It started as a gift idea for my mum’s 62nd birthday. The two of us would do a half-marathon together. Surprise! She’d always claimed, wistfully, that she wished she had tried long-distance running. Madrid’s official half-marathon was offering race entry for €40 a head. A run and a mini-break: what could be nicer? Then the rest of my family caught wind of it and soon they’d all signed up too. We had become a demented family of von Trapps in running shoes, flying in from our various home cities: New York, Stockholm and London.
It’s not just us. Sports tourism is a fast-growing industry and now makes up about 10 per cent of all global tourism. If people are willing to fly to another country to compete in a 5km Parkrun — runners from the UK have been travelling to Poland to compete in Zielona Gora’s Parkrun to complete an A to Z challenge — then they’ll certainly board a plane for a half-marathon (about 21km).
The Madrid race is the biggest half-marathon in Spain: 23,000 runners have signed up for this year’s edition, and plenty of them are on my flight from Heathrow. Dad, 62, is doing his best Joe Biden impression in his Hokas, with extra spongy soles to cushion the joints. He’s pointing at other passengers (albeit 30 years younger and much leaner) in Hokas and nodding at them as if in a club. It must be the fittest flight to Spain I’ve been on — no alcohol, just bottles of water all round.
As for our family’s fitness, we have half-heartedly followed training plans, what with work, busy lives and babies (my sister Orla, 33, had a daughter four months earlier). My mum, meanwhile, has been uncharacteristically diligent and stuck her training plan on the fridge, ticking off each run in disgust. “Christ,” she says and shakes her head, as if seven miles is not the logical next step after six miles the week before. As if the training plan is out to get her.
My brother Bryan, 38, has been doing runs in Stockholm in minus ten degrees — until, two weeks before the race, he gets a blood clot in his leg. Just a small one, he assures us, dubiously, when we meet at our rented apartment in Madrid. Bryan will run but in knee-high compression socks that make him look misleadingly professional. My New York-based sister and Orla’s twin, Maeve, 33, who does a few marathons a year for fun, says her knee hurts. Dad’s back is on at him — the evening before the race, he can’t bend down to reach the bin.
Advertisement
We’re all up at 8am on Sunday to catch the Metro. We follow the surge of runners to the start line at the Paseo de la Castellana. Thousands of people are warming up en masse, hopping on the spot, kicking their legs out and leaning against trees to stretch. I’m starting to regret the wine last night. No time to dwell on it: a voice over a speaker announces that the race starts in 15 minutes.
My mum turns to my beleaguered dad. “Every man for himself,” she says.
• Four smart ways to prevent common running injuries — by an expert
• My running rules for women
We filter off into our start pens, based on our estimated race times. Bryan and Maeve go off at speed. Further back, I resist the adrenaline surge of the crowd and try to pace myself. Somewhere behind me are my mum, dad and Orla.
We’ve all been so resigned to our fate that we haven’t bothered to look at the course before setting out. Turns out the first quarter of the race is one long hill. My mum thinks she’s running well until she realises that the signpost marked 8 means kilometres, not miles. I press on up the hill, in the warmth of the Spanish spring.
Advertisement
It’s 22C at 10am and rising. Rollerskating volunteers weave in and out of the runners, offering bottles of water and Vaseline for chafing nipples. A brass band plays on one of the corners, a DJ pumps out trance music on the next. Firefighters stand outside their station cheering us on. Spectators wave all kinds of national flags and a sign is held aloft by an Irish woman: “Hurry up, I want a pint.”
Bryan starts limping about 16km in. Well-meaning runners jog by and slap him on the arse. “Let’s go!” He picks up the pace again. Elsewhere on the course, my grey-haired mum gets a few cries of “Venga, abuela!” (Come on, grandma!) and scowls, resolving to dye her hair. Even though, as I point out, she is actually a grandmother.
By 11am, it’s seriously warm. There are casualties on the side of the road, towards the end of the route. Mostly they’re young men, grey in the face, wrapped in foil blankets and being attended to by medics. Possibly they’ve run too fast. I look for a pair of pasty compression-socked legs on the pavement and am relieved when I can’t see my brother.
On the whole, the atmosphere is supercharged with endorphins. There are couples racing together, mothers running with their babies in buggies, what looks to be a whole army platoon chanting and in step. I am beaten by a man dressed up as a banana — but what a rush.
We cross the finish line as follows: Maeve, 1hr 39min; Bryan, 1hr 45min; Me, 1hr 52min; Orla, 2hr 9min. Then comes my dad, two minutes behind Orla, puffing his way across the finish line: 2hr 11min. And finally, the reluctantgrandma crosses the finish line at 2hr 22min, indignant that she hasn’t beaten my dad. Tomorrow there will be hell to pay on the muscles front. For now, it’s time for another half — I mean beer, obviously.
