‘Tropical the island breeze’

Madonna, La Isla Bonita

Running on holiday? Are you off your tits? Possibly. Traditionally a holiday should be an opportunity to relax, spend time with the family, and drink quite heavily during the day time without fear of being escorted from your desk and out of the building. If you’re a regular runner like me though, it can also be a fitness shitness disaster.

Taking a week or two break from running on the face of it is not the end of the world. There are those that argue it’s good to give the muscles and body a rest, ease those aches and pains and be fresh and recharged to start again. It probably is to be honest. Unless you’re spending the week vegetated in the sun, eating and drinking your body weight in shite. That’s probably not good. Tried going for a run after a prolonged period of doing that? It’s like wading through treacle, whilst being repeatedly booted in the stomach.

Whenever I go ‘on holiday’ in this country I always take my running gear (more of that in Part 2), but abroad? It’s like hot and stuff. Could I actually join the sad sacks and run whilst on my family get away? Yes. Yes I could. In Menorca.

First off, an interesting fact about Menorca – they invented Mayonnaise. Already I’m a massive fan. Mayo goes with everything; chips, salad, pot noodles. For the record, this will complete my full set of Balearic Islands. When I was a young pup back in the 90s, we went on a couple of family holiday to Mallorca. That was until 1996 when, being the youngest sibling and having just completed my GCSEs, my parents informed me that it was ‘so long suckers’ and they would now be pissing off on holiday on their own. Tough love.

When I turned 18 in 1998, I went on a lads holiday to Ibiza. I’d love to now tell you some fantastically stories from that holiday but for legal reasons I’m unable to. All I’ll say is that my weeks memories are sketchy, other than the Weekend at Bernie’s type incident with an unconscious Norwegian girl we found in our apartment and a lass from Dundee who threw up all over me. I came back as pale as I went, that’s all you need to know.

Since then it’s been Greece all the way for me, and my return to these isles two decades later should be a far more chilled and relaxed one as I now have my own family in tow. Whilst in those heady days of 1998 I was just praying to wake up at some point during the day and not be covered in my own vomit or dead, this holiday I’m planning to be up every morning and out for a run. What a fucking hero.

Thanks to the genius of Google Earth, Maps, and Street View, I’m able to dive into my resort well in advance and see if I can figure out any potential routes. Now, just to get this straight, I’m no masochist. I’m not looking to smash out a 10k or meticulously plan this out military style. I am on friggin holiday. 3 or 4 nice 5ks, that’s the idea.

The resort itself looks compact, and also pretty flat (get the fuck in) and I find a loop which should cover the 3 miles. I discover what appears to be a viewing point and decide that’s where I’ll finish my run. Using my noggin here. There should be a nice cooling wind off the sea, or at least a breeze of some description at this point. It’s also a 5-10 minute gentle stroll back to the apartments – gives me ample time to cool off and look fresher ie not fucked when I get back there.

So with research done and Garmin packed off we pop to Cala Piques. I get a big 10 miler in the night before we go – an insurance run just in case I get to Menorca and simply can’t be arsed. Unfortunately, it pisses down and I have to chuck my rain sodden running shoes straight into my bag. By the time we arrive at the apartment and unpack, they are honking. I leave my trainers outside to dry out in the Med heat and decide to do the first run Monday morning.

This isn’t a travel blog, so all I’ll say about the resort and apartments were that they were fucking fantastic. There you go, stick that shit on Tripadvisor. The first couple of days are great and, as predicted, I eat and drink a fair amount of crap.

On the Monday morning I put operation ‘Sun Run’ into action. I set my alarm far too early for anyone who’s supposed to be abroad on a break and I’m out stretching by the pool at 7am. I say stretching. These are more like wake up slapping and trying to convince the bloke cleaning the pool that I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s hot. Already. You have to remember, I’m born and raised on the North East coast and spend most of my winter running through wind and hail – fighting off both tears and hypothermia.

I set off on the route and its quiet. Like, deathly quiet. There are literally no signs of life anywhere. Everything is shut and the streets are completely deserted. But then again, it’s 7am in a family holiday resort. What sort of idiot is up at this time?

The route turns out to be great. It’s both as flat and as safe as it looked on the maps, no climbing banks or falling down manholes. It isn’t very exciting however and there is little of note either landmark or view wise. Near the end of the route though I do pass the Hipódromo Torre Del Ram, which is basically a Horse Racing track. Turns out it’s the Ben Hur type of horse racing – horses pulling small chariots kinda stuff. Here I see the first sign of life, as a local is racing around on what I assume is a training run. Sadly, he doesn’t appear to be carrying any weaponry. If you’re going to race chariots Roman style, then you should be trying to hack your opponent up. Or to the death frankly.

Once I’ve passed the fun free but family friendly race track, it’s a quick cut through a few streets of villas and then I’m at the home straight on Avengunda des Pont D’en Gil. This is my scenic finish with sea breeze I was talking about earlier. The Pont D’en Gil itself is basically a naturally created hole in a cliff that small boats can pass through. Like an exotic Marsden Rock, but without the pollution and souped up Renault Clio’s overlooking it.

The path itself to the Pont D’en Gil is off road and looks like the kind of terrain that would sever my ankles in half. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Instead, I run along the Avengunda to the viewing point and stop. It’s boiling. I’m boiling. I stand on the cliff edge and take in the cool breeze. This route is either pure luck or pure genius. When I get home and upload my runs, it turns out this bit is a well covered Strava segment. I can see why. Great minds think alike.

I get up the next four mornings and repeat this run, tweaking it slightly as I get to know my way around the resort more and to keep it interesting. I deviate off to overlook one of the coves one day for example to give myself some more scenery. As the week goes on and I drink and eat lots of crap, getting up is becomes harder and harder and the runs more leggy. Still, I’ve got out, and it’s 15 miles of running I wouldn’t have done normally. I’m also running quite fast, averaging about 27 minutes for 3.2 miles give or take so I’m hardly taking it easy. What I’m trying to say is job well done.

The other big bonus from running on holiday is that when I get back I don’t have ‘Runners Dread’. That’s the mental anguish when you’ve not been able to run for a while due to injury, work, or drunkiness and just know it’s going to fucking hurt. And usually, it does. Not a drop of that on my return, straight out on the Sunday and feeling cracking.

The verdict? I’m really glad I finally bothered my arse to take my running gear with me. I should have been doing this years ago if I’m honest. It’s fairly ball ache free if you do it right. Prep a route, get out before it gets too warm (I would say get out at night when it gets cooler but you’re on holiday so don’t be a complete tit) and do nothing more than a 5k.

Or you could just eat your weight in Paella, drink till you fall over, and not give a shit. Personally, I approve of both.

Muchos Gracias Menorca, it’s been great.