I＊m surprised the Chinese girl＊s plimsolls aren＊t melting as she
passes me on the hill. It＊s 35∼C and rising at the start of the
Great Wall Marathon.
No amount of sunblock or light-coloured headgear makes it seem like
anything less. As this frail form pulls ahead, I notice a red ribbon
tied around her ankle. Attached to it is her electronic timing chip,
the one the rest of us have looped through our shoelaces. A closer
look reveals that not only is the girl running in canvas gym shoes:
the slip-on uppers don＊t even have laces.
Wang Wei Hua 每 the girl in question 每 is one of 85 runners in Tianjiin
province today. Our nationalities are as diverse as our abilities
每 11 from China, a majority from Denmark (home of the race organisers),
half a dozen from the US, some from France, Sweden, Germany, and
me from the UK. For the first 5K we＊re grinding up a narrow tarmac
road in bright, clear sunlight, past a few homes and a small, dusty
building site. The seasoned campaigners are going slowly because
they know what to expect in a race of this distance. The first-timers
are going slowly because they don＊t. We＊re all going slowly.
At the top of the road a path leads through a brushing of small
trees, up 20 stone steps and onto the Great Wall. If you joined
all the Wall＊s surviving sections together, they could stretch from
New York to Los Angeles. Today we＊ll just be running a pristine
two-mile section which clings to the hilly landscape as if it was
drawn on with a pen.
It＊s hard, at the best of times, to take in the scale of the Great
Wall of China. Not just the mind-boggling physical size of it (it
covers 3700 miles, and if rebuilt five metres high and one metre
thick would encircle the entire globe), but also the crushing human
endeavour that went into its construction at the urgent commands
of a succession of emperors. Thousands of workers died of exhaustion
as they slaved to separate China from its perceived enemies. Chillingly,
their corpses are believed to have been buried in the Wall＊s foundations.
We can only reflect on this in the quiet time after the race, however;
at the moment the running is taking our complete focus.
The Great Wall is an almost relentless series of climbs and descents;
a mixture of small, shallow steps, and painful, knee-high ones.
Mercifully, at the top of every head-spinning, gut-wrenching climb
there＊s a cool, dark watchtower made of thick stone slabs, where
clusters of volunteers and medics offer drinks, sponges and words
of encouragement. It＊s no surprise that the watchtowers also house
gatherings of lingering runners steeling themselves for the plunge
back into the furnace outside.
I approach the end of the first Wall section and the sight of the
main road section with relief, even though it means negotiating
a plummeting 562-step descent. This descent, which combines stone
steps with short sections of hard dirt path, is lined with small,
fragrant trees and stunted shrubs. It＊s also lined, at any hint
of danger or fork in the path, with unfailingly kind and deferential
local helpers. Around the whole course they shyly offer words of
encouragement, their broken English putting our Chinese to shame.
Safely back down on the valley road where we started, I fall into
step with S?ren Skov, a 55-year-old runner from Denmark whose brother
ran the inaugural Great Wall Marathon the previous year. He＊s a
veteran of 25 marathons, and as we seem to be on 4:30 pace I＊m surprised
to find that he＊s predicting himself a finish time nearer six hours.
Later I realise he had the advantage of insight.
The valley passes through a one-street village on a smoothly tarmaced
main road. The term ＆main road＊ is relative 每 fewer than half a
dozen cars pass us in a mile. Villagers watch us quietly, down on
their haunches on the hard-packed dirt in front of their houses
and shops, or sitting on their concrete steps. They only break out
in smiles and return our greetings when we call to them. Some of
them practice all their English in a burst 每 ※hello!goodbye!how-are-you!§
每 while others thrust their delighted, round-faced children forward
to wave and beam at the crazy Westerners.
This is a good part of the race 每 flat, shaded, and the first chance
we＊ve had to find any kind of rhythm. Still, the kilometre markers
are coming awfully slowly.
Soon we＊re guided onto one of the undulating scorched-earth tracks
that will form nearly half of the course. A riverbed running alongside
looks the way the insides of our mouths feel by now. The surface
of cracked mud and smooth white stones is bone dry and blazing in
the heat.
