Amsterdam Marathon 19th Oct 2008

Julia and I were the only people doing the marathon so we left the apartment somewhat earlier than the others. I suspect that J thought that knew where I was going. For my part I thought that it would be obvious – it wasn’t. We ran at least half a mile, possibly more, to get the right tram. By the time we found the right stop she’d made the transition from sniffly to sniffly and mildly hysterical. 

We arrived at the 1928 stadium with about 15 minutes to spare but unfortunately our pen was already pretty full. For some reason we were in the 4hrs zone

 (despite aiming for 3:30) so by the time we crossed the start line more than half of the runners were already out of the stadium. The stadium itself was a good size but by modern Olympic standards it was a minnow. There were some nice deco style sculptures at the gates and a pleasant tower but otherwise it was rather utilitarian. 

After the gun it quickly became clear that the course was going to be fairly cramped. It was not until around 10km that some elbow room started to open up and I got into my stride. At Amsteldijk course turns south and heads along a wide waterway (I’m guessing that this is the Amsteldijk). Our average pace was slightly worse that the 5min kilometres we needed to average and my desire to push on was putting pressure on Julia (who looked very tired). We agreed to part company at about 17km and I pushed on – determined to close the gap on my 3:30 pace. By half way I was only about 56 seconds behind target and I tried desperately to pull it down further. 

Unfortunately, every time I got the gap down something got in the way. The drinks stops were crowded and narrow and I seemed to lose a minute on every one. By the time I reached Zeeburgerdijk this was compounded by the need to visit the little boy’s room (this takes three minutes by the way). I pushed on through Oost and into the parks near the hotel. I could manage single miles at speed but somehow I just couldn’t raise the tempo in a sustained way. Now I was fighting for a PB rather than a 3:30. At 3:34 I was in sight of the stadium, I popped my last jelly baby, and suddenly I had energy. I overtook a collection of very blond(e) people on the sharp left turn into the gates and suddenly I could see the finish.

 I thought “oh my goodness I may just miss out” and I put the hammer down as much as I could without popping my hamstrings. The left hand bend into the finish was a fantasy of proper athletics and I hauled myself past a couple more people on the final straight. 

I crossed the line in 3:37:29, 1min and 3 seconds better than my Reims time. I was both gutted at the loss of 7 minutes and relieved at the PB but by the time I had watched a few hundred people really celebrate their times I kicked my curmudgeonly side in the ankle and managed to be mildly pleased with the performance. I was very relieved to see Julia come in under the 4 and alive if not well. 

Clad in our medals and plastic bags we started the long walk back to the tram stop. On the way we came across the Half Marathon route as it disappeared into Vondel park. Despite being freezing we managed to stay to see Jackie, Richard, Julia W, Suzie and (a very businesslike) JD covering themselves in glory. There followed a very long bath and a considerable amount of Belgian and Dutch beer.

Amsterdam Marathon: the moments before the moment of truth

I’d been building up to this event for a while. Organising this, Eroica and Humphrey Institute of

Music II nearly pushed me over the project management edge. However, when I gathered the forces of Nelmes Athletic in the Eurostar departure hall we looked a pretty formidable outfit. I doubt that many proper athletics clubs were fielding ten runners spanning all three distances.

The Eurostar trip was pretty much faultless and we arrived as Brussels Midi more or less on time. There followed a comedic relay back and forth between platform 13a and 5b. Nobody was entirely sure which trains were running and which we were allowed on but eventually we got onto the fast train to Amsterdam. They were using ‘fast’ in the same way that they do south of Oxford – to mean slow. In some ways it was a relief to see that foreign trains don’t work either.

Amsterdam Central is an island in a sea of tracks – rail tracks on one side and tram tracks on the other. We however opted for a taxi to our apartment – a place with the unprepossessing name of Mori Bund. The owner is a conceptual artist focusing mostly on boobs

After an expensive and low-volume meal and a few glasses of wine at Sogno Nina and I went on a long walk looking for Lidl before turning in for the night. 

We had a nice slow start on Saturday. I visited the Vincent Van Gogh museum (which I really enjoyed) and had a Vegetarian Pie which was mostly cheese for lunch. Only at about 9pm did I finally manage to track down a significant quantity of pasta.

Mushrooms for Amsterdam

The folks I encountered in the out of the way ‘Linford Wood’ car park weren’t the normal dogging crowd you find in these places. Instead, they were a collection of worthy would-be mycologists. The Parks Trust were organising a Mushroom day with a Buckinghamshire Fungus Group expert (Derek Schafer). The talk was really interesting (although somewhat high level for me) and some fantastic facts came out. Essentially the business about ants ruling the world (which is what the ant experts think) isn’t true – fungus does. “If slime moulds are your thing” was 

my favourite quote. Anyway, we saw honey fungus, ink caps, puff balls, agarics and brackets. All interesting stuff – especially the bit about mycelium. 

