Picture the scene…
Lying on my deathbed, a solemn, distant, whispering face…will be
slowly lowered into my grey, fading world…. and will tell me… my
time is almost up.
Peering out weakly, a waning stamen amid a bonnet of withering petals,
I’ll smile the best I can…
and call loudly for a bottle of Taylor’s 77.
Admit it, port is the greatest of all drinks, and fittingly, it
generates the greatest of all hangovers. Knowing I’ll be dead tomorrow
would be the ideal opportunity to push the boat out, and allow myself
the luxury of chewing over a whole bottle. What a way to go.
These thoughts emerged through today’s painful, extended crapulence.
Ash, Andy and I flew back from Spain with, surely, the largest
collective bad head in the history of modern aviation.
A dry January and galloping old age had combined to reduce the opacity
of my hangover memories. Today they are back in full, living
technicolor.
Where were we?
Almeria, southern Spain.
Opening the curtains on Sunday morning revealed a heartening sight —
one of those exotic, orangey Mediterranean skies. There was even a
trace of sunshine. Below, people were wandering round without
umbrellas. The ground was dry and things were looking good.
Over a leisurely but ascetic breakfast — a few bites of baguette, a
banana, an orange, and a mouthful of water — I considered what to
wear. I had with me a wide selection of items from the Running
Commentary wardrobe, and I now had to consider the optimum permutation.
Wet or dry weather? Warm or cold? So… long-sleeved or short? One
layer or two? How many pockets did I need? Which cap to wear — the
traditional, canary-yellow Hal Higdon? Or the tasteful, grey, New
Balance cap purchased last night from the modest expo? Thick socks or
thin?
In the end I went for the new cap and gel belt, and thick Thorlo socks.
Club vest on top, but underneath? Couldn’t decide.
The boldest decision was wearing some brand new shoes. I’ve had to
stock up on New Balance 854s recently after the company announced the
disastrous decision to discontinue them. Why they should vote to stop
producing one of their best-loved models is a mystery. These shoes are
kind to the runner with the more generous figure. Solid, stable, and
comfortable over high mileages. New Balance evidently can’t cope with
their commercial success, and are abandoning them. I mailed the company
a while back to ask why, and received an anodyne and schoolgirlish
response, complete with typos and nauseatingly jolly exclamation marks.
Hang on, I can feel a rant coming on…
<rant>
Excessive exclamation marks are the curse of the modern age! They seem
to be saying: I’ve just said something awfully amusing, by the way, so
don’t forget to chuckle!! I have to put in an exclamation mark just to
let you know!!!!
So anyway, I had a message back from one of the YTS kids in the New
Balance marketing department, splattered with these terrible things,
telling me that well, We all have to move on! We have to keep
innovating!! People like change!!!
Do we really like change? We’re constantly told that not only should we
like it, we should embrace
it, whatever that means. This platitude has elevated itself to the
status of Eleventh Commandment. Thou Shalt Not Grumble About New
Things. Personally, I think it’s a useless maxim. What we should like
and embrace and encourage, is progress and improvement, not just
change. New Balance is introducing a new shoe – well why not? No
problem with that. But to make room for this new shoe, they’re
disposing of another one that a lot of people support and cherish, and
are happy to keep buying. According to this month’s Runner’s World mag,
the new model is nothing like the 854, so we don’t even have any
compensation.
So it’s Boooooooooooo to New Balance.
</rant>
Man, that feels a lot better.
So anyway, I pulled on my new 854s for only the second time yesterday.
Just 3½ miles notched on them, during Friday’s gentle
loosener.
The other three As — Ash, Andy and Antonio — were waiting in the
lobby. Ash had been ingratiating himself with one of those startlingly
flimsy, gaminesque Kenyan women runners. She must have weighed less
than one his legs.
Andy and Antonio were deep in conversation. The plan was for Andy to
borrow Antonio’s bike to help him act as our second. Both men seemed to
be losing enthusiasm for what had seemed like a good idea to begin
with. Andy was explaining that he hadn’t ridden a bike for 25 years,
and asking if it would be safe if he just left it outside the stadium
for an hour or so while he watched the end of the race. Antonio was
gazing at his machine as though for the last time.
