The One Where I Try the Miranda Chicken Salad

My first weekend post-marathon is all about exploring and relaxing, safe in the knowledge that I don't have to run anywhere if I don't want to. So of course, after last night's party, I began the weekend with a long lie-in.

My neighbour has told me about a great indoor organic market so I head there to buy farm-fresh organic eggs, mushrooms, tomato sauce and wine. I store the lot in my fridge because there's somewhere else I want to be.

I go back to Miranda, a restaurant one block from my place, on Costa Rica and Fitz Roy. It's a beautiful day so I take a seat outside in one of the comfy director's chairs with a little wooden table. We're on the street corner so it's a little noisy with traffic, but perfect for people-watching. 

People-watching at Miranda is people-watching the rich. The type of people who come here are American and British ex-pats, Brazilian tourists and fairly rich locals with beautiful clothes, high heels and designer sunglasses. But the atmosphere is so friendly and I feel relaxed even sitting by myself.

Although the restaurant is a parrilla, famous for steak and other meat, I have my eye on the chicken salad, which my British landlord has told me is to die for. I can't imagine what can be so amazing about a chicken salad, but I order the Ensalada Jacinta anyway. And when it comes, I understand perfectly. 

The Ensalada Jacinta

At the risk of sounding like a Marks & Spencers advert, the Miranda chicken salad is not just any chicken salad. Theirs is a veritable mouthwatering feast fit for a family of four. It includes an enormous bed of lettuce topped with grilled chicken breasts, red peppers, two large grilled wheels of pumpkin, parmesan cheese, sundried tomatoes, sunflower seeds and an incredibly sumptuous mustard vinaigrette. I am literally salivating just looking at this picture. Miranda, I will be coming back often. 

Lost in Buenos Aires Part III: Marathon Day

Well, I sure am an idiot. 

A friend of a work colleague has very kindly offered to pick me up at 6:30am to drive me to the start line of the marathon, which kicks off at 7:30am. So I set my alarm for 5:45am and bound out of bed to make my banana sandwich - essential ingredients for a good run. So far, so good.

I'm ready and waiting at 6:30am with my personalised yellow Adidas vest and jogging bottoms, my trainers laced up with my marathon chip, banana sandwich down the hatch. It gets to 6:35am and there's no sign of Gastón. 6:40am... the clock is ticking, but I don't want to call him - I don't even know the guy and he's volunteered to pick me up at the crack of dawn, so he deserves the benefit of the doubt.

I check my Blackberry. Hmm. That's funny. Why does my Blackberry say it's 5:40am? My English mobile says it's 6:40am... Shit, have I got up an hour early? Have I got up an hour late? But my phones were completely in sync last night. How am I going to find out what time it really is?! 

I fire up my laptop. Sure enough, it's only 5:40am. I got up at 4:45am, an hour too early. Oh, jeez. Well, at least it wasn't an hour too late, but I'm sure going to be tired for this run.

I send a few emails and while away the next hour. Gastón arrives a few minutes after the real 6:30am and we set off towards the marathon starting point. Unfortunately, neither of us have paid any attention to the road signs that have been up for the past few days, indicating that all roads around the marathon starting point will be closed after 6:30am. We miss the turning for the starting point and try to turn right at the next turning, only the road is closed to traffic. And the one after that is closed. And the one after that...

We stop the car to ask a policeman how we can get back to the starting point, and he tells us we'll have to loop around the city. Fifteen minutes later, we're completely lost around the back of an industrial estate. Gastón asks another innocent bystander for help, but we're so far from our destination now, the guy just shakes his head. And of course, I can't contribute any wisdom whatsoever, having lived in this city a mere three days.

Another fifteen minutes later, we're still circling the city, and panic has set in. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm going to miss my first marathon. My reason for coming to Buenos Aires, my only chance at this city's 42k race. What's more, I still need to check my bags into the cloakroom and I still have to pee. And it's already 7:30am - the starting horn has already sounded.

We arrive just after 7:30am but we can't drive up to the start line, so we sprint through a couple of car parks and I go for my toilet stop and down my essential Imodium tablets with some water. (You can't be needing to go during a five-hour run!) Gastón agrees to look after my bag, though I have no idea how I'll find him when I'm finished.

We finally cross the line at 7:37am. Every single runner has already crossed the line and I'm right at the back. Gastón isn't running, but he decides to jog the first 5 kilometres with me to keep me company. We have been running fast for a couple of minutes by the time I realise this is a marathon, not a 100 metre sprint - we need to slow down. At the same time, I realise I haven't cailbrated my Garmin, and I need it for the race. But it only works when you're standing still, so I stop for about five minutes and wait for it to calibrate. Finally, it registers where I am, and we set off running again.

Gastón leaves me just as we reach Avenida del Libertador, the beautiful, wide avenue that runs alongside the Bosques de Palermo, about 25 minutes into the race. From then on, I'm on my own, though I've caught up with one or two slow-coaches, and I'm pleased to see a few people running in the opposite direction, trying to get to the start line because they, too, messed up with the road closures. So I'm at the back, but I'm least I'm not last.

