The Narcissist in Training - Aug '18

This summer I spent 10 days in Italy at my mother’s place, along with my daughter Rhiannon. There were two things I was sure of during that holiday: one was that Rhiannon would not get up early and the other that I would. Perhaps I should make that three things: the great food, wine and daily aperitif would add “holiday weight”.

I wasn’t keen on the whole weight gaining concept, so I decided to bring my bike on holiday and train each morning, either cycling, running or swimming. I was back in triathlon training mode. My mother lives at the foot of some decent hills, and close to the sea, so I could choose each day whether to do a tough hill climb and easy descent, or head for the coast and run/cycle along that.

The first run was hard. Very hard. It was hot and humid, and post run I thought I’d try and take a selfie that showed it. I looked at the picture and thought – yeah, not bad. Tweaked it a bit, and thought – yes, that’s OK to post on Facebook. I received positive feedback.

The next day I rode. Decided on the hill climb, which was a tad shy of 9km with an average gradient of 6%. Again at the top I took another selfie trying to show the hard work that went into the climb. I think I succeeded. 

I had to complete the set. A swim picture. It’ll do.

As I ran back to my mum’s after taking this picture one thought kept returning to me – am I turning into a proper narcissist?

Tour of Cambridge - June '18

Some readers of this blog will know that in my younger days I was a pretty successful sailor, going off to various World and European Championships. Occasionally on podiums, though sadly never the top one. These championships were not Olympic class boats, which meant that I never represented a GB team as such. 

As I’ve been recently hanging around with triathletes and cyclists who have, and have the team kit to prove it, I was feeling a little jealous. Could I get one?

Paul, a guy at work who’d been to the Masters World Cycling Championships in France in 2017 thought I wasn’t far off qualifying pace to go to the 2018 world’s. So I entered the Tour of Cambridge, the UK’s qualifying race. I also entered a lower key race the following weekend to gauge my ability.

So one Sunday in May I found myself on the start line with 40 or so other riders about to take part in an 80 minute plus 3 laps race around an aerodrome. We started. I tried to put myself in the middle of the peloton for wind protection, but every other rider had the same idea. My inexperience counted against me, as I couldn’t force my way in and so had to ride on the edge of the group.

We gradually built up speed, and within a lap we were going pretty much full pelt. Holy moly, but it was fast. Very. Every time I looked down we were around the 40km/h (~25mph) mark. This was hard. There was a corner on the course whereby the peloton slowed to go round, then accelerated out of it up a short ramp. That acceleration was killing me, and each lap it was getting harder and harder for me to stick with the peloton.

At around 45 minutes the inevitable happened. I fell out of the back, and without the protection of the peloton there was no way I could ride at their pace. I completed the race long after the others - only injury or a mechanical would make me pull out of a race.

Damn – not looking good for the ToC, which would be a good 3 hour race, in a month’s time. Still, one positive – I wasn’t fazed by riding at that pace in a group.

I did up my training. Paul and I did turbo sessions at the local gym. I managed a few long rides. But all too soon race weekend was upon me.

Unfortunately Paul's team, who I’d planned on riding with, withdrew at the last minute. I was just going to have to pick a group.

Once again the pace was fearsome. But I’d learnt a bit, and was able to stay in the peloton nicely. After 30 or so mintes, a split did occur where a stronger group[ managed to get away. But that was OK, I was feeling reasonably good. I didn’t really see the landscape, it was all a blur.

A while later, we saw that the leading group had been held up by a crash, and we were not that far behind. Cue another acceleration. We formed a line of pairs, with exhortations to keep pulling so we could all re-group as a single peloton. I allowed myself to be forced to the front, taking the odd turn.

Then disaster. I led into a sharp right hander with too much pace. Went off the road, up a small embankment, went along it, narrowly missed a signpost, went down into a ditch, managed to ride back out of it, back onto the road. How I stayed upright I’ll never know. But I was upright, but also staring at the rapidly disappearing peloton that up until then I’d been in.

