Lisbon Half Marathon - Oct 2015

Lisbon 2015

As Warren and I descended into Lisbon on the next leg of our running tour I thought of the places we’d been. Marrakech, Istanbul, Berlin and now Lisbon. All places that when said together conjure up James Bond, Jason Bourne*, or any number of Robert Ludlum novels. Lisbon makes a guy have those sort of thoughts. Helped, no doubt, by the drinks in the private lounge at Stanstead before departure. But instead of us arriving in a private jet whilst being chased by sinister Russians and finding glamorous beauties to save us, we were delivered by Ryanair with no drama. 

Warren’s jet set job meant that he’d collected so many points on some reward scheme he has that we stayed at The Sheraton in a Club room. A word about bedrooms. Warren and I share twin rooms on our travels, and we are always amused to see how the rooms are prepared.

Marrakech round 1 was comical – the twin beds were pushed together and there were rose petals all over them. Ok...... Berlin – again the two single beds were pushed together. I insisted the beds were pushed apart and had a bed side cabinet placed between – I’m not having any unexpected bodily contact in the middle of the night should either of us ‘vigorously turn over’ while sleeping. I may be in touch with my metrosexual self but there are limits.

Lisbon took the prize, though. We entered the room and saw two single beds nicely separated, with no petals. So far, so good. I put my bag on the nearest one, and then noticed it was up against a glass wall. On the other side of the glass wall was the bath and shower. We looked at each other and had the same thought – wtf? I had visions of being woken to the sight of Warren scrubbing his bits and pieces inches from me. Nothing against Warren, but really.

There had to be a blind, and after some searching found it.  Also behind glass on the bath side. All that complication on the odd chance a couple get off on watching the other shower? Getting in at the same time I get – watching behind glass strikes me as pervy. Still, what do I know?

Lisbon is best described as a tired city. There is the old part; narrow cobbled streets full of tiny restaurants and bars that is simply charming and beautiful. The modern bit is, well, tired is the word. Almost everywhere could do with a lick of paint, or more renovation. Lovely atmosphere though.

Friday night was spent looking for a restaurant that had been recommended to us. It was found, and it was good. Since I can’t remember its name, nor exactly where it was, no more needs to be said. We then found a bar that had live music. I’ll be frank – we stayed far too long and drank far too much. Still, nothing that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure, right? We weren’t cured when we woke at 8. However, luckily for us, when we drew back the blinds there was a storm outside. Rather than face our hangovers in the cold and wet the blinds were simply lowered and another few hours was spent asleep.

God was smiling on us, as by midday we were cured and the storm had passed through. We just wandered the old town, had a few drinks, ate some good food, admired the magnificent square by the river and generally chilled. Dinner was a small square off one of the many many small lanes.

Another storm was forecast for the race day, but in the event it stayed away as when we woke we had an overcast sky, little wind and a cool temperature. We were bused to the start which was on the Vasco de Gama Bridge.

I have to say the run was miserable. If Marrakech is the prettiest course I’ve ever run, this one was dull beyond belief. After leaving the bridge we turned onto a dual carriageway that wasn’t quite by the coast. We ran down it for 10km, turned around, and ran back. It was awful. The event is part of the Rock’n’Roll marathon global series, and we thought that there were going to be bands every few km. In the event we saw maybe only 5. So I didn’t even have that to keep me going.

I also found out at about 13 km that the extra football I’d been playing recently had had an unexpected price – namely stamina. I couldn’t believe it when at km 13 my legs were having an urgent conversation with the rest of me. A couple of weeks earlier I’d done a cycle sportive of close to 100 miles with plenty in the tank.

Despite prices in sterling this was a bar in Lisbon

Anyway, Warren beat me, and now I’m 3 – 1 down.

We met up post race, and after a bit of milling around to get medals, water etc, we hailed a cab. The 60 something yr old driver took one look at us, and said “you’ve been taking part in the race. For a couple of days now I’ll know who did by the way they walk”. He goes on to say that he used to run marathons, so I asked what sort of times did he do.

“Oh, half marathon pb is 1 hour 6, and for the full 2 hours 10.”

W and I look at each other, and I say to him that that must have made him one of the top runners in Portugal. Not at all he laughs, but goes on to say that he went to the '72 Olympics as part of Portugal’s cross country squad. He digs out a photo on his iPhone showing him in the kit. It was hard to be sure it was him, mind.

