9 weeks to go (17 February)
This week’s installment of Like
Butter on a Cat’s Paws is brought to you on location.
As a birthday present my girlfriend arranged a surprise holiday for me
and so when the week starts off with a few days of running by the Thames in
torrential rain, my enthusiasm remains considerably less damp than my
socks. The location is kept a mystery
though there have been heavy hints about winter sun. Obese hints, really. Along the lines of, “I have just checked the
weather forecast and it’s 28 degrees where we’re going.”
So it’s not too taxing staying positive Monday to Wednesday and I fit
in a nice run through the swamps of Hyde Park and a quick explore of Wandsworth
Common before work each day. By the time
the holiday comes round my girlfriend is so sick of my puppy-like enthusiasm
for seeing the sun again that I can’t tell whether or not she’s joking that I
should run off some energy and meet her at the airport. She’s joking, it transpires, because she
would sooner die than have me in a PE kit sweating onto her for three hours at
20,000 feet. Some people are such fussy
flyers.
Bus, train, check-in, passport control and I’m still none the wiser
where we’re going. There’s a mild moment
of panic at the bag drop when the air hostess looks like she’s about to reveal
where we’re going but fortunately it’s averted: “Never heard of it”, she
sniffs, looking at the luggage label.
Which rules out Politeville and Charmtown, perhaps, but otherwise leaves
the world as my oyster.
Anyway... it’s Marrakech. Sorry
if I ruined the surprise.
I visited Morocco for the day when I was living in Malaga and have
always assumed that I went to Marrakech (Geography nor long-term memory being
strengths of mine); however, a quick consult of a map and a guidebook suggests
that it was probably Tangiers instead and so I step off the plane the picture
of Brits Abroad ignorance. My girlfriend
delicately corrects me when I point out that this is only the third time I have
been to Asia and I wrack my brains to think of relevant Moroccan
stereotypes. Hash and thieves, forty of
them, spring to mind, promising something of a mixed bag to come.
I’m surprised at how much I like the city and within an hour or two it
feels like we’ve been there weeks. The
sunset over the city is beautiful and I look forward to a chance to explore
properly out jogging the next morning.
There’s a slight issue with the heat – 26 degrees by 8am – and it takes
me a moment or two to accept that on holiday I’m choosing to set my alarm for
6.15. For exercise.
My first run takes me through the souks and the main square, before
heading out through the olive gardens and round the city walls. It’s stunning and changes colour with the
light, hazy pinks building to vibrant reds with the rising of the sun. I’m struck by the friendliness of the locals
as they all greet me with thumbs up and smiles; and though it’s been a while
since I was at school and my mockery scanner is a little rusty, I think they’re
sincere. There’s a football game
underway by the time I get to the park (imagine that in Clapham: “Right then
lads, kick off for our next match is 6.45am, Saturday”) and the atmosphere is
overwhelmingly friendly. And when I get
lost, a cheery Jawa obligingly shows me the way*.
I get a really good instinct about the city. It’s not the Morocco of threats and hostility
that the guidebook warns of, and I think back to how suspicious I was of
everyone and everything when we first touched down. I didn’t have enough hands to simultaneously
clutch my passport, wallet, phone and girlfriend, who I was convinced was going
to get kidnapped the second my back was turned.
Not that I’d have protested, given that I wasn’t speaking to her at the time because she’d refused to try to hide my suitcase from criminals in her womb.
The next day I go for my long run of the week and it’s my favourite run
since starting the marathon training. In
order to avoid the sun I have to set my alarm for half five and I’m relieved
when my alarm goes off that there’s little chance of disturbing the other hotel
guests: It coincides with the far louder call to prayer that resonates
throughout the city at appointed times of the day.
I have mapped out a vague route but quickly realise that I’ve
overestimated the distance and so I loop endlessly round and through the city
walls. I run in one direction until the
road ends at the airport, then run in the other direction until my path is
blocked by the Atlas Mountains. Marrakech
is teeny. I don’t care, it’s a magical
sensation just being out and about somewhere new and unknown. There’s a strange moment when I jog past the
Beach Garden Club just as it closes: Being a Muslim country the clubs are all
dry, and so far from stumbling onto the streets drunk the locals just sort of
mill about. Clearly high. And drunk too, obviously; but who am I to
judge another’s interpretation of religion?
Nice price for this kebab and Doritoes?
I give you best price.
“Stoned like Yeshu of Nazarene”, I joke smugly to the imaginary running
buddy I have recently taken to conjuring up on long outings. He rolls his eyes at me and mutters “Dick”
under his breath, so I go it alone for the next few kilometres. It’s so nice being somewhere hot and dry
again and I have to force myself to stop after 18 miles, partly to avoid
getting ahead of my training plan and partly because the sun is now out and I’m
sweating buckets. Very happy with life
and the marathon this morning: I’ve seen far more of the city than I ever would
have without doing this and I can gorge myself on couscous and tagines with
impunity for the rest of the day.
The last day of the holiday comes round and I rise once more for a
gentle five mile-r to close off the week’s distance. I retrace the same route as before until I
get to the football pitch, where I am stopped by one of the guys in a red bib
and asked if I fancy a game. Turns out I
do, and I leave the pitch a couple of hours later having had one of the most
enjoyable games of football in my life.
The acceptance and instant camaraderie knocks me back; and my contributing
to a 3-0 win for the plucky underdogs makes victory all the more sweet. There’s a slightly hairy moment when I score
and peel off to the corner flag for a ‘praying to Mecca’ celebration that could
be deemed in poor taste... Words will not do justice to the sense of relief I
feel when it’s greeted by laughter and a few of my team mates join in,
fortunately. It’s a lovely way to end an
amazing holiday and I jog back to the hotel filled with love for the marathon
for bringing me experiences and perspectives that would otherwise have passed
me by.
*I have re-read this and am slightly concerned that it has racist
undertones. Being a Star Wars fan I
could justify it on the grounds that the market traders actually were George Lucas’ inspiration for the
Jawas; however, my intention is towards playful not bigotry and so I will
remove this line if anyone is offended.
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