Medio Maraton Torrevieja

Medio Maraton Torrevieja

Returning from a brief hiatus with a blogging smash-and-grab: the race recap.

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International Athlete

The start line of a Spanish road race is almost identical to that of a race on the British isles. Here however, all but a few sport a healthy sun-kissed glow - the 'few' in question made up by pasty Brits and Scandinavians for which Torrevieja is renowned. Otherwise it's order as usual: gangly armed racing snakes up front, ripped fitness enthusiasts and Oakley wearing triathletes closely behind, next come the yummy mummies in Brooks, rounded off by the sinewy vets who refuse to put their athletic career to bed and spend their Sunday's mowing the lawn. I forgot the guy dressed as a banana, so slot him where you will.

What's the weirdest item you've received in a goody bag?

I can't be the only one wincing at the price of some of the road races back home. Fifty quid is too much for a chipped timed half marathon, I don't care how many sound systems pumping out 'Eye of the Tiger' you have on course. With race-flation heavy on my mind, I found the value of this race incredible. I think I paid 33 euros in total - more than justifiable when you consider that a lot of that goes back into the club staging the event, to help the sport at a grass-roots level (what a generous bloke I am). What's more, when it came to the post-race goody bag, there was seemingly no cost-cutting on show, despite a few questionable inclusions. Indeed I didn't really know what to do with chicken broth or a bag of salt that I plucked out of the drawstring bag, but it leads me to ask the reader: have you received anything weirder post-race?

I may get round to building a comments section on here at some point, but for now I guess you'll have to answer rhetorically to that one.

Athletics' cultural perception in the UK is leading to a gentrification of the sport: discuss.

I'm not writing no thesis here, but another tick in the box from me was the marshalling and volunteers on show from Club Atletismo Torrevieja. I think athletics is more of a family affair in Spain, thanks in part to the more temperate training climate. I don't know if this is accurate but clubs back home seem pretty thin on the ground when it comes to seniors, and as such are always desperate for volunteers at an annual event. Maybe it's the cultural perception that club running is reserved for the elite or juniors, that deters the remaining demographics in the UK. It's clear from my start-line generalization that representation at the races themselves is pretty encompassing; I think a lot more could be done to bridge the gap between those that run for fitness and those who see it as their sport. I imagine Parkrun helped this immeasurably, but I see a lot more potential here. Not only does a cohesive running community help build successful events like this one, it gives the individuals in that community way more fulfilment and longevity in the sport. There's more to running than PBs and new Alphaflys after all...

"Vamos, venga!"

Aside from a shoe lace that came undone in the first kilometer (that I decided would have to remain for the other 20), I executed this race perfectly. The John Treacy 10 mile earlier that month had been a slog from start to finish, and I could tell my body wasn't quite right on the day. I think I may even have PB'd my 10 mile during this half in Spain, which proves how much better I felt here. Starting out at an ambitious but not uncomfortable pace of 3:25 per k, I latched on to a good group that wasn't surging, which dwindled down to three of us by kilometer 10. The other two lads were clubmates from Club Atletismo Puerta Torrevieja, who in my opinion have a sick looking club kit (black and white with a little skull and crossbones on the neck) that would make me want to join if I move down here long term. They seemed content to let me shelter from the wind for the majority of the race - perhaps they thought that a man with such girthy, vascular triceps hath no place this far up the field, and took pity. In fact the only time I stuck my neck out and shared the load was a 500m stretch after the last water station, after which I too concluded that I had no business up here, and swiftly veered off to the right in a universal gesture which is generally understood to mean 'I am a work-shy coward, please go ahead'.

Almost Perfect Conditions

I think I prefer a lapped course. It gives you another checkpoint by which to break the race down and compartmentalize the pain. As you can see from top of this page, the route was a basic out and back along the coast, somehow (gracias a dios, maybe) sheltered from a strong wind coming in off the Mediterranean. I'd go as far as to say conditions don't get much better for a late winter half, temperatures hovering around a pleasant 16. After rounding the last hairpin, the two wiry Spaniards kicked inside the last k to shake me off. I was already at full gas, so didn't put up much of a fight - even if I did have it in the legs, it would've been some shithouse behaviour to outsprint them, after effectively being perfect pacers for the entirety.

Basking in the Glory

When I quit running, the thing I'll miss most is the short-lived feeling of invincibility you experience after shaving time off your PB. Specifically I'll miss the turn by turn accounts of 'what went down', that spill into the following week, at times sounding more like war stories than how you effectively put one foot in front of the other faster than you did previously. I'll probably quit (at least in a competitive sense) after London next year, before which I'll need to shave another 90s off the 1:14 I achieved here (championship qualifying times are currently a 2:40 marathon or a 1:12:35 half). Let's hope I can hit that target in the next few months - personally I don't want to be pounding pavements at an age where I really should be mowing the lawn!

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