To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
Hamlet, William Shakespeare
We loaded our wagons and, after an embarrassing satnav failure took us around the block, our small yet perfectly-formed convoy bade farewell to the streets of the Big City. Saturday was illuminated by clear skies and strong sunshine. By eleven am the temperature was a heady sixteen Celsius and rising. Not, perhaps, a match for the surface of the sun, or even a chilly day in Almeria, yet it sent a shiver down my spine. Just how warm might it be out there in the sheltered hills?
I hogged the iPod, feeding a cocktail of rock and blues through the car speakers via a tuner widget. SP remained good natured despite the lack of Seventies Disco. I soothed him for the next two hours with a selected blend of bluesy Zeppelin and a generous helping of Stevie Ray Vaughan.
Our first port of call was the Courtyard Marriott in Galway City, home to Race Registration. Here we’d collect our race numbers and details of what to expect on the day; bus timetables, bag drop info, race start protocols, race briefing for Ultra runners, water station locations and the fabled Bin Drops. Each Ultra runner could submit three bags/ receptacles, choosing a ‘bin’ for each bag. These bins would be discharged at predetermined mile markers for runners to collect their provisions en route. It all sounded a bit tricky to me.
Wandering into the lobby, we found ourselves amongst what appeared to be a lost tribe of uber-humans. Long-limbed critters with impossibly flat torsos, lean, tanned faces wreathed in easy smiles mounted on muscular necks, runners from another planet. We stood out like sore, slightly portly thumbs, interlopers hot off the bus from Carbville (with apologies to SuzieQ). Ultra runners, I thought, a layer of self-denial dropped away. We climbed the stairs to level one and entered a circuitous lobby. More lithe, cheerful people clad in trackies and t-shirts offered colourful flyers for future events. After walking this gentle gauntlet we found ourselves back in the stairwell, numberless and confused. We found race registration on the next level. I shuffled towards a trestle table, drawn forward by a pair of soft, brown eyes floating above a beautiful, welcoming smile.
‘Ultra?’
I felt myself nod, slowly.
‘Good man yerself! Ya must be mad!’
I grinned, an involuntary stretching of the skin around my mouth. Giving my name felt rather like that scene towards the end of Life of Brian.
'Cruxifiction?' 'Yes' 'Line on the left, one cross each ...'
The lady handed over a large envelope. I strolled away, sliding out a sheath of papers. Race number, more instructions and a large, easy-to-read self-adhesive bag-drop tag. I spied a willowy fellow in a Connemarathon polo shirt; Ray O’Connor. I introduced myself, eagerly shaking his hand and, from somewhere deep within, thanked him profusely for allowing me to run three times my originally planned distance.
‘You’re only the second person we've ever had ask to do that’ he grinned, kindly refraining from any worried glances at the Guinness depot lounging above my waistband. I’d dressed carefully, donning my Two Oceans finishers’ shirt as much to convince myself as others that I was capable of covering more than the distance to the nearest buffet.
‘It’s going to be a hot one.' A furrow appearing across his forehead, easy smile retracting behind a look that would crack granite.
‘There’s a marathon going on out there today. I hear it’s brutal.’
Not the fillip I was looking for, but I smiled back and muttered something like ‘better than getting cold and wet’.
‘Oh yes’ he agreed. ‘But then we’re all used to that.’
I caught up with Suzie Q in the merchandise area. She was making eyes at a fetching black zip-up jacket, emblazoned with the race logo above the word ‘Ultra’. She tried it on and, perhaps swayed by my purrs of admiration, parted with a small wad of Euros. Antonio joined us, head stuffed in his race-pack, tone quizzical.
‘There’s no finishers shirt in here.'
With everyone duly signed up (Antonio, still remarkably sanguine, confirmed, with me, for the long one, SP, Suzie & EG for the half) we rode out into the west. Our destination was causing me some trouble, or at least the name was. Oughterard, pronounced, so far as I could make out, Or-Ter-Rard. Whenever I tried to say it I got it wrong, to the initial amusement and later frustration of my companions. Perhaps subliminally I didn’t want to get there, for that would mean another level of facade removed and the race, so long a hazy mirage, would be all too close and real.
Our Ops Centre turned out to be a gem. Unearthed by the meticulous El Gordo on a previous visit the hotel had been renovated to a good standard. The receptionist informed us there’d be a short delay as our rooms were ‘prepared’. I had visions of decorators applying a frantic final coat of paint but I needn’t have worried. It was after three pm. With luggage stowed we set off to explore the town. It took no more than a dozen steps to find a pub, and before you could say ‘mine’s a pint’ we were into the Guinness. The dark ale was as good as (and a good deal cheaper than) in Dublin and we took full advantage. To SP’s unconcealed delight we had not one but two pubs aligned sequentially next to our hotel, another opposite and yet another within a feeble stone's throw.
At some point we returned to check in. Our rooms were intriguingly named. Mine, ‘Exotic’, was adorned with faux 1920’s travel chest, pine wardrobe and a light, airy decor in keeping with the balmy spring weather usually associated with the Caribbean. I shut the door and unpacked my supplies. The Coke needed to be flattened (de-fizzed) so I gathered up all available beakers and cups which I filled with the noisy black muck. For a moment I worried that a cleaner might come in and empty the lot down the sink. Then I remembered where we were, and the fact that time moves a good deal slower in these parts. We’d be lucky if we saw a cleaner by the end of the week. Next I constructed peanut butter and strawberry jam bagels, dividing them into what I hoped would be manageable segments before wrapping them in toilet paper. This would prove troublesome on race day but here in the cool of my lovely room, a convivial swell of Guinness in my belly, I felt buoyed by such meticulous preparation. I stood back to admire the array of goodies before the solemn ritual of pinning my race number to my RC shirt. I planned to take a change of shirt (more skilful planning) to combat the sartorial inelegance of plodding for hours under a blazing sun. Only now did I realise I’d have to do something clever with the race number. This kind of strategic thinking required lubrication, so I retired to the bar where I found my colleagues discussing more pressing matters: where to eat.
After much deliberation we decided on the hotel. This brings us to the pre-race pasta meal and the SP/ S&P debacle. He took a lot of ribbing over that – rightly so, in my opinion – but the big fellow stood his ground and got his replacement dish. The boisterous chatter subsided as a combination of travel fatigue and waning excitement took its toll. One by one our party drifted off to bed, and I too tottered up that wooden hill.
To sleep, perchance to dream ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
