Week Thirty
St. Patrick’s Day and the Half Marathon
Alright, stop, collaborate, and listen, I’m back with a brand new edition. We’re in the third decade of weeks here in Spain, and I’m entering the wrong side of thirty with a bang. The highlights of the week include St. Patrick’s day festivities on Tuesday and this morning’s race, and there are some fun asides along the way.
Lunes (3/16)
My school day on Monday began about as well as any school day can: with a pitufie wearing a cat ear headband clinging to a few of my fingers because my whole hand is too big to hold. I have been much less happy on a Monday morning than I was this Monday morning.
The hot streak continued when in second period, Eva took the class (and I) out to school garden to pick weeds. It was under the guise that I would practice the words “leaf, stem, and root” with them, but it was mostly so we could get out in the sun and chill.
Monday was also the beginning of the race taper. I went for a shorter and easier bike ride than normal. It was sunny and sixty-five, so I was out in shorts and a short sleeve jersey. I embraced the fact that the taper legs were coming, and that they would feel weird.
The day ended with me typing up last week’s edition. I tucked myself into bed and reflected on the week’s impending activities. St. Patrick’s Day was the next day, and the Half loomed. (Do you like my foreshadowing?)
Martes (3/17)
School on Tuesday started off HOT. Everyone had gotten the memo to wear green, and a few of the little girls were even rocking some sweet neon green tutus. In first period, I jumped right into the spiel about the holiday. I pontificated about local parades, Shamrock shakes, four leaf clovers, and most importantly, leprechauns. Given my seven year old audience, I avoided the binge drinking, the concept of splitting the G on a Guinness, and other such time honored St. Paddy’s day traditions.
After giving my breakdown of the great American institution of St. Patrick’s Day, we got into the day’s activity: making leprechaun hats…with beards. My flock of Henri Matisse-like paper manipulators got to work on their costumes, and in no time, Eva and I were cracking up as we observed a classroom full of little leprechauns. It was really quite delightful.
I proceeded to do the same with the other first grade classes, and then finally with second grade. By the end of the day, the school was home to at least fifty leprechauns. To top things off, we went back to the garden for the final period. Once again, we were under the guise of practicing the words “clover and shamrock”. I spent more time trying to explain that a leprechaun wasn’t a “duende” (goblin) than I did practicing any vocabulary.
As if that wasn’t enough, the cherry on top of Tuesday’s school day was a teachers vs. students recess soccer game. Tucker, the two gym teachers, a fifth grade homeroom teacher, and I faced off against six sixth graders. The kids were trying as hard as they could, but they were simply twelve years old and we were adults. We swagged on these fools.
I started as the goalie, so I spent the first five minutes of the game watching from afar because the ball never came near our goal. Each of the gym teachers scored pretty much on command, and every time they scored, a mob of cheering students would swarm them in celebration.
I was swapped out of the goal, and after a few minutes of warming up, Tucker dished me up an assist on a silver platter. All I had to do was finish the job. When that ball hit the back of the net, I hopped around to face center field and threw my arms in my armpits like Mbappe. I was swarmed by screaming children and pushed around the field like an Olympic champion returning home to an underdeveloped country after winning a gold medal. It was a fantastic moment. I’ve never felt so adored.
Tuesday ended as any good San Agustinian Tuesday ends: with track club.
Miércoles (3/18)
I cannot remember a single moment from school on Wednesday. Tuesday was a tough follow. I don’t blame Wednesday for not bringing any more Tuesday-caliber moments.
Wednesday afternoon consisted of the usual job application routine followed by Wednesday night track club.
Jueves (3/19)
The notable moment from school on Thursday was helping two pitufies catch up on quizzes they’d missed the week before. I sent a selfie of the three of us working to my family, and my dad replied, “Is that an interrogation room?” Comment below if you agree that me and my diligent workers are in an interrogation room.
The two art classes from hell were actually pleasant and not-at-all from hell this week! I was grateful to end a good week of school on a positive note. Perhaps my momentum from school will carry on into other endeavors. Stay tuned to find out. Now a word from our sponsors.
Just kidding. I’ll never sell out! Unless someone wants to sponsor the Substack. In that case I’ll absolutely sell out.
Thursday afternoon consisted of a short bike ride and more of the usual.
Friday (3/20)
I did my final tune up workout on the track on Friday morning. With the finishing touches complete on my Apollo-esque physical form, my legs and aerobic system were ready to do their worst on Sunday.
