“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.
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”?