Further back on the road, runners are already having problems,
with little over a third of the marathon under their belts. They＊re
mindful of the need to keep drinking and they＊re trying to make
the most of the frequent water stations, but the heat is making
them nauseous. The worse they feel, the less they drink, until they
find themselves in a downward spiral that grinds some of them to
a halt. It＊s to the field＊s credit that only 17 of the 85 starters
drop out.
Most of us have been able to train for the marathon distance, and
some for the climbs, but it＊s the temperature that＊s the unknown
quantity. Tellingly, one group of finishers will look incongruously
cheerful as they cross the line, despite the fact they＊ll have been
out on the course for six and a half hours and that this is not
only the first marathon for most of them, but some of them haven＊t
even tackled a road race before. Their secret? They＊ve been training
on the high-altitude, sun-baked lava fields of Hawaii, where they
live. And, nearly as importantly, they＊ve been listening to their
bodies today and taking their time.
Many of the sights from the race and our sightseeing in Beijing
每 the racks of sliced lychees drying in the sun near the Wall; the
peaceful rivers of cyclists drifting through rush-hour traffic in
the capital 每 are exotic and unusual. But some are just unforgettably
bizarre. We＊ll all take different mental snapshots back home with
us, and here＊s one of mine: as we run through the dusty main street
of the small town of Xiaying, we pass ad hoc stalls offering crates
of warm soft drinks and slabs of meat on hooks. Sandwiched in among
them is a group of men playing pool on a beaten-up table in the
street. They all share a single cue and negotiate the balls around
a ripped, threadbare baize. On second glance, I see that one of
the players has a metal hook where his hand should be. He plays
as normal, as if he doesn＊t even think about it.
Past halfway in the race, we＊re feeling more beaten-up than that
rickety pool table. My own run-walk routine has faded from eight
minutes run, one minute walk, to five minutes/two minutes 每 and
the really scary thing is that I＊m still passing people.
By the time we reach 34K and get to the Wall for the second time,
we＊re fried. This time we＊ll be tracing the two-mile Wall section
in the opposite direction, before descending the original 5K hill
to the finish. The really warped joke is that to get back onto it
we have to make our way up the same 562 steps we hobbled down so
many hours ago. This part of the race literally brings some runners
to their knees 每 and encourages others to dispose involuntarily
of the contents of their stomachs. On the climb, many experiment
with walk-rest combinations that become as desperate as three steps
at a time.
The ascent takes 15 minutes for some; over 30 for others. On the
top, most of the Wall is a 15ft-wide staircase with tall walls on
both sides, but the first part of our return journey is a suntrap
每 an uneven walkway with a single brick wall to the left of it.
Handrails and the ever-present marshals help here, but by now all
of us just want to get off the Wall and down to the primitive cold
showers at the finish. When we get back home, friends will invariably
ask us if the whole of the marathon was on the Wall. We will smile
wryly and tell them that four miles hit the spot just fine.
A film crew for Eurosport asks me how I＊m doing. I lie that things
aren＊t going too badly. The reality is that while the Wall itself
isn＊t treating me as harshly as I feared, I＊m worried about the
final leg on the road. Ordinarily a steep downhill 5K would be a
PB-busting delight, but now every gingerly-taken down-step on the
wall is a jolt to my fraying muscles.
By the time I get to the pine-lined asphalt, I＊ve prepared myself
for a near-walk of another hour. But after a few tentative steps,
I＊m almost jogging smoothly, then actually running with the downhill,
turning my stride lightly so I can barely feel the road under me.
Chances are that photographic evidence proves otherwise, but my
memory is of feeling that way until I reach the finish line.
Once I get there I can＊t even make my mouth work or think about
anything until I＊ve collapsed in the shade. What a race: you versus
the only manmade object visible from space. If it wasn＊t for the
Chinese runners who, in their stripped-down shoes still manage to
come across the timing mat in five, six and seven hours, you＊d think
the odds were stacked impossibly against you.
------------------------------------------------------------------
So
you want to run the Great Wall Marathon this year...
well,
Get trained and get contact with your operator--Joy . Representative
in France!
Contact: joy.forest@gmail.com
Cel: 0033 678702200
|
