Palma
“And I think it's gonna be a long, long time, 'til touchdown brings me 'round again to find, I’m not the man they think I am at home”......I’m wading at pace through the warm water, pedalling against the resistance of the knee-high lake. Precipitation bounces from my cranium as I’m relying on memory, and sheer luck, to avoid hidden hazard, and stay on the path - itself concealed from vision by the 6am darkness, and the twenty inches of flood water that lay upon it.
The scene, and the act I’m undertaking, are equally absurd. Thankfully I’ve managed to negotiate the sparsely lit Es Carnatge, a picturesque nature reserve - at least in the dry daytime - and have reached the nearby suburban streets - but they too are deep underwater - the glare of streetlights resplendent in their reflection. My face is twisted and I’m having to squint to progress forwards in the deluge - a lesser man would have thrown in the towel and hailed a cab, but not me, “oh no, no, no”, because “I’m a Rocket man”. Or perhaps I’m just a stereotypical Yorkshireman and didn’t fancy the 50 Euro levy of a round trip, nor want to feel I’d not got my money's worth from the hire bike, complete with pedal-powered radio cable-tied to the handlebars.
The preposterous pursuit reaches a potentially perilous peak as the cascading current from a perpendicular parade nearly sends me headfirst into a traffic bollard - the endeavour is now officially laughable - what a way to prepare for 26.2 miles. My response fits the situation - I’m the sole inhabitant of the temporary river - a cyclepath psychopath- and laugh like a madman, belting out the lyrics alongside Elton’s crackling tones from the radio - “I’m a ROCKETMAAAAAAAAN”.
I’d wanted to run it for years - a saunter in the Spanish sunshine, but this wasn’t the way I’d imagined the 19th edition of the Palma Mallorca Marathon.
My wife and I had holidayed in Mallorca several times in the past, before children and careers and when we actually had time to do something other than tend to offspring, perform inexhaustible life admin and (attempt to) prevent a poorly-constructed house from falling to pieces. Several times we enjoyed the cheap and cheerful convenience of Can Pastilla - a small resort just five minutes from Palma airport. With the short commute from home to Leeds Bradford International, airport-obligations and a 2.5 hour flight, we could be doorstep-to-Balearic-beach in a little over four hours.
A wide, pristine path grips the coast and runs from Pastilla into the heart of Palma - protected from the road - for exercise enthusiasts to enjoy the six mile route into the island’s capital. It’s a runner's dream - a tarmac, traffic-free route that takes in charming traditional towns, golden beaches, a bustling marina and the gentle climbs of a beautiful natural parkland. To the side, the Mediterranean Sea never sways from sight.
Palma itself ticks so many boxes - a modern, thriving city boasting history and culture, with a postcard backdrop of sundrenched shores and an abundance of places to get a good meal and a great coffee. For those reasons, I’d always wanted to run the Palma Marathon, and as circumstances would have it, the opportunity presented itself in the Autumn of 2023. The pleasing scheduling of a budget Irish airline meant I wouldn’t need to take any time off work, the off-season brought dirt-cheap hotel prices and the race fell on a weekend the in-laws were visiting, and thus I wouldn’t be abandoning my spouse with the kids alone.
The event hosts races of three varying distances - a 9K, Half Marathon, and the full shebang. Travelling 1000 miles to run 9,000 metres seemed unjust, and if I entered the Half I’d want to do so with the intention of running relatively fast, but my current level of conditioning (or lack of) dictated it would inevitably be a futile, and thus discouraging, affair. That left the marathon.
My days of attempting to ‘race’ the esteemed distance are long gone, dictated this time not by the absence of any race-specific fitness, but rather an acceptance that, relative to my competency at the shorter stuff, I possess a vast ineptitude at 26.2 - illustrated in the numerous (painful and debilitating) failed attempts to repeat the triumphant Sub-3 performances of nearly a decade ago. I adore running in the sun - I find it to be a fully-fledged, bonafide soul-cleanser, I’m just utterly useless at racing in it.