Preparation for Amsterdam has been slightly bumpy. I’ve had a bad cold and I’ve torn one of the roots of my bicep but I’m reasonably confident of doing a reasonable time. Prior, Julia and Maj are ill. Tomorrow we’ll on the Eurostar to Amsterdam.

This is my last week as OU most improved athelete so I had to have my name added to the errm stoneware.

Oh my goodness AC/DC are touring

L'Eroica, Giaole in Chianti

When the early pioneers of cycling first raced the one day classics and the emerging grand tours there were no team support vehicles, few metalled roads and carbon was just a common element. Even in the ‘40s when Coppi soared with apparent effortlessness over the roads of Cisalpine Gaul the surfaces were rudimentary and the only person with a 22 speed indexed gear system was Flash Gordon. This spirit is what makes L’Eroica a race of legend; a race which transports ordinary men back to a time of heroes.
(photocredit)

We are in Giaole in Chianti and at the end of the small town square is an 'Agritubel' style cattle gate and a huddled group of men muffled in scarves, hats and overcoats. The incongruous LED display on the wall beside them displays the time and the temperature. The former is 5:15am and the latter is a bone-chilling 2º - it is pitch dark and a ghostly vapour hangs over the town. Out of the swirling mist come the shadows of men on dew dappled bicycles. The machines, like the men, are of all vintages; an early Holdsworth and a Claud Butler, a silent blue coven of Bianchis, garish Colnagos, a sober black Singer, some French Peugeots and an elaborate English Hetchins.

Imprisoned in sheds and garages, offices and workshops these machines and men had come to reclaim their birthright. They would endure cold, physical pain and exhaustion, flout the dictates of safety, and suffer, of their own free will, because in suffering they may realise themselves.

Scrutinizing and authentication were perfunctory and in moments il gruppo was on the asfalto. The black sky was strewn with stars and the cold air bit at the flesh. Hands were thrust into clothing to retain some sensation and we spun the highest gears to avoid freezing. Ten kilometres of descent made locating gear levers perilous because of their proximity to the front wheel.

At last the road turned left and kicked up sharply. It was pitch dark apart from the small pools of light spilled by the bikes themselves. With frozen fingers I felt for the gear levers and somehow selected a lower gear. Our first stretch of the strada bianca was actually quite forgiving by the standards of what was to come but it seemed challenging enough. The surface is crushed limestone with occasional outcrops of the ‘living rock’ beneath it. I think that darkness was probably the best way to ‘see’ it to start with. The end of this short (2km) section at Luciagnano brought us back to the asfalto and a sharp descent and climb.

The strada from S. Giovanni highlighted the greatest danger of the white roads. Descending on an unpredictable surface with no possibility of braking on the bends makes slips and crashes (some at quite high speed) and ever present danger. The long section between Bivio Radi and Murlo was a long uphill slog but I found (to my surprise) that both the Holdsworth and I were more than capable of climbing it in bottom gear.

The big climb to Montal Cino was my undoing however and coming up a steep and strongly cambered turn of Strada I found myself in a dizzying 1mph fall. I walked the next 100m wiping the blood from my arm and the dust from my lovely Woolistic Peugeot/Michelin team shirt. Shortly afterwards Dave’s back tyre punctured. It transpired after the third puncture that the rim tape was damaged.

Perhaps it was enthusiasm after escaping the first Strada but our big screw up came shortly afterwards. On the descent from Montal Cino we got carried away and missed a sign. We ended up in Buonconvento thus missing out 30km of the route. After a moral tussle about the ethics of missing out a chunk of the route we noticed that this would mean also missing two checkpoints. This decided it and we back-tracked and added between 10 and 15km to our route.

From there we were always rushing to catch up. Our gruppo were way ahead and we slogged on, tight lipped and in our own worlds, until we reached the strado. This was a particularly unpleasant section with lots of gravel filled potholes and it seemed to take forever to reach Buonconvento once more. By this time we had passed four control points and Ristoro. The food is what marks L’Eroica out from all other sportifs. Salami, Italian breads, cakes, grapes, Chianti wine, strong black coffee, vegetable stews and olive oil all tasted wonderful.

By the time we reached Ponte D’Arbia we were fatigued and the following 30km of Strada sent us into survival mode. Dave’s back tyre puctured again and his high bottom gear was slowing him up but still we were catching people and passing them. By the time we got to the CastelNuovo control (the final one before the finish) we were ahead of quite a lot of bikes on the road. Indeed we ended up pulling a small train of modern bikes through the last 20km. The strada to Vagliagli was a monster but I managed to keep pumping away. My legs have never felt so strong in adversity. They kept on giving hour after hour without significant mental intervention. Finally we swept down the last of the strada into Gaiole in the pitch black and icy cold.

The welcome of the locals was genuinely warm and we were clapped through the last villages and shown to the food tent when we finally crossed the line after 13hours on the bikes.

I was really glad to have done the race but we said “never again”. Never? Well, maybe never.