Eventually, Andy wobbled off towards the start line a couple of miles
away while Antonio chauffeured us to the stadium. On the way there, I
confided in Ash that I was still undecided about what to wear under my
bright yellow Reading Joggers club vest.
Short-sleeved blue tee? Or the long-sleeved, yellow Coolmax top? In a
judgement that would have delighted my wife, he opined that the two
yellows would clash, and therefore I should go with the more
co-ordinated blue tee-shirt. I confess I was startled by his reasoning,
but meekly went along with the verdict.
Once we’d parked, Antonio vanished. As always, he had some act of
kindness to accomplish — this time to deliver a race pack to an
Italian friend in some uncertain location. Meanwhile, we passed the
Kenyan runner again. She grinned and gave us a Shearer salute.
We nervously glanced at the huge black clouds that were mustering in
the west, and starting to drift towards us. As we jogged around the car
park, the inevitable happened. Large spots of rain began to fall. The
English contingent were evidently more waterproof than the Spaniards.
As it got wetter and colder, Ash and I continued to… warm up, while
most of the other runners ran shrieking into the stadium to seek
shelter.
With a couple of minutes to go, the squealing field moved towards the
start line, like lemmings heading for the cliff.
Admittedly, it was uncomfortable. The rain was now heavy and dense, and
a cold wind had whipped up from somewhere. In the middle distance, the
surrounding mountains were coated with snow. It was like being trapped
in a washing machine on an ice-cold cycle; the least pleasant start to
a race since Bath in 2003.
As some readers might recall, I like to check out apparel during the
moments leading up to the start of a race, and one thing that struck me
in Almeria was the almost total lack of leggings, jackets, and even
long-sleeved shirts. I don’t think this was bravado on the part of the
Spanish runners. I wouldn’t want to accuse them of that. No, I
suspected it was a simple reflection of differences in our running
gear. British runners who’ve survived a couple of winters tend to have
started to build up quite a collection of waterproof, windproof outer
gear. Gillets, jackets, leggings, tracksuit bottoms, hats, caps,
gloves, as well as things like figure-hugging undershirts. If this race
had been happening in the UK, you’d have seen quite a few examples. But
here there was virtually nothing. A large proportion of runners wore
vests and shorts, and no headgear.
There was a minute’s silence for some local people who’d died in a
motor accident. The minute’s silence lasted about 10 seconds, then we
were off.
Like last year, the start was ragged. I didn’t notice a start line. I
didn’t notice a starting gun. One moment we were leaping like salmons
and flapping our arms about, then there was a concerted jog forward,
then a stop, then a start again, and more shuffling. About 30 seconds
later I decided to start my watch.
Antonio and I ran together for 3½ kilometres or so, through
the unremarkable semi-industrial sector, and on into the centre of the
town. He has taught in Almeria for 17 years, and knows thousands of
people in the town. He’s a latterday Mister Chips, or whatever the
Spanish equivalent might be. Senor Tortillas,
perhaps. He kept up a running commentary throughout these first three
kilometres, explaining who people were, both in the race and among the
spectators. Dozens of people called out to him, or waved as we passed.
At one point he suddenly said “Excuse me”, and darted off round a
corner. I assumed he’d promised to do some shopping for an elderly
neighbour on his way round, or to undertake some other humanitarian
act. But no, he was only having a pee.
I’m not very good at talking during a race, so I said little. The rain
was still teeming, and large puddles were starting to form across the
tarmac. 3 kilometres in, we pass beneath the railway bridge and swing
right towards the dreaded Rambla. This is Almeria’s long, uphill main
street. In truth, it’s not a steep hill but it lasts for about 2
kilometres, or a mile and a quarter. In the half marathon, we run it
twice.
200 metres or so up the Rambla, Antonio decided to push on, probably
bored by my silence. He might also have cast a worrying glance over his
shoulder and seen that there was only one runner behind us. I felt no
anxiety about this. I knew that I wouldn’t be second-last for long. Too
many had gone off too quickly, probably spurred on by the bad weather.
They wouldn’t be able to sustain that pace.