I tried to calm my heart, and accelerate to get back on, but it was futile. Once again I’d been spat out of the back. However this time I lasted 90 minutes into the race. I won’t say too much about the rest of it. I battled on, working as hard as I could. I came across another solo cyclist and we tried to work with each other to get the speed back up, which worked for a while. Then we came across a very steep hill that went through a town, and I was really suffering. My water bottle was empty, and I was desperate to drink. Unbelievably a guy standing outside a house on that very hill saw my pain and thrust me a full water bottle – shouting “keep it!”.

The end could not come soon enough. I was spent.

On a positive note I lasted for 90 minutes at a pace of around 40km/h, in a bunch. So that was good.

I didn’t qualify. So that was bad. 

Still, I’ve entered for next year. I can try again.

Racing in Goa - Feb '18

Early January 2018 I received the invite to the annual Group Internal Audit conference to be held in Pune, India. The year before it had been held in Goa and I absolutely loved the place. Goa is not *that* far from Pune so I idly wondered if I’d have time to go there for a few days before the conference started.

While googling, I saw that a triathlon event was being organised the preceding weekend. That settled it – I had time. There was both a standard distance triathlon (1.5km swim, 40km bike, 10km run), and a sprint Duathlon (5k run, 20k bike, 5k run). When looking at the course on-line I saw that for the 1500m swim athletes were expected to swim 700m out to sea, go parallel to the coast for 100m, and swim back. Not being a strong swimmer I was horrified.

I signed up for the Duathlon.

Logistically getting there was a bit of a nightmare. The flight to Mumbai landed around 1 am, and the connecting flight was at around 2.30am. Indian bureaucracy meant transferring between the flights was a bit touch and go. I landed in Goa around 4am Saturday morning, and got to the hotel by 5am. This was 25 hours before the start of the Duathlon. I got a few hours’ sleep. Saturday afternoon I made our way to the beach, and went for a little swim. I’d forgotten how buoyant sea water is, and I think it’s particularly salty in the shallows around Goa. Perhaps I should have done the triathlon after all, I thought.

Sunday, at the crack of dawn…..actually, well before the crack of dawn, I was setting my bike up at the transition in almost total darkness, illuminated solely by phones. The generator that the organisers had brought had failed, and they had no extension lead anywhere long enough to run from the nearest alternative power source.

I wondered when the sun would rise. I had a feeling the first run would be in darkness, as would some of the bike leg. And that, I thought, could prove interesting as the roads were not closed and no cyclists had lights.

And sure enough we set off running in darkness. Getting back to the bike, and trying to change shoes with little light while organisers ran around with their phones was interesting!

The ride was good. I overtook a few riders, one or two overtook me, but I felt strong. There weren’t that many cars, so I wasn’t too worried about collisions. By the end of the cycle leg I thought I was around 5^th, and daylight had fully broken. Then onto the final run. Oh it hurt. The temperature was climbing back to over 30 degrees, the hills seemed steeper, the 5k longer.

A young whippersnapper overtook me. I overtook a guy around my age. Running to the finish line seemed to take forever, as I hadn’t studied the course too carefully. The final bit was a short up-hill run to the hosting hotel, and then a finishing chute. I’d done it.

I came 5/62 - not bad. 

Marathon du Medoc - Sep '17

When Warren and I were in Olympia, Greece, we had the following conversation:

“Do you think we should do a marathon?”

“No, too far. We haven’t got the time to train properly”

“True, but shouldn’t we do at least one, to at least be able to say we’ve done one?”

“Not really, I don’t feel I’m missing anything”

“Nor I. These halfs are hard enough, but we can still enjoy the post run festivities”.

We’d had the same conversation, with minor modifications, in Berlin, Lisbon, Marrakech and Copenhagen. So why on earth were we in yet another Ryanair flight heading to Bordeaux to run a marathon?

Wine. That’s the answer in a nutshell. For 33 years the good people of Bordeaux have organised a wine tasting event with a difference – to pass through all 21 wine tasting stops we’d have to run a marathon. And because no-one can drink on an empty stomach the organisers provide 21 food stops supplying hams, cheeses, pate, steak and oysters.  Oh, and for good measure we had to run in fancy dress, based on a theme chosen by the organisers.

