agricultural effort, others dotted with olive trees. In the distance the speckled acres of citrus trees glistened in the sun. I ran on for a few miles more, eventually dropping off the side of this crazy carousel into a flatter dust trail along the edge of a bone-dry river bed filled with arm-waving giant cacti and towering grassheads.

How did we come to be here, in this chalky-bright retirement community of wrinkled sun-dried Northern Europeans? It’s all to do with Mrs S’s relatives, one of whom built the first-ever dwelling in this dustbowl before joining forces with the locals to build and sell a succession of houses. He bailed at just the right time, switching his attention to the modern-day cash-cow, the Solar Panel Farm. He owns a thousand-panel crop a few valleys away – ‘my retirement’ – and he owes his good fortune to an encounter with The Lord. The local Xunta, the mere tip of the beaurocratic iceberg that sinks many an earnest endeavour in these here parts, were poised to bring the whole scam to its knees. Our man in Los Carrascos had filed all his papers in triplicate but the night before the Big Hearing had received a summons to reveal his banks statements for the past three years. In four sets, if you please.
‘I had one of those printer/ scanner/ copiers but the black ink was spent. There was no way to get a replacement and we had to be in Almeria before the judge in the morning. Then an inner voice told me to take the old cartridge out of the bin. It was dry as a bone but I put it in anyway and – Lo! It printed! One, two, three, four copies, page after page in perfect copy! Incredible.’

Following the Miracle of The Printer Cartridge he then witnessed the Lord moving in mysterious ways at the hearing. Having been told for six months that his plans would most definately be thrown out that very next morning the glassy-eyed Almerian official told him there’d been a terrible mix-up and the authorities had been wrong all along. He was terribly sorry for wasting our man’s time and he could now go back and start reaping his Solar fortune.

These tales unfolded over freshly-brewed coffee on this Easter Monday and it appeared He Wuz indeed Riz. Our host, a genial fellow replete with trademark Stringfellow (for he is of that clan) mullet and shirt-harnessed bowling-ball belly, shared his epiphany as if bringing joy to the world. Stories of hands-on healing and enlightenment flowed like slurry as the sun rose. I shuffled away to avoid what turned out to be almost three hours of uninterrupted diatribe. Had he brought forth a fresh loaf and a basket of fish I might have combusted in a fit of incredulity so great the residual tremor would have registered in Molly Malone’s.

The track brought me back across a small bridge over the dry river. An ancient shepherd sat soaking up the sun under an old straw hat, his mangy cur waddling across to warn me off should I have bad intentions towards their woolly charges. I scampered up the asphalt to rejoin Little England, stepping neatly from tumbleweed central into patio'd heaven.

A shade under five miles tucked away, a journey I shall repeat later in the week, maybe an hour earlier to dodge the deceptive mid-morning heat and a mile or two longer to take in a few more hills. A little much in the final days before the Big One perhaps, but wholly in keeping with this strange, topsy-turvey year.