I received new road bike tires in the mail this week, so I decided to set them up. The front wheel was replaced without any problem. My rear wheel’s valve got stuck, and then I mangled it with pliers trying to take it out. Now my wheel is sitting tire-less in my bedroom, awaiting the Amazon delivery of a new valve. I’m one hundred percent sure Marga is going to be perplexed when she sees a bike wheel in my bedroom tomorrow.
I shut it down early on Friday, as the night of sleep two days out from a race is often more important than the night before. I had a big day the next day. I was headed to the race expo and then to the Centro to get myself set up for the big dance. I drifted off to dreams of airhorns, cow bells, cheering supporters, and the clinking noise of a finisher’s medal bouncing off my chest.
Sábado (3/21)
I arose, sipped a cup of joe and munched a pastry for breakfast, and then did an easy four miles as my pre-race jog. Just enough to flush the system out and ensure everything is properly oriented and feeling good. After my jaunt, I packed my overnight bag with race gear, changes of clothes, oatmeal for the morning, and my toothbrush. I headed to the bus stop, and when it arrived, my race weekend had truly begun.
After a bus-to-metro transfer, I emerged in front of a massive convention center. The race expo only took up half of the bottom floor of this thing. I cruised through, collected my bib and shirt, and purchased some gels to take during the race. With the goods secure, I continued my southward journey to the center of Madrid.
The next time I emerged from the Metro, I was in a neighborhood called Lavapies (That translates to “wash feet”. Jesus related? Probably. He’s the most famous washer of feet.). It was the site of my accommodations. I booked a private room in a hostel for the whopping sum of…$14. I would find out later in the evening why I’d gotten such a good deal.
There was a big bike race on Saturday afternoon called Milano-Sanremo, so I munched a sandwich and apple I’d packed and enjoyed a few hours of ciclismo. If this was a less eventful week, I’d maybe commit some real estate to describing this race because it was an absolute ten out of ten. Unfortunately, I’m simply doing too many interesting things to allow for that. The Cole Train waits for no one. Choo choo mf.
After the race, I went to a thrift store to buy a €10 throw-away sweater that I could wear during my warm up. I learned this trick while running the Across-the-Bay 10k in middle school. My dad told me to bring an old sweatshirt, warm up in it, and then toss it before the gun goes off. That’s exactly what I intended to do the next morning.
With sweatshirt in hand, I bought two €1 tacos and ate them in the Lavapies while spectating a flashmob of silent disco dancers. Yes. People all dancing in synchronization and also wearing headphones so no one knew to what song/rhythm they were dancing. I suppose there are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.
After a few phone calls to some homies, the sun was going down and it was time for dinner. I chowed down on a big bowl of ramen, and I paired it with none other than a Fanta limón. The restaurant had the exact same interior design as the ramen shop in Salamanca from Week Eighteen.
With eyes closed and all intention to fall asleep, the reason for the cheapness of my hostel was revealed. My window was at street level, so all of the conversations being had at Saturday night drunken volume were very loud. I hear people speaking African languages, Asian languages, French, Spanish, and English. It would have been impressive if I hadn’t been trying to sleep. Eventually I drifted off, and when my alarm went off it was…
Domingo (3/22)
The race started at 9:15am, so I set my alarm for 6:50. I brought a paper bowl, oatmeal, and brown sugar from home, so I made a bowl of oatmeal in the hostel’s microwave. It was paired with as much water as I could drink and a double espresso I’d purchased the day before. There was zero chance that the cafes would be open at 7am on Sunday in Madrid, so I planned ahead.
With my stomach full and my body hydrated, I pulled on my race gear, packed my bag, and hopped on a city bike to get to the start line. I dropped off my bag at the bag check, taking with me only that with which I would race. I had my shoes, my sunglasses, my heart rate strap, and my throw away sweatshirt.
I headed to the porta-potties, and while I was standing in line, the guy behind me was smoking a cigarette. Never change, Spain. Never change. I did my business, and then calamity struck.
There was no toilet paper.
I didn’t know what I was going to do. Then I realized I had forgotten to take off a long sleeve t shirt that was under my throw away sweatshirt. Thank you NYU equipment room for supplying me with what would eventually end up as a clutch toilet paper replacement. I sacrificed my shirt to the gods of the half marathon, and then began my warm up.
As I was jogging I realized, I don’t have my heart rate strap. I have no idea when it disappeared. I have to assume I left it in the porta-potty, but the truth of the situation was that it was gone. Another donation to the half marathon gods. As I reported in last week’s edition, the course is undulating. This makes it more of an effort race than a pace race, as managing your effort properly is more important than holding a specific pace the whole time. Without my heart rate monitor, all I had was my mile split times from my watch. The old fashioned way. Analogue, baby. Just me, myself, and I…and the sound of my own breathing to tell me how I’m feeling.