So, what could go wrong?   

For this, the 33^rd running of the event, they’d chosen Music in 33rpm (geddit?!).  We quickly decided that a) we’d go as the Blues Brothers, and b) we’d spend the whole weekend in character. Matalan was perused, and for £45 each we bought two matching black suits in finest polyester. Matching ties and pork pie hats were also obtained. We already had the appropriate shades, white shirts and white socks.

We were ready!

Well, apart from the training of course. But we decided, bearing in mind our general reluctance to do a marathon, and that it would be rude to miss the wine-stops, that we would treat it as a series of short runs.

How hard could that be?

Friday morning we met up at Stanstead airport, looking the business. We strode confidently into the lounge for breakfast, to be greeted by screams of delight (I exaggerate for effect) from the hostesses, demanding photos be taken with “The Blues Brothers”. We were asked if we were off to a stag do, to which we indignantly replied, “No! We’re running a marathon!”.

Landing in Bordeaux we quickly dumped our bags at the hotel and headed off to find some lunch. A pavement café was found, and as we sat two ladies next to us commented that “you English are always so smartly dressed”.  Other diners asked if we were there for the run, and they confessed that as yet they hadn’t sorted out a fancy dress for the next day. Warren and I figuratively shook our heads in despair.

Lunch over, we strolled back to the hotel. We had a coach to catch to Paullaic to pick up our race numbers, goody bag and the like. It was there, too, that we would have the evening pasta party. It quickly transpired that we were in the minority in being dressed up for the whole weekend. Still we didn’t mind as food and wine was thrust in our direction and quite a few people wanted pictures taken with us.

And then to the pasta party. It was inside a huge tent, holding around 1,000 people, in the grounds of another Chateau. Naturally there was plenty of wine as an aperitif. Naturally during the course of the dinner the bottles kept coming. Naturally there was a 12 piece band playing classic wedding staples, encouraging lots of dancing. Naturally it finished very late.

As W and I headed, walking very carefully in a straight line, back to the coach for the trip back to the hotel we just looked at each other and an unspoken thought passed between us – perfect pre-marathon preparation!

Saturday morning and breakfast at 5.30am. Another runner wandered over in normal kit, and we asked him what he was planning on wearing. “Nothing”, came the reply, “can’t be bothered this year”.

To say W and I were flabbergasted is an understatement. Not dressing up for this run seemed to us like going to a steak restaurant and ordering fish. Just wrong.

A coach ride later and we were on the start line. I’ll let a few pictures tell the story of the start line. However, the story would not be complete without mentioning the suspended band. Or the acrobats. As an atmosphere for the start it was nothing short of spectacular.

Soon we were off. W and I had decided to do a good stint to start with, so I think our first stop was after 18km where we first sampled the wines on offer. At this point we both felt very good, so set off to do another 7 or 8. At around the 25/26km mark we both commented that everything was going well, and perhaps this marathon malarkey wasn’t too bad.

Km 28 and it started to change. And not because of the extra wine stops. Oh no. We were now doing only 3 or 4 km stops.

I must mention Chateau Rothschild. All the vineyards look good, but when we saw Rothschild’s! Well, each vine seemed to have been grown in identical manners, and not a weed to be seen. And none of this drinking out of plastic cups – nope, for them it was

proper glassware.

On we ran. As we approached the oysters and chilled white wine stop at km 37 I knew I was in deep trouble. No wall had been hit as such, I just knew that everything hurt. Warren still looked relatively comfortable, and though he later said that he was hurting too, he was able to cajole out of me the last few km.

Crossing the line was bliss! Grabbing the obligatory banana, water, medal and celebratory bottle of wine, we slowly walked to the athlete’s tent for the post run nourishment. Where yes, we could further indulge ourselves with wine. And with no running to do, we took full advantage. I then made the mistake of sitting down. And my legs promptly seized up. Could I stand again? No – every time I moved them I cramped up. Took me around a quarter of an hour before I could stand again. Luckily Warren was kind enough to top up my wine during my discomfort as he wisely stayed on his feet.

