A Lizard In My Luggage (18 page)

  '
Hola!
Come on now.
Vamos!
You still sleeping?'

  His loud voice echoes around the
entrada
. I bob my head over the stair rail and notice that he is wearing a brand new designer running vest offset by red nylon shorts.

  'Give me a break, Rafael. We've got ages.'

  He raises his hands dramatically and examines his sports watch.

  '
Home!
Are you mad? We must go now. Aha! I think you want to miss race, yes?' He gives me a crooked smile.

  Goodness knows what has ever given him that impression. Alan and Ollie are fussing over a camera and

attempting between them to fix a huge number 808 on my chest with the aid of two safety pins. I ponder on whether the number reflects in some way the ranking of the runner. We clamber into the car and at the mouth of the track stop to greet Margalida Sampol, our sentry guard, who is looking none too happy. I get out of the car to kiss her on both cheeks as is customary.

  'You'll kill yourself with all this running,' she frets. 'It's bad for the heart. And fancy driving all the way to Palma in this heat!'

  '
Déu meu!
' says Rafael with irritation. 'We'll be there in less than an hour.
Per favor!
'

  'I'll pray for you.' She pats my hand, ignoring Rafael. We wave and set off along the mountain road to Palma.

  As we enter Palma city, the roads are lined with
policía
, wearing their trademark dark shades and officiously blowing whistles and directing drivers away from the main traffic arteries that are closed off by barriers. We have thirty minutes to go before the race starts but already there is a huge swell of toned would-be Power Rangers in bibs strolling around, gossiping and limbering up against walls.

  'How many people compete?' I ask Rafael nervously as we park the car some distance away and head for the start area on foot.

  'Six hundred or more,' he says cheerfully. 'Is a lot but just think, next April you run with over thirty thousand people in the London Marathon.'

  It's a sobering thought, as is the stark realisation that it will also be double the mileage of the race today.

  'How many women are taking part in this race?'

  'Maybe twenty.'

  This gets better all the time. We poor, outnumbered women are going to look like a party of minnows in this sea of pure Mediterranean testosterone. Alan can see I'm wearing my burning martyr expression and tries to offer some comforting words. 'It'll be over before you know it and then we'll have a wonderful celebratory lunch up at Es Turo restaurant with Pep and Juana.'

  'What about Angel?' asks Ollie anxiously, keen to meet up with his football playing buddy.

  'Of course they'll bring him. You can keep each other out of mischief.' He turns to me. 'Come on, we'd better let you line up while we find a good vantage point.'

  They administer good luck hugs and set off to find a place among the spectators.

  '
Venga!
' says Rafael and pulls me into a swirling crowd of sweaty male armpits. There is a real camaraderie between these men as they laugh and joke together. They turn to look at me a tad sulkily like a bunch of little boys whose Superman game has been crashed by Barbie. And an English one at that.

  Ollie is raised high on Alan's shoulders in a swarm of spectators, and is blowing me kisses. I look round for signs of other women and see a group of fit and toned girls chatting just behind the start line. Rafael was right, we are the minority and out of the twelve or so I have seen, I am by far the oldest. A moment later and a small man, corpulent and sleek like the Fat Controller, in a tight black suit, white socks and shiny shoes, raises his hands authoritatively and addresses the runners in Mallorcan from a high rostrum. I can't understand a word. The runners begin to whoop and clap and the crowds are jumping up and down with excitement. A moment later, he puts a whistle slowly to his lips and we're off!

  A young woman in a shiny black lycra top and tiny shorts sprints ahead of me, her legs thin and brown like strands of toffee. The crowds are cheering wildly and the heat sears my skin like a branding iron. Groups of swarthy, tight-muscled men are bounding past me now, their elbows brushing my sides. There's a distinct whiff of rancid garlic in the air and I look round accusingly at my fellow runners. The smell dissipates and is replaced with sea brine as we head for the docks where a slight breeze lifts my spirits. Thirteen miles. Thirteen long, hot, sticky miles. Why am I doing this? The crowd starts to thin as the more athletic types leap past, leaving the laggers panting behind. On a lamp post by the side of a bridge, an electronic temperature monitor flashes up 30˚C. My addled brain calculates that at about 90 ˚F. To the side of the road an official in a bright orange Tshirt is waving a flag and yelling, '
Venga! Venga!
'

  Don't
venga
me, matey, not in ninety degrees.

  We run on a seemingly interminable road that leads from the Port of Palma along the coast to the west. I look out over the calm azure sea and try to distract myself by counting the number of docked cruise liners and gin palaces forming a ring around the harbour. Nearly 30 minutes have passed and the sun is boring into a point in the middle of my back. Small clusters of spectators watch morosely from vantage points along the road. No one cheers. Since running doesn't figure much in the life of the average Mallorcan, I wonder if they are unsettled by such manic activity. Mallorcans rely on their vocal chords to do the walking, and running of any kind is out of the question.

  I look at my watch and see that we've been running for 45 minutes and 40 seconds. The sweat is streaming into my eyes and there are still seven odd miles to go. For a second, in the blur of runners coursing along in the distance, I imagine that I see Rafael, but it is someone else. Rafael is an excellent sprinter and will reach the finishing line long before me. I pass a refreshment table on the pavement where male runners, like an angry swarm of bees, heckle the volunteers for water. Squeezing between their extended arms, I manage to snatch up two bottles, one in each hand. I feel like Rambo gripping a pair of hand grenades.