I’m fortunate to have ran for so many years that the prospect of simply covering the distance isn’t a daunting one, it’s just the objective of trying to do so relatively quickly that presents somewhat of an issue. I therefore designed to run Palma at a pace which wouldn’t be fast enough to blow up and suffer weeks of debilitation (my inability to recover swiftly from racing the distance providing another reason to steer clear of it), nor be slow enough that I’d get fed up and it to become unenjoyable. Instead I’d run it at the same pace of my usual long runs with the intention of reaping some training benefit whilst never being particularly uncomfortable, and hopefully emerge completely unscathed, in what I hoped would essentially just be a 210ish minute sightseeing tour of the city.
In short, I could internally justify the travel and expense with a glorified Long Run.
The budget airline lived up to its reputation with a casual two hour delay, complemented with a refusal to explain, apologise or even acknowledge the late departure, meaning we weren't to revel in that sublime off-the-plane blast of heat upon touching down in the Balearics. Gosh I’m so British. Still, it was noticeably milder than the West Yorkshire air outside the Terminal some six hours earlier, so I wasn’t one to complain. Any hope of some nocturnal nourishment was abandoned given the hour (nearly midnight), so I made do with some airport vending-machine fayre before bed. Had my marathon endeavour two days later been designated an ‘effort’, I’d have likely stressed at my failure to absorb something vaguely nutritional but as that wasn’t the case, I was happy enough with my overpriced, processed purchase.
Up early the next morning, I headed out for a short jog on the dimly-lit promenade, delighting in wearing short sleeves and without the need for gloves, and was treated to the purest of sunrises - illuminating the clear skies and bringing a glow of warmth to my face. This had been a good idea.
Having ‘missed’ a meal the evening prior, I consumed enough hotel breakfast to sink a ship, much to the amusement of the diners on the adjacent table who obviously doubted my 5ft 6”, 140lb frame would be capable of such a culinary feat - an appetite attributable to a decade’s worth or running, and the aforementioned Yorkshireman trait of eating a quantity of food - mainly meat and seafood - that would likely set me back around £200 back home.
The pre-race information stated I’d need to collect my race bib and other paraphernalia from the Expo in Palma the day before the race, so I chose to hire a bike to make the journey (and back) to do so, and would use it again to make the commute for the race itself again the following morning. I speak a little (VERY little) Spanish and attempted to converse with the cheery local in the Cycle Hire Shop in his native tongue, who responded with a chuckle and in English better than my own. He appeared to appreciate my effort though, and sent me on my way with an aluminium ally, mine for 48 hours at the ridiculously reasonable levy of twelve euros, complete with a pedal-powered radio should I so wish for a soundtrack to my two-wheeled adventures.
It was mid-morning but the temperature was already in the high teens as I made the gentle cycle to the island’s capital and the ‘Athletes Village’, collected my race pack and sat with a coffee beneath the imposing La Seu Cathedral. Again, had the race - in less than 24 hours - carried a time objective, I’d be somewhat mindful of my activities the day prior, but instead plotted a walking-route to take in the sights, and spent a sun-soaked five hours mooching between cafes and coffee shops, eating and drinking anything that took my fancy.
The skies were still clear and the electronic thermometer display by the beach read ‘26c’ as I made the cycle back to the resort and a beachfront restaurant where I sat back in the chair with a substantial pizza and a cold beer, looking out on the sparkling Mediterranean. I checked the forecast on my phone, to be met with a ‘Thunderstorm Warning’ for race day - heavy rain forecast for the majority of the morning. I averted my eyes upward, surveyed the blissful scene before me, dismissed it with a laugh, and put my device away - “no chance”, I thought.
I pondered if, given how many of my previous marathon endeavours - regardless of the meticulous preparation beforehand, had ended unfavourably, I’d had it wrong all along and being on your feet all day and enjoying yourself whilst devouring rich food and booze was actually the way forward. It certainly was favourable to following some self-imposed regimentation I’d religiously followed previously.
Back at the hotel, the receptionist informed me I could leave my bike in the ‘secure bike lock-up’ in the basement of the hotel, accessible by a sloping path from street-level to the underground area. Wheeling my 12Euro steed down the ramp, I used my key-card to open the door to expose a pristine, bright-white garage with around 40 other bikes lined up in immaculate formation. A couple were similar to mine - in both their worn appearance and suspected price tag, whereas the majority sparkled from their wall-mounted brackets. I know little about cycling, but there must have been £100K+ worth of machines down there. I chuckled, questioning why I was bothering to apply the shop-supplied lock to the vastly-inferior frame, before closing the door behind me and retiring to my room for bed. It had been a good day.