A few hours later and we jumped (well, walked slowly over to, and pulled ourselves onto) the coach back to the hotel. While on the coach we got chatting to a lady in her 60’s who, with her husband, had flown from New Zealand specifically to take part in this race. We quickly decided to donate one of our bottles to her as we couldn’t fly back with them and we planned on only drinking one bottle as an aperitif before going out to dinner. Which we did. And clearly we got back into our full Blues Brothers suits and headed off to find a decent restaurant where our craving for carbs and (more) wine could be satisfied. Funnily enough Warren and I are pretty good at finding such places.

Sunday morning and back to the airport, still as the Blues Brothers. And there we made the day of some lady and her family in the queue. Her kids were sure we were from Men in Black. Mum got kudos for spotting the correct reference.

On reflection we were very happy about our decision re going as the Blues Brothers. It had provided much entertainment from the moment we’d set off to France, to the final return.

We achieved the run in a shade under 5 hours, and we had managed to enjoy the hospitality of the region appropriately. And now only 1 question remained:

Had we run a marathon?

Skiing - Val Thorens

As Alex, Bas and I took off in a Titan Airways (who they? – ed) flight to Chambery, France, the mood was good. Our first skiing holiday in many years was starting at the ungodly hour of a 6.10 am take-off. Charter flights. During the flight I discovered that having a seat pitch of 31” as opposed to Ryanair’s 30” turned the flight into a surprisingly comfortable one. Amazing what 1” will do.

There was also the “Dad, will we get there early enough to ski this afternoon?” question. I was more concerned with the “what will the snow be like so late in the season, 8 April?” question. At the airport – no snow. Could barely see any in the mountains. Inghams Ski had laid on a coach to take us to Val Thorens, and much to Bas’s pleasure it was a new Mercedes. For the first part of the 2 hour journey there was still little snow. We passed the Meribel resort and still nothing. But magically as we rose a further few metres there it was. Snow, and plenty of it. I had chosen Val Thorens to go to as is the highest resort in France simply to increase the chances of snow. 

We were dropped off at the hotel, told where we could get our ski equipment and were promised delivery of our ski passes that evening as I’d bought 6 days ones, Sunday to Friday.

Everything was super- efficient, and by 1.30 we had everything sorted. So there was only one thing to do – purchase afternoon passes for us and to hit the slopes. Where we discovered that it was reasonably warm at the village level, and slightly mushy snow, but the higher you went (the tallest skiable peak there is 3200m) the better the snow quality was.

I’d booked half board at the Hotel val Chaviere, so we once we’d finished on the slopes we headed back to hotel to freshen up and wander down to the bar area for a pre-dinner drink. The dinner was spectacularly good. Five courses were served. A soup, followed by a starter, followed by a main, then cheese, then dessert. All excellent. Throughout the week we had different soups and meats, all done beautifully, so even though I’d said to the boys that we’d probably go out to a restaurant a couple of times during the week we never did.

Monday was our first full day of skiing, and it felt so good to be back on the slopes.Muscle memory was working, and even though I hadn’t skied for years it seemed to come back to me very quickly. For lunch we skied down into Val Thorens and sat at the first pizza place we saw. The bill for 3 pizzas, 2 beers and coke came to nearly 90 euros. That was the last lunch we had out – from then on each morning we nipped to the supermarket, bought sandwiches crisps and a drink, and returned to the hotel at lunchtime to consume.

That afternoon, feeling good, the three of us made sure we had the SkiTrack app live on our phones and went down a fairly quiet red slope at speed. At the bottom Alex looked at his phone – 65km/h. Then Bas – 74 point something. He was happy until I showed him my phone – 90.6km/h.

What I decided not to tell the boys was that on my run I was getting quite quick when I got a bit nervous, tried to turn to slow down, couldn’t because of another skier, so had to carry on straight down the slope getting even faster. I saw a piste joining ours, so headed up it to slow down. I didn’t share, then, that my record was made at a slightly out of control speed.

Tuesday was more of the same. Bas tried to break my record, but kept getting stuck around 75km/h. At one point he demanded we swap phones as he was sure mine was over reading. But no, his next run was another 75km/h one.

