January 2010

[Sweder]

Part one posted here

Notes on arrival

Before we get to the meat in our sandwich I should pay tribute to El Gordo’s diplomacy and Antonio’s Andalucian ingenuity.

For the long ride out of Malaga EG took the wheel of our minibus. We struck out for Almeria by way of Grenada with the intention of visiting the might Alhambra, the Moorish palace on the outskirts of that sprawling city. Around 60 klicks out the traffic slowed. Trouble loomed large on the dusty horizon; armed guards, decked out in olive green and brandishing semi-automatic weapons, inspected the contents of each crawling vehicle through impenetrable sun glasses, signalling every third or fourth vehicle to pull into a roadside checkpoint. I sat up in my shotgun seat, radar scanning for trouble. As we approached the first guard, his face swathed in an unnecessary scarf, ubiquitous shades reflecting our white battle bus and dark beret at a jaunty angle, El Gordo wound down the window.
‘English?’ offered our leader, innocent smile writ large across his affable, butter-wouldn’t-melt features.
‘Non. Espanola’ came the flat response.
With no discernable moving parts behind the shades/ scarf combo it was impossible to know if he was smiling. Spanish it shall be, I thought. Apparently happy that our cargo of blanched, bleary-eyed tourists posed no threat to national security being, to quote the Hitch Hikers’ Guide ‘mostly harmless’, he nodded us through. Beyond him his colleagues, similarly dramatically wrapped, followed our progress, one holding a menacing ‘stinger’ anti-vehicle trap (a string of sharp metal spikes that, when hurled under a moving car, shreds the tyres). Just past the checkpoint sat a lonely bordello, the Black Cat club. I wondered idly if the establishment, apparently empty at this unsociably early hour, had hired mercenaries to drum up a little custom.

Once landed at the Tryp Indalo after our lunctime feast at the Cafe bar Mis Gemelos we set about the task of feeding our faces once more. Bereft of our pre-race pasta party, an aparent victim of these troubled economic times, we needed an alternative source of reliable carbs. Our genial host pulled yet another rabbit out of his bottomless hat, taking us to the quite wonderful Cafe Tagliatella. Located at the bottom of La Rambla this well-appointed Italian eatery proved a roaring success. Vast bowls of steaming pasta arrived, closely followed by the sound of chomping as satisfied grins were exchanged over one or two glasses of Rioja.

Back to the Start Line

But I digress. It’s easily done when you’re writing in the humid swelter of a Brazilian hotel room with the maid hammering on the door and a hundred Kango hammers digging up the road outside your window. So where were we? Ah yes; what could possibly go wrong?

We’d arrived at El Stadio, warmed up, stretched, exchanged good luck messages with our fellow racers and set off up the huge ramp towards the start. Yet, what was this? The entire body of runners descending back into the stadium? Oh-oh ... qui passé?! With ten minutes before the gun why on Earth would everyone return to the shaded hallways under the stadium seats? All we could do was turn tail and follow; along the inside running track, past the banos, still wreaking of Ralgex and defecation, the trademark stench of pre-race rituals the world over, past the empty massage tables, past the last-minute registration desk, past the horror of the bag-drop (happily avoided this year), all the way to the other end of the tunnel and back out into the sunlight. The crowd jostled and bobbled, burbling chatter rising in volume as the clock ticked around to its ten o’clock zenith. Where’s the bloody start? Hang on ... we’re going up the next ramp ... along the outside wall ... and back to the start line we all just left five minutes ago. Eh? Oh, never mind ...

It's all part of the Medio Maraton experience here in whacky Almeria. Now, lined up, me shadowing Ladyrunner like a lost child, we waited for the off. Bang on ten the gun sounded and – hey! – we started shuffling forward towards a clearly-defined start line. No chip mats though ... but before I could worry about that I had other fish to fry. LR was on her toes, ducking and diving through the sea of runners.
‘Oi! Hang on ...’ but the Lady wasn’t for turning. Rather she flew away, movingly deftly with a dropped shoulder here, a change of pace there, weaving through the throng seemingly without effort. Half a klick in and we were still scything through the bodies. My Garmin reported a pace of 4 mins 30 per kilometre; surely suicidal pace?
‘Hey’ lungs burning, words forced out like venting steam ‘we’re going too fast!’
‘Eh? Come on, we’ve got to get through this lot. Try to keep up.’
I knuckled down and ran. The burning in my chest raged on. I would surely collapse and die at any moment. Strange rasping sounds, like the last gasp of some poor inbred hound, filled the air. To LR it must’ve been like being chased by a continuous dirty phone call. Down to the seafront we ran, still passing runners of all sizes and persuasions. Under the Viaduct, right past the lovely Cafe Tagliatella and onto La Rambla we galloped, twin RC vests cutting a swathe through the charging hoards.

If I’d secretly hoped for respite here I was sadly – and sorely – mistaken. If anything LR upped the ante, sharp elbows cutting through the warming Almeria air, long legs striding out to greet the increasing rise of the hill. All my vital organs appeared to be jostling for position in my throat. My lungs felt like brand-new, not-yet-inflated party balloons; my heart pounded heavily, working double-time to push the barely-oxygenated blood though my protesting arteries. My treacherous stomach wobbled unkindly beneath my heaving chest as if to drag it all down towards the road. I felt sure my eyes would pop out of their sockets. I checked the watch; coming up on the 5K marker ... bloody hell. I tried to communicate.
‘Here – I’m almost PBing the first 5k!’
‘That’s good.’ No trace of sympathy, just resolute, relentless pursuit, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Her voice sounded relaxed, calm, like she was reading from a newspaper over Sunday morning coffee. I had a choice; dig in and suck it up, or crawfish and crawl, admit defeat and throttle back. Glancing at my ‘Running For Moyleman’ wrist band I swallowed hard and dug in. Sure enough 5K came and went in 23:26, less than 30 seconds outside my all-time PB. Christ on a bike!

