On Sunday I ran the Barcelona half marathon with my daughter, Tilly for whom it´s part of the training for the London marathon at the end of April. It’s always an interesting experience, and this time I recorded my wildly varying thought process as the race progressed.
The Start Line
I am in the green “cajon” or pen. This is a mistake. For some reason when I signed up for the this race last year I thought I could run the 21.1km in less than an hour and 50 minutes. No chance. The Spanish 3 Rs - Rioja, Ribera and Ribeira Sacra - have taken their toll. As usual everyone in the pen looks a lot younger and fitter than I am. And they all have better shoes. I should be further back with the people dressed as bananas.
There’s a good buzz though as if everyone is trying to pretend this isn't all going to hurt. I love this part of the race when, you know, there’s no running going on. This is the best I’ll feel until the third glass of Ribeira Sacra.
Km 1 to 3
What a lovely day for a little run around Barcelona. The sun is coming up and everything is absolutely marvellous. It’s bloody crowded. Don’t want to trip anyone up. I should have stayed in Madrid where the roads are wider. Ooh, there’s Cristóbal Colón, up on his column facing out to sea. Why do we call him Columbus? And there’s the cruise ship terminal where Nokia used to host legendary parties during Mobile World Congress. I miss the parties, but not Mobile World Congress which was two intense days of pressure about speeches and press releases followed by four days of no sleep and very bad hangovers.
Km 3
We are somewhere near La Rambla. It is Europe’s most disappointing high profile tourist attraction. Don’t bother.
Km 3.5
There’s the street the Airbnb is on. I have definitely left the stove on after making coffee this morning. I should go and check. Will the insurance cover burning down an entire block in Eixample?
Km 4
Is that a niggle? It feels like a little niggle in the left calf. There’s a café over there in the sun. Perhaps I shouldn’t risk any further injury. I can support Tilly just as well from over there. There’s a man wearing a West Ham shirt! If I can catch him I will say hello. But it might be a Burnley or Villa shirt.
Km 5 – First water station
They’re giving out the water in paper cups. FFS. It is almost impossible to drink out of a paper cup while running. And now the bloody things are all over the road like wet leaves and I’m almost certainly going to slip over on one, be very badly injured and have to be air lifted back to Madrid. I should probably stop to avoid this.
Km 7
It is a West Ham shirt. “Irons”, I say, trying to sound all Canning Town and he says it back. We’re both worried about the Spurs match later, but he’s going to miss it as he’s flying back to London. Lucky bastard.
Km 8
I’ve come all the way to Barcelona and the race doesn’t even go past La Sagrada Familia. Crap.
Km 9
The 1hr50m pacing balloon goes past. I momentarily think about going with it but discover I can't be arsed. Normally I have a target in mind running these races, but not today and I’m happy just to settle into a rhythm and put one foot after the other. Today this has settled down at about 5 minutes and 20 seconds per kilometre, and a finishing time in the range of 1.55. My fastest half marathon was in October 2017 when I ran 1.39, and it seems like it's something that happened to someone else at the moment. I can’t even imagine it. I am probably 7kg heavier and am now Very Old.
Km 10 to 12
Ugh. Dreary industrial neighbourhoods and endless massive blocks of flats. We're in Barcelona but it could be Blackburn, apart from the sun obviously.
Km 11
I hope the dogs are OK. They probably think I’ve abandoned them forever.
Km 12 to 16
I’m giving up running. There are so many better places to be on a Sunday morning than trudging through some non-descript suburb of Anytown.
Km 13
I hope Jane is OK and doesn’t think I’ve abandoned her forever.
Km 14
I hope Tilly’s OK. She had a sore foot coming into the race. That’s a lot of anxiety when you’re doing the endless training to run a marathon. It’s a massive commitment, and after running three, I’m never running another one.
Km 15
“Keep going! There’s a cold beer waiting at the end,” yells a woman with an American accent. As if everyone hasn’t been thinking about that since they ran past Colón.
Km 16
There’s the Med! In all its sparkly blue glory. How marvellous everything is! Running is the best way to see a City and it’s a massive privilege to be here. I’m going to sign up for a half in Madrid next month and it would be great do one in Bilbao, San Sebastián and Sevilla. And I’m definitely going to apply for the Valencia marathon in December. One last marathon before third retirement from marathon running.
Km 17
Will this bloody race never end?
Km 18
There’s a group of guys pushing people in wheelchairs and everyone is having a great time. They have music and are playing Flo Rida’s Good Feeling. For about 400m it is the best song I've ever heard. "Yes I can, doubt better leave, I'm running with this plan." What great people they are, to give up their Sunday mornings to do something so good for other people. Feeling good about humanity.
Km 19
There’s the Hotel Arts! It’s among the most expensive hotels I’ve ever stayed in and was responsible for the biggest expenses bollocking I ever got. 100% justified.
Km 19.5
The first smug bastards who already finished and have their medals appear by the road side, patronisingly encouraging the laggards to keep going. Fuck off.
Km 20
The race turns away from the beach, and there’s La Sagrada Familia! What an amazing way to end the race running towards such an iconic landmark. Think about getting phone out to take selfie. Will wait until end.
Km 20.7
Race turns away from La Sagrada Familia. FFS. This is the most stupidly designed race in the entire history of races.
Km 20.8
There’s the finish line! Thank fuck for that.
The Finish Line / 21.1km
Cross finish line and try to smile for camera I know is there. Later I will be sent a link to an exciting opportunity to buy a photograph of myself grimacing as if having finger nails removed in the Lubyanka, except sweatier. All muscles instanteously seize up as one, as if they couldn’t have gone another yard. Limp to get paper cup of water, banana from Las Canarias and medal that will go in draw with all the other medals.
And that’s it, that cold beer now beckons, but first I might wonder back down the course to offer some encouragment to those still running.
A time of 1.54, and I have finished about 10,000th out of 21,000.. A long way from my best but also from worst. It’s my 14th organized half marathon, I think, and I don’t feel any particular sense of achievement, just immense gratitude that I’m fit and healthy enough to have run it and particularly to have been able to run it with Tilly. Although not with Tilly exactly as she’s run 1.50 despite having to stop for a couple of minutes for running repairs on treacherous feet.
She’s well on pace to run a good marathon in London in April. And I’m really looking forward to supporting her then. From the sidelines. And if you've come this far in the piece, you should support her too, she's running for Water Aid, which is a jolly good thing: Just Giving - Tilly's marathon