Tuesday night, after another superb dinner, we headed off to find a bar as it was Champions League night, and Leicester were playing. We found a sports bar with a pool table, a chatty retired English guy, and a bunch of Danes who wanted to challenge us to pool. We kept winning, but it didn’t seem to dampen their enthusiasm.

Wednesday afternoon had a slight change of pace – as we skied past a café on the slopes we heard a live band playing classic rock songs. So, naturally, we had to stop and order a couple of beers. I have to say it was great listening to a more than adequate band in the sunshine half way up a mountain. 

Wednesday night and we were back at the same bar again – this time Real Madrid were playing.

Thursday morning and once more we hit the slopes. Mid-morning I was coming down a red slope, and just as I was getting into the tuck position for a speed run down it disaster struck. My back “went”, and I could no longer control my speed or direction. I couldn’t move, or swivel, or anything due to the pain. In the distance I could see a small skier, and I realised we were on a collision course.

I didn’t shout out, as I didn’t want them to stop, or turn – I just focussed on inching away as best I could. I passed behind her skis (for it was a she) by a matter of inches. The slope flattened, and I was able to come to a stop by the side of the piste before it dropped steeply again. I called the boys on my mobile who by now were at the bottom of the run, who answered “ah – that’s why we saw you so close to that little girl. Normally you give lots of room”!

And then the rescue started, as there was no way I could either walk or ski back to Val Thorens. First came the piste monitors on a 4 track. They kept asking where I’d crashed, and if I banged my head. In my rudimentary French I explained, no, there was no crash, I was lying down due to my back being seized up. Then they grabbed my leg, and asked if I could feel their hands. Yes I could, I was not paralysed.

They called for mountain rescue, the guy with the sledge. We went through the same rigmarole; No, no crash. No, hadn’t banged my head. No, wasn’t paralysed. Anyway, gingerly they put me on an inflatable mattress, which then went onto a sled. I was then trussed up like a turkey before being pulled down the resort. The bill for that was 462 euros.

I then went into an ambulance to be taken to the clinic for assessment. Once again I went through the story. X-rays were taken, and the doctor was happy when he confirmed that no discs were broken or fractured, it was just a compression injury, lumbago. I was then injected in my arse with firstly an anti-inflammatory drug, and then a pain killer. That was 160 euros, which I thought was not bad for a private clinic.

The Slide of Shame

Next stop was the pharmacy to buy the medicines required for the next 7 days. Injections for 2 days, morning and night, pills for the following 5 days. They cost 46 euros.

Good stuff for that money, as I was able to walk gingerly that afternoon. Naturally skiing was finished for me, so it was a case of watching a few movies on the iPad before returning for my evening injections.

The nurse doing the said injections charged me another 32 euros. So all in all a round 700 euros was spent. Thankfully I had insurance.

Thursday night’s dinner must have been designed to cheer me up – we had fondue, both the cheese and bread based one and the meat and oil. There didn’t seem to be a clash between the medicines and red wine, so I went to bed a semi-happy chap.

On Friday I had to say goodbye to the boys in the morning while they went off and did their thing. Still, I relaxed by watching yet more movies. I decided that day to treat the boys to a snowmobile in the evening. They had been on top form all week, and never once complained about the basic lunches we were having. My back meant I couldn’t go with them, so I only had to hire one – and at 130euros an hour for a guided trip that was expensive enough.

They had a blast, saying it was the perfect way to end the week. Saturday came and it was time to leave. We returned our equipment, and waited for the coach to take us back to the airport. Barring my back, this had been a superb week away.

Inghams gave us one of those customer satisfaction questionnaires to complete, which we were happy to do. Everything about the holiday was superb, and I am more than happy to recommend them. One question made us smile – we had to judge the “appearance of your rep” on a scale of Excellent to Poor. Yes, Camilla was/is very pretty, but was that what they really wanted to know?!

On the flight home Bas decided to offer me one final indignity and handed me his phone. Friday morning he’d gone for a speed record and managed 91.6 km/h.

