Some Like it Hot
Fiona Thackeray
December 31st had dawned cool and cloudy. Mercifully, for I am a Scot, pale and prone to heat stroke. The 75th So Silvestre Race, South Americas prestigious 15km challenge through So Paulos pollution haze was going to be no fun run. But I had crossed the Tropic of Capricorn to get here; there was no dignified escape now. The weather, at least, was on my side.
By 1pm even the weather had switched allegiance. A pitiless sun stalked Avenida Paulistas concrete expanse. The womens enclosure was a treeless inferno. I hovered in the scrap of black cast by a huge bobbing balloon.
Camera crews, out in force, vied for the scoop of the day. Homing in, they picked out the oldest (83, and cooler than me in a wide-brim hat), the youngest (13), the farthest travelled (Sweden beat Scotland), and most wackily dressed. Senhora Most Wacky was a Bahian Queen from North Eastern Brazil: bells on her shoulders and bells on her toes, sequinned track tights, a wild silver wig and the heartiest laugh you ever did hear. She jangled her bells for Brazil with a shoulder shimmy and a throaty guffaw. TVs Globo Channel cameraman looked smug. Just ahead, Superwoman, Mulher Maravilha replete with red cape, and Minnie Mouse sporting outsize plastic ears did not go without their five minutes of fame.
The pistol fired and we were off. The route was a trail through urban extremes: the tallest buildings, the longest streets, the priciest real estate. One or two steep viaducts and even the infamous hill finish ahead were no concern to me, after the Dursley Dozen in all the muddy glory of a British February. Only the sun was my enemy. Oh, and a few months of very slack training without my trusty club, the indomitable Bristolian 'Park Furnishers'.
Defying the solar assault, I reached 5km parched but strong. Grabbing two water packs, I dashed one over my head, the other in restrained doses to my desert tongue. Rua Consola was no consolation, but around the corner were makeshift showers to run through: heavenly cool. Apparently from heaven, too, came cascades of shredded newspaper, thrown by the hands of cherubic children on the citys 39th floors. The crowds roared for Superwoman and Minnie. They loved the Swedes in their Viking hats.
Back at the start line for the mens race, 12,000 elite and amateur runners loosen up beneath the 4pm rays. Blushing under his veil, a muscular bride endures brazen catcalls. Farther back, a furry pink pantomime horse stretches his equine quads - surely a heat stroke casualty waiting to happen. An unlikely poster-boy for public health messages, his banner chides the crowd, Dont be dumb, smoking kills! Back in the intimate throng of the female race, we know the Kenyans are nosing the finish line whilst we hit halfway. Lydia Cheromeis native sun is no gentler than this. She breezes home in 51 minutes, her compatriots only seconds behind.
To my left a fellow sufferer wears a vest declaring herself an, Atleta de Cristo, Christ's Athlete, a pink JESUS headband completing the devotional-chic kit. The locals have rigged up backyard hosepipes to cool us, in a welcome gesture of compassion. Their cheers and calls accompany us all the way; the Portuguese words gibberish to me, sentiments loud and clear.
On we run to the final one-and-a-half kilometre climb - the infamous Avenida Brigadeiro. A volley of violent explosions erupts, ricocheting between the tower blocks. Not gunshot but the Brazilian mania for fireworks - at any excuse. The shock at least distracts me from the heat, the endless hill and my screaming legs. Rounding into Paulista again, the crowd's roaring emotion weakens my knees. Cheerers in silly hats, scaffold arches overhead draped with streamers and banners, music, outsize balloons and ticker tape. Ninety minutes will not make the record books but I feel like a hero to have made it at all in this absurd heat. Around me, real heroes are crossing the line, on a prosthetic leg, in a homemade recumbent wheelchair, in suffocating costumes, and in bodies considerably older than mine.
With ironic timing, the heavens open and a tropical lightning storm drenches us. I buy a steaming corn pudding from a street vendor and settle under a doorway to watch the mens race. The local hookers offer enthusiastic support:
Look at you hunky athletes.
The race ends right here, baby.
Rain is a blessing on this airless day. Paul Tergat bounds the last hill and glides to his fourth gold in five years. Fellow Kenyans take other top places, while a Brazilian, Marilson, grabs fourth. The crowd scream their patriotic lungs out.
As my Brazilian athlete crosses the line he is soaked but happy. Having improved his training best by almost ten minutes, its well he should be. I am envious and proud at once.
The rain hammers down on thousands of athletes squelching their way through the exit channels. The Hogmanay party is just beginning, awash with soggy ticker tape. Amid sweaty embraces, smiles and clunking medals, I muse that there are far worse ways to start the year.