I woke around 5am the following morning - the race was to begin at 8am so I wanted to provide myself ample time to get a coffee, cycle over to Palma and hand over my baggage without any rush. I checked the forecast again - the display still definantly adamant of a prolonged downpour - “Heavy rain NOW”, and opened the balcony door to see for myself. Not a drop. Although dark it was still evident only a scattering of clouds sat overhead - the swimming pool beneath perfectly still.
The hotel was split into two buildings - the first housing the reception, communal and restaurant areas, and the second solely for accommodation - including my room. I made my way across the small residential road separating the structures, perhaps just 30 feet wide, to get a coffee from the restaurant. The air was warm with a light wind, but no sign whatsoever of any supposed precipitation.
Like the Bike Store, the restaurant was underground and without windows. They’d opened breakfast early for the event so participants could get their pre-race feed, and thus a few other souls inhabited the room, nervously poking at the fuel they hoped would carry them through 26 miles. I sat back in my chair and started my second cup of coffee, thankful I wasn't here to test myself, that I didn’t harbour such worries, but knowing exactly how they felt - pouring over every nutritional detail hoping it would positively impact on the effort ahead.
At that point a figure staggered into view at the door, his panting echoing across the room. He was dressed the same as the rest of us, but with a major difference in his appearance - he was absolutely soaked to the bone. His hair weighed down across his forehead, his sodden garments leaving a small puddle in his wake as he hovered around the baked goods.
This was the first indication the forecast may have been accurate after all.
Exiting the dining hall and climbing the steps back to Reception, the rain hammering against the glass doors above was audible well before it came into view. I stood for a moment looking out onto the street ahead and the full-scale monsoon bouncing from the tarmac. I needed to pop back to my room to use the facilities and prepare to leave but in sprinting across the mere 10 metre road between buildings, a dash totaling perhaps four seconds - I too resembled a drowned rodent.
It was 7.05am and I was met with a dilemma - do I follow the initial plan, cycle to Palma and risk having to run a marathon in already soaked gear, or seek out alternative transportation to the start? I hastily searched the local bus times, but on a Sunday morning in the off-season, they proved sporadic and the nearest stop was a ten minute walk away through streets where the curbs were already level with water. I’d be drenched regardless. I pondered a cab but a taxi would set me back a handsome fee, and I’d still need to get back again (as I imagined would many others), proving both a logistical and financial challenge.
Looking at the forecast once more - “HEAVY RAINFALL ALL MORNING - FLASH FLOOD WARNING”, I decided to stick with the original design - time was running out and I’d be soaked for the next few hours anyway so it made little sense to inconvenience myself further for it. Bizarrely, the storm didn’t command a cooler temperature - the rain not bringing with it the same thermal bite we’re so used to back home.
I packed up the essentials into a rucksack I’d leave at the baggage tent and made my way down to the Bike Store. The drains from the road were seemingly unable to cope with the deluge and a warm stream ran down the slope from the street to the doors of the basement. I opened the door, strode over to unlock my bike, and stood it against the wall whilst I fiddled with the lights I’d had the fortunate foresight to pack. A few minutes elapsed before I was finally ready to depart and took a small step backwards towards the door.
Splash.
I turned to see the trickle streaming down from the street had developed into somewhat of an avalanche - water gushing into the room with a strength that dictated I was unable to close the door due to the pressure from the rapids. I tried once more but the force slammed the door open against the wall and the flood made its way into the impeccable white-walled area, and towards the multitude of lavishly expensive bikes lined around the floor - the bottom rim of their wheels underwater within just a couple of minutes.
I slung the bag over my shoulder and picked up my bike, staggering against the current up the ramp into the street and the storm battering down from above. Crossing the road, I climbed the steps into the Reception building, lay down the bike and approached the gentleman on Reception whilst waving my arms.
He leant over the counter, looking tiredly over his glasses as I began to urgently convey the situation at hand, and for some unknown reason, attempted to do so in (very very poor) Spanish; “Erm, pardone, mate, señor, erm, bike habitacion, BIG RAIN, GRANDE”, accompanied by wild hand gestures, mimicking riding a bike, and a waterfall.
What an idiot.