I read it and wept, as they say.











Alex's view

What makes a sporting holiday GREAT ?

After our skiing holiday, I believe there are two simple answers : simplicity and adrenaline. Let me develop a little.

The all-in-one Inghams holidays meant all we had to do was reach the airport on time, then onwards, life was easy. Picked up at the airport, accompanied to the hotel reception, given our ski passes, shown where the ski rental shop was. No thinking or decision making necessary. That is the definition of relaxing. Dinner turned out to be even simpler: we were assigned a table in the hotel restaurant for the whole week and they served a fixed menu every evening. Of course there’s the risk of not being particularly a fan of a certain dish but what that meant was, again, no decision making. The only decision to be made was regarding lunch. 

The first day we tried a pizzeria, but that had two issues. The first was the price, it was ridiculously expensive but that’s not my problem. My issue with the pizzeria was that I had to decide what to eat. I was already sold on the fixed menu idea, and I was so exhausted all I wanted was food, I didn’t want to spend extra energy deciding on what food I wanted. From then onwards, always sandwiches for lunch. Again, it made our life easier, pick the same sandwich, crisps and drink every day, and no thinking is required anymore. The toughest decisions we had to make all week was deciding what to choose at the breakfast buffet but that situation occurred in the mornings when you have plenty of energy, so that’s ok.

Keeping it simple also applied on the slopes. We argued from time to time, but always because none of us wanted to decide what to do next, we were all happy to just follow along. The advantage of a small group. How to decide when to stop for lunch? When to call it a day? When the phrase ‘I’ve had enough’ or ‘I’m tired’ was pronounced for the second time, we would look at each other and decide it was time to head back to the hotel. Most of the time. 

The second aspect required is adrenaline; skiing always delivers when it comes to adrenaline. Always. The first couple of hours back on skies, your mind is trying to remember how it’s done, trying to reassure itself ‘yes, this is regular speed on skies, grow a pair, you’ll be fine’. You think you’re doing ok, then a bump throws you off-balance, somehow you gain control. ‘That was close!’. Once the confidence is back, because you’re with your lunatic and fearless brother and your refusing to age dad, you have to go for the speed record. I didn’t manage to reach their 90+km/h and yet it was one of the most frightening experiences. Think about it, you’re sliding on your feet. When Papa treated us to go on the snowmobiles, towards the end of the ride we managed to have the nerve to apply maximum throttle and we only reached 71km/h ! Is there any other situation where legs are faster than a petrol engine ?

The resort had an amateur ski-cross track so we had to try it. Obviously. After a couple of ‘individual’ runs, we had a race. I started off well, took an early lead. Somehow, I quickly fell back. That wasn’t ok. With only a few corners to go, Papa left the door open in the inside. I went for it. He fell. I hit him and went over him. As I was flying head first for the security barriers I found myself thinking ‘Oh this is cool, I’ve never been caught by a barrier before’. I then giggle as I get all tangled in it. Then, big problem, it collapses and I end up legs in the air, airborne, thinking ‘Now this isn’t good’. The head-first landing a few meters lower down was probably impressive. As I manage to stand up, I can’t stop laughing, my right leg can’t stop shivering - the adrenaline was pumping in fast! 

Adrenaline does have a weird effect on your body; the speed record idea sprung into mind because of Bas. We were going down a pretty steep blue slope rendered a bit more complicated by the irregular bumps. I was leading the way, really focused, at what I thought to be ‘high speed’. As I reach the left edge of the slope, I turn my eyes to the right and what do I see ? A lot of white and a black spot wizz through. My brain tries to process the information, it becomes clear, it was Bas. Bas overtook me as a leopard overtakes a tortoise. As I understood what just happened, I started laughing, so hard I had to stop. Once I managed to stop the tears, I met Bas at the bottom and found him still trying to stop laughing too. It was funny, not that funny, it was the adrenaline. So much adrenaline!

To summarise my thoughts, thanks to Inghams, we spent 100% of our available energy in having (extreme) fun and 0% on the usual holiday arguement ‘How to best spend the time we have?’. I believe that to be the recipe to the perfect holiday. 

