Being a chatterbox has its bad sides and its good sides. The bad ones – some other time.
The good thing is that when you inform the whole world about your problems, someone might just hear you and help. It has happened that in some blog post or other I've mused at length about women and cars in general, as well as about my personal relationship with my own long-suffering Hyundai i30. As a direct or indirect result of this, Hyundai got in touch with me and offered me a test drive of the oxymoronic-sounding “New Old Hyundai Staria”.
The Man-from-Hyundai and I agree that I'll combine the test drive of the Hyundai Staria with our trip to the marathon in Burgas, where I've threatened to run the 42-kilometre distance. This car is a car for adventurers, he tells me.
Neither he nor I suspect how right he is – this car drove me straight into one of the biggest adventures of my life, which I'm glad I crawled out of in one piece.
Since I've spent the days before with my family in a caravan at the seaside, I head back to Sofia on my own to pick up the Hyundai Staria. To be honest, that trip to Sofia was no hardship at all. In a caravan on a deserted beach with an icy wind in September it is so “interesting” that my eldest son, in a desperate attempt to kill time, went as far as reading “King Rat”. That is the equivalent of me being so bored that I actually start ironing our bed linen. With an iron, I mean.
The next day I pick up the car and start gathering impressions. Generally, I'm used to other road users not respecting me all that much while I'm in my own ordinary car. So at first I can't make a direct connection between the fact that I'm driving a cool car and the incredibly high level of courtesy the world around me is showing me.
For starters, nobody cuts me up while waving angrily at me. On the contrary – all the drivers around me nod at me with friendly smiles at the traffic lights. The only thing they haven't done yet is applaud me for existing. What a wonderful day, I think naively. The world is full of good people. I only sense that people's kindness is becoming suspicious when I try to get into the car park of the Lidl on Cherni Vrah. There's an automatic counter there for the number of cars that can enter the main car park, which is separated by a barrier. When this counter shows “Zero spaces available”, as it did at that moment, you have to look for a space in a horrible back yard, far from the shop itself. I take my ticket from the barrier and I'm just about to turn towards the back yard when a smiling attendant nimbly pops out of the security booth and signals to me to roll down the window:
“It says there are no spaces, but I'll lift the barrier for you. You can park the car at the far right of the top row, there's one little space left. So you don't have to traipse about.” The man is concerned for my wellbeing. He wants to spare me the hundred-odd steps from the back yard to the shop. Considering that on Sunday I'm going to run 42,000 steps, I think I'll take him up on his offer. Otherwise it's already crystal clear to me that this little space is free for me only because I'm in the Staria, but – hey, I am researching the effects of driving a super cool car, aren't I?
Next comes enormous stress, as I load up Kris, Kami and Katya and am going to drive them to the seaside. Driving on our home-grown motorways is a special circle of hell for us – people who are afraid of high speeds. If it were up to me, I'd crawl along in the right-hand lane from Sofia to Burgas without overtaking a single tanker.
I've stocked up on coffee, water and Coca-Cola so I can cope with the enormous stress awaiting me. To my surprise, the courtesy towards me continues on the motorway too. Nobody flashes their headlights at me meaning “Get over to the right before I flatten you with my 35-year-old half-falling-apart Beemer”. Even though the Staria is a 7-seater van, the car feels as light as a feather. For the first time in my life I manage to join the race, deftly overtaking vehicles in both lanes. After Stara Zagora I feel a surge of self-confidence and start “feeding” the tortoises crawling along in the right lane at 90. But that's how it is – you quickly forget what you used to be and what you'll turn into again once the test-drive weekend is over.
I drop my friends off in Burgas and drive, now in the dark, to the Cool Spot, where Emo and the kids are. Emo has come out to wait for me with a torch and is waving his arms excitedly. Never, not even when I was giving birth to his babies, has my husband awaited me with greater impatience.
“Niykata (note – not the standard ‘Niyo’, but ‘Niykata’), you're a hero! Well done for bringing the Staria all the way here! I've poured you a glass of wine in the caravan.” In his tone you can make out the unspoken “Leave me alone with the car and please don't get in the way of our time, just the two of us”.
