Friends in High Places (Part 2 of 2)

Starting the second day.  Friends Adnane, Khalid, Adnane kneel in the front row.

Typically, I'm pretty independent and don't mind doing things alone.  Traveling, exercising and working have all been individual pursuits lately, bringing a little peace and quiet to my relatively non-peaceful lifestyle of the past nine or so years.  But when the opportunity to run this race came up, I quickly spread the word to my buddy, Eric, who decided to join me over the past weekend.  

Feeling good - Eric and I after the first day.

Last Wednesday, we sat in my truck on the way to Ifrane not exactly knowing what to expect.  Arriving after a short trip, we knew two things: where to meet the supporting staff and the altitude is high.  Aside from that, we were open slates.  Where would we stay?  How would we get there?  How many people are participating?  These questions - among many others - ran through both of our heads.  

As we started the registration process, dozens of Moroccan strangers passed around us, chatting to each other with words spit too quickly for our western ears to catch.  Fast-looking men and joyful women milled around the room, each seemingly more interested in meeting their new neighbor than signing in.  As we hunkered down in a corner waiting for the bus to take us to the first site, I didn't see the people buzzing around me as dear friends.  But, that would quickly change.

Making a new friend at registration.  After a nap, I woke with a little bird perched on my hat.  On my left shoulder in this photo, he quickly emptied his bowels after I woke.

A Mingling Lunch

"Eric, Eric, Jay, sit with us!"  The call comes from the second table in the middle of the tent.  Filling eight of the ten seats are faces both familiar and unknown, but each of them are smiling as their arms wave my buddy and I over towards them.  I know Lhassan and Adnane, but I don't remember seeing any of the others last night or during today's 11 miles.  I hope they don't mind me not remembering them.  I pull out a white lace-covered folding chair and uncomfortably park myself.

Introductions are quick and before the first tray of vegetable salad hits the table, I'm reacquainted with most of the men.  There's Adnane, the small, who's energy and hooting and hollering could put a smile on anyone's face.  Adnane, the medium, who speaks good English.  Lhassan, the dentist from Casablanca.  Khalid, the dentist from Rabat, and the two amigos, Carlo and Enrique, from Spain.  

As we dish out some small talk, I can't help thinking how accepting my colleagues are and how easily they've made me feel welcome.  Have I ever felt the same at any of the races I've done in the States?  Not that I remember.  The main course arrives, and the conversation shifts from cross-cultural pleasantries to fast regional chit-chat; Moroccans chirp to each other in dialect, the two Spaniards exchange observations in Spanish and Eric and I talk about the economy in English.

Afterward, a cup of yogurt and pieces of fruit sit in front of each of us, and the conversation again melds between the groups in a conglomerate of Arabic, Darija, Spanish and English.  The Moroccans are experienced runners and at least one of them has run this race before, so they dish appreciated advice and encouragement.  That's nice of them.  I wonder if I'll be able to keep up with any of them tomorrow!

The boys dishing advice over lunch.

 A Helping Hand

The next day, the sun floats high overhead, not a cloud present in any of the sky's great expanse.  The temperature has to be around 90 degrees.  Brown sagebrush and cut wheat stalks sway in agreement in a breeze that I can't feel.  How long have I been running?  I look at my watch; it tells me one hour and seventeen minutes.  Shit!  I'm not even halfway done today.  With over two hours to go and my body already telling me it needs more water, the first sense of apprehension creeps through my head.  I need to slow down  before I become a heat casualty.

Two more Moroccans slowly trudge by me as the treeless plains role high above sea level to our left and right.  "Come, come!" they say under their breathe.  I appreciate the sentiment, but I need to walk for now.  "Sorry, go without me," is my only reply.  They continue while I unplug a plastic bottle from my fuel belt and squeeze some orange electrolytes into my parched mouth.

Moments later, I notice that the forest in the distance hasn't moved in the past ten minutes.  Being my only reprieve from this horrible sun, it neither draws closer nor recedes farther.  It stays put as my weary legs try to push me closer to it (as well as the next water stand).  The last stand must've been a couple miles ago.  I'm due.  If not, I'm done.  As if sensing my thoughts, a shuffling pair of shoes speak to me from behind, "Come, Jay."  It's my buddy, Lhassan.

Smiling under his scraggly mustache, Lhassan grabs my arm and tells me, "Slowly, we will go slowly.  I do not feel good either, so we must continue together."  I drink his words in with relief.  I'm not alone in my pain!  Encouraged for the first time in miles, I shuffle beside him suddenly feeling less dehydrated.

For the next two miles, we go together, stopping for water, walking when needed.  Lhassan sings as we approach the forest's shade.  He makes me smile as a couple of passing bicycle riders take our picture.  My friend gets me through the hardest part of the race.

Hotter than it looks.

Lhassan and I afterward.

A Finish Line  

Running around the candy-cane painted curbs of the final bend in downtown Ifrane, I know the final finish line's close.  Thank God.  Again drenched from head to toe, I look down at my watch: 13.8 miles done today.  Not bad; the race brochure said this leg would be 14.8 miles.  I hope there's not some mind-screwing route that loops around Ifrane's lion at the finish point.  If not, I've got some juice left to finish strong.