Then he goes on to say that still in his 40s he used to pace the African women to record times at the Lisbon Marathon, and again he gets out a picture of him running surrounded by small African women. And this time we can easily tell it really is him.

Yes, he says, that was when life was good. “Now, because I like to drink and f*** I can’t run fast, and I drive this beat up Mercedes as a cab driver. Life is shit, guys”.

Luckily we arrived at the hotel then, so any further diatribe could be avoided.

How would you describe them?

We showered (separately and with the blind down), changed, and then headed off to find some dinosaur feet to eat. To explain - many years earlier I'd briefly been in Portugal. I'd arrived late at night on a yacht, and the only restaurant we found open didn't speak English, nor had an English menu, so what we ate was pot luck. I remember one poor guy ended up with a pile of liver, while some of us had a plate of what we all agreed could only be called dinosaur feet.

I wanted to have them again, to remind myself what they actually were and whether I liked them.  Having no idea what they were called, I described them as best I could to the concierge and I was rewarded with shrugs. When I said we'd nicknamed them 'dinosaur feet' he immediately knew what I wanted and directed us to one of the best seafood restaurants in Portugal, along with their name - cirrepedes. Barnacles, in English.

Painted with wine and coffee

En route to the restaurant we passed an artists studio, and he was in there painting some charming little scenes of Lisbon. Chatting to him he told us that the paint he used was only coffee and wine. I immediately bought a couple. 

We found the restaurant, and as soon as I saw them I knew they were what I had had all those years ago. Warren was most dubious, but joined me in a plate. Let me just say that they were edible. I googled them now to remind myself of their name, and I found a scientific publication headed 

"Delicacy or Desperation? Eating Peduncular Barnacles in Neolithic Portugal."

As is traditional on our travels we then went in search of a bar, to de-brief the weekend. Well something like that, anyway. 

* James Bond, Jason Bourne, Jack Bauer - what is it with the initials JB?

The 4 Peaks Challenge - Aug 2015

The 4 Peaks Challenge

June 2015

Following the success of last year’s senior manager challenge, a 50km walk along the Thames, the Compliance Director decided to up the ante for 2015 and sent out an email suggesting doing The Four Peaks Challenge.

I quickly googled it to discover it comprises climbing the 4 highest peaks in the UK over a weekend. There was a rider that to do the Northern Ireland one would necessitate a private flight from the mainland if we wanted to complete it within 48 hours. Blimey, I thought, that would up the budget. However, in the office, he explained it would be the 4 highest in England, all conveniently situated in the Lake District. These are Scafell, Scafell Pike, Helvellyn and Skiddaw.

Five of us signed up. We chose a suitable weekend, booked a B&B, bought train tickets, sorted out a guide and then some started to train. One of us was an experienced trekker – he’d just come back from three weeks trekking Aconcagua Peak, over 7000m high in the Andes. Another regularly walked decent distances in Surrey. The other two walked to the station and back and that’s it. As for me – I run, cycle and play football every week so I decided my fitness was OK, and my preparation was simply buying a pair of walking boots and trousers.

And then there were 4.

A week before departure disaster struck one guy, when one of his knees gave up. There was no way he could walk, let alone trek, in the Lake District. 

Looking Up

Late one Friday the remaining 4 arrived in Keswick, in the heart of the Lake District. We found the B&B, and headed off to dinner. At which point we discovered that all the popular restaurants were booked solid. The only place that would serve 4 at short notice was a Mexican that promised live music later on. Dinner was had, beers were drunk, and I wanted to hear the band. Layth, the proper trekker, also fancied it but the other two decided to retire.

On came the band, and opened with an amazing version of Son of a Preacher Man. All thoughts of an early night were banished, so plenty more beers were ordered and we stayed to the bitter end – superb.

Saturday morning, and a full English later, we met our guide. Off we went in his van to Scafell, and set off to start the challenge. Pictures tell a 1000 stories, so rather than describe the walk here are some pictures.

Looking down

During the afternoon I started to think about clouds. I’m no student of English poets, but from memory Wordsworth came from the Lake District. One of his most famous lines* is “I wandered lonely as a cloud” and I kept thinking “what? Clouds aren’t lonely. Every time you see one, you see loads of them.” I mean, seriously, the weather in the Lake District is very changeable – blue sky one moment, dotted clouds the next, rain around the corner. But lonely, single clouds? No.

