Not wanting to go back and look for an easier route, he pressed on until the road levelled out and took him past a university campus. The board beside the road told him he was on Claverton Down. The English language was hard to fathom. He thought he’d learned the meaning of the word “down” but in Albanian it would definitely be “up.”
In a few minutes he started descending and was rewarded for all the thigh-straining as the bike picked up speed down a hill called Brassknocker. He had to go into bottom gear and use the brakes to keep control. But the view of the valley ahead when he descended the last section told him he’d arrived. He could see a fine old limestone structure with three arches carrying a canal over a river, so this had to be Dundas Aqueduct as marked on the map. People were standing looking down from the balustrade to where the runners would pass under the arches. Many more spectators had lined the sides of the canal. The drinks station was in a visitors’ car park stretching between the aqueduct and the spur of the disused Somerset Coal Canal.
Spiro dismounted to cross a main road and wheeled the bike into the area where hundreds of bottles were already set out on trestle tables and thousands more in packs formed walls behind. He parked against a tree where he could keep an eye on the bike (you can’t trust anyone) and watched what was happening. The race should have started, but apparently no runners had come through yet. Some volunteers were picking up red sleeveless jackets from a stack behind the tables and putting them on, so Spiro did the same and instantly became a drinks marshal, or whatever they called themselves. Simple as that.
He could have picked up a couple of bottles and left, but having come this far he had an interest in seeing the runners come through.
Cheers and clapping greeted the leaders when they showed, a group of three men of colour who already had a fifty-metre lead over the rest. Taking his cue from the other volunteers, Spiro held out a bottle for one of them to grab, but none of the trio took one. Only four miles into the race, top athletes would be used to going farther without drinking.
When the others started coming through, the take-up was more encouraging. Some took a few gulps and slung the bottles aside and others splashed the water over their heads and shoulders to cool down. These were still the elite runners racing it out rather than the vast majority who would be satisfied to finish at all.
Soon enough the charity people in their shirts of many colours arrived and the demand was more than gratifying. All Spiro and the other volunteers could do was push rows of bottles across the tables for hundreds of hands to grab. He enjoyed being a giver rather than a taker for a change. For ten to fifteen minutes the demands of the job couldn’t have been greater and for a while afterwards there was no let-up. Luckily, everyone seemed to be in a good mood, pleased to have reached this point and united in their wish to keep going to the finish. The inevitable pushing, bumping and splashing prompted only apologies and smiles. Mass participation was bringing out the best in everyone.
As more passed by, the occasional runner would find time to make a joke or say a few words to the marshals. Mostly Spiro got the gist of what was said and responded in English with, “You’re welcome,” mimicking the others. He was still busy, but the flow eased enough for him to marvel at the spectacle, the unbroken multicoloured ribbon of jogging figures spread along the towpath as far as he could see.
Then, without warning, the joy went out of it. For about the twentieth time, Spiro turned to collect three more of the packs of twenty-four, move them to the table and rip off the plastic holding them together. He reached for a stray that was rolling off the table, caught it neatly, handed it to the waiting runner and his blood ran cold.
He’d locked eyes with the one man he was here to avoid.
The Finisher.
Maeve’s half marathon was unlike anything she’d imagined in her training run daydreams. The real thing was noisier, friendlier, more inspiring and more emotional. The temptation in this early part of the race was to get excited and go too fast, particularly with so many people packing the sides of the course yelling encouragement and reaching out to the runners to catch high fives. Most of them were from Longford Road Primary, going by the repeated shouts of, “Go, Miss Kelly,” which was lovely and embarrassing at the same time because everyone else in the race was plain Tom, Dick or Harriet and didn’t get the same support. Amused looks were exchanged by other runners when she waved back like the Queen, but what else could she do? She was Miss Kelly to the parents as well as her class and it was lovely that so many had come to cheer her on.
She kept reminding herself that the hard part was ahead and she needed to save some energy for later. Be responsible, Miss Kelly. You’re not doing this for yourself. Thousands of heart patients are relying on you to get round. You’re lucky enough to have a good ticker, unlike them. The final sum in sponsorship topped two grand, so you’d better not mess up like you did with the Toby jug. Everyone, the kids, parents, teachers, neighbours, family, friends, will want to know if you finished the race and you mustn’t let them down. Aunt Jayne, Mr. Seagrove, Mrs. Haliburton, Trevor, Olga, Mother. You’ll face them all when this is over and you must be able to say, “Yes, I did it.”
The weight of so much expectation almost brought her to her knees. She was still the wrong shape for running, in spite of all the training. It helped that many of the others she’d joined in the first-timers’ pen were similarly handicapped and more so. Thank God she hadn’t committed to running the thing in a gorilla suit or with a polyester Royal Crescent draped around her shoulders. She’d done everything humanly possible: got the kit, done the mileage, eaten the carbohydrates and smeared Vaseline over every bit of her body capable of chafing. She’d listened to Trevor, her distance-running guru, and taken his advice.
Everything humanly possible? Well, almost.
When lecturing her on the importance of the last three weeks before the race, Trevor had talked about tapering, which she took to mean slimming.
“For pity’s sake, Trev,” she’d told him. “I’m happy with the way I am now. I’ve lost almost twenty pounds.”
He’d shaken his head. “That isn’t tapering. You’re on a countdown now. You don’t want to be tired on the day. You ease up gradually on the workload, reduce the mileage, possibly do some fitness walks instead of runs. You want to be fresh and full of energy when you get to the start line. I’ve written down some guidelines for you. Then your nutrition needs adjusting. Keep up the proteins for the time being, but two or three days before the race you must carb-load. Bread, pasta, rice in bulk, to be stored as glycogen in your muscles and liver.”
“Trevor, I just want to get to the end of the race. I’m not aiming to win it.”
He didn’t seem to have heard. “Avoid caffeine and alcohol. Then you’ll feel more relaxed and sleep better. You’re sure to be nervous, but coffee and cocktails aren’t the answer. Herbal tea is good.”
On the day before the race she’d touched base with a guy who knew about running from personal experience. In a small bar on Wellsway, they’d discussed her race strategy and he’d talked a lot more common sense than Trevor and with humour. Alcohol? He recommended it. Between them they’d got through a bottle of the house red and Maeve laughed at his stories of athletes famous and infamous. When he suggested they capped a fun-filled session with some action of their own in a room upstairs, she was surprised, flattered and didn’t object. The sex wasn’t the greatest — passionate while it lasted, fast and furious, meriting a six or seven at most, but better than herbal tea. Trevor’s list of things to avoid hadn’t included a shag. He just hadn’t thought of it, wrongly supposing she was as single-minded as he was.