Today is my first weekend shift at work - something I'm entirely used to, as a journalist, so I head towards Palermo station at 7am for a nice early start. The streets are deserted and the only people I see are drunken revelers heading back from their Saturday night out. After the ten-minute walk, I arrive at the subte station to find the entrance firmly gated shut. As I start to walk down the steps to see if there's a sign, I hear a man's voice from a few metres away.
"It opens at 8am," he says, looking at me as if I am an absolute lunatic for trying to get the tube to work at such a ridiculous hour on a Sunday morning.
Jeez. This would never happen in London. I'm so surprised they don't open the underground network until 8am but I guess the guy is right, I'm the crazy one. Nobody goes to work at 7am on a Sunday morning - just me. Everyone else in the city is busy sleeping.
I walk across the huge main road and check out the signs at the bus stop, but it's like trying to read Braille. I have no idea where all those stops are, and the map might as well be in Japanese. In any case, it doesn't look like any of the buses go from here to the Microcentro. (And who would want to go to the business centre on a Sunday morning anyway?!)
I begin to see people in matching "10k" t-shirts walking in the direction of the Bosques and I realise there's a coordinated race on this morning. Ah, that's the kind of thing I should be doing, instead of going to work!
I decide to get a taxi, and end up back on the other side of the road near the man who thinks I'm crazy. He shakes his head in bemusement at me again as I finally manage to flag down a taxi. I begrudgingly pay the 8 pounds or so it costs to get to the centre.
On arrival at work, I find the main entrance thoroughly bolted with massive chains around the handles on the big glass double doors. What the...?
I panic - was I suppose to let the security guards know I'm working today? Who do I call to let me in? I don't think I have a number...
Eventually I notice there's a buzzer with a grate to the right of the door so I buzz the reception. A very sleepy-looking security guard who I've never seen before eventually ambles slowly to the glass doors and, after a thorough questioning, he lets me in. I explain that I work upstairs and he phones up to my office security guard before giving me the all-clear. Then he bolts the chains behind me, explaining that they have to keep the building locked up on evenings and weekends because of crime in the area. Wow.
The area is, of course, completely dead on weekends, and I know I have little chance of getting lunch near the office. It's a decent day, despite being overcast, so after a few hours' work, I walk down to Puerto Madero and cross the bridge to a very touristy deli restaurant called Market Place. I had been to this restaurant when I came to Buenos Aires with my parents in 2008 and was impressed with the freshly cooked food, but this time I find it overpriced, overcrowded and badly run. It takes ages to be served, and eventually I get a very dry and disappointing salad and sit outside to people-watch and enjoy the view before heading back to the office.
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| Sunbathing on the roof |
Back
home in the evening, I decide to venture up onto the roof of my apartment building to watch the sun go down. I have to go up a narrow staircase and open a big, hot metal door with a key. I shut the door behind me and watch the beautiful sunset. The door is constantly banging behind me in the wind.
When I descend to the second floor an hour later, I'm greeted by a rather riled-looking old lady who steps out of her apartment door to tell me off. She gives me a real talking to for allowing the door to keep banging while I was up on the roof. Apparently there's stone I was meant to put in front of the door to stop it banging, and she's really mad at me. Good way to make an impression with the new neighbours!
Back in my flat, I tuck into some of the salad and fresh quiche I
bought at the organic market yesterday. Mmm, bliss. Maybe I can get used
to Buenos Aires after all.
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.