The next five hours are incredible. The marathon route takes me through leafy Palermo, upmarket Recoleta, the financial and commercial centre known as el Microcentro, historic, hip San Telmo, dodgy, rundown, derelict dockland La Boca, fashionable, touristy Puerto Madero, and finally back to Palermo. It is basically the ideal way to see the entire city in five hours. (Or two or three, if you're superhuman). 

The weather conditions are perfect. After hearing scare stories yesterday about the marathon runner who died because of humid conditions, I was pleased to see the weather forecast was for only 16 degrees C, 18 mph wind and 69% humidity - significantly lower than in the past few days. In reality, this translates to cloudy sky, the occasional bit of light drizzle, and relatively cool temperatures. Basically just like a British autumn day, and perfect for running a marathon. When I run past the cooling stations, where volunteers stand with huge yellow sponges to cool the runners down, I notice barely anyone is bothering because it isn't hot in the first place.

On the advice of my marathon-running friends back in England, I take the water and isotonic drinks at every single refreshment station so as not to get dehydrated. I also take my energy gel sachets after 10km and 20km. They taste like sickly, super-sweet syrup and the consistency is thick and gloopy like tar, but I know I need the energy. I have never run further than 21km and I need to double it.

Around the 25km mark, I'm just starting to feel like I need a boost, when I see the ladies holding out baskets for the runners. I have no idea what's in the baskets until I get closer. Fresh fruit! They have quartered oranges, halved bananas, and handfuls of raisins and dates. I feel like it's a mirage - this is exactly what I need! I run along with a quartered orange sticking out of mouth, juice dripping down my chin and making my face all sticky. 

Around kilometre 35, we actually run around the back of the local airport, known as Jorge Newbery. I am amused to see passengers wheeling their huge suitcases for hundreds of metres because the marathon organisers have been allowed to close off one of the taxi routes into the airport. This would never happen in England!

I manage to run the entire way without stopping or walking, and I finish the marathon in 5 hours, 7 minutes and 37 seconds. However, if you discount my two toilet stops and my stop at the beginning to calibrate my Garmin, I definitely did it in under five hours. Never mind the fact that I would never be able to run a marathon without a toilet stop...

I did it! The feeling as I cross the finish line is indescribable. I've pounded 42 kilometres worth of pavements and I enjoyed every minute of it. It kind of brings me closer to the city - I've seen it in ways I never would have experienced if I'd just wandered around as a tourist for a few days. 

Gastón and my work colleague are waiting for me at the finish line as I cross, tears in my eyes, white as a sheet and feeling like I'm about to faint. I slurp down a For Goodness Shake to replenish lost energy and get back in Gastón's car. The boys drop me off at my flat and I groan like an arthritic granny as I prize my stiff legs out of the back seat. 

It started off badly, gave me one of the toughest physical challenges of my life and rendered me unable to walk, but it was a day I will never, ever forget.

Carbing Up for the Big Day

Because Argentina is a bit backward compared with the rest of the world, they don't have a very good system for picking up marathon race packs. Instead of sending out t-shirts and race numbers to people's homes, they make us go to an exhibition centre between certain hours of the day. Obviously I couldn't go yesterday because I was at work, so I decide to run from the Bosques de Palermo and get to know the city a little on my way. A short jog the day before the marathon can't hurt too much - providing I don't get too lost.

I am a little concerned they won't let me pick up my race pack because I need ID to do so, and I've already handed my passport to the visa company so they can crack on with sorting out my papers. If they turn me away, this will all have been one long, expensive, rushed journey to come to Buenos Aires in time for the marathon! 

Thankfully, I get to the exhibition centre and they don't even check my photocopied ID. There are dozens of stalls selling running-related paraphernalia, and there are tons of would-be marathon runners from all over the world. I hear Brazilians, Chileans, Venezuelans... people from pretty much everywhere in Latin America, but I don't hear any fellow Brits. I pick up a couple of energy gel sachets for tomorrow and I take up the free offer to get my name printed on the back of my bright yellow Adidas running vest.

All set.

I find my way back to my flat, shower and head to nearby restaurant Trastevere, on the corner of Fitzroy and Costa Rica, one block from my place. I need to do some serious carbing up, so I order a simple tomatoey pasta dish. The restaurant is very cool and hip, with the waiters and waitresses sporting a very Argentine grungey look, but I feel out of place here sitting by myself. I lap up my pasta and head for a wander around the neighbourhood.

Cool mural inside Trastevere

After an afternoon of shopping and catching up on a few emails, I retire back to my flat and order a pizza - a few more carbs before the big day can't hurt. The pizza, from Pizza y Espuma on the corner of El Salvador with Fitzroy, is just OK. But I can settle for that, as long as I get my carbs.