EDIT: As I read through my report, I realise there’s a big mistake. Sure Inghams did a good job, but my thanks go to Papa!! Thank you Papa for a brilliant holiday! Thank you also for providing us with a great story to tell and great photos to show, a lot of people seem to enjoy the tale of your rescuing. 

Olympia Half Marathon - March 2017

Olympia Half Marathon

For our spring run Warren and I decided to go to Olympia, the birthplace of the Olympics. We had a discussion on whether we should run the full marathon distance this time, in honour of the ancient Games. After all, if we're going to ever run one, what better place?

The discussion was short - no. We'd stick to our tried and tested formula of running a half. That is hard enough, but leaves enough energy for a celebratory evening in various bars.  For a ridiculously small sum we were entered, bought flights, put up in a 4 star hotel, hired a car and given a t shirt.

Training was patchy. It was winter after all. I'd been playing football, was doing my weekly 6k runs so I thought it wouldn't be that hard. A few days before departure I ran 9km one evening and my legs felt good. I was sure that 21.2 km was very doable, though maybe not in a pb.

Landing in Athens Friday afternoon our first challenge was to find the hire car company. We could see Avis, Hertz etc, but not Goldcar, who had our booked Alfa Guiletta waiting for us. We should have known; since it was booked through Ryanair the car hire place was off-site and we had to get a shuttle coach. Ha! And when we arrived we had not an Alfa but a Fiat Tipo. The guy at the counter did say that the small print had said "or similar" when we booked. Still, it was brand new with 12km on a clock.

It was also the best car in the world as we paid a small supplement to upgrade the insurance to all risks/no excess. We'd be glad of that later. The 4 hour drive to Olympia was great, with the first two thirds motorway, and the last third through the mountains on a twisty windy road with fabulous views.

Arriving late at our hotel (which seemed deserted) we quickly dumped our bags, separated the pushed together single beds (it’s our ritual…..), and headed off to find a tavern for dinner. We discovered that Olympia is a 1 street town, and selected a restaurant that looked inviting despite it being empty. However, that couldn’t be a selection criteria since all the other ones we saw were empty too.

This meal was simple, but excellent. We kicked off with some ouzo, followed by a Greek salad, toasted garlic bread, a moussaka and grilled chicken. We asked for some wine, and were told “we have white, no red, but some pink wine”. We decided on some pink, and the waiter went to the fridge, pulled out a plastic water container that held the wine, and decanted some into a carafe. Wasn’t bad, especially the fourth one. Desert was honeyed apples, of which we’d see a lot over the weekend.

When the bill came it was 40 euros. Between us. So we did the decent thing and left a generous tip, before wandering back to the hotel.

Saturday morning and we drove to Pyrgos (a half marathon distance away, natch) to pick up our registration pack. On arrival we saw a military parade, as it was National Greece Day where they celebrate independence from Ottoman rule c400 years ago. Registration seemed very low key, so I asked how many runners had entered the race. “I think around 100, but could be slightly more” came the reply. This took Warren and I aback, as all the events we’d entered to date had had thousands of runners. Had we entered an elite race by mistake? I was concerned about finishing last.

We then decided to do the tourist thing, and visit the ancient ruins around Olympia. However, we were thwarted in our plans as all public sites were closed due to it being National Greece Day. So rather than just hang about in a bar all day we drove off to a local port, Katakolo, for lunch. What a find it was, and yes, the sardines were caught just offshore.

Following lunch we decided more exploration was needed, so we took the coast road south, looking for another tavern for dinner. Leaving town we saw a brown tourist sign saying “Wine Route”, so naturally we had to take it. Oddly we saw no further signs of vineyard activity, nothing to indicate “come here and see how we make wine, and by the way, buy some if you feel like it”. As I said, odd. A further oddity happened when Warren asked me if there was a road leading to a beach. Looking at the map I found one – dead straight and it stopped maybe 10 yards from the sea on a tiny beach. Shame we hadn’t brought our cozzies.

