A cool, soft and forgiving kind of Spanish rain is falling.
I drift down the hill, easing into my pace and gently exploring that warm sense of anticipation which the early miles of a race can sometimes bring. There’s elation beneath my feet today. It’s hard to explain, but it fills the morning all the same.
This is the longest race I’ve run for two years, and my preparation has been meticulously disorganised. Steady, shortish lunchtime runs through Horsham. A nine miler every fortnight throughout the autumn. A 10km in November. Eight miles of the hilly Hogs Back Road Race in December. A two hour outing across the sunny Surrey Hills just two weeks ago.
My journey to the start line didn’t bode too well. A far too lazy start yesterday morning, followed inevitably by a wheezing mile-long dash hauling a heavy holdall at full pelt across the park at 5am to catch my airport train.
A long walk into Almería last night to buy the running socks I’d so rashly left at home.
At one time, I’d surely have worried about all those things. But today it doesn’t matter. I’m here to run, but it’s not about the running.
I’ve come to hold the hand of Spain.
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