Races and stuff.

[Bierzo Baggie]

I’ve tried to “race” once a month since April and August’s jolly jaunt was all set to be the Chus Alonso tribute gig in Losada del Bierzo but I stumbled across this little gem in a village called Morla de la Valdería and ended up going there instead. I persuaded the normally reticent Miguel Mushroom to come along too by showing him the photos of last year’s event from the race web-site. Everybody seemed to be having a good time and one of the finishers was a big barrel-chested chap who ran in a Sporting Gijon top, a perennial yo-yo team from the Spanish second division.. ( bit like West Brom really). Plus there were lashings of garlic soup at the finish line. MM signed up in a flash. And so did I. In fact we filled a car this time. Mad-dog Jorge, he of the broken toe at Truchillas, came as well as did a guy called Oscar who is sort of, normal, so I don’t know what he was doing hanging around with us lot.

The next step was to get the maps out. On paper it didn’t seem too far away but the reality was a torturous drive up and over the lonely Morredero pass, past Teleno, the mythical mountain of the Asturs and down into the lost world of La Cabrera, the same way we’d taken for the Trucillas race in May. But this time we were to swing a left instead of right and head down the valley in the direction of the quaintly named Castrocontrigo (translation; hill fort with wheat). This section of road was a decent one considering the isolation of the zone and after dodging a few stray cows we arrived at Morla, a crumbling little place where the winters must be interminably lonely. In August though these villages come to life as the sons, daughters and grandchildren of a handful of elderly all-year residents, “come home” to spend a few weeks “en familia” away from the hustle and bustle of the cities. One such returnee is the man from Sporting Gijon who we spot almost immediately in the environs of the official race bar “El Chiringuito”. It’s also the only bar and here we picked up our race numbers minutes before the start.

The Race
The distance was billed as 8.9 kms, so this joins my burgeoning list of 11.2s, 9.75s and other mis-measured 10Ks. And the race itself is described as a “cross alpino” which might mean that it’s more akin to “trail running” than mountain or fell running (or simply that it’s shorter).

There wasn’t a big turnout. Us four and 30 or so others gathered next to the village church and listened to a briefing from a fellow with a loud speaker. Then an uncomfortable stony track took us up to the rocky crags which overlooked the village and then a steep descent brought us back down through fields of long grass and to the village again. The whole pueblo turned out to cheer us in and the focal point became “El Chiringuito” where drum and flute music wafted through the window along with the smell of garlic soup brewing. Drum and flute preceded “drum n'bass” by about five centuries and it's usually played by a one man band virtuoso although this time it was on CD. As music goes it’s a sombre,traditional sound as dry as a Castilian plain in August but the monotonous notes somehow befitted the surroundings if not the event. And it made a change from chariots of bloody fire!

The runners drifted in in ones and twos and the prizes were handed out amidst swarms of garlic soup guzzlers. Interestingly there was a prize for the last one home and a special prize drawn randomly from all the race numbers. Suspiciously the big man from Sporting Gijon won both and went home with two trophies, a leg of ham, a cheese and a bottle of whisky. Afterwards we met up with the great man himself in the bar. He actually tried to offload one of his trophies on us.Even Miguel Mushroom politely refused. A good time was had by all. Shame about the drive back. September's race to follow...