At the very top of the Rambla, 5km into the race where with gratitude
and relief, we turn sharply left, pick up some water, and head back
down the other side of the street, I overtook the first dozen or so
slowing runners. Most of this group was wearing red shirts, and were
soldiers. I stayed just ahead of them for almost the entire race. For
most of that time they sang and shouted and played.
Why are trained killers always so darned cheerful?
The descent was over in a snap, helped, halfway down, by the
realisation that the rain had almost stopped, and at the bottom, by the
uplifting sight of Carmen, her young son Paquito, and her friend
Encarna waving and squealing at me. Running a race is a surprisingly
solitary activity. Physically you’re part of a crowd, but the need to
stay disciplined and focussed draws you into yourself. When there’s
someone out there to cheer you on, you’re jolted out of your isolation
and have to re-engage with the event and the external world. Seeing a
friendly face is like taking a gel or hitting a downward stretch.
You’re temporarily energised.
It wasn’t just these three who helped us round. Andy and
José were always popping up when least expected, dangling a
banana in front of me, or taking a picture, or offering water, or just
a bit of encouragement. It makes a difference.
Last year’s race offered me probably my best running moment ever, being
overtaken by Haile Gebrselassie. This year he shunned a rematch, but
the front-runners did inevitably catch up with me, though a few hundred
metres further on this time. It’s always exciting to hear the police
outriders roaring up behind you, nudging you to the side of the road,
and seeing the real athletes gracefully skipping past, full of running
and energy. I doubt if they avoided the puddles like I did. They can
probably walk on water in any case.
The long flat road down to the roundabout, where you turn and retrace
your steps back to the town centre, is a tough stretch. The Rambla may
sound like the hardest part of the race, but at least it’s a pleasant,
tree-lined route through the glitzy part of town, and it’s where the
spectators tend to gather. The 3 or 4 long pulls before and after the
Rambla are where your spirit and energy are drained from you. It’s here
you must dig deep and just keep on keeping on.
The second time up and down the Rambla was much tougher than the first,
but now I was tired and wanted to finish. My aim
for the race was to beat last year’s time, while my hope
was for a PB. I sensed the PB dream slipping away through the second
half of the race as I gradually tired. The endless, featureless stretch
alongside the sea and back up to the stadium must be 5 or 6 km at
least. Add in the day’s deathly greyness, strapped around us like a
straitjacket, the huge puddles and the bedraggled palm trees flapping
in the icy breeze, and you have a slightly demoralising run-in.
The sight of a race finish is enough to compete with any of the Great
Wonders of the World. At Almeria, as with the Reading Half, you see the
stadium long before you actually arrive there, which only adds to the
thrill of finally reaching it. When you do get there, fatigued and
aching and mentally tired, you must plummet down a horribly steep ramp
into the arena. It’s easy to imagine falling, and being too scratched
and torn to continue. For this to happen would be the cruellest blow.
It’s not just the “so near yet so far” aspect, but you’d be deprived of
the best moment of this or any race — the thrill of coming off the
streets and into a stadium. At Almeria (unlike Reading), you have to
run a full circuit of the track before hitting the finish. Is this
cruel or exciting? Hard to say. True, it’s the last thing you feel like
doing after all those miles, and within touching distance of the tape
(so to speak) too. But let’s face it, it’s here you can act out your
fantasies, as you hurl around the track towards the finish, with
thousands of screaming fans on their feet, pogoing with excitement.
That’s (almost) how it feels, anyway. The truth, tragically, is not
quite identical to the hallucinations produced by your emotional
weariness and physical debilitation. I discovered this only later,
after viewing the video footage taken by Andy. My memory is of
accelerating into a strong, confident stride for that final lap. The
reality is that I am an old man in survival-shuffle mode, desperate for
the finish line to reach me before my coronary does. But if my eyes
were opened by seeing the video, they were swiftly slammed shut,
beneath the weight of my own disappointment and shame.
The running star of the show was Ash, whose 1:47 was a PB, and 3
minutes faster than his target. A tremendous performance in those
conditions. Antonio coasted to 2:07, well ahead of me. I finished in
2:12. This was 1 minute outside my PB, but 3 minutes less slow than
Almeria last year. I was happy with that.