I leave my Old Man to play with his Staria, and my thoughts turn to the upcoming marathon. I'm annoyed that, because of a landslide, the course has been changed from the original flat route to one with 200 metres of elevation gain for the marathon distance. In fact, I've misjudged what to worry about. Now, in retrospect, I appreciate Nakov's prophetic words:
“The temperature conditions are far more important than the course profile.”
And the temperature conditions in Burgas on Sunday, at the time we'll be running, will be 36 degrees. I don't know whether that's in the shade or not, but it doesn't matter, because along 90% of the course there was no shade.
On Sunday at 09:10 the start is given for the marathon and half-marathon distances. Kris and I set off together, our plan being to run the first half at 4:40 and the second at 4:50. For Kris, as well as being his birthday, it's also his debut over 42 km. For me it's the second time, and the first time I was slightly disappointed that at km 36 I didn't hit “the wall”. Disappointed in the sense that I want to run and live through all the running experiences there are, I want to travel and explore all the world's landmarks, and generally – to grab with both hands all the adventures the world has to offer.
Well, be careful what you wish for. Km 36 was heading my way, having prepared for me a wall combining the effects of 3 different world-famous walls. My Burgas Wall had the dimensions of the Great Wall of China. It functioned like the Berlin Wall, because it split me in two – it separated my mind from my body, which carried on the unequal battle all on its own, abandoned by reason. And its consequences can be described through the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem – I finished crawling with my forehead to the ground, seeking God's mercy.
But the start of the marathon was promising. For the first 5 km the sky is even cloudy. Kris and I tick along at the pace we've set ourselves. At every single station along the course my Katya materialises out of nowhere, bringing me everything I've loaded her up with – gels and so on. Just seeing her from a distance made me feel somehow cosy and safe – look at her waiting for me so devotedly.
At km 10 I drink my activator, because a very unpleasant climb awaits me, which I want to take at a decent pace and at the same time not let it wear me out. I also drink some of the carb loader, whatever that means. It had been highly recommended to me. Around km 18 I start feeling seriously sick. I don't know if it's from the things I drank, but I do know that it is more than high time to take my first gel. But just the thought of a gel brings a little material back up.
Otherwise I'm fine. My legs are moving and my biggest fear – needing the loo – hasn't come true. I have yet to arrive at the important conclusion that, in my case, what has flowed before will flow again, only through a different exit.
I pass halfway at 1:39, which is more or less what I'd planned. I keep feeling good, the MetaSpeed Skys have kept my soles and toes intact. Only the urge to throw up keeps getting stronger. At the stations I stop only for water, despite Katya, who materialises out of thin air at every station and, with growing concern, begs me:
“Take little gel or at least some solid food – at least some raisins, please, Niyechka, I beg you from my heart”
My reflux kicks in at the mere thought of a little gel and raisins, and I carry on with just water. The nausea is simply stronger than everything. I can feel that on the climb after 30 km I slow down terribly, but at least there's a bit of shade there. Next come 11 km in a Fiery Gehenna without any shade at all. Well – there is one shadow. I myself have become a shadow of my former self. I'm not even running any more, I'm alternating walking with running, and during the walking I allow myself to throw up a little. Throwing up makes me feel slightly better and I start running gently again, until the whole thing repeats itself.
I don't even know which position I'm in – at the top of “the Field”, as I'd named the steep hill, I cross paths with Nakov. He tells me that some “great-looking babe” is way ahead of me. He probably thought that would awaken the Amazon spirit in me and I'd speed up. In vain.
I enter km 36 and the three walls I described a moment ago come crashing down on my head with all their weight. I can't believe this torment will ever end. At the km 37 station, without any shame, I treat the volunteers to a round of vomiting. They actually take hold of my head and keep it under a tap for a very long time. The heat is so heavy that the water from the tap is warmer than the air. At this point my memories started becoming fragmented, but I'm sure that this is where Katya handed over my care to my friend from Burgas, Niki Pisarov, whom I call Pisi.
