Almeria Half Marathon Report - I

[Sweder]

Time of day: 10:00 Hrs
Location: Almeria, Spain
Distance: 13.1 miles
Time: 01:54:26
Conditions: cool, breezy, overcast, dry
Companions: Anlu247, The Devil's Avocado, Niguel, Seafront Plodder, SuzieQ, Haile Gabrieselassie

So here we stand, 5 men and a lady, drawn together by a common love of running, and of writing and reading about running on the RC forum. It’s cold, but we are warm; warmed by the expectant buzz of excitement as the 900+ crowd awaits the arrival of the star performer. There’s a bustle of movement near the front, the murmurs grow, and he’s there, the little Ethiopian, and we’re ready for the off.

A surge at the front, the leading runners are through the barriers and across what we assumed to be the start mat but what turned out to be the mat that set the champion-chips. Confused, not yet understanding this small yet vital piece of information, Team RC swap excited banter about the vagaries of foreign organisation and how quaint such foibles appear to we better organised Northern Europeans.

And then the gun, readjustment of a variety of Garmins, and we’re off along the 2 mile descent from the impressive Stadium to the seafront. N and I have discussed PBs and running styles and concluded that we should comfortably stay together. It is hoped that my hillside passion will help us tackle the 2 km climb up the Rambla, whereas N’s’ greater pace experience will keep us on track.

Antonio’s guided tour of the course the night before revealed a tough layout including a 2.4 k climb to be negotiated twice and another 2 k uphill finish. Evening discussions centred on personal best times and the unlikely event of achieving one on this course.

N’s Garmin bleeps obligingly to indicate the passing of mile 2, our first ‘free running’ mile. A few seconds later he turns to me. ‘That was an 8:02 mile’ he says. Blimey! Pretty quick, but I reason that it’s been downhill so far and we need to keep the pace up to achieve our desired average of around 8:30 minute miles.

As expected the pace drops as we head along the main road adjacent to the seafront. We turn right into the Rambla, and start the long, gentle climb.
I confess, I love hills. This comes from living in an area where there is virtually no flat running space, hence my Hillside Loper moniker. The Rambla is hardly on a par with the South Downs in terms of gradient, but it retains its own relentless, grinding charm. I grin, turn to N and say ‘We’re going to eat this hill. We’re going to chew it up and spit it out. Not once, but twice’.
He offers a silent glance that speaks volumes, something like ‘shut up and run, you fool’. I shut up and run, focus on keeping form and pace. Let the road rise to meet you , the oft-used Irish greeting, is a good thought when tackling inclines. One of our number (more of him later) confessed to ‘not noticing’ the hills. You’d be right if you guessed he had a very good run

Despite earlier protestations to the contrary my companion displays good form on the climb. A burst of noise across the way (on the downslope of the Rambla) hails the arrival of the Great Ethiopian. We are some 3 kilometres behind, yet somehow this fails to dent my enthusiasm and I wonder at the reality of being in the same race as this legend.

We take advantage of the water station at the turn and begin to recover, enjoying the downward slope to the seafront. We get de-mob happy and start interacting with the Almeria crowd. N, most competent in social Spanish, exhorts the spectators to support ‘el Ingleises’. A muted response does little to dampen his ardour, and he responds to polite applause with a rendition of ‘Football’s Coming Home’. Concerned that we may attract the attention of roadside officials I suggest an alternative song. We break into ‘La Bamba’, our pace increasing. The looks of astonishment along the route are priceless.

M, the DA's better half and stalwart supporter of Team RC, appears towards the foot of the Rambla, waving, cheering and managing to record video footage of the two gangly Englishmen hurtling down the hill. We respond with wild gestures and cheesy grins, kicking on. We turn left (East) and onto the flat. Responsibility for pace and form has very definitely changed hands, as Niguel adopts a determined style. The Garmin chirrups, and for the first time I warm to the sound, realising it heralds the passing of another mile. To my chagrin I utter, sadly not for the last time, ‘Another one bites the dust’. I feel N shows great restraint, not complaining as I repeat this banality not once but every successive mile from numbers 5 to 13.

to be continued