Mercifully, like a mirage on the long road to Damascus, the turn on La Rambla appeared. Thank God! Some downhill, a chance to ease off and calm things down. Wrong. Another glance at the Garmin; 4:25. No, 4:20. No ... bloody hell; 4 minutes 10 pace and still dropping. Jooools ...
‘We’re doing 4:07 pace’ I howled at her right shoulder. A cursory glance back.
‘That’s good’. No. No it isn’t. It’s horrible. It Hurts. I want my Mum.

It was pathetic really, like some spoilt child whining for sweets. I was in severe danger of ruining Julie’s race. This had to stop.
‘Sorry Jools, you keep going. I’ll do my best to keep up.’
I vowed to shut up, whatever the pace, however loud the cacophony of alarm bells ringing loudly in my head. I gulped water, grabbed a proffered roadside sponge and doused my burning head.
‘Wow, 24 degress!’ LR pointed to the digital readout by the fountains at the foot of La Rambla. I couldn’t see; a waterfall of salty sweat was running steadily off my brow. I mumbled something in acknowledgement, attention focused on LR’s heels as we wheeled left onto the long haul east along the Ave. Cabo de Gata.

Ten minutes and another couple of kilometres later we’d rounded the traffic circle and turned north on the long climb towards the Tryp Indalo. I was still there in LR’s shadow, but the wheels were loose and starting to wobble. With the turning point in sight, a tad shy of 10k, I almost whispered the words I’ve no doubt she’d been longing to hear.
‘Right-o Jools, thanks a million. You push on; I’m going to ease up a bit.’
‘Keep going Sweder; don’t give in, keep your pace up. See you at the finish.’
I knew what she meant; don’t waste all the hard work, get a PB.
Slowly, inexorably, she drew away from me. I didn’t consciously slow up so much as stop grinding out the yards. The watch told the tale. 4:35, 4:40. 4:45 ... Jools was on the round-a-bout, I was 100 metres back. It was here I made my Faustian pact; not with Satan but with my inner Demon, the soul-tickling swine who wanted me to quit. Whatever happened, terminal injury aside, I would do all I could to stay below five minute kilometre pace. I owed that to myself; anything else would render all this effort pointless. I slogged through the 10K marker in 46:18, again remarkably close to my PB. I shook my head, warm sweat spraying the adjacent runners. Madness.

Heading back towards the sea once more I started spotting RCers. Tracey and Antonio, a few hundred metres apart, were on the long haul up from the front. Shearers and (in my case weary) grins were exchanged. I turned right onto the Avenida de Cabo de Gata, heading for my return match with la Rambla. Here I was delighted to spot El Gordo. He was rumbling along comfortably enough it seemed. He’d spied me and his face lit up.
‘She’s about a minute ahead’ he called, hand raised in greeting.
I spluttered something in reply, almost certainly forgettable and probably incoherent. I had given no thought to trying to catch Julie; I simply wanted to win my fight against the relentless bloody GPS. Staying under five minute pace was proving troublesome. Whilst it was a good deal slower than the opening 10k pace it was an ongoing battle to hit my modest mark. Every now and then I’d get sidetracked by the sight of a firm female form ahead, or search the roadside crowds for a familiar face. Whenever I looked back at the watch I’d slowed.

Back on the Rambla things got a good deal tougher. Halfway up I’d crept over my target line. I did another deal; I’d let myself run at 5:10 for a bit so long as I got under 4:45 for most of the downward leg. Speaking of legs, mine were howling by now. The unforgiving concrete of Almeria’s mean streets was exacting a terrible toll; my knees and hips ached, my ankles whined and my hamstrings sang like wire ropes on a steaming schooner. Something had to give. At one point on the downhill I touched on 4:30; fair enough. The temperature readout at the end of Ave. Cabo de Gata claimed a remarkable 28 degrees. Only the sea breeze prevented involuntary combustion. I had visions of runners randomly imploding like something out of a Terry Gilliam movie and almost lost myself to a hysterical fit of the giggles.

Inevitably my pace had to drop. On the Ave. Mediterraneo once more my legs tightened another notch. I had no choice; I had to ease off. As the climb increased, the stadium lights peeking round the edges of buildings to tease the runners still impossibly far away, I fought on. The closer I got the tighter the hamstrings. I changed my gait, turning my toes in, shortening then lengthening my stride. It felt like shifting deckchairs on the Titanic but it proved a useful distraction until, at long last, I rounded the penultimate turn and entered the stadium. It’s always a huge relief to see that dull clay-red circuit, no more so than now. I stumbled around the last 300 metres, unable to take in much except the marked lane to the finish, to blessed relief. I spied the camera-man beyond the finish line taking deliberate aim and slowly, in a sweaty parody of Sergeant Elias in Platoon, extended my arms in final supplication.

1:40:58 watch-time, a PB for the course and, officially, my fastest recorded time in a half marathon.

As I staggered about beyond the finish, exchanging greasy hand-clasps with my co-finishers, I felt the last vestige of energy drain away through my shoes. I sank to my knees, intending to remove my lace-tied Championchip, and wondered how on earth I’d ever get back up again.