Pisi and I spend 5 kilometres infinitely stretched out in the space-time continuum. I don't remember how he motivated me not to stop. At one point I realise I can't even walk and I start zigzagging and, while walking, bumping into the benches and railings along the alley in the Sea Garden. I remember watching clips of marathon runners who, right on the home straight, start zigzagging and bumping into things like male praying mantises with their heads just bitten off. I always wondered why on earth they didn't just pull themselves together and run those 200–300 metres they had left. At the Burgas marathon I found out why.
For some reason the sight of the finish arch completely drained me. I collapsed and started crawling towards the finish on my hands and knees. Those 200 metres seem further away to me than the Moon. My only memory is of a desperate feeling of boundless helplessness, accompanied by the voice of Emo booming something along the lines of “That's what happens when you don't listen to me”. In this pitiful state I finish.
I lie there at the finish, flooded with cramps in the lower half of my body and flooded with the urge to throw up in the upper half. Despite everything, I feel some kind of moronic, misguided sense of duty fulfilled. I ask Pisi what time I finished in. I won't share it here, as it's definitely not something I'm proud of. But the fact that at that moment I was extremely pleased with my performance shows how clouded my judgement was. An ambulance comes to take me to intensive care. Realising that my children are next to me, I make a superhuman effort to give them the victory sign with my fingers and assure them that I'm in top condition.
In intensive care they tell me I've had sunstroke. They put me on 2 drips. While the drips are dripping, I start coming back to life and remember that I finished second, after Nakov's “great-looking babe”, and now I'm going to miss the podium. Well, my life is more important, after all, I conclude, resigned.
The doctor hands me over to Emo and the kids, who are waiting anxiously outside. Darling Emo is even happier to see me than when I brought him the Staria. The kids chirp happily around me. We get into the car and race off to the hotel to pack our things. Since I spent quite a long time in the hospital, we think the award ceremony is long over. We have no connection with the rest of the world. My phone is in my bag in Sasho's car. Emo's phone battery is dead. We have no charging cables, nothing.
Emo remembers that this car has a wireless charging function and puts his dead phone on to charge. A few minutes later, when we're almost at the hotel, Emo's phone, now charging, comes back to life and starts ringing. It's Acho, who asks us to head to the Sea Station immediately, because the women's 42 km podium is ready and is waiting specially for me before the ceremony can begin.
Emo drives the Staria at breakneck speed, taking the bends dramatically. I arrive at the award ceremony at the Sea Station “like a boss”. Here's the video Acho made of me.
/https://youtube.com/shorts/8O4e6ReKXXA?feature=share
There on the spot I find out that I've actually won. Nakov's mythical “great-looking babe” either evaporated in the heat, or was pacing someone without competing, or Sasho was simply hallucinating. The heat shows no mercy.
At the Burgas marathon I truly found out how truly good people are.
Both along the course and at the finish, lots of friends, acquaintances and strangers helped me however they could. For which I thank them. Every bit of encouragement helped.
When I got my phone back, it was overflowing with messages from my girlfriends, who had somehow found out about my adventure. I thank them too.
I thank Hyundai not only for the test drive and the free fuel, but also because, thanks to the “wireless charging” feature in the Staria, I managed to make it to the award ceremony, which I thought I had missed. And I won't hide it – I love being on a podium.
My team AsicsFrontRunner I thank by default for lots of things, but in this case they were with me remotely during the hardest moments. I remember how Kremena phoned Emo anxiously while the ambulance was still taking me to intensive care.
Thanks also to the organisers of Burgas Run, who once again showed a personal touch not only towards me but towards all their participants.
And most of all I thank the sunstroke – it both satisfied my unhealthy curiosity about the existential question “what is this wall at km 36, and can it take root in our soil”, and did me another favour. Ten days have passed since then and I don't feel like any wine at all. And that, now, is the miracle of miracles!