“So there is water, yes?” he queried, completely nonplussed. “Yeah, BIG WATER, lots of it”. He sighed. “In the bike store?”, “Si, Yeah, the bike habitacion, it’s getting really bad”. He took a second to roll his eyes and dismiss me with a flick of the wrist and a distinctly dismissive ‘pfft’.
I went to reiterate the urgency of the situation but he had already turned his back and picked up the newspaper I’d obviously, uncouthly dragged him away from. I had to leave imminently so chose not to aggravate him further and assumed (desperately hoped) his nonchalance to be a perfectly proportionate response and that I was worrying for nothing. I just didn’t fancy copping the responsibility for about 100,000 euros worth of flood damage.
So off I rode into the darkness of the storm, absolutely sodden before even reaching the end of the street. The bike lights offered very little in terms of illumination and as I attempted to turn a number of switches and knobs on the handlebars to aid the situation, the radio crackled into action, the steady tones of local dialect a stark contrast to the elements battering down from above - the DJ seemingly refusing to deviate from his ‘Easy Like A Sunday Morning’ demeanour.
As the bike waded through the flood water I, again, counted my blessings that today wasn’t my ‘goal race’ - many times previously I’d trained for months with great diligence only to be undone on Race Day by the callous conditions. I was grateful that a finishing time was way down on the list of priorities for the day - the current top spot being occupied by ‘get there in one piece’.
It then occurred to me, with a further four kilometres of nautical navigation to endure to reach the start, if the race would go ahead at all. If the roads were in such a perilous condition here, why would they be any different just a couple of miles ahead? My concern, however, was short lived as through the speakers came John’s 1972 hit, and any thoughts of an event cancellation were immediately cast aside in favour of an unlikely sing-a-long aboard HMS MarathonMonsoon.
Surely enough, as dawn began to break and I made the approach into Palma, the roads - their designation as the race route marked by the iron barriers either side of the tarmac - were completely underwater on one side of the carriageway. Officials in neon jackets and wellies stood in the water scratching their heads as, with the race due to begin in just under 20 minutes, the opportunity for a swim leg of the event looked to be an unavoidable possibility.
Yet no-one else appeared particularly disconcerted, and after I hastily visited the Baggage Drop, used the urinals and had a short jog to loosen up, I joined the thousands stood on the road (at least the side not underwater), watching dozens of high-vis clad volunteers frantically rush about as the clock ticked closer to 8am.
The music thumping from the tannoy came to an abrupt halt as the announcer began to speak in Spanish and although I couldn't comprehend his words, the tone and stop-start nature of the dialogue suggested it to be a broadcast for which they hadn’t planned.
He spoke for ten seconds before around a third of the gathered masses - whom I assume spoke Spanish - threw their arms in the air, and made loud, angry declarations of their own. The announcer then seamlessly switched to English - “Lady and gentleman, we can not control the weather, and we may take the decision to cancel”. Cue further mass-rage, this time from the English-speaking contingent, and I had no trouble understanding the expletives being bellowed into the wind. The message was then relayed a third time - in German - and further pockets of the assembly took their turn to shout angrily and shake their heads/fists.
By now the deluge from above had ceased, but the fury from the baying mob continued to rain down towards, well, no-one in particular. I sat down on the curb and watched the scene around me - there were a lot of upset people. Several minutes passed before the crowd hushed and the P.A. started back up again, the merry-go-round of multilingual messages commencing once more. “We have reinforcement from the north of the island, the race will go ahead, but will be delayed by one hour. One hour. 10am”.
Whether the claim was genuine, or just a vehicle to avoid a potential riot, the athletic-attired tribe threw down their pitchforks, extinguished their blazing torches, and retreated back to the communal area of Port-A-Loos and changing tents. I stayed sat for a few minutes wondering how to spend the next 60 minutes but, once again, was more consumed with the relief that this wasn’t MY race. Such is my nature for being overly-organised and adequately prepared - having geared up to ‘perform’ only to have the course flooded, then warm-up only to have another hour to wait, I’d have been well and truly freaking out.
True to their word, the cavalry arrived - an army of drainage pump vehicles were frantically deployed to rid the roads of their submerged status as the crowds watched on anxiously. Having little (zero) knowledge of the capabilities of such machinery, I doubted the feasibility of their success but, with just minutes to spare before 10am, was surprised - and thoroughly impressed - to see the loathsome lagoon reduced to mere surface water. The event would go ahead.
