It’s Monday morning in Malaga, Spain, and I’m recovering from what turned out to be a very challenging 10 km road race yesterday. Without knowing my result, I had jogged back to my apartment, feeling less than satisfied with the whole exercise and seriously questioning whether the expense and travel hassles were really worth it. The problem was that the back end of my race had been poor, and that was what was fresh in my memory.
But let’s wind the clock back a few days. The journey from my front door to my accommodation in Torremolinos took 36 hours, a marathon in itself. There were four flights and three stopovers, so any sleep was fleeting at best. Nonetheless I felt OK on arrival and enjoyed meeting Andrew Kohlrusch, a decathlete from Sydney, with whom I would share an apartment for four days.
My first full day in Spain was the day of the cross country races. It was hot, really hot, but thankfully the course in a local forest was almost entirely shaded. It was dry, dusty and stony underfoot, not quite meeting the WMA rules which specify that World Championship cross country courses must be 85% grass! But I don’t think it rains much in Torremolinos. There isn’t much grass to be seen anywhere, so that rule was always going to be breached.
I cruised in my race, even finding time to smile for the cameras. The standard at the front of the race was pretty high. Two incredibly fit looking Kenyan athletes lined up for the start, but the other runners were quick to point out to them that they were in a later (younger) race, thankfully for us old geezers. One of these runners was Samuel Ndereba, who boasts a 10 km PB of 28:01!
Over the following three days, I did a road trip to the Altequera Natural Area, which featured a walking trail through impressive limestone stacks, watched the Melbourne vs Geelong game live on my computer (which I enjoyed somewhat), and then switched accommodation to Malaga.
Day 5 (Sunday) was race day. It dawned cloudy and fairly cool, which was good, but the cloud cover was patchy and bound to clear quickly. I jogged to the main athletics stadium where the race would start and finish. All the men aged from 30 to 70 would go off at 9.00 am, while the men aged over 70 and all the women would start at 9.10 am. The start was on the track itself, which meant that the 460+ men in my race were jammed in like sardines for several long minutes after the officials had pushed all the runners back behind the start line. On a humid and increasingly warm morning, the resulting body contact was most unpleasant for everyone.
Thankfully from the gun the runners fanned out across the track and there was a clean start. I settled in at a good hard pace and soon found myself locked on the shoulder of a Polish rival. I know that he was in my race because each runner’s bibs showed their age group. I felt that the pace was about right for my target of around 37 minutes, but I don’t look at my watch until 5 km. My judgment proved correct as I reached the milestone in 18:30.
Unfortunately from that point, the Pole began to get away and then an English 60+ runner passed me at around 6 km. It was getting much hotter as the cloud cover dissipated and the humidity seemed to rise. I was really finding it tough now. I concentrated on making sure that no other 60+ runners passed me, but a glance at my watch confirmed what I had feared was happening. My pace per km had slumped from 3:42 to the mid 3:50′s.
The stadium loomed ahead, thank goodness, but in a nasty twist, the course required us to go past it then do a full lap of the surrounding road. Finally we re-entered the stadium, did a full circuit of the track and finished. And when you are completely knackered, what’s the worse thing that could happen? Yep, some 60+ guy from Columbia tried to outsprint me in the last 30 metres. Well sorry fella, I might be stuffed but that ain’t gonna happen, and it didn’t. I later found out that although he had a race bib, he hadn’t entered the race, which was a trifle annoying, given the effort it had taken to beat him!
After the race, I tried to work out approximately where I’d placed by talking to the Pom who had overtaken me. It looked like sixth place was the best I could hope for, but I could well have missed out on the top ten, which had been another pre-race goal, given that on submitted times, I had been ranked around 15th fastest in the field.
Back at my apartment, I waited for the official results. Messages from home began arriving via Messenger, text and email, asking how I’d gone. Eventually they were posted on the championships website - sixth place, you beauty, my best ever placing in a World Championships. Suddenly I felt a whole lot better. Many congratulatory messages came from friends, which I loved receiving.
So the doubts which had surfaced on my jog home were banished and I look forward to my next race on Wednesday, which will be 5000m on the track. I had originally planned to do the half marathon next Sunday, but it is simply too hot and humid for this old runner coming straight from a Melbourne winter to endure 21.1 km of torture. It may even be too hot to run a decent 5000m, but at least I’ll only be out in the heat for a considerably shorter time.
And finally, to answer my own question: why? To quote Bruce Springsteen in his autobiography, there is still, after all these years “a furious fire in the hole that ... just ... don’t ... quit ... burning.” Hopefully it won’t go out for a while yet.
Until next time, long may you run (or, if you prefer, keep dancing in the dark).
