Arrival
Persistent rain greeted Team Running Commentary’s arrival in Andalucia. Just as we Brits react poorly to the first sign of snow, so the good people of Almería seemed ill-prepared for an excess of lluvia. On the eve of IX Medio Maraton Ciudad de Almerias umbrellas sold like hot cakes in the sheltered doorways of department stores.
A most significant and welcome change from last year was the decision to host the pre-race meal at the Estadio del Mediterraneo, venue for runner registration and the Expo. 12 months earlier we were obliged to register at the stadium only to travel across town for the meal.
Surprisingly few Atletas took the opportunity to register the night before. SP sneaked a peek at the entrants list as we left and reckoned no more than 25% of names were ticked off. Our merry band enjoyed easy passage from check-in to Expo and upstairs to the dining area. The stadium’s hospitality suite, overlooking the floodlit track and football pitch, made an impressive venue for the pre-race meal.
The three RC runners were joined by our cycle support team, José and Seafront Plodder, together with Carmen, one of Antonio’s teaching colleagues, her son Paquito and her friend Encarna. Paquito seemed slightly in awe of the event, surrounded by a collection of chattering lycra-clad running folk. He perked up when I suggested that in a few years time he too may be standing here with his Atleta pass preparing for his first Half Marathon.
After a tasty and filling supper, served with enthusiasm by whirling waiters intent on clearing the decks for the next sitting, I took a saunter over to the glass wall of the lounge. I studied the glistening running track. Raindrops danced defiantly in pools reflecting the glare of powerful floodlights.
In a few hours I’d be pounding those lanes towards the finish, my race run.
How would I be feeling?
Would the finish line bring elation or simply blessed relief?
You never know, certainly not the night before. I’m a ‘glass half full’ sort, but a week of unspeakable nasal foulness and a dearth of quality preparation had me in a more pensive mood.
Our group descended through the building, exiting the sheltered warm-up area into the chilled night air. We snapped a few photos of the drenched running track. Antonio remarked that, should the rain continue, the race may offer one or two extra challenges. I looked at the steep drop from the perimeter fence to our trackside position. I’d not enjoyed juddering down the slope in Nigel’s wake last year; the thought of descending the rain-slicked concrete on tired legs added substance to my burgeoning goose-pimples.
Modern Barbarism: a Defensive Englishman writes
Returning to our hotel, the recently opened Tryp Inadalo, I quietly reviewed what had turned out to be a pretty long day. Following a 3am start the three Englishmen had taken very different approaches to the afternoon’s tapas tour; Andy L, on the back of four flawless tee-total weeks, remained stoic in his abstinence. SP, free to drink as he chose, did so with increasing gusto, holding court with Antonio’s friend Juan Pedro on all manner of topics. I wavered between these two very different paths, finally taking a glass or two of Rioja with my tapas, content that one or two would help me sleep without harming my prospects for the race.
Our tour took us to the excellent El QuintoToro, a small, perfectly formed neighborhood bar nestled in the shade of the fruit & veg market. The patron, a spritely, attentive fellow wrapped in a green apron, son of a famous local Matador, bade us welcome. His bar was suitably adorned with all manner of Bull Fighting paraphernalia arranged in a baroque montage. Preserved bull’s heads sat silently next to framed photographs of their kin suffering various implements of torture and death.
Soon after our arrival at the Fifth Bull Carmen embarked on a passionate description of her experience of ‘English binge drinking’. She explained how such behaviour was alien to her countrymen, that taking tapas with a little cerveza or rioja was considered a gentle, sociable pastime. Both Andy and I attempted to explain the impact of restrictive licensing laws, but we lacked real conviction. I mean, how can one defend such uncouth behaviour to our genial, civilized hosts? I gazed at the images looking down on us from the walls of the taverna and shrugged.
It’s a fair cop; we’re barbarians.