Anyway, the two Scafell peaks were scaled and we got back to the van around 13 hours after we’d set off. There were some complaints of stiff joints, and Ankur, the only girl with us, talked of tiredness, but was otherwise fine. I will confess that at that stage it hadn’t felt much like a challenge – it was a lovely walk in the sunshine punctuated by picnics in some beautiful countryside. The scrambling on the various screes could not be described as too difficult.

Post dinner (pre-booked Italian) I was keen to go to a pub I’d noticed the night before saying ‘live band Saturday night’, and Layth was happy to join me. The other two retired to the B&B. I should stress that what with pre-dinner drinks and the many bottles of wine during the meal that both Layth and I were ‘on the grin’ when we walked into the pub, which explains what happened next. It was like walking into the TV show League of Gentlemen. Everyone stared at us. Everyone looked a little ‘wrong’. The band was a husband and wife in their 60’s – she was typical gypsy mother, dyed blonde, gold chunky jewellery everywhere, hair pulled back, clothes that were inappropriate for her figure and age and could only just hold a note. He was significantly overweight, black t-shirt, and a guitar. I wasn’t sure he was playing it, because she was basically singing to a karaoke track.

First song we heard was, I think, Free’s All Right Now. Because we were under the influence, we thought – let’s go with it. Everyone is singing along with abandon, so why don’t we? There was much music, much dancing, much singing, much drinking. While I was on the dance floor I saw Layth take pictures as proof of this bizarre event. We staggered out of the pub at 1am when they closed. I could have stayed…

And then there were three.

Sunday morning and the organiser’s knee wouldn’t let him get down the stairs at the B&B. He would not be able to attack the next two peaks**. So just the three of us set off, and today we had rain. And cloud. Again, here are pictures and not words. Though I’ll add that in a perverse way I started to enjoy it more as it felt more of a challenge. This felt like a proper effort.

At the top of Helvellyn I got out two miniature whiskies I’d brought along as a celebratory tot. Earlier Layth had stated that he wasn’t a whiskey drinker but, at the peak, he became a wiser man and joined me. We couldn't hang about as it was now early afternoon and we had to get a crack on if we were going to make the last peak and get back before our trains on Sunday evening. 

And then there were two (this is Agatha Christie stuff!)

Ankur had found the morning slow going, and had got very wet so was having a bit of a miserable time. Back at the car she announced that she couldn’t face the fourth peak. So on the way to Skiddaw she was dropped at the B&B while Layth and I continued with the challenge. This one was dull. There is a well maintained path nearly all the way to the top, so it was simply a long walk up, followed by a long walk down. The guide and Layth had been deep in conversation about the meaning of climbing, and the why’s etc, and both agreed that climbing and trekking should be about a purpose, or a view, and not just ‘because it’s a number on a list’. The guide had a particular hatred of Skiddaw as the mountain itself is barren. I just looked at them and asked “so why are we doing this one, as the only reason is it is number 4?”!

At the bottom the guide suddenly turned back to the peak, stuck his middle finger in the air and shouted “F*** you, you piece of s***” at the mountain. Sadly he hadn’t noticed the fell runner that had been catching us, and we were concerned the runner thought the shout was for him. Apologies were made, and we quietly got back into the van to take us back to the warmth of the B&B.

So the annual Senior Manager Challenge was Done.

There remained only one thing left to do. I said to Layth “what goes on tour, stays on tour”. He understood immediately.

Out came his phone and he deleted Saturday night’s pictures.

*Actually, it’s the only line I know. I don’t even know what follows it.

** As he’s a guy that hates unfinished business, he returned a few months later to climb them.

Eroica Britannia - Jun 2015

Eroica Britannia June 2015

http://eroicabritannia.co.uk/

Eroica. The Italian for heroic. The name given to a cycling event that started over 20 years ago as a few mates cycling around the old roads in the heart of Tuscany on vintage steel bikes, and now attracts over 5,000 riders from across the globe to do the same. It is not a race, more a celebration of cycling, and Tuscany culture. For that reason energy gels and power bars are not present at food stops along the route. Wine, hams, fruit, cakes, breads and olive oil are.

