The April 23, two thousand seven I planted at the start of the marathon of Madrid with the intention to go down there for the first time three hours. withdrawn finished km thirty-four and begging for a euro at the door of Simancas metro to go home. Since that day I ran four marathons in three of them down for three hours and I learned that if I failed that day was because I was short of training and Madrid because the circuit is too hard to try to make there mark. But that does not detract from the blow which meant that race has never left me. In a corridor only sees the heroism or pathos. We are not middle ground. Unknown virtue.
When Abel Anton, allegedly at the behest of the illustrious Christopher Grau, announced that the Valencia Marathon moved from February to November (this will be the entrance to the AutoLink) the climaxes we were misplaced and diaspora began marathon. Some prepared Castellón, others Seville. I was tired and decided Berlin, in principle, it would make Barcelona with Perez but, because of the moon, I had to resign. And then I saw clearly that the moment of reckoning had come to Madrid. Then there is Jose Miguel, my friend from the first of GBS, with whom stay all year and San Silvestre Behobia Vallecana. I always said that long run, much as much but in marathon which compete against each other once in that year two thousand seven, and gaining one to zero. And since there's chat time not to drop the crutch-like you always win the marathon, "she phoned and said" hot, April 17 that you're going out.
As always I repeat, it will be because it's true, how hard the marathon is not run until preparation. Perez told he would not go with him to Barcelona but that did not mean to leave lying. And helped prepare him to train with him (or rather, behind him. What a way to suffer). I sent the boy to Barcelona where he improved his mark, I prepared two weeks the average fund Moncada (where I got my beautiful trophy ), and from there, five intense weeks to Madrid (with the Prague parentheses). Thus, Sunday April 17 at nine o'clock, was in the Paseo de Recoletos a funk and a euro in your pocket.
I was very respectful to Madrid. My goal was to finish as best as possible, but had the dream to lose three hours there. Very difficult. If Valencia low around ten per cent of the census in Madrid is less than four. Ground I move out there in the rankings but ... I do not know. What I was clear is that three hours had to be an illusion and never an obsession, which was what had happened four years earlier.
The start was a disaster. Dire. Those of MAPOMA have organized many races but I do not know if you have run at all. Roadman do things. But I shall not kill. I left late and the first few miles seemed more than a runner entering one end of the band feinting opponents. I did not take place until mile eight. From there, run and run.
I have the habit, not obsessed with time, just watch the clock the miles multiples of five and seven. My body knows how to run. Or I think so. The partials were not good but was recovering. I said, run and run. There was more. Sensations and enjoy.
came over for the half marathon. One twenty-nine forty. I was on time, despite the poor start and a stop had to do (some call it pee). I was strong, willing, able to make the second half in a twenty-nine. And I was euphoric. I saw it done.
kept running. I arrived at the Casa de Campo. Km twenty-six. And the euphoria began to fade like sugar. No. He was not. There was no joy in my legs. I spent thirty-time yet, but considering what I had, I knew then that the three hours they were out of reach. Nothing, I turned off the clock and stay the same, running to the finish.
Then came the mile thirty-four. In that mile was the cross that had fallen dead four years earlier. Thirty-four kilometer is the symbol of defeat. But this year thirty-four was not near the metro stop Simancas. This year was close to that temple of elegance and good football that is the Vicente Calderon. Coincidence? There is no chance. I greeted the thirty-four, I greeted the Calderón, hummed hymn Atleti mentally (I was not singing, what we are going to lie) and forth.
In the marathon there is what is called the wall. The wall is that point where you burst, where you can not more, when you have to resort to all possible positive thoughts, relatives who have been missing, friends that are going to laugh you if you fail, those who are paying you, of all training you have done anything for your legs take a step further. The wall sometimes comes before, after and sometimes I think there has been any cases that never came. In Madrid are so kind that, in case the wall does not arrive, and what you put them. And thirty-five to forty-one does not stop rising. But do not stop. That is a Via Crucis (on Palm Sunday, by the way). And thirty-nine is in Atocha. And forty is in the Cason del Buen Retiro. And make you gain by Alfonso XII (if one does not know as you see it is very nice, but that walk up). I went as a desperate one kilometer. Passed bodies one after another. And in the forties the body was me. I was empty. I looked for water. I drank a bottle. I threw one on the head. And revived. I saw myself unable to reach the Puerta de Alcalá. But I arrived.
From there, a party. The crowd was great (in that sense, and not many places except in the Madrid Marathon atmosphere is spectacular). I saluted the horse turma Espartero (some call balls) and turned into the Retiro. El Retiro is my home. El Retiro is my childhood. I enjoyed that last mile like a marathon can only enjoy a last mile. I gave equal time. I did not care all. Was happy. I crossed the finish line. Three hours, two minutes and fifty-nine seconds. Madrid, we are at peace.
Cross the finish line and as I headed toward the exit as I could I started to wonder. I had often seen coming down from three hours in Madrid. It was this image that pushed me to keep training, which motivated me. And had not succeeded. The feeling was bittersweet. But then I started thinking about what had to be done to achieve this and I found the answer. The training was the same as I had always worked. The day was not too hot. A cloud I had not been bad (or a blacked out the sun throughout the race) but the heat was no excuse. I had made my career, the best race I had in my legs. What then? So the only answer is that Madrid is a hard circuit and I'm not worth three hours in Madrid. That's it. And there's more. And nothing happens. And from there to enjoy what has been achieved, which is to be satisfied.
And now to rest for a few days and think about the next. The marathoners are like balls pediment, that the harder you hit us back faster. And yesterday palizón Madrid was a good one.
And by the way, José Miguel. Draw one.
PD Dedicated to a green-eyed brunette was in the goal with her two children, two children wonderful and heaviest in the world.
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