The masses convened, for the second time, at the start line and were belatedly set off in jovial fashion - spectators clapped, crowds cheered and runners whooped with an air of positivity that seemed implausible just an hour earlier. Yet no sooner had the festivities begun that the conditions threatened to ambush once more, as a blanket of sheer black emerged in the skies ahead.
The vision in the distant Mallocan mountains was similar to a scene in the 1996 alien blockbuster movie Independence Day where leading man Will Smith, oblivious to the looming extraterrestrial invasion, steps onto his porch, noticing his neighbours fleeing in panic. Perplexed, he glances upwards and notices the colossal enemy spacecraft casting a giant shadow and dominating the Los Angeles skyline ahead of him.
The storm heading to Palma presented a bleaker, more ominous, prospect, and there was no doubt in which direction the dark destroyer was heading. It was just a matter of time - and the clock was ticking.
The Half and the Full Marathon races cover the same looped course - participants in the shorter distance run one lap whilst the runners in the 26.2 event are to complete a second. I assume the entrant split between the two events to be roughly equal, the only visual distinction of their designated distance being a different colour on a small band on the race bib. The first six or so miles of the lap follow an out-and-back around the Marina and Harbour which, whilst fairly nondescript, were pleasant enough given their pancake flat profile, the on-course entertainment (DJs and bands) and the spectators lining the streets. Combined, the runners in both distances made for a decent density on the roads but not enough to create any real traffic or congestion. The midpoint of the lap passes back past the Start/Finish Line - a quirk rarely seen in racing and one I always believe to be somewhat of a cruel psychological twist for the struggling participant, but perhaps designed to offer a convenient drop-out point to swiftly receive aid and retrieve baggage should one wish to throw in the towel early.
It is in the next few kilometres however that sees an ascent into the medieval Casco Antiguo and the course really coming into its own as participants stream through the narrow, crooked cobbled passages. There appeared very few marshalls and a scarce number of directional signage but such was the sheer number of bodies to follow, it was never an issue when navigating the climbs and sharp turns through the beautiful Old Town.
The romance and intrigue of the segment was enchanting - a maze of historic and cultural splendour - peaceful courtyards and quaint squares flanked by Renaissance, Baroque and Gothic architecture. With the copious twists, turns and paths that transpired not to be a dead end only at the very last second, a PB course this was not, but - given the aura of the environment - one could be forgiven for sacrificing a time objective. For the umpteempth time that morning, I internally expressed gratitude for my ‘steady away’ classification of the run - particularly so as we clambered up an exceptionally steep snicket so slender I could touch both walls simultaneously.
There was little here in terms of crowd support - not that it was necessary given the surroundings - and I noticed only the odd mooching tourist or local going about their day, oblivious or unperturbed to the collective sweeping by them. This seemed to continue as the route snaked out into the shopping district - a few other pavement inhabitants had appeared but very few seemed concerned with proceedings.
We were at the 20KM mark and approached a roundabout hugging a large fountain just as the sun broke through the clouds - the dancing squirts majestically captured the flashes of light, a reflective rainbow forming in the process. This was more like the Mallorca I knew and loved. Closing my eyes I felt the warmth on my face and, for a few minutes, became blissfully forgetful of the gargantuan stormcloud dominating the sky some 100 minutes earlier.
In reality the darkness was lying in wait - a stealth assassin playfully, callously stalking its prey. An immediate glance above would suggest the worst weather to have passed, that the sunkissed Balearic bliss would prevail, yet the real danger was merely concealed from vision - the city-centre abundance of metropolitan mountains a shield of deception, and we were about to feel the full force of it’s fury.
The Cathedral again came into view - an imposing, towering indication that participants in the Half Marathon were approaching the conclusion of their endeavour, and their 26.2 counterparts had reached half way. A healthy volume of runners had, thus far, remained constant throughout - enough to create an atmosphere and collective camaraderie but not to the extent that my path was ever impeded in any way. Again, it was difficult to ascertain who was running which distance and as we were met with visual instruction - Half Marathon runners to the left, Marathon runners keep right, I fully expected 50% of the field to peel away to their Finish Line.
