Most of my training throughout the year tends to be at midday. I cycle home from work and feel active, although drowsiness catches up with me if I stop. Time passes after my last lunch, and the sunlight helps me to exercise. Everything is fine when the temperature is mild.
If, like today, after a few cool and rainy days, the temperature suddenly shoots up, things get more complicated. I returned to the mountain after a few days without running, focusing only on calisthenics and tai chi to strengthen my muscles and improve flexibility. Muscle recovery is improving, slowly, but as I picked up the pace and felt the intense heat, I experienced an unbearable shortness of breath and heaviness during the climb, so I had to walk several times until I felt comfortable again.
Not long ago, I wasn’t in favour of these breaks at all—I preferred to just slow down. In a long race, it can be incredibly hard to get going again, and the urge to quit only increases when you think of how far you still have to go. However, I now think it's important to approach training for what it is, and save the heroic efforts for race day. Walking, in these situations, and considering how likely I still am to get injured, will do more good than harm. Proper hydration is essential in this sport, so I drink before setting off and again when I reach the top of the mountain. There’s a fresh water fountain there, a reward for the tough climb, at the start of the Camino de las Aguas, a 9K track with more fountains along the way.
This time, I decided to take a different route down, looping home via the Font de la Beca—lovely, but almost dry—towards Sant Just. Pine groves, fig trees, American agaves, and carob trees line a dirt track descending through dry ravines. When I reach the urban area, old olive and almond trees remain, trapped along the edges, along with the ruins of a 14th-century flour mill, now just four stones. Hydration and the descent improved my pace. I’m the type of runner who takes a long time to make progress and find my rhythm. If I push too hard early on, I pay the price later.
To make the journey more enjoyable, this time I immersed myself in the jazz fusion of John McLaughlin and The Mahavishnu Orchestra's The Inner Mounting Flame, a 1971 album that blows my mind. Restrained virtuosity, subtle introspection, and unleashed bursts of discovery, fury, and sweetness—a refined and intense cocktail of emotions that always demands a return.
The path continues past tree-lined avenues and luxury villas. I pass the singer of a famous rumba pop-rock band, always smiling and scruffy, pretending to be exercising. His band fills stadiums and wins over the masses with catchy songs about living fast, carpe diem, and the working-class pride of migrant parents, though the messages are submissive, fatalistic, and full of sexist stereotypes. He lives in one of the enormous, security-camera-filled chalets in the area, home to footballers and the occasional politician. I carry on my way, following my own music towards the neighbourhood, along the old royal road, as straight and long as only the Romans could have designed it. I stick to the shady side and don’t leave it.
There are few low buildings left. A great void greets me as I reach the centre of Esplugues. They’ve demolished one of those old, low blocks to build a tall, modern, and outrageously expensive one. In doing so, they also took away the old bookstore that had managed to survive. My pace has improved, and my right calf is holding up. The heat isn’t letting up, so a shower as cold as I can bear is in order. Boiled rice with vegetables and a green salad will replenish the lost calories and salts. It's so hard, however, to restore other things lost along the way.
A great blend of lost and found that the eyes of a runner will notice.