Life after Picos.

[Bierzo Baggie]

Cross alpino de Morla de la Valderia
July and August.
Have been getting out for 2 short runs a week and have done a bit of mountain biking. Nothing too serious though. Yesterday afternoon it was time to dig out the off-road runners, still coated floury white with Picos limestone dust and head for the village of Morla as we had done last year.

Miguel Mushroom was Gran Canaria-bound having narrowly missed out on the ill-fated flight from Barajas last Wednesday and Jorge has injured his knee so this time it was just me and Oscar. We left at the last moment and almost didn’t go at all. A one and a half hour journey over a 2000m mountain pass to a race which is barely a 10k seemed a tad eccentric to most but then it’s this very journey which makes the races the other side of Morredero so appealing.

The afternoon was hot and windless and we were held up over the pass by slow moving traffic and the usual distractions (birds of prey, meandering cattle and the views). Got to Morla a mere 5 minutes before the start but the organizers didn’t seem to mind us joining in at such short notice. In fact they seemed pleased to see us.

About 60 runners gathered in front of the tiny village church and they rang the bells to start the race. We tore off along dusty paths and trails which were for the most part stony and uneven. The climb which formed the first half of the circuit seemed tougher than last year and I had to walk a couple of times. Descended reasonably well but then almost had to walk again on a flat, grassy section as my legs seized up. Finished in 49 minutes, a minute slower than last year. Back in the village the main street had filled with folk who had come for the annual fiesta and it was only polite to stay for the garlic soup and chorizo free-for-all. .

The winner of the race won a cup and a leg of ham. Then Bierzo Baggie’s race number came out of the hat in the prize draw for 10 monster slabs of locally made chocolate. This was a pleasant surprise as the last time I won something was in the Tipton beautiful baby contest in 1970. Coming home with my rucksack stuffed full of top notch chocolate, much to the delight of my 3-year old daughter who loves the stuff, suddenly made it all feel worthwhile…simple pleasures, yum yum.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

... the last time I won something was in the Tipton beautiful baby contest in 1970.

Au contraire BB, I think you've won a fair bit of admiration over the last couple of years among the RC fraternity here with your exploits in yonder mountains...

And it's good to see you're still out there... 49 minutes for 10 mountainous kilometres is still awesome travelling - great stuff mate!

[Bierzo Baggie]

Thanks MLCM, it wasn't 10k by the way. I checked last years race report and it was an 8.9K and I was pretty knackered at the end. Not used to running fast any more and I probably set off too quickly.

[Bierzo Baggie]

Part One: III Maraton de montaña de Galicia 2008.

I think it's been mentioned here that very occasionally a myriad of factors fall miraculously into line to create a perfect, or near perfect run. A bit like a solar eclipse... err, except with more factors and less science. Well, that happened to me last Sunday.

I'd signed up for the Mountain Marathon of Galicia in the aftermath of Picos where I was unable to finish the race. I didn't even know that Galicia had a mountain marathon until Brian-Riazor Blue mentioned it on one of my visits to his shop. A quick map check revealed that it was only an hour and a half from home.... tempting.

The race's official name is "Penedos do Lobo" which translated from the galician language means something like "the rocky crags of the wolf". It sounded promising.

And there were several non-running factors which encouraged me to fill in the inscription form.
Tourism for example.
Penedos do Lobo is situated in an area of the deepest, darkest Orense badlands that I'd never previously visited. And Orense is a province of Galicia which on the map is dotted with quaint sounding galician names, intriguingly isolated hamlets and lots of hills. I'd call them hills more than mountains. Seen from afar the granite outcrops which emerge from the rising moor land make it look a bit like Dartmoor, only drier, harsher and dare I say uglier. For Los Penedos in Orense read Tors in Devonshire.

Another incentive was that it made for an ideal family outing. The race starts and finishes in the ski station of Manzaneda, the most westerly ski station in Europe. That means that there are all the facilities you'd expect unlike other races I've done where the start/ finish line is in some semi-abandoned village, where you get changed in your car and you shower in the local sheep dip.

However, my wife is normally very wary of my using the words “race” and “family outing,” in the same sentence.

OK, running for me is a fairly solitary activity although I wouldn’t call it a selfish one. I prefer to see it as an inconspicuous and undisruptive sort of lifestyle choice which these days takes place early morning and does me more good than harm. No, running’s fine, it is internet where the subversion lies. In fact, sad man that I am, it’s probably only here on the internet that I ever talk to anybody about running. I don’t run just to take part in races and I don’t have much concept of “progress” and “improvement” when it comes to racing but I must say that I thoroughly enjoy the race-day atmosphere and I also enjoy writing about it.

