Zegama-Aizkorri 2011

[Bierzo Baggie]

A tale from Truchillas (May 15th)
As mentioned, conventional rules do not apply. Imagine preparing for a road marathon by racing the full distance 3 weeks beforehand followed by a half marathon 7 days later. Madness I hear you say. Offroad, in the hills and mountains, where the footfall varies with every stride, this is possible, even recommendable. Eventually you’ll forget about “running” and learn to carress the mountain with your feet.

Truchillas. Love this race. So much so I’ve signed up for it 9 times before (and finished 8!). It’s a proper mountain race over 23km (although it used to be shorter).

I’ve been through this before,
Here
Here
Here
And here.

This year the weather conditions were optimal, which meant cool and sunny but also fast and occasionally dangerous. The middle section of the race contains a lot of boulder, loose rock and stone. If you fall on turf you can roll over and carry on. If you fall over on this stuff you can cut your arm off. Ok, I’m exaggerating, but not much..

Made the familiar journey across the lonely Morredero pass (a place to die) with wild Oscar, tackling his first mountain race... since the last one.
2 years ago Truchillas had put him out of action for 5 months.

At the start we met Bill (without Ben... sore foot) and German, the old fox.
The old fox is a battle scarred veteran of a thousand skirmishes who clocked in at 58 on his last birthday. He usually sits on my shoulder for the first part of the race and then leaves me gasping over the final third. He’s a master of pacing himself and so he should be, he’s been racing for nearly half a century. No GPS for the old fox, the very thought of it is ridiculous.

Anyway, I’m not particularly competitive when it comes to running. Footie yes, running no.. but the old fox was starting to piss me off. This race would be the one where I’d finally shake him off and I told him so at the start line. Grrr.

The Race
As aperitif, 2km of trail followed by a stony path up to the lake. The old fox is already breathing down my neck. Then on to uncomfortable terrain through waist high broom and across boulder fields. There is no discernible path. Reach the summit in 1:20. I used to do it in 1:15 but I feel ok. Next a jittery hop down more boulders on the other side until the tentative thread of a new path appears dotted with rocks. Here I begin to stretch my legs, the running punctuated by a succession of jumps (at school my best event was triple jump). Still don’t risk looking over my shoulder, I know the old fox will be there somewhere.

My enthusiasm was curbed when I passed some poor sod being lowered down the mountain strapped to a stretcher. Suspect that the strapping was there so that he couldn’t jump off and start running again. Another guy knocked out his front teeth and still managed to finish the race sucking on a swab of cotton wool. As I say, a fall on this terrain can be quite painful. I slowed up instinctively.

Cross the pass (alto del peñon, 1850m). Here begins the final third, all easily runnable high trails but with a vicious sting in the tail, a near vertical firebreak that points downwards like a witch’s finger. The trailrunners won ground over the preceding 5k but the mountain runners will munch this up in 500m of technical descent. Risk a glance over my shoulder for the first time. The old fox is nowhere to be seen. He normally overtakes me on the trail.

Feel a wave of exhilaration and suddenly I don’t even feel tired. Bound down the firebreak. It’s soft underfoot. Overtake several better runners. And then..

“Hola inglés..”

The old fox was there grinning like a grotesque goblin. I started to run faster than a frightened rabbit over terrain where in these last 8 editions I’d never run before. Will I never get this gremlin off my back?

Again I thought I’d shaken him off. Only the river stood between me and the finish. The water was icy with the last of the snowmelt and a little more voluminous than normal. Here you must wade carefully. And as I’m striding through I feel a cold hand grasp my arm. It’s like a vice.
“You’re not going anywhere,” growled the old fox.

We crossed the finish line together.