Races and stuff.

[Bierzo Baggie]

The next bit wasn’t actually as bad as it looked as I’d done the section before a few years ago. You literally drop back down the mountain to the village of Fontun and once you get used to sliding down scree slopes on your arse it can even be quite enjoyable. At a certain point halfway down I saw a fellow striding up towards me. It was the guy with the unpronounceable Basque surname. Let’s just call him Echogachaggi. Well Echogachaggi had already finished, had a wash and was heading back up the mountain to see his mate who was presumably the man-vulture with the binoculars perched at the top. Now I’d met this fellow about 8 years ago doing the Aquilianos and I’d sort of followed his progress since then as he’s become a bit of a star in his backyard. Just had to stop for a chat and being so far behind I couldn’t really give a toss about losing another 5 minutes. Asked if he remembered me running with him at the Aquilianos in 1999. He didn’t, which isn’t really surprising considering that our man Echongachaggi has in the meantime broken the speed record for climbing Mount Aconcagua, scaled Everest up its north face without oxygen and has lost his girlfriend and most of his toes in an avalanche. Nice bloke though. And very unassuming.

I took the opportunity to empty the stones out of my trainers before letting gravity run its course once more and falling into a couple of gorse bushes. Ended up running a final section of dusty trail with the village of Fontun always in sight. I reckon that I’d spent as little as 10% of the time actually running and so my running muscles were still fairly intact even if the rest of me wasn’t. The finish almost took me by surprise as I sped around a corner and there it was. At that moment the prizes were being handed out and Cristino announced me as the last runner home so I stuck my arms out like Ronaldo celebrating a goal (the porky Brazilian one) and flew across the imaginary finishing line. With the wild rose bushes and gorse bushes leaving their mark I looked like I’d just been attacked by a family of exceptionally wild wildcats but finishing last meant that for the first time in my life I received what can only be described as rapturous applause.

Having chosen to host the race in the only village in Spain without a bar the alternative prize giving and post-race focal point was a large stone trough of murky water called “el pilon”. This is a communal clothes washing facility that you still find in some of the villages and as there weren’t any showers everybody was dangling their legs in. I suspect that clothes will not be washed here again for a long time. While I was soaking my battered legs Mad dog Jorge, the third lady runner and Oscar all finished but that didn’t take the gloss away from being officially announced as the last man in. Capellín was the only one of “the Bierzo four” to finish in a respectable position up the field but he mumbled something in the car on the way back about the race being too dangerous for someone with three kids to feed and he had a point. Doubt if I’ll be back either. I was way out of my depth up there.


Some conclusions
1. Lack of a good walking technique. To walk uphill for long periods you must practise walking uphill for long periods.
2. Lack of a good descending technique. To have a good descending technique you must practise suicidally launching yourself off mountainsides for long periods.
3. I neither have the time nor the lack of self-preservation to achieve either of the above.
4. According to my book of birds vultures don’t screech. Who was screeching then? Probably Echogachaggi running downhill.
5. Never, never make flippant remarks to a one-eyed rock climber.