Ten slices of pizza
the night before as well as the 130km on the bike the yesterday, have me
feeling a little heavy and very much over my perceived ideal race weight.
Lead for legs, but at least no beer in the belly this once. I tried
really hard to avoid the alcoholic inducements last night but coca cola instead
is a poor substitute – I realised I made a school boy error at 2am when I
couldn't sleep for the sugar and caffeine. It would have been better if I
had fallen to sleep in a drunken stupor; at least the alarm in four hours time
wouldn’t be so daunting. While folk in the UK worry about the snow, my
problem is the exact opposite: summer is here in the sandpit and I think it
wise to finish before it reaches 30oC.
As I start along the Corniche at Ras Salmiya, I realise it
is likely to be my last long run in Kuwait.
There will be plenty of time to reflect on all the runs I’ve had, and
all whom I’ve run with over the years (and some editing at a later date will
put the names in), but for now I have to concentrate to avoid the stray cats
jumping out from the rocks that line the path that follows the coastline of the
bay of Kuwait. Feeding off the scraps
from the fisherman and picnicking families provide these cats with a comfy,
easy life. And it is the easy life I am
looking to move from; to really live a life, away from the easy petro-dollar I
ponder as I settle into an easy pace.
4min15 per km. Easy pace now but I know it will not be so easy in an
hour or two’s time.
I decide that I will run the 42.2km this morning with the
intention of a negative spilt. I’ll do
some more speed work later in the week to get the legs turning at the 4min per
km race pace, but not today, not after last night. I’ll just run; run past the now familiar Hard
Rock cafe, the ubiquitous Starbucks next to Costa next to Coffee Bean next to
Starbucks, again, next to Coffee Republic next to another and another around
Marina Crescent, remembering how these were not here ten years ago, when bad
man Saddam was still resident not too far away.
5km and the first water-stop. I’ll state one positive of running in Kuwait:
the frequent water fountains that provide welcome, cool water at regular
intervals. I tell this to the
Bangladeshi scrubbing the nearby yacht moored at the marina – he doesn’t seem
to appreciate my observation, but I guess my hydration needs are the least of
his concerns.
I continue on with the sun beginning to be felt on my back
and a shadow cast in front of me. I
should have bought my hat for the return direction. I doubt I’ll need it in Paris and the
potential cold weather reminds me to get hold of some old tracksuit bottoms and
jumper that I can wear at the start line and then discard into the gutter –
certainly better than the black bin liner approach. I slow a little to 4min20-25 but am happy
just moving, glancing at my Garmin for feedback every now and then, not really
concerned at the pace, just moving, running.
Past McDonalds, then KFC, TGI Friday’s, Appleby’s – there are all here
as the oil state continues its love affair with all things American. I see more Union flags on the clothes being
worn though and surely a Land Rover is so much more classy than a GMC...
On the grass that banks the side of the corniche running along
the roadside are the remnants of the picnics and bbq’s from the night
before. Rubbish everywhere: disgusting! An army of yellow-boiler suited cleaners
approach like ants picking up the debris mechanically. By the time I come back the grass would have
been cleared and by the time everyone else is walking, running, cycling, driving
by, the rubbish would have been removed and no-one would be any the wiser. But I wonder if it was left a day, a week,
would the picnicking families still bbq amongst their own mess, oblivious to
the squalor they are responsible for; the lack of civic pride here tells me
they would not even be aware of the plastic bags accumulating at their feet.
10km and another water fountain. Then onwards towards the Towers, then Souk
Sharq – now in the city – past the fisherman unloading the dhows; a drink at their
fountain. Getting hotter now: mid to high
20’s. Plenty more space on the
thermometer for a considerable increase.
With the gradual rise in temperature as summer approaches I know I can
run at 40oC but for now I’m beginning to feel the heat. I look at the distance: 20km. I’ll do one more km before I turn round: past
the Grand Mosque and the Emir’s Palace and then opposite the National Assembly
building there is a small pavilion like structure on the corniche. Perfect positioning. I run round it – you always need something to
run around as the goal – as the watch says 21km. Half marathon at 1h36. Easy and steady out and the negative split
for the way back? I now decide not. Just run; I don’t have the motivation to push
myself hard, to dig in and hurt. I’ll
just daydream on the way back; thinking about everything and nothing at the
same time. I compromise and say to
myself I’ll push the last 10km...
Coming back the same way makes me realise I have come some
distance. Looking along the coast I can
only just see the Scientific Centre as my landmark, a long, long way to go. I lose concentration at notice my pace has
dropped right down to 4min45. Focus.
Get back into the rhythm. But I’m
tired now. The ride yesterday is being
felt. Energy levels are running
low. The last 10km and I try and hold it
at 4min30 – way slower than my target pace but I’m not that concerned as I know
the Paris marathon will have more regular aid stations that will help, rather
than relying on the irregular water fountains, as well as plenty of other
runners to keep the momentum. But will
it be enough?
Re-approaching marina crescent I scan the restaurants for a
familiar face or two; maybe to stop for a granola smoothy before the last 5km! No luck.
I’ll push on for the last twist and turns towards the end. The last 3km I run a little harder but
without exerting myself too much. If the
race clock is too close to call, it really will be the last 3km that the last
minute can be saved – any later there just won’t be the time to make the time. Come race day I know there will be a certain
point where there is no return, and that point is to be reached. But not today, Kafka.
42.2km says the watch: 3 hours 16 minutes; 3h12min moving
time. Well, I won’t be stopping for
drinks in Paris so that saves me a kilometre.
Overall, I’m happy with the run as I reflect with my legs up in the air
against a nearby wall. One last week of
hard running, some speed after work, but now I really fancy a packet of salt
and vinegar crisps.