My estimation, however, seemed somewhat off as every single runner around me veered to the left and made their final glory sprint under the gantry, whereas I plodded along on the other side of the road to begin Lap 2. Looking ahead I could just about make out a fellow marathoner in the distance, a good half mile ahead, and a quick glance back over my shoulder suggested an identical absence of peer participant.
I was in no-mans land - the previously abundant crowds lining the road had upped sticks, the DJs had detached their decks, and just as I realised the 13 miles ahead were likely to be an almighty slog, the heavens opened once more. The event's tagline - ‘Follow The Sun’ was declared in bold letters on flags adorning the seafront - a merciless motto of mockery as hail battered the banners.
I spent the next hour as I had the first after leaving the hotel - my shoulders hunched and my head turned against the onslaught of the rain - a grim grimace in the face of a second biblical rainstorm. It quickly became evident the event was geared heavily towards the Half distance - had I been moving at a much greater pace I could understand the infrequency with which I encountered another runner, but at 3:30 marathon pace - I expected to have more company than the odd soul passing in the opposite direction on the other side of the carriageway during the several out-and-backs.
To their credit the aid-stations remained throughout - the available aqua a welcome offering given the temperature which, despite the rain, continued to climb as the morning wore on. I was comforted in the knowledge that we’d again reach the Old Town section of the course which I’d enjoyed so much the first time round - the aged avenues would likely be even more winsome now I wouldn’t be sharing them with thousands of others.
Predictably, I was wrong again.
A brass band - the one street symphony still standing - huddled together under a gazebo, the arms of their instruments comically protruding out in every direction from the tarpaulin tent, the ceiling of which curved critically under the weight of rainwater, stood at the foot of a hill climbing into the cobbled streets. Like the band refusing to yield as the Titanic went down, the hardy harmonic hoard played on despite the stream gushing under their feet - coincidentally another Elton John number as I splashed past.
“I’m still standing” was an ironic choice as it became difficult to simply remain upright as water cascaded down the hill - the sun bleached walls of the old buildings appearing less endearing than they did on my first visit. Though the labyrinth-like snickets may no longer have seemed as charming as my prime focus had shifted from admiring my surroundings to merely navigating them, as suddenly there was very little in terms of directional aids.
Gone were the throng of fellow runners to follow, many of the marshalls had seemingly left their post, and the general public were now out in number on the narrow streets. With no other runners in my immediate vision, the sporadic yellow signage arrows and/or odd cordons of luminous tape became the only methods to follow the correct course.
This, added to the ankle-deep deluge cascading down the cobbles, made for somewhat challenging conditions. The 90-degree turns of the tight passageways, previously of novelty and charm, became grossly hazardous with both the treacherously slippy surface and civilians waiting round every blind corner - oblivious to the event still going on. They weren’t at fault - barring the odd runner sporting a bib every few minutes or so, there was little to suggest anything from the norm.
Preoccupied with the striking surroundings, and thus having paid little attention to the actual route on the first lap, and having no one to follow, there were several occasions in which I turned a corner only to come to a complete standstill, dumbfounded as to which path to take next. Twice, a good minute elapsed before I spotted another runner in the distance, or a marshall appeared, signalling the correct course.
I was so glad this wasn’t my race.
It then dawned on me that the organisers may not have foreseen the torrential ambush nor the subsequent sixty minute delay and had thus put very little in place in terms of contingency plans. Had the gun sounded at the original designated 8am start, runners would have theoretically been an hour further up the route - rather than the epicentre of a densely populated city centre at midday.
In a further twist of irony, the only saving grace was the rain - a downpouring deterrent that had surely discouraged many of the general public from venturing out to shop or socialise. Yet the second deluge of the day was to prove far briefer than its predecessor - the rain ground to a sudden halt and within the space of a few minutes the clouds parted and sun's intense rays broke through.
In an instant, citizens and tourists - each possessing some form of internal barometer and having seemingly waited on the starting blocks of their own race, emerged from every direction, flooding the streets in number. Navigating a course with very little directional aid suddenly became even more difficult.
Reaching a packed plaza, I found myself a sweaty, drenched mess - engulfed by the throng of people just going about their day. Slowing to a walk I desperately sought visual guidance on which direction to take, my bearings were shot as I didn’t even know which street I’d just come from and was met with a moving wall of human anatomies from every angle. Hands on hips, I was utterly bereft of a solution.
