January 2010

[Sweder]

Never turn your back on Fear.
It should always be in front of you, like a thing that might have to be killed
Hunter S Thompson

Journey

Our Andalucían adventure kicked off at an un-godly hour.
T’was ever thus; a small price to pay for what has become one of the most eagerly anticipated weekends in my race calendar. That said, rocking up at Ladyrunner’s door just shy of four am was still a shock to the system. With MSilv sadly unable to travel we had only to rendezvous with El Gordo and our small yet perfectly-formed party would be complete. Well met, restorative coffee procured, EG and I discussed the topic du jour; bare footin’ and the conspiracy or otherwise of the multi-national, billion dollar running shoe industry. It’s a subject for another time. Suffice to say no conclusions were drawn, other than to agree that more research is needed.

Snow fell in the eerie darkness, large white flakes drifting gently out of a cold black sky, picked up by the air-side arc lamps as we trooped aboard our vessel. A tired and huddled mass indeed, seeking a better running life in warmer climbs. Fittingly enough before we could flee Cold England our craft had to be de-iced. This had been done the night before (so a cheery Aer Lingus employee informed us) but the overnight freeze necessitated a hurried repeat via the use of an industrial jet-wash. Images of dog-eared newspaper reports from that fateful day in Munich more than forty years ago, when a plane carrying the Busy Babes required similar treatment before three take-off attempts, the last one infamously unsuccessful, began to surface. Before I could start to think about worrying we were safely airborne, climbing rapidly through the dark clouds to embrace the sunrise in a clear blue sky.

The journey from Malaga to Almeria by way of Grenada was smooth and, with the exception of an excellent lunch of racciones and tortilla Espanola overlooking the impressive Sierra Navadas, uneventful. The ladies opted for a beer. I was never tempted, resolved as I was to have my 'Ice Cold In Alex' moment post-race with the waft of honest salt-sweat still loitering around my nostrils. A series of check-ins – at the Tryp Indalo, with Antonio and at race HQ, this year a short walk up the hill from our hotel – was followed by a series of weary 'good night's as team RC went in search of warm beds and the comforting embrace of a pre-race sleep.

It’s all well and good being knackered after a long day travelling, quite another to switch off the noggin and commit to the restful arms of slumber. I’m an incurable movie-phile (there's possibly an official word for this), unable to resist the lure of a late-night film no matter how leaden the eyelids. Well-known pictures are as welcome as haven’t-seen/ wanna-see films. In fact they’re more alluring, like old friends who come to visit, soothing our travel-tortured minds with friendly banter and familiar faces. Turning on the telly is like calling my dealer. Sure enough, albeit dubbed into local dialect, I found my fix: Clint Eastwood’s harrowing yet beautiful Million Dollar Baby. I drifted off as Hillary Swank relentlessly pounded the heavy bag, sharing her dreams of glories yet to come.

Race Day: Beginning The Begin

I started awake with a jolt. What was that infernal racket?
My alarm? Surely not; I'd just closed my eyes two minutes ago ... but the cruel little screen, harsh in the half-light, confirmed the ugly truth; 07:30, time to get up. Wash, dress (old T over race vest) and down stairs for the 08:00 breakfast club. Muesli, fruit, toast & honey and a large cup of remarkably strong coffee soon had my system flickering into life. EG was up in his room munching on bananas and bagels; Ladyrunner, Tracey and a worried-looking Simon joined me in the dining room. Despite drinking water for England all day long Simon had woken up horribly dehydrated. Having danced with the DVT Devil in the past he was giving serious thought to not racing. Tracey, an Almeria virgin, bubbled with positive energy, asking questions a-plenty, feasting on information as readily as I was gobbling up acres of toast. Ladyrunner seemed calm and ready, feelings I could only admire. In truth, sat with these lithe whippets I felt fat and underprepared. I’d tweeted as much before leaving my room, in perfect synchronicity with EG as it transpired; he’d fired the same doleful message into the ether at precisely the same moment. Great minds and all that.

Whereas in previous years we’d jogged to El Stadio this time we elected to drive. This offered us somewhere to store water/ post-race clothes etc whilst eliminating the potential horror of the bag drop. This also allowed Simon additional time to relax and hydrate and EG to rest his troublesome calf. Having parked handily next to the stadium we set off on a warm-up jog around the perimeter, chatting excitedly as the streets filled with tanned, slender runners dashing hither and thither, race numbers affixed along with an impressive array of colourful neckerchiefs and space-age sun glasses clearly sculpted in a designer wind-tunnel. Spanish racers are nothing if not fashionistas; lord help the poor sod who rocks up in their training sweats devoid of glittering accessories. We should surely pity them.

It should be noted there aren’t too many donkeys in a Spanish half. Our hosts take their running almost as seriously as their wardrobe. Like competitive golfers they arrive decked out for the occasion. Alarmingly fit (OK the golf analogy is floundering a tad) and clearly sun-kissed by hundreds of hours running in the benevolent Andalucian sun yet laden with heavy reasons for possible failure; discomforts, ailments, a virtually unrivalled lack of training. As this applies to just about everyone one meets one must assume these lame excuses fall into the same category as the sun-tans, anti-inflamatories, scarves and shades; de rigueur old boy, de rigueur.

Twenty minutes before the off I was a tad worried. Previous years have served up a series of classic cock-ups; false starts, bag drop madness, missing start lines. Yet here, standing on the ramp leading up and away from the running track towards the start area defined by the inflated arch and gathering competitors, I struggled to see where this years’ pitfall might be. The sun beamed down from a clear blue sky as a cool zephyr gently rubbed shoulders with our excited, tremulous gathering.

In the immortal words of Danny Baker, what could possibly go wrong?