A few years ago four friends from the UK were taking part and on the last night, in a bar, looked at each other and said “This is good”. Another responded, no doubt fuelled by the Chianti, “we should have one in the UK. We’re from the Peak district, we have great roads, the UK is turning to cycling”. And so yet another gem of an idea was born.

Luckily these guys were all businessmen, and so what could have been a typical mates late night boozy chat ended up being executed, and in 2014 the first Eroica UK was run. On exactly the same lines as the Tuscany one. So naturally I had to compare. Stephen and I signed up, and we were good to go. We were a little slow off the mark in entering, and couldn’t find a decent B&B anywhere near Bakewell, the heart of the event. So I proposed we camp.

Stephen was very dubious. He’s not a camper. Even my pointing out the tent was a luxury 4 man one, with blow up mattresses and, more crucially, a few yards from the festival beer tent was not pacifying him. Still, after a few beers I was sure he’d be OK.

Following the Italian Eroica where I’d ridden my dad’s old Raleigh I’d decided to properly refurbish it for this event. While there weren’t going to be inspectors every few bikes, the care and love that riders had put into having their steeds look magnificent had put my ‘wipe it down, put some oil on the chain’ effort to shame.

So after some new bits and elbow grease (mainly from Vincini Cycles, Upminster it has to be said) the old Raleigh looked almost showroom new and I was heartened to hear Stephen had sorted his old Ribble out too after his Italian escapade. This had all the makings of another glorious weekend, involving a beer, wine, bikes and food.

Then a couple of days before going Stephen crashed his bike, breaking his foot. Walking, let alone cycling, was out. Now, while I don’t mind solitude, driving up to the Peak district, riding around alone, then returning without a partner in crime didn’t really appeal.

Luckily, though, I also own a Guv’nor bike, and I knew there were going to be a lot of riders there with the same bike, riding together. So a quick email off to the owners club confirmed that they are not an exclusive group, told me a meeting time and place (by the beer tent no less!) and I was happy.

My next issue to solve quickly was that one cannot ride a 1930’s style path racer wearing lycra, even of the 1970’s vintage. So a quick purchase of some plus4s, appropriate shoes and I was finally ready.

Saturday was a blur. Drove up, sorted the tent, registered, got changed, explored the festival grounds and met the guys at the appointed place. If you like village festivals with stalls selling ‘the best of British’, along with various cycling related bits and pieces, and hearty food, and the most bizarre Hendricks Gin bar, and fun fairs, and dressing up competitions, old fashioned games, and beer tents, and humour, and music then Eroica in Bakewell is for you. If you don’t, well, I guess you won’t be reading this.

Sunday morning came too quickly. I roused, got on my bike, and pedalled off to the start, and met up with the guys ready to cycle 55 miles around the Peak District. Getting back to clothes – most of them were wearing the Guvnors Assembly woollen cycling top, which I must admit looked good. I, however, in my plus 4s and tweed waistcoat, looked different. So I was called Captain Poldark for the duration of the ride. Now whilst I’d like to take that as a compliment it was more likely due to the alcohol intake caused the guys to forget my name. No matter, it could have been worse.

The ride was superb. Mixture of paths and roads, flat and steep. Part of the route followed the Monsal trail, an old railway line that had been converted to a footpath. The food stops were predictably excellent. OK, no Chianti, but there was beer, specially brewed for the event. Of course Bakewell tarts were in abundance.

The ride was also leisurely. The Guv’nor itself does not lend itself to blasting around the countryside, and the group ‘never leaves anyone behind’ whether due to punctures (only a couple suffered) or tiredness (more than a couple suffered).

Chatting to one of the Guv’nors it turned out he’d come from Zurich to take part. Not for him the comfort of a flight, or train. No, he’d jumped on his bike a week earlier, pointed it North by North West and pedalled. A lot. He only had one problem during the ride up. Not owning a mobile he was reliant on payphones to report back home, and they are few and far between these days. And yes, he was pedalling back to Switzerland.

The final feast stop was in the grounds of Chatsworth House. Oh my! The good people of Rapha were on hand to supply us with a glass of champagne, which we downed with some local ice cream and, of course, more Bakewell tarts. As I said, not an energy gel in sight.

And thence back to the festival grounds, to have the obligatory photo, the post ride refreshment (tea and cakes) and relaxation. All too soon the tent was packed up, the bike loaded on the car, and I was back on the motorway.

