15 miles

[Charliecat5]

It was a blast… the sort of blast you get when fired from a cannon with a damp wick.  In hindsight I simply wasn’t prepared for running 13 miles on the hard streets of Almeria.

For those of you who torture yourself with my ramblings you will know that I don’t do races and I don’t do road running.  For me it’s all about hills and trials.   So before I even touched down in Almeria I was on the back-foot so to speak. 

On a positive note, apart from THAT two hours and eleven minutes the weekend was great a great success.  I loved spending it in the company of new and old friends, making new adventures in the cafes, beaches, restaurants and bars of Almeria.  Having the time to get to know this bunch of looneys a little better was fabulous.  And there is nothing like shared experiences to warm the cockles (or anchovies in this case). 

But the run…

I have quite a list of excuses… some I tabled before I even left Blighty... which included in no particular order: shin splints, a burgeoning cold (which has now arrived by the way), very little in the way of road training, and of course an over-indulgence of beer in the days (alright weeks… ALRIGHT MONTHS) before the trip.  However, I can also add to this list of mighty excuses some really crap nutrition leading up to the start line.  Apparently a KitKat for breakfast and a couple of energy chews on the way round doesn’t cut the mustard.

But the real reason…

The excuses had an impact for sure… but the real reason I struggled were the niggling voices in my head.  As I said above, I arrived telling myself that I don’t like races and I don’t like road running so as I stood on the start line prior to the chaos that marked the beginning of the race, I had already lost.

But run it I did…

Ten ante meridiem came and went.  Four of us stood at the back of the holding pen sharing a bit of nervous banter and snapping photos of the chaos unfolding around us.   The rest of the pen rammed to the gunnels with what appeared to be Spain’s finest war mongers.  Brightly coloured t-shirts and flags.   As the whistle went, the 9 kilometre runners, who were in their own pen behind us, surged forward passing left and right as they fought to get in front - it was fantastic mayhem.  We shuffled forward and the clock started ticking. 

I was smiling at this point, falling quickly alongside Rob (OutAlongTheRiver) but struggling to find any pace amongst the maddening crowd. With a mix of big and small steps we slowly ran the first kilometre to only discover a water station handing out refreshment to a rabble who hadn’t even broken sweat yet.  Strange.  Having said that Rob disappeared only to catch me up again a kilometre down the line with a bottle of water in his hand.  By mile two (sorry for switching between kms and miles) we started to climb and I lost Rob to the crowds and incline behind me.   This was now a race of my own… surrounded by good hearted Spanish runners in mighty fine voice… but precluded by a lack of linguistic understanding... this was now a solitary race.  

By mile three, I still couldn’t find the room ahead of me to set a decent and planned pace.  Already, my ambition of running a sub-2-hour half was beginning to fade… by mile 5 my lack of nutrition/energy hit me like a tonne of bricks.   A gentle decline down to the sea kept me in contention with the noisy war mongers, but as mile 6 slipped by they disappeared out of sight albeit the cacophony of noise still echoed around the streets and buildings. 

Mile seven was a long straight flowing both ways with the quick runners already coming back towards me.  It was really tough along this section but nice at the same time to see my fellow misfits cross my path, some ahead, some behind.  But it was after passing Ash and Graham that the wind really fell out of my sails as I ground to a shuddering halt.  The first walk of three as I attempted to re-boot the engines and get what I now call the Almeria shuffle back on-stream again.

From thereon in it was a case of head down and suck it up… the pace ebbed and flowed as I trudged around the course, doing my best to take in the sights.   At mile ten I decided that I didn’t want to run over the finish line alone – I hadn’t come to Almeria to run a lone race… I’d come to run with great friends – so I hatched a plan to stop with exactly a mile to go and wait for Rob, who at that point was only 3 or 4 minutes behind me.   It was a cunning plan, but oh boy, did the next two miles conspire against me.  I swear that they got longer the further I progressed down their evil backs. 

After a lifetime I reached mile 12 and stopped, and waited.  Unbeknown to me, Rob had been struck down with cramps and was fighting his own battles, so it was Billy Goat Gruff who came waltzing around the corner – I could hear him long before I saw him.   As always the old git was relentless in his running style, pushing faster and faster behind me as we ran in the last mile to eventually cross the line in two hours and eleven minutes.   Without the wait I estimate my time would have been two hours five, but it’s hard to tell.

The upshot?  Well it has reinforced my love of the hills and trails.  I am not a road runner, I'm not built to be a road runner, and I have no real desire to achieve PBs. However, as I was sitting having a coffee afterwards, my good friends Brian and Naomi told me to give it a couple of days and then I’ll find myself thinking about doing it again. 

And unbelievably, I’m already considering Almeria 2018.  But perhaps we can try out those beautiful mountains rather than the crazy mayhem around town. 

As a footnote, many thanks to Antonio who could not have looked after us better.  It was a privilege to become your friend and to run my first half marathon in your home town.