On the subject of congratulations, let’s mention a few others: Antonio,
who seems to have limitless patience with the excesses of the Brits. Andy
and José for their support
during the race. Antonio’s colleagues, Carmen
and Encarna, and young Paquito
for their lusty cheering.
And of course, there’s the legendary Almeria Half goody bag. This has
to be the best value race on the planet. For 10 euros (about
£7), you get race entry, champion chip, three course pre-race
meal, decent quality teeshirt, runner’s rucksack, chunky keyring, pen,
fruit, punnet of green tomatoes, and probably several other things I’ve
forgotten about.
Wrapped in gold foil, we crept past the long queues for the massage
tables and those massive Almeria Half posters that Ash and I cast
covetous glances at. Back at the car, how good it was to bite into one
of Antonio’s chocolate cereal bars. I’d not had a sniff of this
wonderful substance for a month. Boy, it was all worth it for that
mouthful.
Back to the hotel, quick shower, change of clothes, then down to the
bar for my first beer for 4 weeks. Hmmm. If the chocolate tasted good,
the beer was a significant step further along the pleasure path.
Standing there in the sunlit bar with Ash and Andy, aching sweetly from
the race, feeling clean and wearing fresh clothes, glugging a couple of
beers and giggling over recalled bits of the race, was the best 30
minutes of the entire weekend.
Just before 3, we took a cab down to the Rambla for the now-traditional
group photo in our race teeshirts. Then we carried on to lunch at the
Club de Mar. Let’s not mince our words here, the meal was very ordinary
and I was unlucky with the wine. The first bottle of Cune Reserva 73
was badly oxidised and was sent back. The second bottle, this time a
Faustino V 94 Reserva should have been a safer choice, but was also out
of condition. This time, the waiters were getting so stroppy that I
didn’t dare complain. But next year, if we are back in Almeria, I think
we may look for a different venue.
If the meal was disappointing, the occasion was good, and we managed to
enjoy it. We raised our (beer) glasses to Nigel, Suzie and M, and other
absent friends, and continued to relish the sheer joy of having
finished the race.
After the meal, the three English chaps went to the football of course.
Almeria versus Numancia. The home side were poor, and were deservedly
beaten 2-1, the winning goal coming in the 3rd minute of time added on
in the second half. We watched the game in the same stadium that we’d
finished the race in earlier that day. It’s a polished product, but
I’ve said before that I don’t much like new stadia. Yes, I’m
comfortable and have leg-room. The new scoreboard is lovely and makes
sounds that are “fun”. But where are the ghosts of yesteryear? The
atmosphere? Where is the sense of history, of past pain and triumph? It
isn’t there. It’s the difference between new shoes and a comfortable,
worn-in pair. Almeria’s running track takes you away from the pitch,
and away from the sport. You really are a spectator, and not a
participant in the event. We enjoyed the experience, but we were never
a part of it.
Then a long walk back to the hotel, a quick rest, and it was out again
to one of the local bars, where we met up with Juan Pedro, the chap
we’d been introduced to the previous day. He was there with a skinny
guy who turned out to have run the half marathon that morning in 1:09.
More than an hour faster than me. Bastard. I bet I could drink more
beer than he could. The truth of this seemed to be indicated by him
making an early departure, leaving the four of us to glug lager and
watch Celta Vigo go down, unluckily, 2-1 at home to Real Madrid.
Later, we found ourselves in a beerless bar called Aqualung. There was
a wistful silence as we scanned the row of 70s album covers above us.
Oh Aqualung my friend,
don’t you start away uneasy…..
I was never a big Jethro Tull fan, but ageing plays tricks on you.
We spent three hours drinking gargantuan glasses of Beefeater gin and
Jack Daniels, and some other evil German stuff that the buxom German
barmaid told us we must have. Who were we to argue?
We had one more day left in Almeria, but if I start talking about that,
this report will be delayed even further. This was another good away
day for Team Running Commentary. With no women around to keep us in
order, we were perhaps more badly behaved than last year. We ate far
too many peanuts, for instance, and I forgot to comb my hair this
morning.
But despite it all, we somehow managed to pull through, and so we live
to run another day.