My Spanish family don’t really get it though.

When I’ve done some race on a Sunday morning they’ll sometimes ask
“¿Qué tal la caminata?” which means “how was the stroll?”.
Once after one “maraton of Toral de los Vados,” my father in law, a galician man through and through who speaks the lingo (“gallego” it’s called), asked me how many kilometres we had run. When I said 42 he almost choked on his stewed octopus. I haven’t brought the subject up again since.

So, I booked an apartment at the Manzaneda ski station and told Mrs BB about it a week before when it was too late for her to think up a decent excuse. If she’d refused to go I probably wouldn’t have bothered either. I’d already pushed my luck with Picos and although fellow runners might find what we do “normal” (there’s a lot more running tradition amongst my family in the UK) buggering off for the day by myself to run around in circles doesn’t always go done well in my immediate environs. Anyway, much to my surprise Mrs BB wasn’t totally against the idea of a weekend at the ski station. This was an altogether unexpected development. I hadn’t run more than 10K since June and suddenly... slap, bang, wallop, I had a full-whack marathon rearing up under the shadow of those mighty granite slabs.

No bailing out now though. Managed to get in a last-minute longish run to at least convince myself that I could finish and on Saturday we headed for wolf-country.

The hills of Orense aren’t pretty. Generations of forest fires have left behind a landscape of thorny, scrub like vegetation or no vegetation at all. The lonely, nondescript villages we pass through have very little of interest except perhaps the occasional mule, strong handsome beasts still accustomed to a full working week. We also passed vineyards hanging from the driest most inaccessible places imaginable. Found it difficult nay impossible to imagine these hills as a playground for galician and portuguese skiers in the winter months.

As we wound our way upwards through this bleak, bone-dry terrain the ski lifts glinted in the distance. The rocky crags of the wolf decorated the far horizon. The ski station itself was hidden amongst a pleasant enclave of pine trees and promised to be the most attractive feature of the zone..until the apartments came into view. Discreetly screened by the pines the apartments resembled some sort of rundown 1970s housing estate in West Bromwich. A few thousand coats of paint were undoubtably in order.

Anyway, we got comfortable, explored the grounds and found a play park for Lara. This would be the first time my 3-year old daughter had ever seen me run and I was bent on doing the done thing and crossing the finish line hand in hand. More on that later...

All boded well for Sunday. Nice weather, sunny, but at 1500m altitude it was considerably cooler than in the baking Bierzo basin. An inflatable finish line was all pumped up, chill-out music wafted across the ski station and the participants who had chosen to spend the night in Manzaneda were arriving in their cars and their camper vans. The restaurant opened and we went for a meal.

Part Two: The Race.

The morning, as expected, was chilly and clear.

About 300 runners and walkers and a few dogs set off at 8 o’clock and we all followed a succession of fairly unattractive forest trails and fire-breaks. Much of it was runnable and only occasionally was the monotony broken by cross-country sections across grassy, open moor land all impeccably marked by little red sticks. I attacked the first hills with my run-walk technique which worked very well and enabled me to reel in many of the run-run head-bangers near the end of the climbs. Passed through the half marathon in 2 hours 6 minutes, way ahead of schedule. Suffered a tad on a long, tricky descent and then on the final climb through the rocky crags but managed to overcome tiredness on realizing that I was on for an amazing sub-5 hour finish. The final 2kms were through the pine forest along a comfortable trail which opened out to the ski station and the home straight. Here I spotted Mrs BB and Lara. I somehow found an extra ounce of energy to hurdle a barrier and try to grab my daughter’s hand.

This was to be the glorious parent-offspring end-of-marathon ritual, the icing on the cake to a perfect run. Only Lara had other ideas... not surprising really. As Mrs BB pointed out later, one horribly sweaty dad covered in mud and firebreak dust emerging from the woods with an “I love fish” cap perched on the wrong way around would be enough to terrify any 3-year old.

She hid behind her mum and wouldn’t come out, leaving me with the slightly embarrassing task of climbing the barrier again and hobbling across the line by myself. There was sympathetic applause.

