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?