Extending my strides, I begin to cut through the thin air and hear anonymous cheers through the trees welcome the woman in front of me to the finish line.  Excellent.  I'm done after this curve.  My strides get a little quicker.  Only 400 meters left; come on.  The bend straightens quicker, and the steep, red-roofed buildings lining main street appear to my 11 o'clock.  Small groups of Moroccans surround the blue arch used for each leg's finish, clapping along with the marching band's rowdy brass and percussion tune.

From somewhere unknown, I find that "fast" gear that I lost on the race's first day and cut through the finish line crowd at a clip of 5:20 minutes per mile.  Holy shit!  Finally - I'm done!  In front of me stands my new buddy and member of the race staff, Omar, holding my medal with a smile on his face.  "Mobruk, Sahbi!  (Congrats, my friend!) You did very good," he barks as his large hands drape the medal around my neck.  I return a pat on his back and  accompany it with a few thanks before I hear a crowd of Moroccans chanting my name a few yards away.

Ten of them in unison yell, "Jay, Jay, Ameriki, Ameriki, Mobruk, Mobruck!  Come, Come!" I make my way over to each of them, as they rise from the curb on tired legs and open arms.  Khalid, Adnane, Lhassan, Carlo, Enrique, Mouiz, Adnane in turn give hugs and words of encouragement.  It feels good, their acceptance and support.  

Many of them helped me along the route, keeping me going as they passed me; grabbing an arm, "Come, come!  Run with us!"  They were strangers 54 miles before.  Now, my biggest supporters.  They follow a few man kisses on the cheek with, "Are you running next year?  We're all coming back!"  I can only reply, "Of course I'm coming back; I've gotta see my friends."

Omar and I before the race.

And now for a Hail of Blisters:

• Abd Al Qadr Mouaziz.  The race's organizer is a world champion marathoner who's won The New York City Marathon and other European races, leading to a top world ranking at the beginning of the century.  Still able to outrun the field, our organizer was a gracious and friendly man who made his rounds, encouraging each racer at every point in the race.  Involved with each part of the affair, he was everywhere and always wore a smile.  From driving my buddy and I to the bank a week before the race to personally seeking us out daily, his leadership was something for others to emulate.  Thank you, Sadiqi!
• Staff Support.  The professionalism and planning of the administration was absolutely top-notch.  From punctual transportation to delicious catering, everything was well-planned and exceeded expectations.  I would recommend this race to anyone and look forward to running it again next year!
• Staff Support.  The small staff supporting the race was excellent, helpful and accommodating in every aspect whether it be encouraging runners along the route or hunting down a AA battery for one of their lazy foreigners.  It felt like one of the English speakers was specifically assigned to look out for the Americans for as friendly and supportive he was.
• Accommodations in Zawia.  The first night, we stayed in small bed and breakfasts in the village of Zawia, complete with three 100-foot waterfalls splashing at the bottom of the overlooking cliff.  Rooms were scattered across the tiny village, but every host went out of their way to make their guests feel like part of their family.
• Accommodations in Ras Al-Maa.  The campground in this tiny area is where we stayed for the last three nights.  A small site with a dozen cramped buildings equipped only with bunk beds, the organizers quickly had to set up a couple large tents and move runners around after some bugs were found in some of the cabins.  Aside from this small inconvenience, the site was quiet, offering rest and relaxation in the afternoon and a large common tent for evening celebrations and dinner.
• Food.  Every night and every afternoon was a feast of generous and delicious portions.  A variety of chicken, fish, beef and couscous arrived to our tables of ten on the sleeves of our well-coiffed caterers; each three-course meal was well-planned, emphasizing carbs in the afternoon and proteins in the evening.  It may have been my severe calorie deficit on the final evening, but the giant lemon and onion-glazed chickens served that night were the best yard bird I've ever eaten!
• Celebration!  Each evening during or after dinner, activities were numerous and often lasted late into the evening.  From award ceremonies to video clips of the day's race to traditional live music, the campground often didn't quiet until midnight and fostered that friendly environment that I've alluded to on several occasions.  Though I missed some of these festivities to get an early start on some sleep, they were a nice touch and motivating end to each day. 
• Pictures and Video.  Numerous photographers and cameramen were strung along the race, gathering enough footage to put together a 15-minute video recap the last couple evenings as well as a plethora of cheap picture options for every runner the final evening.  These guys were fast and significantly more reasonably priced than any western counterpart.  All of my "action shots" were purchased from them on 5x8's for less than $10, and I didn't buy most of the 20 shots they had of me.
• Awards.  Though the real reward was the relationships developed over the competition's 96 hours, the "Top 3" men and women received awards daily and a large award ceremony was held at the race's conclusion.  Every runner received a medal comparable to what participants can expect in similar American races.  The "Top 10" men and women also received monetary awards ranging from over $1,000 down to $50.

...And a Hail of Photos:

In the common area of the bed and breakfast before the first morning.

After the third day, a number of the guys and gals went to the river to cool down.

The food tent at the campsite.

Carlo, Adnane, Eric and me getting into the music.

One of the many bands performing until midnight.

The first evening's festivities before dinner.

Zawia at dusk.