  Slowly I clock up the miles, while my legs mechanically blunder on. It's hard to determine what's worse, the pain of running or the sensation of being barbecued slowly under a simmering sun. I have a vision of Greedy George suddenly appearing up ahead, his great bulk packed into tight lycra running gear. He lurches and staggers along, inhaling deeply on a fragrant leather lizard while cramming a sweat-smeared croissant into his mouth with the other hand, between heartfelt groans. I manage to suppress a snigger as the image fades. Eventually, the route curls up a steep hill and I watch the runners, like resolute ants, climbing to the summit then toppling and disappearing over the crest. I clamber on, my calves twitching with the effort. I'm now on a sharp descent and almost freewheeling down, down, very fast, until we come abruptly to another road, this one lined with cypresses, which afford no shade. Officials in luminous jackets are marking the route and urging us on with shouts and cries of '
Venga! Venga!
' Can these people think of nothing else to say?

  I reach the final bend and discover that I have one mile further to go. My bottles are empty and my legs are buckling in the heat. We're in tourist heartland now by the south coast in Magaluf. Crowds of holidaymakers scorched red and packed together like sun-dried tomatoes, line the pavements. A resonant voice catches my ear. 'She's gotta be a Brit with that colour hair! Go on love, go for it!'

  I glimpse a smiling couple just feet from me holding pints of lager and frantically waving Union Jack Flags. I'm feeling about as nationalistic as Guy Fawkes. I give them my best cheerleader smile and plough on. To my left the sea is glinting, flanked by a long blond beach smothered with sunbathers basted in suncreams and gently roasting in the sun. Momentarily distracted by this vision of heaven, I take a wrong turn and am pursued by a yapping official who steers me back on course like an attentive sheep dog.

  I'm now on a wide tarmac road and from all sides officials are jumping out, screaming for me to hurry. Hey, what's the rush? I'm still moving. Isn't that enough for these sadists? There's a hand on my shoulder. It's Rafael who has gallantly run back from the finishing line to spur me on, having apparently completed the race some time before. He too is now yelling, the sweat running down his cheeks, telling me to run, run, run. I can see the bunting, and now an official ahead of me is frantically crying out, '
Si, Si!
'. If he'd dared to utter,
venga
, I might have just knocked him on the head with my empty water bottle.

  Just a few paces to go and a woman is suddenly in hot pursuit, her breath on my neck and, as if in a pantomime, the crowds are jeering and with exaggerated hand gestures and facial expressions warning me that she's nearly upon me. I can't let that happen, not now. With one desperate leap my foot crosses the finishing line just ahead of her. She curses. It's over. I did it! Rafael is ecstatic. I almost detect tears in his eyes. Maybe it's laughter?

  There are scores of hot and weary bodies flopping on the grass and, as I look round, I notice a gaggle of sweatsoaked female runners talking animatedly as they sip colas. They stare at me for a second and then, with broad smiles, raise their drink cans in a salute. I reciprocate the gesture. Girl power exists in Mallorca. There's the sound of panting and Ollie hurls himself at me. 'You didn't come last!'

  I'm not sure if I'm supposed to take this as a compliment. Alan is his usual unflappable self and greets Rafael warmly. He tousles my hair. 'Knew you could do it. Now why not have a quick shower, and we'll be off to the mountains.'

  'What about the award ceremony?' says Rafael, pointing at a large stage set up on the grass. 'Everyone comes,
el
Batle
, all the local dignitaries and the press.'

  'Well, we'll watch the beginning and then shoot off.'

  Rafael shrugs his shoulders. '
No problema
. I stay here with my friends to celebrate. They'll drive me home tonight.'

  I leave them and potter off to the makeshift shower area and am drying off when I think I hear my name called over the loudhailer. It can't be. Rafael bangs on the door. 'Quick! You win prize!'

  I hurl on some shorts and a T-shirt and sweep the wet hair from my face. People turn round as Rafael and I make our way hurriedly to the stage where Alan and Ollie stand by the steps, their faces full of bewilderment. Rafael pushes me forward and in some confusion I accept kisses from the mayor and the sponsor, take my towering silver trophy and line up for photos. Two sporty women, probably fifteen years my junior stand in front; the victor and runner-up. I have come third out of the female runners. Armed with the trophy I walk jubilantly through the crowds with Alan and Ollie while Rafael strides in front. People are smiling and patting my arms and to my delight, Ollie actually looks rather proud of me. That's a first! In my brief moment of triumph, even the thought of running a full marathon no longer seems unattainable.

  'They think you brave to run as a senyora,' Rafael says without a hint of malice. 'Normally is very young girls.'

  Now there's a thing, to think that a female Brit, apparently past her sell-by date, can successfully challenge Mallorcan stereotyping. Never has the thought of a lunch in the mountains seemed so good.

I am struggling back from the market with two heavy shopping bags when I hear a loud 'Senyora!' from the mouth of the track. It is my elderly neighbour, Margalida. She is panting and waving her stick at me as if flagging down a passing car. When I reach her, she hooks one arm under mine and carries her stick with the other. I stop to re-adjust my load, at the same time asking her where she wants to go. There is only one other
finca
aside from Rafael's and ours at the end of the track. She points straight ahead with her stick and staggers on. As we walk she quizzes me on what I have been buying and looks satisfied that it is vegetables from Teresa, her old friend at the market, and nothing frivolous. Perhaps I have the makings of a good housewife yet. We walk slowly in silent intimacy. Margalida is so close that I can feel the warmth of her arm under mine. Her skin is translucent and forks of raised green veins run like rural map boundaries across her small, arthritic hands. She is vulnerable and bird-like, her small blue eyes squinting sightlessly behind thick lenses. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood but this is not my grandmother. A sorrow wells up in me remembering the grandmother I adored and my frail elderly aunt who now lives miles away back in England in a nursing home. Now I see her infrequently and my visits are punctuated with interruptions by care workers and communal meal times. Forever under public scrutiny, we are rarely permitted the freedom to speak together alone.