Interview with an Athlete
Rarely a sound sleeper the night before a race I could hardly believe my luck. As the theme from Goodfellas – the piano bit from the end of Layla – sqwawked from my flashing cellphone, I realised I’d slept through. Nine hours straight! My decision to down a couple of riojas seemed to have paid off. As had the heartfelt prayers offered up to the weather gods last thing; a tug of the curtain revealed pavements drying under clearing skies, the merest hint of pink sunrise kissing the wispy clouds.
Hmm . . . red sky in the morning . . .
I scarfed the two bananas kindly provided by Andy before we’d turned in. With breakfast scheduled for 8 and the race start at 10, bananas at 7.30 seemed like a good idea. SP knocked on the door and we set off for the breakfast room . . . and of course it was open for business. And packed. Normally I’d say ‘with athletes of all shapes and sizes’, but in truth there was only really one shape; horribly fit. A group of sharp-featured Kenyans hovered in the lobby, chattering nervously (at least it seemed that way to me. Perhaps they’d heard about us from Haile). Toast, honey, coffee and orange juice safely stowed I wandered out to join them. One of the lady athletes had drifted away from the pack.
‘Hi you guys racing today?’ OK, not the insightful grilling of a Coleman or even, to be fair, of a Gunnell.
She didn’t seem to mind.
‘Yes, and you?’
We exchanged banter, me trying to learn her target time, she wondering if the Flora London Marathon 2003 badge on my trackie bottoms was genuine. Her name was Tegla Loroupe, a Kenyan professional. Tegla planned to race here in Almeria, move on to Germany for training before taking part in the Rotterdam Marathon. She delivered this news with modesty bordering on the bashful, all swinging arms and flashing smile. I readily confirmed that I had indeed run London, leaving details such as pb's & position in the field for another time. Sadly there was to be no quid pro quo; her target for the day remained private.
As we chatted Tegla continued with some impressive stretching moves, twisting her legs and back to engage muscle groups I may have read about somewhere. I lamely lifted one leg, bringing my foot up behind my knee, killing the motion the instant I became aware of it. SP gleefully told me exactly how sad that looked as the VIPs were lead out to their fleet of official Renault Meganes.
‘Niguel’
Antonio arrived as Andy joined us in the lobby.
A short car ride to the Stadium followed, SP trailing behind on Antonio’s mountain bike. SP had elected to join José on a tour of the course to film as much of team RC as logistics would allow. On arrival Antonio issued instructions to SP.
‘Please don’t leave the bike anywhere, there’s no lock.
And please take the car keys, but be sure to lock it.’
After several repetitions, affirmations and reminders my attention turned skyward.
‘Er, it’s raining chaps.’
The first few drops soon became a steady stream, and we sought shelter in the lea of the stadium. As we jogged around the perimeter SP spotted Tegla going through a few warm up paces. She was almost buried under a collection of jackets, scarves and a rather impressive woollen hat.
I grinned and offered greeting in the customary manner. To my great delight she smiled back, raising her left arm in reciprocal salute.
‘She Shearered! Did you see that – I got a Shearer from a Kenyan professional!’ Andy and SP smiled, as much at my childish enthusiasm as for the unlikely spectacle of a former London Marathon winner emulating Newcastle’s favourite son.
SP: ‘We should set up Niguel.’
Ah yes, Niguel.
I’ve mentioned before how I’d miss my 2005 running partner. SP struck on the idea of setting up his Garmin as a virtual partner. This way I could set a target time and keep tabs on my progress throughout the race. This surrogate partner was duly christened Niguel in honour of our missing fellow forumite. Sadly SP’s sojourn into the world of rioja was not helping him with the buttons. Eventually (after a mercy intervention by Andy) Niguel was prepped and ready to fly. A target time of 1:50:00 – a smidgeon under my pb- was entered, together with interval beeps at mile markers.
‘You can glance at it any time to see if you’re ahead or behind’ offered SP. Worry over operation of a new gadget proved just the ticket. By the time I’d been over it all for the third time we were called to the start. I joined a throng of expectant racers sheltering in the main entrance to the stadium proper, stripping off my sweatshirt and trackie bottoms.
[SIZE="1"]to be continued . . . [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
IX Medio Maraton Ciudad De Almería - I
