Chronicle of the Calar Alto 2023 half marathon

My debut in a half marathon took place in the highest race in Spain, where the circuit saunters through the altitudes, never descending below 1650 meters and daring to touch 2100.

My physical preparation, cut short by an injury to the insertion of the hamstrings, had been limited to the elliptical routine at the Sano gym. Therefore, I approached this competition with a respect that bordered on the obscene.

Juan José Rodríguez, who turns 40 a few days after the race, joined me on this adventure. His unbeatable physical condition, the product of rigorous training, and his excessive competitiveness, were two letters of introduction that I already knew.

With the first dawn of the day we picked up our numbers, the roads still being silent and without people. The crowd would arrive later, forming a queue that snaked into the dawn.

Juanjo, Paco and I before departure.

The size of our gift t-shirts was insufficient, making us a little tighter than desired. An attempt to change was unsuccessful due to lack of stock, so we would have to play with the diet in the future.

The nerves possessed us. While Juanjo was doing his warm-up exercises, I found myself in the grip of a tremor in my legs. When my chip was activated by mistake at the starting line, a person in charge reassured me, assuring me that I had not altered my stopwatch. It's not like it was a great loss for humanity, but I wanted to know my real mark in case I decided to come back another year and check my progress.

With the bells of nine thirty, the race director reminded us of what we already knew: the terrain would descend until we faced the first firebreak, a preamble to the challenges that lay ahead, followed by a long plain that culminated in the dreaded second firebreak of three kilometers.

Juanjo left me stranded in the first 50 meters. I wouldn't see him again until 3 hours later.

Shortly after, we entered a not very wide path, crossing a stream and encountering more shadows than expected. At kilometer five, we reach the first firebreak. Despite the warnings, I tackled the climb with my poles and, to my surprise, managed to pass a good number of runners.

When the first aid station appeared, the false flat section allowed us to catch our breath, walking to regain strength after the first challenge.

From then on, a long descent unfolded before us that culminated in a trail whose challenges were aggravated by accumulated fatigue. Finally, the path led us to a wider track, lacking shade, which served as a prologue to the challenge that I will talk about shortly.

There were even times when I overtook people, how happy we were and we didn't know it.

Despite the sun in the sky, the temperature was forgiving. Only on a couple of occasions did a blast of heat force me to cool off by pouring water over myself.

My arrival at the second aid station, at kilometer 10, occurred without noticing any discomfort from the injury. My pace, although constant, took into account the reality of my preparation, limited for a race of more or less 16 kilometers. From then on, I knew that suffering would be my faithful companion.

My disorientation was such that, when I resumed the race after a lunch break, I did not know the exact distance I had traveled. So when I faced the dreaded final firewall, I was in a state of false strength.

This section, which could well have been drawn up by a sadistic former director of the SS, stood as a titan of cruelty. Each slope gave way to another, each false plain became more difficult, under an implacable sun that gave no respite.

It seemed to be going well, but I had decided to entrust my soul to the Lord upon finishing the second firewall. If they had shot me, it would be an act of charity.

In the last stretch, a tangle of fallen branches among the pine trees complicated reaching the finish line. Exhausted, I was forced to walk, barely out of energy.

Juanjo, who had reached the goal 80 minutes earlier, was waiting for me with fresh water. Looney Tunes birds fluttered in my peripheral vision and only decorum kept me from fainting.

The epilogue of the race was disappointing. There was no promised paella or bathing in Gérgal's pool. My swimsuit had traveled in vain.

At the beginning of the test I was still convinced that life is worth living. Delusional of me...

24 hours later, the pain had even invaded my driving license, but the conviction persisted that the experience had been worth it. The beauty of the views partly compensated for the toughness of the test. However, the registration price, compared to other races such as Chirivel, Serón or Cantoria, seemed disproportionate. They didn't even give us a medal, a small souvenir that would have softened the memory of suffering. The only thing that motivates me to return is to improve my time, because I think that with some preparation I can easily beat the stopwatch for about 40 minutes.