Istanbul Run - Nov 2014

Istanbul 2014

Istanbul. Istanbul. I have to write it at least twice, for there are few better words that conjure up in readers’ minds thoughts and feelings than Istanbul. Just the way the word rolls off the tongue is enough to bring up images of East meets West, of romance, of passion, of bygone days. It belongs with Marrakech, Berlin, Buenos Aries and Venice in triggering primeval reactions in the mind of anybody with a soul.

On a personal level I recall my parents coming back from there 30 odd years ago and my dad declaring it the best city break he’d ever been on. Bearing in mind he was extremely well travelled and loved Europe (and in particular Italy) that was praise indeed. Coupled with the knowledge that the Bosphorus Bridge connects Asia and Europe and races are held that start on one side and end on the other that meant Istanbul had to be ‘done’.

Looking up race details that presented a problem, as for some reason the race distances were a marathon, 15k, 10k and a fun run. No Half marathon. Still, the problem was easily solved. A marathon is simply too far, 10k is not worth jetting to Asia for, so 15k it was.

Once again Ryanair was booked and we flew out there on a Friday afternoon. A hotel was booked just off Taksim Square, as that was where a cavalcade of buses were to take us to Asia (!) on Sunday morning to start the race.

On dumping the bags and heading off we knew we’d struck gold in the location. It was in the heart of restaurant land. And what a heart. Forget the various somewhat dodgy kebab shops you see in Wood Green North London – these ones just demand a visit. More than one.

We wandered off to the largest souk in Europe. Again, words fail me when trying to describe the sights and sounds of the bazaar. It was comparable to Marrakech’s, but there was a European feel in that the sellers were more humorous in trying to get us to buy. “Please don’t break my plastic heart!” was one particular phrase that stuck with me.

We wandered off to see the Blue Mosque. Stunning.

Then we wandered off for dinner, in a small street by Taksim Square, which has to rank as one of the best meals of my life. What is impossible to convey in a blog post is the atmosphere of a place. For example, three couples came in to have dinner together, but the three women sat at one table, the guys at another. The sense was NOT men and women shouldn’t eat together, more of the women saying ‘let the men eat over there so they can talk football while we’ll sit here and chat about important things’.

A diner wanted fish, so the waiter went across the road to a fishmonger and returned with a selection of fish the diner could choose from.

The waiter wanted more business so persuaded a very attractive customer who was part of a small group to stand on the street with him to entice more people in.

A passing 3 person band stopped by and sang songs which the various tables joined in with, and then left without asking for money, implying they were a bunch of mates who wanted to amuse themselves by playing music and not for getting cash.

The food itself was my idea of perfection. Grilled meats and fish, salads, and rice.

And possibly wine. I seem to remember wine.

Sunday morning arrived all too soon and 15,000 people descended on Taksim Square to be ferried to the start in Asia (!). All well organised. As I stood there on the start line I pondered on the smallness of the world when budget airlines had taken me to three continents to run races during 2014 – Africa, Asia and Europe. That was still tickling me as the gun went and we were off.

I say off – any reader who runs these races knows that for the first 100/200 metres over the start line it is basically a walk/jog because of other runners. Here it lasted well over a km, as we were herded from the full width of the dual carriageway to just two lanes over the bridge, plus the sheer number of runners that stopped to take selfies on the bridge was astonishing (and effectively caused roadblocks).

The course was not a great one, it has to be said. After we’d left Asia (!) and crossed into Europe (dear reader, you have no idea how much I love writing that) and ran a few more km the finish line was in sight. Unfortunately we then had to turn away from it, run close to 5k and then turn round.

A lot of runners

Still, that created a first. A guy ahead of me ducked under the rope, and headed back early. Runners on that side started fighting with him, telling him to get back and to run the proper distance!

The only other thing to mention on the run was that my third 5k was the quickest of the three. That was not down to a superb training regime but the difficulties of starting the running. The whole thing was done in 1h24, which is not a great time but acceptable under the conditions.

Now that the excuse for visiting Istanbul was out of the way it was time for another lunch and another wander. I judge cities on their wanderability. Taking Venice out of the equation as it is unbeatable Istanbul is right up there. The sights, sounds, monuments. Some had cautioned us about going to a Muslim country but to be frank you can’t tell. In no way would I call Istanbul a Muslim city if the number of headscarves worn is an indicator. Probably half a dozen? No issues in drinking in restaurants, so I’d say there are Muslims in Istanbul but not in the way Morocco is.  Zero habibs/haqiqs.

