¡Venga Vamos! – George and Alex vs. The Bilbao Night Marathon
by Alex Bunten,
November 4, 2010, pge 16.....

20:05 October 23, 2010 - With bibs on, nips of Vaseline, yellow shoes, five euros and a few throat lozenges tucked into the pockets of our tights, George Macpherson and I made our way back to the Guggenheim. “I feel great!” and “I can’t wait!” were some of the foolhardy words thrown around as we jogged up the Nervión Ría toward the start line.

Against all predictions, the day of the race had been incredible – a crisp autumn day segueing into a hazy, full moon night in the north of Spain. We passed the day awkwardly walking around Bilbao trying to expend as little energy as possible, but at the same time entertain ourselves with something other than the prospect of four hours of nocturnal suffering. To get a bird’s eye view of the course we took the funicular up the local hillside. It was a bitter-sweet vista of the Bilbao environs, Ganekogorta to the south and the Bay of Biscay to the north, coupled with the grim spatial comprehension of our two 13.1 mile laps.

Waiting around was one of the most difficult aspects of the whole day. We just wanted to tuck into the challenge we had set for ourselves five months earlier (We were number 95 and 97 out of about 2,181, if that’s any indicator of our keenness.).

Thinking about it in the run up to the event was fine, but on the day… a night marathon?! Who thinks of such torture?
Starting as promised, within spitting distance of the 3:45hr pace setter, we exchanged manly handshakes and polite words of encouragement before finally making the first step toward 26.2 miles, ten minutes late.

21:10 Fireworks exploded on each side of the pack while the sound system belted out Europe’s classic anthem, “The final countdown.” The three Kenyans set to their task of keeping a superhuman 2:14hr pace, while George and I were taken from the frying pan and put in the fire. “Why are you doing this?” was an often-asked question from friends and family, and I couldn’t help but look at the army of polypropylene and lyrca surrounding me and wonder the same about them. For fun and charity. It had to be. This would be fun.

We kept together and slightly ahead of our pace man for the first lap, giving the local kids five and basking in the immense support from their parents clapping, shouting, “¡Venga vamos!”, “¡Animo!” However, it was apparent to me when I got a cramp at about mile 11 – something that could have easily killed a baby rhino, possibly a hippo - that it was going to be anything but fun.

23:00 On George’s advice, I ran through the cramp and after a few nuts and bananas at half way I tried to pick up the pace a bit. Bad idea. An outrageous fire began thriving down the side of my ankle; I hit a massive wall and walked for my first time. Right as I began walking though, someone coming behind me yelled, “Det! Det! Det!” No language I’m familiar with. Or that’s what I heard in my head anyway. It meant nothing, but I understood the idea. Pick up the pieces. Press on. Run through it.

00:00 I don’t know who latched onto whom, but at about mile 20, there appeared a man beside me and he stayed there for what felt like hours. There wasn’t a word or glance exchanged; we just kept presence in the other’s peripheral vision, shuffle running. Through the northern end of the last lap, in the cold, industrial part of town, it was just what we needed. I saw George on the way back down the street; “Do it,” was all I could muster.

00:50 24 miles. Out of the industrial part of town, I found yet another oasis of bananas, oranges, Powerade and humans shouting for me to stop walking. I grunted, farted, emitted some Howard Dean-style wails and clicked into “go big or go home” mode. It was a brutal occasion to start the legs running again, like a diesel that hasn’t been warmed on a morning in January. My body rebelled, but thankfully the inner dictator quashed the revolution. I went easy at first, but with purpose.

It was here I thought that, despite being jacked full of sports drinks, water and other fruits, I didn’t have to pee the entire time. Strange. In my stretched mental state, I was kind of annoyed I didn’t have the occasion to wet myself. I was told true professionals do that. To add to the madness, this is about when a runner dressed as Spiderman passed.

Through bouts of insanity, sensing the impending finish and proximity to an under-four-hour marathon, I got myself onto a proper pace, heading past the Guggenheim on the opposite side of the Nervión. 1.5 miles. I had visions of soon having to walk and seeing the few groups of Spaniards I flew past earlier trot by, thinking, “nice try fella!” I had to beat 01:10 to get a less than four-hour finish.

The groups didn’t pass me again, but in the end I did have to walk a few times as the pace I was attempting rekindled the revolutionary spirit, this time from the cardiac lobby, petitioning to break the barriers of its 28-year cage. As I carefully pacified my heart at about half a mile to go, I passed a poor guy hunched over, experiencing a full-blown banana and peanut revolution. Unlucky.

Tunnel vision. Run. Sprint. Walk. Run. I was over the line. 4:02hr. I finished on a strong pace and was ecstatic to see George flip me the bird as he came doddering over the finish line at 4:09hr. An amazing result for his first marathon considering his “training regime” – completing no more than a few half marathons, running an average of ten miles a week and entertaining the occasional cigarette for good measure.

Seeing how I quit a year ago and ran upwards of 40 miles a week, it was a bit of a kick in the particulars. Nonetheless, I was happy as hell for him. Lesson: youth, a charity cause and amazing support can pull you through.

Thanks to all for your support and donations. It’s been a really incredible experience. In total we managed to raise just over $4,000 for charity: water. That’s a proverbial drop in the ocean for the billion or so people without access to clean water, but we have hopefully raised some awareness and it will not soon be forgotten.
For more information go to mycharitywater.org/nightmarathon.

Alex Bunten, who grew up in Charlotte, graduated from CVU in 2000 and is the son of Judy Billard and Roger Bunten.