With my warm up complete, I entered the corral and shouldered my way as far forward as I could. Because I had no seed time, I was stuck with the 1:30:00 pace group. My goal time was somewhere in the 1:16/1:17 range, so these were not my people. With two minutes before the start, they let us move forward, so I got as far up as I could. I slurped one of the two gels in my pocket, tossed my sweatshirt, and took a deep breath.
The gun went off, and the show was underway. The first three miles were straight uphill, so I slowly weaved through the traffic without gassing myself on the incline. We rounded the 5km mark, and then a two mile downhill began. I grabbed a bottle of water from a volunteer (at race speed. I felt like a pro), took a quick sip, rinsed my mouth one more time, and then opened up the stride.
I dropped two 5:30 miles back to back. Five miles down, eight to go, and now I’m ahead of my goal pace. All I have to do is stay consistent, and I’ll deliver the goods. I had a gel in my pocket that I was planning to take a mile five, but my stomach was tense from the effort, so I decided against it. My oatmeal + start line gel combo was plenty of fuel.
The race flew by. I was in the zone. The race was in a long, mostly single file line stretching out in front of me. There were some Kenyan guys at the front who ended up running sixty minutes flat. That’s 4:34 pace for thirteen miles. As they did their thing at the front of the race, I rolled with the terrain. I had no gas to give on the uphills, so I survived them and then cruised on the downhills.
The final three miles started to get hard. I was running down Madrid’s equivalent of Broadway, but I had no time to appreciate it because my heart rate was 190 and I had tunnel vision. I battled through Madrid’s iconic streets. I rounded the final corner. A half mile false flat drag was all that laid between me and the finish line. With the Prado Museum on my right and flanks of cheering spectators, I hung on to life for three painful minutes.
I made it across the line and immediately dry heaved. Thankfully, I did not yak. What I did do was run a 1:16:30. That’s 5:49/mile, or 3:37/km for my European audience. I did it! I ran the time I wanted to! What a way to start a Sunday morning.
I staggered forward, collected a finisher’s medal and a string bag with some gatorade and food in it, and then hobbled to collect my bag. I “ran” a cooldown if you consider thirteen minute pace running. My IT bands were screaming at me. As I was packing up my things to leave, my boy Guillermo from my Wednesday night track club messaged me that he was at the finish line too. We got a photo together, and then he offered to drive me home! Joaquin calls Guillermo “DJ” at track club, but his WhatsApp contact says Guillermo. I don’t know which one is correct, so I’m going to call him “DJ Guillermo”. He’ll have a residency in Vegas in no time.
We hobbled onto the Metro, wincing with each downward step we had to take. DJ Guillermo’s dad lives in the Centro, so he’d parked his car there. As we were walking to it, I said that I was excited to drink a beer and eat a pizza in celebration today. He said, “Let’s get a beer right now!” I didn’t need to be convinced.
We sat in the sunshine, enjoyed a cold one, and compared differences in American and Spanish drinking culture. DJ G wanted to know if frat parties were actually like how they looked in the movies. I said that to some extent, yes, they kind of are that crazy. He was also forlorn to learn that American beers do not come with anything salty to snack on. He even said, “The salt makes you want to drink more beer. The Americans are leaving money on the table.” I assured him that Americans do not need salty snacks in order to put down some serious volume.
With celebratory beers complete, we began the drive back to San Aggy. I was very grateful not to be on the bus. I’m sure the passengers who would have had to smell my post-race fumes were also happy I wasn’t there. I have to say, I was pretty impressed with my ability to speak Spanish today in such a fatigued state. Maybe the post-race tiredness meant that I didn’t have the energy to overthink what I was saying. Whatever the reason, my Spanish came easily today.
Since then, I’ve been crooked. I’ve done various forms of lounging since I got home, and not much else. I fear how I will feel tomorrow morning. I have a feeling I will be making some strange sounds whenever I have to lean over. Pray for me.
Thus concludes another week in the life of Coleman Vincent Ruiz 3.0. I believe I’ll receive race photos at some point next week, so I’ll include them at the beginning of the next edition. I travel to Barcelona on Friday for some partying and cycling spectating, so in addition to my aura-oozing action shots from today, you have part one of the Spring Break Bonanza to look forward to. Until then, chao chao!
SOOOO AWESOME