Random running and remote races.

[Bierzo Baggie]

This one was worth a decent write up and although it probably won’t sound like a race report at first, please bear with me.

The last person I expected to see at the II Subida a el Morredero was El Chepas (“the hunchback”). He slipped to the back of the field almost unnoticed seconds before they released the tape. In fact everybody seemed so focussed on the long haul ahead that perhaps I was the only one who saw him. El Chepas used to be the official drunken neighbourhood buffoon whose scandalous antics around town were tolerated because he was… well, …he was El Chepas. He’d scream obscenities at passers by, he’d piss in the street and then walk around with his knob hanging out, he’d lurch about with wild eyes and scare the shit out of tourists. I’d assumed at first that the guy was mad until one day I stood behind him in a shop and realized that he was quite coherent in between sessions of whatever it was he drank (distilled rocket fuel maybe?) Occasionally the police would arrest him for his own protection but I got the impression that more often than not they’d find him work. I’d seen him doing a brief stint as a bin man or working on the market.
But I’d more likely see him clinging to a lamppost spitting out personalized insults at anybody who made eye contact;
“Hijo de puta!” (son of a bitch)
“Cabrón” (billy goat…actually quite insulting in Spanish).
And in the case of an ex-flatmate who still sported a Terry the Scouser perm well into the 90s
“Platini!”
Curiosity got the better of me one day and I deliberately looked him in the eyes to see where I fitted in in his little game of word associations. El Chepas stared back at me, narrowed his eyes, pondered for a moment and scowled “Marricón” (big poofter) before staggering off. I spent the next week wondering what he’d meant.

For a time El Chepas was as much part of the scenery as the clock tower or the castle or the big bronze statue of the templar knight in the town centre. The kids laughed at him and ran away. Their parents seemed to pretend he wasn’t there and strangely enough nobody local ever complained or reproached him for his antisocial behaviour. Later I was to hear different stories; that he was once a top cyclist; that he had suffered a terrible personal tragedy; that he had lost his wife and child in an accident; that he took to drink to deal with the demons of his past. Lots of talk. Lots of tales. “Cotilleo”.
And then he disappeared. Or perhaps he simply became one more anonymous face in the crowd. His legend diminished and he was replaced by a new official drunken neighbourhood buffoon (Pilufo, a crusty with a Viking helmet and a posse of dogs on ropes). Many, me included, suspected that El Chepas had died. He hadn’t. He’d become invisible.

But it was definitely El Chepas standing near me on the start line with the rain dripping off his nose. He was somewhat greyer than he had been 10 years ago but the wiry, slightly hunched figure and the angular features were unmistakeable.
This time he didn’t call me “marricón”.

El Chepas was perhaps the only surprise amongst a field of 87 starters which otherwise consisted of lean athletes and grizzly mountaineers and with the race being on the road the athletes would inevitably have the upper hand. The weather was shocking. The rain lashed down and when they gave the off at 10 o’clock sharp we all splashed through the puddles across the plaza and towards the looming black mountains of Morredero. But rather than fear I felt good about this one. The weather reminded me of the UK and I have no problem with running up hills… slowly. I set off with a mixture of caution and optimism.

The Morredero road to the ski-station takes us through 2 traditional Bierzo villages, Salas de los Barrios and San Cristobel de Valdueza,. Long names for such small places. The steepest hill came just after Salas, an eyewateringly vicious 3km section which is 1 in 5 at times. We were well accompanied by cars, cyclists and even photographers and it felt a bit like a stage of one of the great cycling races albeit on an infinitely smaller scale.

At San Cristobel (10km?) there was a drinks station with isotonic drinks. I took one of those fiddly gel things. Mmmmm, tasty. Then the gradient steepened again and we rose into the angry clouds which shrouded the peaks of the Montes Aquilianos. The rain intensified and at times it felt like being under some immense waterfall. I found myself running comfortably in the middle of the field. Psychologically it was easy because I knew the road well and where to ease off and where to speed up. Inevitably tiredness kicked in though.

Above San Cristobel the landscape is bleak and awesome. It ended up crushing me as I turned into the hairpins which marked the last 2 or 3 kms. I’d got the next runner in my sights and he was walking, yet he never seemed to get any closer. It dawned on me that his walk was faster than my run! The unrelenting Morredero wind tore into me. Instead of looking upwards towards the ski station I focussed on the names of the cyclists painted on the road for the Vuelta which passed through here in September.
Valverde, Pereiro, “Landis dopado”, Mayo, Sastre, Sweder…..eh? Sweder? Was I hallucinating? The plucky running commentator’s world of windswept Sussex clifftops had superimposed itself on this godforsaken little corner of northwest Spain. I leant into the final hairpin which had suddenly transformed into “the snake”.

The last 100 metres took me about a minute and I shuffled across the line resembling a drowned rat and feeling like one too. Felt dizzy on stopping but soon recovered and headed into the murkiness of the ski station hut where they’d laid on all sorts of tapas. It had taken me 2 hours 25 minutes, half an hour faster than I’d expected.

Managed to cadge a lift back down to Ponferrada with somebody so I missed the prize giving and the goodie bag (the winner had finished in an amazing 1 hour 47 minutes and won 500 euros for the morning’s work). And as I walked towards the car I was one of only 3 or 4 people to witness the arrival of the last (and oldest) athlete, a slightly hunched figure who lurched dramatically out of the mist, arms raised in triumph. Fookin’ ‘ell… it’s El Chepas…!!
I found myself patting the world’s boniest back.
“Joder, tío, eres un monstruo!” El Chepas broke into a huge Cheshire cat grin and I observed for the first time that he’d only got 3 teeth.

Words cannot express the admiration that I felt for the guy. This was more than therapy through running, this was a bloody resurrection and unexpectedly El Chepas joined my list of anonymous running heroes. And if any of you come and do the Aquilianos event next June you may well end up lining up alongside El Chepas, the little man with extremely large cojones.
But please, don’t buy him a drink.