I should mention the rain. It kind of rained most of the weekend, but it was a strange sort of rain. It was as though the clouds were saying “I want to rain down, but, I’m not sure. Here’s a drop. Or two. No, can’t be bothered. Oh, OK, you’ve got an umbrella up, I’ll send another drop. But not too many, or too often, otherwise more umbrellas will go up and I’ll have to properly rain. Which I can’t be arsed to do.” It was weird, as it went on like that for most of the weekend.

No write-up of Istanbul would be complete without mentioning Turkish Delights. Forget the ones one gets at Christmas in the UK, just enter any one of the dedicated sweet shops that sell so many variations on theme. All supremely delicious.

One of the sights I was desperate to see were the ancient basilica cisterns that were built in the 6^th century BC and have appeared in classic movies ever since film was invented. Sadly the timing of the wandering was such that when we arrived they were closed, and early flights the next day precluded another visit.

Still, never mind. Just means I have to go back.

50km Thames Path Challenge - Sep 2014

For years I’ve thought that one of the best ways to discover the true character of anyone is to get drunk with them. Well, slightly less drunk so you can observe properly. 10p Mark is proof positive – that’s a story to be shared over a pint and not a blog. Another school of thought is to get exhausted through a physical challenge, and maybe that thought lay at the heart of the 2014 ICICI Bank Senior Manager Challenge.

This was to walk 50km from Runnymede to Henley along the river Thames. 50km! The furthest I’ve ever run is 22km. On the other hand, I’ve knocked out 100km plus sportives on a bike so how hard could it be to walk, I stress walk, 50km?

So one Sunday in June five senior managers from ICICI Bank congregated on the start line to commence the walk. I can’t really add much to the photos – we simply walked and walked along the river and it was beautiful. There were a handful of food stops, and they had great treats for us.

At least, I can’t until we got to approximately 38km in and it changed from being 'a walk in the park' to ‘becoming an effort’. At this point muscles were groaning, blisters were forming, and boredom was setting in. Just how many cute fields and gorgeous houses are there alongside the Thames?

It was odd; my legs were seriously complaining and all I’d done was walk, albeit a fair distance. Anyway, at this point I noticed that about 100 yards ahead of me was another guy from the bank who’d put a bit of a push on. I decided to catch him up by jogging (for the first time that day). And as I did so I had a kind of epiphany. All the pain went from my legs, and I caught him in seconds. As I caught him I decided to keep going as there was a food stop a few km up the path. How could it be easier to run than to walk after 38km? This was strange.

At the pit-stop I grabbed some food, and waited for the rest of the group to arrive. When they did, I quietly mentioned to the experienced walker in our group, Layth, the lack of pain that my last 2km jog/run had caused. When we came to leave for the last leg I felt a dilemma. Walking with the others was causing significant pain, but to start running now after 40km would basically be showing off, as most of the others in the group didn’t have decent fitness levels and wouldn’t be able to join me.

Luckily Layth came to the rescue by announcing that he and I would from now on be running as we wanted to beat 8 hours for the challenge. Praise be – we ran off. Incredible but true – after 40km it was easier to run (slowly) than it was to walk.

When we got to Henley I had a fit of the giggles. As the walk was alongside the river, the course was basically flat. However at Henley the organisers clearly hadn’t obtained the rights to go through the centre so we had to bypass the town. That involved a very steep hill. 


I haven’t mentioned it, but on the same day there was a 100km Thames Path Challenge involving runners. What sort of sadist organises a running race of 100km where the first 98km are flat, and the last two involve a ridiculous hill?

We saw some poor suffering souls on that hill – I didn’t have the heart to get out my camera. My sadistic side rose to the fore as I wanted to wait and watch a few more runners appear, and to laugh at their expressions when they saw the hill.

My better nature prevailed, and Layth and I simply finished the walk and drank some beers. And enjoyed the extra 30 minutes drinking time we had over the others as they continued to walk.

And wondered what the 2015 Senior Manager Challenge would be.

"Never Go Back" Marrakech - Jan 2014

“Never go back”

A year earlier I’d gone to Marrakech with Warren, an old friend, to take part in their half marathon, set around the historic Medina, the orange groves and gardens. It proved to be such a superb weekend that we’d vowed to return. The return would also allow Warren a chance to gain revenge in terms of the race.