It reminded me of an occasion on Oxford Street over a decade ago - lunchtime on the last Saturday before Christmas, every inch of pavement packed with shoppers. It was predictably the heaviest hour of the entire calendar year yet here he came - a runner - head-to-toe in neon gear - dodging, stop-starting, tutting and sporting an expression that made obvious his disdain at the atrocity of having to share Europe’s busiest shopping street with so many others.
It may have been twenty degrees warmer, and the location somewhat different, but now, through no fault of my own, I found myself the culprit in a very similar situation. After a while of being barged and bustled, the shrill of a whistle pierced the air and I turned 180 to see a Marshall, standing atop a garbage bin, waving his arms manically and pointing the way. I couldn’t get out of there soon enough, but simply negotiating the crowd and crossing the square took an age.
I hadn’t so much as glanced at my watch for some time - attempting to maintain any kind of consistent pace had become utterly futile - but thankfully found amusement as the device sounded to indicate my kilometre splits had gone from 4:55s to 11:00. With a shake of the head I laughed to myself - a guffaw of gratitude it was nearly over, it had been a strange morning.
The marathon gods decided we’d had enough - they couldn't possibly throw anything else into the mix and finally chose to offer some mercy. The clear skies and sunshine prevailed as the remaining few miles, on roads that remained closed, played out without deviation from the normal fatigue or ailments commonly associated with the closing stages of the distance. It was more the emotional exhaustion of the entire episode that presented the greatest burden - with the exception of a distinct soreness in my shoulders and neck - presumingly a product of being hunched in the hail - I passed under the Finish gantry physically unscathed.
The Athlete Village was sparsely populated - runners from the shorter races having already finished and left, meaning the sun loungers they had lining the waterfront were unoccupied- a welcome commodity and one I took full advantage of - sprawling with a cold beer whilst watching a steady stream of triumphant marathoners wearily limping to collect richly deserved sustenance.
It was only 1pm but such was the mental mangle it could easily have been time to retire to bed. The sun was now at its strongest, and laying back in the 23c warmth I reflected on the absurd adventure that had unfolded over the preceding eight hours. It genuinely wasn’t the fault of the organisers - they were just victim of a catalogue of freak circumstances - and deserve credit for the race going ahead in the face of such adversity, and after all, they had still hosted a successful event - runners were able to complete their chosen distances - it was just somewhat more of a mission to do so than had originally been envisaged.
An hour or so passed before I climbed on my two-wheeled wonder for the cycle back to the resort. The beaches were busy with families and weekend revellers, and the roads - deep underwater just several hours ago - were now completely free of moisture and perfectly passable. You’d never known it had even rained, let alone the magnitude of the deluge(s) earlier in the day.
But a final storm of a different form was brewing - a lightning bolt of panic striking as I approached the hotel - the colourful catalogue of the day's events had swept the worry aside but now it abruptly returned to prominence at the forefront of my mind - the bike store. I considered chaining the bike to a lamppost round the corner and scurrying past reception but thought I’d best face the music, which would no doubt be an Elton John number, perhaps his fourth studio album - Madman Across The Water - and go down to assess the damage.
Yet, easing the door open, bracing for the inevitable carnage of Ground Zero, to my utter relief, and true to the earlier disregard of the hotel receptionist, the room was once more immaculate, not even the slightest suggestion of a spillage, let alone the tidal wave that I’d unwittingly unleashed in there that very morning.
Locking my bike away I wearily climbed up the (bone dry) slope to street level, counting my blessings for what I only assumed to be some form of drainage witchcraft and made a mental note to avoid the employee with whom I’d exchanged my half-witted, far-from-fluent frenzy earlier in the day. He’d no doubt have spent the day laughing to himself, and with others, at my ridiculous rapids-based ramble during the early hours.
No-sooner had the thought manifested in my mind that the individual himself appeared at the peak of the slope, sporting a smirk brighter than the Spanish afternoon sun over his shoulder. “Ah my friend, I told you, no water, no problem”. I felt my earlier fluster to have been justified but knew any attempt to convey this would have been futile. I didn’t even try - it had been a long day.
He chucked as I conceded defeat and slipped away, he was the joker and I was his Tiny Dancer, or so he thought.
Yet little did he know, I was the Rocketman.
