The Return of the Lost Palma 2

Waiter!

After the success of the fling in Torremolinos earlier this year, your correspondent was keen to try another Mediterranean half and have a nice little break before the onset of winter, strikes, power cuts and a three-day week. Living in Blighty these last few months would darken the spirits of any good heart, but I had this beacon to aim for to gladden my soul. I searched to internet for a suitable autumnal Spanish break and the Palma marathon, half and 10km ticked all the boxes. I thought a half would just the ticket, especially with a few days rest and recuperation afterwards.

It is fair to say that after Brexit and the COVID-19 pandemic is a minefield of form filling and internet searches for regulations. Needing our passports updating only added more stress to an already stressed-out Clive. Added to this a train strike affected our plans to get to Bristol for our flight. International Rescue in the shape of a taxi answered our prayers, well phone call for an overnight hotel stay before an ungodly early flight.

Touchdown in Palma and the wait for our luggage. Sue can’t wait 10 more minutes for a ‘fag’ which results in 20 minutes trying to meet up outside for a connecting taxi. Said taxi took us many miles out of our way to a similar sounding but not our hotel. I showed the driver a picture and the address of the hotel where we were staying and was eventually taken there but still having to pay for the irritating diversion. This was unfortunately a sign of the chaos that was to follow.

After dropping off our bags and changing into more appropriate clothing, we set off to race registration which was situated some 2 kilometres from the hotel near the cathedral. I’ve looked at the map many times and realistically booked a hotel convenient to the start and all the amenities that we may require for our brief stay but on the ground, it looked very different. Traffic, people, it all seemed so strange. Google Maps seemed no help, but we eventually rocked up at registration after a prolonged tour of the harbour. At the site was a small expo where Sue refused to allow me to purchase ‘essential’ kit.

Race Day Sunday. The half marathon started at 8.15am. So, I set my alarm for 6.45am to give me a little time to set myself. Like any seasoned racer, I had attached my bib number and laid out my kit. I was nervous just like any previous race over the last 25 years but today felt different. I took my anti-depressant and was instantly sick. Not necessarily a problem. Taking medication without drinking can do this. We wandered off confidently to the start in good spirits knowing the weather was set fair and the course, although the second half was undulating.

The event was meticulous in its organisation. Athletes were shepherded to their pens depending on distance and times. I took an energy supplement at the start which I immediately threw up. Today wasn’t going to be my day. We set off on time and I ticked down the kilometres as worried runners do. We ran up and along the harbour front and I saw Sue at around 6 km. I felt awful and really wanted to drop out but Sue was cheering and so encouraging I had to try. My splits were as bad as I was feeling. I had hoped to complete in 1 hour 50 minutes but I was struggling at 10 minutes miles a minute. The course then went up into the city and the undulation. Palma is a truly beautiful city full of fantastic architecture, basilicas and the awesome cathedral. I ticked off the kms as I ran around areas I recognised. At 17 kms I was broken. I stopped and vomited. I hated this and running and everything. Why the f*ck should I put myself through this? I don’t have anything to prove, only to myself. I picked myself up and made it the last 4 kms to the finish. I crossed the finish line, collected my medal and finishers bag, made it to a quiet side and was sick. A lady came over to me and asked me if I was alright, yes, I lied. I lay there for a while, hoping my race had been a dream or somehow, I’d feel well enough to walk somewhere anywhere.

I staggered back to the where Sue was waiting, and we carried on to the harbour. I was still being sick, and Sue was worried. I sat in the shade of a tree and hoped this feeling would subside soon. I knew I needed carbs or sugar, so we dived into a cafe where I drank a Powerade drink and Coca-Cola and I felt so much better quickly. I have no idea what started this as it has never happened before, but it was a terrible feeling as I had trained so well for this event and was expecting much better than a 2-hour 15-minute finish so to say I was disappointed was like saying, well I was disappointed.

The following evening, we went to the bar across the road from our hotel. Spanish Monday night La Liga was on, and the game was Elche versus Mallorca. The match was delayed by 30 minutes because of a storm of biblical proportions. Mallorca huffed and puffed but couldn’t blow bottom of the table Elche’s house down. 1:1 was the final score. I was amused by the locals. There must have been about eight old boys watching the game. Their reactions and frustrations were a sight to behold. It only went to prove that being a fan is tough and it’s the hope that lets you down.

This gave me a thought. The Real Mallorca football stadium was only about 3 kilometres from our hotel. I thought this would make a great recovery run. The next evening before we went out and Sue was resting, I thought a little jog out would be fine. I checked into Google Maps™ and figured out a route; quite simple, out and back. However, it was pouring with rain and soon my hands were too wet to operate my soggy mobile phone. I was running towards an unfamiliar part of town, which felt very less than salubrious. I thought maybe I should sweep back. There is a main thoroughfare from our hotel towards the cathedral and coast, all I needed to do was to somehow find my way to an intersection and Bob’s your uncle. In the rain and traffic nothing looked right. Who’d have thought there so many Maccy Ds in Palma? Mugged and murdered in Mallorca after a sh*tty half marathon I didn’t like as an epitaph. I eventually stumbled towards a plaza I recognised and found my way back to Sue who was outside our hotel smoking and looking out for me. A 30 minute run turned out to be an hour. No more Palma running for me, well, for this week.

Goodnight