So once again on a miserable January Friday afternoon we took off from Gatwick for Morocco and the winter sun. We’d made some changes for this trip. Instead of a fairly standard international hotel we’d booked the Riad Charai, a traditional Moroccan guest house (www.riadcharai.com).

Words, especially my words, cannot do justice to the gem we found ourselves staying in. You knock on a nondescript wooden door in the wall in a random alley, and enter an oasis of calm, beauty and serenity. The transformation between the hustle of a Moroccan street market area and the Riad is remarkable. The short walk to the pool from reception is lined with orange trees. I will say no more. Interested readers can follow the link above.

What we didn’t change, however, was the first night’s restaurant. A beautiful location above a carpet ‘shop’, tented and heated overlooking the Medina. And the food is pretty good too.

The climate in Marrakech was as last year’s – daytime temperatures peak in the low to mid 20’s, but falls quickly at dusk to mid single digits. As such small heaters are needed to be comfortable eating outdoors. And eating outdoors is one of the experiences that make Marrakech such a great place to visit.

As last year, Saturday morning was spent wandering around the old souk. We also were given a tour of the tannery, complete with Moroccan gas marks - bunches of mint held to our noses. I felt like a character out of an E M Forster novel, but to be truthful, I didn't care - the smell was unbelievable.

The afternoon, however, was an improvement in that we spent it lounging on the Riad’s sun terraces ‘getting some rays’. In the distance we could see the snow capped Atlas mountain range. We were told that a ski resort is only an hour’s drive away.

Sunday morning – race day. Being honest, my training had not gone to plan. I hadn’t stuck to the schedule during November and December. In early January a family holiday and a business trip to India further interrupted training. Still, I wasn’t unfit, and I’d done it before. How much harder could it be?

From the Riad we took a short taxi ride to the starting area and at 9.15 we were off. Warren set the pace, and it was a comfortable one. As before there were thousands of runners, and it was a good kilometre before we had enough space around us to simply get in the groove. The route was basically a loop around the medina, passing through orange groves, various gardens, main roads, paths etc.

After a while I looked at my watch and saw that we’d been running for and hour and 10 minutes. I felt fine, frankly, and checked with Warren that my watch was, indeed, correct. It was, and he said that we’d covered over 13 km.

“Great”, I replied, “we’re well on the home straight”. I started to think about the finish, and should I say to Warren at the 1 km to go marker: “we’re racing each other from here, aren’t we?”

Hubris*

That’s the only, the perfect, word for it. For a couple of km later my stomach sent me a small signal to say that it was there. And my legs started to let me know that maybe, just maybe, there wasn’t enough gas in the tank.

The run then took on a yoyo type quality, with Warren starting to edge a few yards ahead, and I would do a short sprint to catch up. At the 17.5 km marker my stomach sent a much stronger signal that it was there, and my legs refused to close the gap to Warren.

When his lead stretched to 100 yards and my legs going I had to focus less on racing him, and much more on an impending Paula Radcliffe moment. I walked a bit. I jogged a bit. The cramps were really focussing my attention, and I stopped looking at runners, the crowds etc. I was only looking for one thing. I turned a corner, and bliss – a hotel!

A few minutes later I was back on course. The legs were still grumbling, and a walk/jog to the finish was all they would let me do. Last year’s time of 1h 54 was safe. This year I took just over 2 hours. Warren finished in 1h 53. As an aside, one of the fringe benefits of doing this race is the incredible post race nectarines and dates that are given to finishers. The nectarines are simply the juiciest, tastiest ones I’ve ever had.

Post race we walked slowly to the same restaurant as last year – a Lebanese place serving mixed meze and beer in a sun trap. We followed lunch with a few drinks on the sun terrace back at the Riad before heading out for the evening.

More Moroccan wine was drunk, and during the evening we realised that if we’d listened to the naysayers who trumpet “never go back” then this weekend, that had been even more spectacular than last year’s, would never have happened.

And we also realised that the race scores for the Marrakech event now stood at one apiece.

Isn’t there a man rule that says “Decider, 2015”?

*Hubris (/ˈhjuːbrɪs/, also hybris, from ancient Greek ὕβρις), means extreme pride or arrogance. Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of one's own competence, accomplishments or capabilities