All by myself

The Camino de Santiago Relay Race – Astorga to Ponferrada by Oliver Johnston

"Don't wanna be.  All by myself."  But in the end, I was.  Originally there were grand plans to enter two teams of four runners in this race.  However, through a combination of injury, working away from home, weddings the day before and generally a somewhat Spanish unhurried approach to getting organised, I found myself team-less for this relay race.  Not to worry, entries from individual runners were welcomed at €10 per stage.  Quite why anybody would want to do more than one stage, I have no idea, since you would be too tired to turn in a decent performance after a single leg alone.

 Actually, I thought that I might really be "all by myself", since the list of competitors on the race website on the deadline day for entries showed an unhealthy 19 participants.  I wondered where all the frikis [freaks] had gone and whether the race might go ahead at all, but reflected that this typically poor turnout could have advantages.  There being prizes not only for teams but also the first three runners, male and female, in each individual stage, I reasoned that all I had to do was select the most unpopular stage to run and saunter home at my leisure for another Spanish mantelpiece decoration.  Or perhaps the race organisers might re-arrange the prize categories, creating a category for 'runners born in October 1977' or similar, to ensure that all the trophies, presumably bought in advance, could be awarded.

 Sadly, there was no such luck.  An update on the homepage confirmed that somehow 37 teams had already found their way on to the grid.  With Spain not yet being as internet-driven as the UK (heavens, Amazon arrived here only last week), entries for this event were being accepted in sports shops in León and Ponferrada, although bizarrely not in Astorga, the town in which the race would start.  Obviously this was the preferred method of entry.  Noticing that last year's participation numbered some 350 runners, I could feel my chances of further glory and shiny baubles ebbing away.

 The race itself comprises four stages of unequal length.  A fairly gentle, uphill – 300m elevation gain – half marathon leg from Astorga to Rabanal del Camino, followed by a 13km stage to Manjarín comprising the more aggressive upper ramps to the summit of the Puerto de Foncebadón at 1,640m, handing over to a 16km dizzying downhill gallop to the picturesque village of Molinaseca and concluding with a sane and more normal 10km dash to the stadium in Ponferrada.  I opted for the first stage, figuring that a 300m walk from bed to start is difficult to beat, that this would be challenge enough, that there would be plenty of supporters on this section and, most important, that I could be back in Astorga for the habitual pre-lunch wines and nibbles on sunny outdoor terraces.

 For those in teams it is not a relay race in the conventional sense, since otherwise you could still be stuck on the mountain well into the day if your team is not the sprightliest.  As soon as the first runner from the previous stage arrives at the handover point, the entire group of athletes participating in that stage, whether team or individual, sets off.  For teams, the aggregate individual times then comprise the team time.  In reality, this is then four separate races run consecutively.  Running more than one stage "all by myself" accordingly receded further in its appeal.

After the mountain torture in Toreno two weeks earlier, I tried to give my body a chance this time.  Tapering does not come naturally to me, in the same sense that being fast or winning anything does not either.  So, given my relative abilities, its effects are pretty inconsequential, hence usually I do not much bother.  Still, this time I laid off demanding climbs on the bike from the Monday and even forsook load-bearing exercise after Thursday.  Swimming on the Friday did not break this self-imposed discipline; this being the poor man's physiotherapy, it could only be beneficial.  Wine on the evening and pasta for lunch the day before equals a satiated, rested and happy runner, taper done and dusted.  Maybe you can see why I am not yet coaching any teams.

 Come race day and the shortest-ever distance from house to starting line was perfect for proper weekend sleep and a good breakfast.  I am not sure that the other residents of central Astorga enjoyed the same luxury, since from about 9 a.m. the race organisation's eurotrash disco in the main square was booming out tracks of questionable motivational benefit.  Certainly it did not much move people out to support, but then this was far too early for the average Spaniard to rise.  They were, though, missing a lovely, cloudless morning, fresh rather than warm at this altitude.  Perfect conditions in which to be out and about.

 Almost predictably there had to be a fumble somewhere, and here it came right at the start.  Two minutes until the start, warned the MC.  That was the last warning.  From somewhere came a bang of sorts while a race photographer was crouching some five yards directly in front of the ranks of eager, jittery runners on the starting line.  I think he survived.  Then, at the first corner, the lead car parked itself ambiguously on the junction and some runners (yours truly included) intuitively headed straight on in roughly the direction towards the finishing town, while others followed the police outrider down a secluded side street.  They were correct, adjustment required.  Some 100 yards later and the lead car had recovered its poise and, determined to re-assert its authority, demonstrated junction control Spanish-style, haring out and left on to a main arterial road, horn blaring, simply hoping, I suspect, that the enthusiastic crowd of runners behind would survive as they piled into the road and crossed the carriageway.  Really, would an occasional marshal, at least in the town, perhaps at junctions, have been too much?

 As the route left town, the race settled down, and it would have been difficult again to get lost or run over.  It took me somewhat longer to settle down.  My legs felt weak and apprehensive, rather than solid and sure, until around the 8km mark.  I think that might be the effects of this being only my second run in the last month.  Still, after this point only one runner passed me, near the village of El Ganso after about 12km.  As he passed me, I watched his stride at leisure and thought that it did not look that long or quick, mused that I felt faster, considered that I must look faster, that, hell!, I am faster.  Clearly this was delusion, since he had passed me and, moreover, was pulling away.  No, I was obviously slower.  And so the yawning chasm between my own perception of my athletic abilities and cold, hard reality was cruelly exposed.

 To animate my pedestrian progress, support was enjoyed all along the route, from gentle rural types in the village wondering why there was so much action on the Holy Day, to pilgrims on the way to Santiago grateful for a distraction from the day's solitary, laboured trudging to the next refuge, to cars replete with athletes and officials making their way to the next stage, beeping horns and shouting encouragement to all.  The event was all the more enjoyable for the spectacular scenery, with open hills pock-marked by quaint villages, framed by the north-west León mountain range to which the race headed for its later stages.

 

Happily, the route was not as challenging as the recent Toreno mountain test.  Instead, the roads were much more forgiving, with the gradients being gentler and interspersed by sections of relatively flat plateaus.  This was at least until the race entered the finishing town of Rabanal del Camino.  From reading other articles on runbritain I have learned that the word "technical" is to be used as a euphemism for "difficult".  Presumably this is to create and maintain an esoteric and abstruse aura regarding the simple pastime of running and to suggest that the runners were brave, accomplished and supreme in meeting the "technicality" face-to-face, so avoiding the suggestion of anything insuperable.  Accordingly, the last 500m to the line were quite "technical", bearing a close resemblance to the Travelator on Gladiators.  A fast walk to the finish was the equivalent of a sprint finish.  In fact, that was the best a couple of competitors could manage.  By this time, with the sun high in the sky, I suppose I could also say that the weather was "technical", and the temperature "very technical".

 I came home in twelfth position in a time of 1h 34m exactly.  This is some way detached from my best half-marathon performance. (set earlier this year, so this result should not be for want of fitness).  However, when the winner, Gustavo Silvan, records 1h 18m and is capable of knocking out 33m-something 10km times, then clearly the course and conditions were difficult (apologies, I mean "technical").  At any rate, I had earned my re-hydration therapy of some Spanish reds in the sun.

 

 

In some ways this reminds me of the old Manchester - Blackpool relay, in that you could choose your stage to try to win a yellow sweatshirt, it started at ridiculous o' clock (something like 7am) and each stage was started as the first runner arrived for the change-over. It was a great event and is greatly missed. Ed.