So, all the factors lined up benevolently and I surprised myself. The weather had been fine, not too hot and not too cold. For the first time I achieved mid-table respectability in a mountain marathon when I’d least expected it. In fact the course turned out to be ideal for me, being only semi-technical in places and with lots of runnable sections. The two major climbs were steep but not over-long. Also I’d stuffed myself with food the day before which I reckon proved even more decisive on the day than my water intake. But most importantly of all we had all spent an enjoyable weekend in a pleasant environment away from the hustle and bustle. Who knows? I might just persuade them that this running lark ain’t so bad after all....


Footnote.
Noticed that the winner, who finished in 3 hours 28 minutes, was Aurelio Olivar Roldan... hmm, that name rang a bell. It turned out that this guy was 7th in the Ultra Trail Mont Blanc 2 weeks ago (demoted to 15th for eating an illicit chocolate bar!) So, he had done this unbelievably gruelling 166km mountain ultra and two weeks later he is winning a mountain marathon in a course record time. I’m sorry but Mr Michael Phelps is a part timer....

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Maybe it wasn't the sight of you so much that scared her, but the sudden realisation that given her genetics there was a chance she might be mad enough to do this kind of insanity when she grows up too...

Be assured however that in my asylum at least, your efforts are worthy of a fresh box of crayons and clean, crease-free butchers' paper.

Splendid effort, sir!

[Bierzo Baggie]

Be assured however that in my asylum at least, your efforts are worthy of a fresh box of crayons and clean, crease-free butchers' paper.
Splendid effort, sir!

Thanks...

[Bierzo Baggie]

Ponferrada sin mi coche 10K (Ponferrada without my car 10K).

A useful facet of this training/race diary is that I’ve now got instant reference to races I’ve done before.

And this 10K was as hopelessly advertised as ever. As last year, everybody turned up in their cars except a self righteous BB who rode in on his trusty pink racing bike and my old friend Fernando Loco who rode in on a unicycle with a whopping great TV camera on his shoulder. Now Fernando Loco is one of those larger than life Bierzo characters who deserves a more than quick mention. I first met him when he played in goal for our now defunct 5-a-side team. They say goalkeepers are different and this one certainly was. Fernando would sometimes ride into the changing rooms on the pre-mentioned unicycle with a ghetto blaster on his shoulder. Before the game started he’d sometimes play the theme tune to the A-Team at full blast in an attempt to intimidate the opposition. Beethoven’s fifth symphony invariably came on when we lost.

Fernando with his camera invented Jackass before the Americans did. Fernando also invented the game of unicycle-basketball. And last week when the Vuelta de España cycle race passed through Ponferrada he scaled a vicious category 2 climb in the wake of the peloton and to the applause of cycling fans everywhere...on this very unicycle. There’s more, too many tales of wonderful eccentricity to mention here, but one that springs to mind occurred in a previous Vuelta a few years ago when the pro-cyclists had to climb the terrifying “Redondal” to end a particular stage. I’m not exaggerating when I say that this is one of the hardest end of stage climbs possible... anywhere. Legend has it that a tubby Jan Ullrich (amongst others) got off his bike and walked a bit. I’ve tried to climb it a couple of times on my pink racer but the steepest section near the end always grinds me to a standstill.

Anyway, the Redondal is about 20K from Ponferrada and here Fernando decided to try out his new invention, a home made-tandem built from two old mountain bikes welded together in his mate’s workshop. Fernando Loco is blessed with the strongest pair of legs imaginable and the trial run would be up Redondal on Vuelta day and without anybody else on the back of the tandem to slow him down!!

The waiting crowds applauded wildly as the crazy, bald guy with the big legs sped past. He dismounted when the pro-cyclists approached amidst all the usual pro-cycling paraphernalia but then got on the mountain-tandem again to home in on the tail end of the peloton. I witnessed the following sequence with my own eyes (and not dare I say, with somebody else’s which would have been silly.. and messy). The sprinters and stragglers at the back of the pack were struggling with the horrendous gradient. Some of them wobbled or zig-zagged across the road. Others accepted pushes from spectators. Fernando made spectacular ground on the suffering pros as we all watched in disbelief. People began to cheer as our man revelled in a brief moment of glory. Fernando was chasing down the pack and then....the Guardia Civil hauled him unceremoniously off his madcap contraption just as he started overtaking people! Fernando Loco, a great bloke and a local legend.

Not much to say about the 10K. This was the first road race I’d done for ages and I got round. Fernando was filming at the end, I don’t know for who.