I know, I can hear your interior monologue: “Oh Jesus H….. do we have to read about Megan running again?!”
I am not training for another race through the African summer again this year. In fact, I have ambitions to take back my Saturday nights to and swap those extended miles on Sunday morning with extended periods of time on my comfortable couch. Really.
The only reason that I am in Marrakesh is because of the Rabat Olmsted Scholar. She used her powers of persuasion to get me on a plane and run a half marathon. Honestly, Morocco is pretty fantastic, so it didn’t take much convincing to pull myself away from the concrete chaos that is Dakar. So I planed and trained it here, ran a good race, and then left bright and early the following morning. Just another day in the life of Megan’s bizarre Choose Your Own Adventure story. I know that this genre of reporting is extremely riveting for you, but here is a run down of another day in my running shoes:
The day before the race, we scavenged around outside the medina’s walls until we finally located the little expo center. Getting our race numbers was a smooth process, and we stopped for a photo in front of what must be the only inflatable mint tea pot that I have ever seen at a racing event.
The remainder of our pre-race day was full of plenty, but I am sticking to the half marathon subject for now. Later that night we ate a great Moroccan dinner that couldn’t be beat, went to sleep, and didn’t wake up until the next morning call to prayer. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I could hear the steady patter of rain hitting the roof of the riad. Damn. I don’t wanna run 13.1 miles in the rain….
Still raining, we quickly got dressed and headed out the door for our big morning. While waiting for the taxi, I was kicking myself for looking at the weather forecast while in Dakar but still choosing to disbelieve the reporting. I knew that the forecast called for cold and rain- but in my obstinate mind Morocco is always dry and hot. Um, wrong.
Here we are, waiting for things to get rolling. We make easy work of the wait by making fun of shorts that give too much information (I am talking to you, Mr. Green Shorts Scandal).
Some of us are better morning people than others. These peppy Moroccans were getting revved up to run by waving a photo of their king around. We continued to warm up by mentally mocking a nearby dude sporting children’s-size Jams as running shorts. Nice.
Now we’re crowding at the start line. What’s this French guy got on his belt? Atropine shots?
If we clap, they’ll let us start running. My legs are stiff boards and I need to get them moving.
As usual, it takes about four miles for me to fall into my groove. The course took us through an olive grove, which sounds scenic in theory- but in practice it was crowded and you had to look sharp to avoid spilling into trees. There were a few puddles to contend with, but the rain did manage to stay away and we were encouraged by people chanting “Vous n’êtes pas fatigués!” (You are not tired!). My smurf blue top even got a shout-out “Allez La Bleu!”
There was both a marathon and a half-marathon held today. Even though we had signed up for the half, everything was printed for the marathon- my number, the race t-shirts and the medals (which will make me feel like an impostor when I wear it). The course route was the same until one critical fork- these dudes in blue were making sure people went the right way at the split. Had we gone right, it would have been the longest (and worst) half-marathon ever.
And I have to hand it to the cops, they kept probably 95% of these evil mopeds from darting out onto the streets- they were like crazed horses chomping at the bit to zip out and run us over. I myself wanted to push them and experience some rich satisfaction- but instead I just ran on.
This jackass was one of the five percent of the moped population who tried to cross the road. Right in front of me. “Really?” I yelled in English, “You suck!”. And then took a photograph. No we didn’t collide, and yes I know I should have reacted in a way more becoming of an Olmsted Scholar -but with less than 5K to go I was too tired to care. And sometimes it just feels good to yell “You suck” at someone who is acting dumb.
We had a decent spectator scene during the run. Even little kids sitting on the top of the medina walls.
These dudes in festive outfits are standard fare in Morocco- they walk around with fresh water and cups so people can buy a cheap glass of clean water. Although we had normal water stops, I was thinking that race organizers should have used these guys to fill the role.
Behold the obligatory horrible self-portrait of us on the course. I think most of the spectators were wondering “who is that nut running with a camera?”
I took a lot of photos while on the course, but ultimately they are not very post-worthy. Just trust me that I found my way to the finish line and received a pretty medal that says “Marrakesh Marathon”. Oh well, close enough…
Once you are through the chutes, here is what you get for post-race vittles. Dates and oranges. Nice.
Christina and I walked back to our riad, grateful for the two mile cool down that it afforded us. We happened upon Hôtel La Mamounia, a famous place where Churchill once stayed. We had been wanting to check this out on our trip, but ran out of time. I don’t think that in our fancy running ensembles we’d be let in to sully the gorgeous premises, so instead we snapped a photo and rolled on like Olympic rock stars.
Back inside the medina’s labyrinth, we got lots of applause for having run “the marathon”. As usual, this place is crowded with people and obnoxious mopeds- but we were definitely the only ones walking around in workout gear, looking our standard fare runner ridiculous.
After solving the medina (i.e. we finally didn’t get lost trying to find our riad), Christina and I readied ourselves for an afternoon massage and hammam.
I am quite sure that my family has no idea what a hammam is, so I will give you Megan’s version of the experience: strip down to just about nothing and sit in a small but aesthetically pleasing steam room that has a large basin-like sink and a strong armed Moroccan lady. Through French, English, Arabic or hand gestures, you are told to lay down on the tile and she takes something similar to a greenie meanie and scrubs you down to the skin that you were born in. Rolls of skin come off of your body, which is actually pretty nasty. I m sure you are now filled with gratitude for now possessing this bit of valuable and descriptive information.
Incidentally, I believe that you can have this experience for free in the Navy if you choose not to bathe- the boatswains’ mates call it a “steel brush shower”. Me, I paid to experience this torture. Stupid officers…
Invigorated and sporting super smooth skin, you can then settle into a massage that may or may not suck. I’m kind of a hurts-so-good sports massage type of person, so usually I find these massages disappointing. Sill, I could think of worse ways to spend my post race time (ice bath, anyone?).
So that’s it for my race. You’ve been a patient reader, and I have had loads of fun on this adventure. I’m just off the train from Marrakesh and heading up to Lisbon, so once again I can go south to Dakar. I look forward to returning to a land of logic that has strangely become appealing.
No running entries for awhile! I swear!