So how did it compare to Eroica Tuscany? In terms of atmosphere, the ride, the friendliness, the organisation, it was right up there, no question. Except for me, Tuscany is marginally more beautiful than the Peak District and I prefer Chianti to beer so for those reasons Eroica Tuscany wins. Just.

You remember the 4 guys I mentioned at the top of this blog? Well, there was also a small group of Spaniards taking part, who also got talking in a bar. And they too have set up the same event, this time in the heart of Rioja.

And that gives me a thought……..

Berlin Half Marathon - Mar 2015

Berlin 2015

Ah Berlin. Another city I’d never visited that conjures up all sort of images just by saying the word, Berlin. Think Robert Ludlum novels. Or Bond films. Think the ultimate cold war East v West meeting point. The Stasi. And Berlin was the next stop on Warren and I’s European tour to run half marathons.

I was feeling particularly nervous. I hadn’t trained for two months. This isn’t the usual ‘oh, should have done more’ story, no. Two months earlier my body was doing something wrong. A few weeks of mis-diagnosis was followed by surgery. After that I was not allowed to do any form of exercise until I was fully healed. So the net result was when we landed I had done no running, played no football, ridden no bike, swum no lengths and played no tennis for fully 2 months. My clearance to run from the doc was given the day before we took off.

Still, how hard can it be to knock out a half?

Stasi HQ

Unusually for us we’d taken the services of a firm called Running Crazy to organise hotels, entry etc, and they were excellent. We were met at the airport, handed travel cards for the metro, directions to the hotel and told to rendezvous for a meal on Saturday night. There were around 20 runners running with Running Crazy, but one sub- group stood out. A year or so earlier this group of 8 or 9 runners had never run, and had met at a local Park Run. The old boy leading the group had encouraged the motley crew to push during the year so they could all do a half, and he’d guide them in Berlin as he’s been stationed there in the 60’s.

Off we went to the Expo to collect the entry to find it was held in the old West Berlin airport. Immediately recognisable from umpteen movies, it still evoked the feel of old Berlin despite it having shut down many years earlier.

Russian War Memorial

We then headed off to meet an old friend of Warren’s who just happened to be living in Berlin with his wife. And that’s where the trouble started as one of his friends was opening a bar that evening and we were invited to go. Let’s just say the plan of an early night after a couple of beers was swiftly consigned to the bin.

Saturday came and we went to explore Berlin on a couple of rented bikes. This won’t turn into a travelogue so I’ll just say we saw bits of the old Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie, the old Stasi headquarters, the Russian built War Memorial and Steel Vintage Bikes, a café that sells, well, steel vintage bikes. Nothing like a clear name to tell you what the shop does, eh?

Is this called Brutalist Architecture?

The Stasi HQ was eye opening. It also looked like the staff had moved out a week earlier. A fascinating fact – at the height of the cold war the Stasi encouraged people to be informers on fellow citizens who were having, let’s say, western thoughts. On the fall of the Berlin wall, records reveal that in one town that had a population of just over 32,000 over a quarter were registered informers.

We also found an interesting road, a wide boulevard that was symmetrical for about a mile. Whatever building was on the left was duplicated on the right. I’ve never seen such a road anywhere else. I assumed they saved on architect fees.

That evening we met up with the Running Crazy crowd for a bowl of pasta and some mineral water before going to bed early. No, not really – it was a couple of bottles wine but it was reasonably early night by our standards.

Yes, that's a naked man with a horse's head.
You are not stoned

Sunday, and race time. I knew it was going to hurt. So when the gun went I just said to Warren that he should head off at his pace while I would settle into a jog. And hope. My basic plan was to jog as far as I could, then walk, then jog etc. One thing I will say for the Berlin race was the crowds. At around the 15 or 16k mark my legs were gone, but I couldn’t face walking with all those people cheering us on. So I’d mutter ‘shut up legs, you can walk once we get to the next km marker’ and carry on. And then repeat the admonishment at the next marker. Amazingly I got to the end without walking – all due to the embarrassment factor of not wanting to walk in front of the general public.

Time was not important for this jaunt, though for the record Warren beat me by over 20 minutes. However, I was simply pleased to have got through the run unscathed.

I seem to recall the rain came then, so Warren & I found a bar/restaurant not far from the finish to settle down.

And I don’t recall much after that.