Driving on, we stopped briefly at what looked like a half-finished marina (Greek economic crash?), and received directions to a recommended place even further South. During the drive we saw a road sign with some magical words for guys of our generation – Navarone! Looking around we saw what looked like a fortification at the top of a cliff – we’d found the Guns of Navarone! It was getting too late to climb to and explore, so we continued along the rapidly deteriorating road towards our destination. The road became a track. It then became heavily rutted track, suited to a 4x4 if anything.

Still, nothing that an all risks/no excess hire car couldn’t handle.

We exited the track, re-joined the road, and found a gem of a place for dinner. ‘Nuff said.

Sunday morning came and we boarded the coach that would take us to the start line at Pyrgos. My fears about it being an elite race were quickly dissipated – only a few of our fellow runners looked elite. Warren and I were able to have last minute coffees just yards from the start line. The start was quite easy, but 15 minutes in we turned a corner and saw a climb. Which seemed to go for ever though in reality took 30 minutes.

Halfway up there was a drinks station, with some supporters waiting to cheer on their friends and family. One rather pretty lady shouted “Bravo!” and clapped as I passed, to which I responded with a grimace as the climb had been long. With only a few hundred yards to go to the top I just couldn’t keep with Warren and he opened a gap.

The race then became a long flat run along an A road, with cones placed at intervals to keep the cars away from us. Guys and girls on bikes would pedal past offering water and encouragement. I read later there were more volunteer marshals than runners.

Halfway along this flat run I pass again the pretty lady, and this time I could utter a simple “thanks!” as I ran past. Of course by now I was hurting. My training was clearly insufficient, and I was going to do well to break 2 hours. With a few km to go another hill presented itself. Ye Gods, it was much shorter than the last one, but it was steep. Looking behind me a saw a small group of runners catching. “Right, I’ll wait until they pass me, then I’ll walk a bit”, I decided. As they did, I looked ahead. And yes, there was the pretty lady yet again waiting to cheer on whoever. There was no way I was going to walk past her! Digging deep, I ran on. Once past her I decided that the top wasn’t ‘that’ far away, and ploughed on. And made it to the top without falter. Then it was downhill all the way to the finish, which was along the high street.

All the bars and restaurants were full, and everyone was cheering the runners for the last km to the finish line. I made it in 1hr 55. Warren around 5 minutes quicker.

After the post-race beers and a snack we were wandering back to see the ruins when we passed the finish line to see that the medal ceremony was starting. I heard somebody winning an age group category race with a time of 1hour 45, so started to wonder if Warren had been quick enough in his. Sure enough his name was called for second place, so up he went to the podium. The winner wasn’t there, so I was tempted to pretend……..

And then we could finally go and see some ruins. Which, for those that have been to Rome, are not impressive. Basically lots of collapsed stones, and not easy to visualise what had once stood there. Still, we’d done the culture bit.

We wanted to freshen up before the evening festivities, so went back to the hotel. When they found out that Warren had podiumed they brought us some cake to celebrate! I tried to buy some bubbly to go with it, but sadly they had none.

For our final night we headed to a bar I’d noticed down a side alley, and sure enough when we entered we thought it would be a good base. I ordered two Negronis to the bemusement of the bar lady. We taught her the recipe which is very easy – equal parts Gin, Campari and Red Vermouth. She’d never had one, but approved when she made herself one. At 5 euros a glass we had to have more than one. We only left when she ran out of the vermouth.

For dinner she directed us to “easily the best restaurant in Olympia”, which was off the beaten path. She wasn’t wrong. Grilled sea bream. Stuffed octopus. Yet more carafes of good house wine. I should mention that every restaurant/bar we entered during the weekend, bar the Sunday lunch, were basically empty. Again, a reflection of the Greek economy?

Sunday morning was an uneventful drive back to the airport where we said farewell to the Fiat Tipo (great car), and waited for our flight back to the UK.  Yet another hugely successful weekend trip was nearly over.

Browsing the internet to remind myself of the details of the Guns of Navarone, I made a terrible discovery. There were no such guns in World War II, and in any case were set in a fictitious island in the East of the Aegean Sea, nowhere near Olympia.

A little part of me dies inside.