Head down, breathing hard, I upped my pace to six minutes thirty per kilometre and stayed there. Slowly, steadily the Lizard fell behind. I could hear him chuntering away, his voice receding as I pushed on. I felt a pang of guilt as measured Andalusian tones greeted him. I was certain Antonio’s natural curiosity would overcome any desire to commit Repticide. Fairly certain, anyway.
I continued to eat every twenty minutes or so. The fruit-based power bars were delicious, as was the Malt Loaf. I sipped from my drinks bottle between water stations. By mile ten things were definitely hotting up. I’d reeled in (incredibly slowly) a number of stragglers, chatting to them as I eased past. Aside from fellow runners there was little or no sign of human life. Bridges crossed crystal clear streams meandering down off adjacent hills. Fields of long grass waived silently as I chugged by. Although I train with others most weekends, I've learned to love the loneliness of these long-distance journeys. I started to think about Mile Thirteen and my trusty rucksack, laden with goodies. My legs felt fine, yet I knew I’d be needing an ibuprofen in a while, plus I could do with snaffling a banana or two to help dissipate the lactic acid pooling in my muscles.
Water stations came and went. I was thrilled to see they still had a few full bottles for us, the wonderful volunteers clapping as I passed.
‘Many behind you?’
‘Half a dozen or so.’
Mountains lounged on the edge of my vision, regal onlookers watching the colourful ants scurrying along the dark, winding trail. Bereft of rain for some days, the fields glowed wheat-blonde, grasses bobbing in the gentle zephyr. All the while the sun beamed down, chasing the cool morning air into the shortening shadows.
Mile twelve arrived with a surprise in store. There, on a slight ridge in the road, next to the black-and-white mile marker tie-wrapped to a telegraph pole, sat a trestle table, whereupon sat my purple rucksack. I’d almost missed it, my gaze drawn to the distance by the tips of a series of impressive peaks. I stopped to wipe the sweat from my brow and took a picture. Slightly bemused, I sauntered across. It felt odd, seeing this out here, in the middle of nowhere, having dropped it into a large black plastic dustbin in a noisy hotel function room some two hours ago.
First order of business was a change of shirt. I peeled off the sodden RC vest, folding it carefully with my running number upper-most before pulling on the cool, dry Two Oceans top. Another thumbs up for my planning. The fresh shirt was white, ideal for running through the hottest part of the day. By now the sun was directly overhead and shining for all its worth. I gulped down two Ibuprofen, followed by Suzie’s Little Helper, a tiny grenade of an energy drink that she’d assured me would give me a lift for 'up to five hours'. Warm salty urine might, by comparison, be quite tasty, but I gratefully swallowed my revulsion along with the last drop before looking for something to distract my taste buds. I fished out a bagel and peeled off the slightly tacky tissue paper, wolfing down the peanut butter and jam-filled segment. Delicious! Rucksack mounted, water bottle replenished and a banana clutched in one hand I turned to face the road, just as Robert Shaw dragged his fingernails down the Amity school blackboard.
Bollocks. I’d tarried barely a minute or two, but it had been enough.
‘Hey there! Takin’ in the scenery?’
Mortified, I could find no pithy remark. Instead I offered a weak smile, snapped a shot of his back as he shuffled by and set off after him, silently cursing my misfortune.
We chugged along, shoulder to shoulder, without a word. Perhaps my reticence to engage had finally registered. No matter, for what we saw rounding the next bend in the road fair took our breath away. There sat a picture postcard scene: a death-still lake beneath gargantuan hills, brown, beige, green and gold symmetry reflected off a wide, flat mirror. The Lizard refrained from staining the moment with inanity, simply letting out a whoosh of air. This was Lough Inaugh and the Twelve Bens (also known as
the Twelve Pins). I snapped a picture, then noticed the mile marker set at a jaunty angle. That got my attention alright.
We’d reached
Cloonnacartan having bagged the first of three consecutive half marathons in a shade over two hours twenty. Part of ‘getting my Ultra head on’ was to break the race into three parts. A half marathon is a mentally manageable distance, especially at a relatively easy pace. One gone, the next begun, it was a case of ‘as you were’. Another two-twenty-ish effort would deliver a sub four-forty-five marathon, the perfect launch-pad for the last assault. I read the bold, black-and-white typeface:
‘Connemara International Marathon - Full Marathon Start’ and swallowed hard.
Half a mile later we hit an impossibly long, straight road leading to a hazy horizon. Halfway along what turned out to be a two kilometre stretch from Finnisglin to Letterbreackaun, sat a lone port-a-loo. Looking like a cheap replica of the TARDIS, the blue plastic box leaned precariously across the road. Next to it sat an abandoned table surrounded by hundreds of plastic bottles. It looked like the aftermath of an alien abduction; there should be people here, yet aside from a few colourful dots (runners) in the distance we were alone. The Lizard wandered off towards some clumpy grass and let out a loud yelp. For one unkind moment I thought he’d sunk up to his waist, taken by the peat bog to save us from his babble. Instead he stood up and yelled
‘Hey! Some of these baadles are full!’
He’d found a batch of water bottles, un-touched other than to be chucked into the long brown grass where they lay like translucent dinosaur eggs. I helped him scoop them up and lay them on the table for the few runners still behind us. I regretted my animosity towards the fellow. Clearly his heart was in the right place, even if his political sensibilities were misguided and his jaw incapable of rest. Within ten minutes my ire was restored, the flow of verbal diarrhoea increasingly noxious and seemingly without end. Once again I pulled away, swearing a silent oath that
I would not see him again today.
Eyes fixed on the horizon I tried a little meditation.
Pace yourself ... bend your knees ... keep a straight back ... hydrate ... watch your form, calorie in-take ... relax; enjoy the ride ....
My mantra repeated Chris McDougall’s advice over and over. Before long I had the road to myself once more, digging into my second thirteen miler of the morning with relish. With so much wild beauty in every direction, I'd not yet tired of running through this land.
Past Tooreenacoona the road began to rise until, breathless and pouring with sweat, I reached the crossroads at Kylemore.
Ray O’Connors instructions from a lifetime ago echoed in my head.
‘What do you do at Maam Cross?’
The chanted reply: ‘Turn Right!’
‘And what do you do at the Lissoughter junction?’
More voices this time: ‘Turn Right!’
‘And when you reach the junction at Kylemore?’
All: ‘TURN RIGHT!’
I was glad of that now, for I was staring at a baroque montage of road signs angled to all points of the compass. I turned right and upwards, ever upwards, past a stone-built hotel where a smattering of ruddy-faced folk, decked out in garish summer sweaters, applauded. From the sharp turn at Kylemore and on to Creagha the road got steep. Here, for the first time, my legs started whingeing. My calves ached with the climbing, albeit modest work by Sunday long run standards, and my hips felt sore. My ‘cool clean’ shirt was already heavy with sweat and my achilles felt tight as Captain Tom’s money belt. At barely twenty degrees Celcius we were still well below Cape Town's brutal broiler. I took comfort in the knowledge that I’d had it far hotter, and tougher, than this. I pressed on, checking my stride to keep everything nice and tight. Getting out of shape expends energy you can ill afford. Staying upright and avoiding ‘body wobbles’ (I’m sure there’s a technical term) saves energy, key to any survival strategy. I continued to catch and pass other runners. Many were taking regular walk breaks, munching on snacks or slurping on drinks. This gave my confidence in reaching Check Point Charlie before the deadline a real boost.
At 35 kilometers, just past Bunowen, the road levelled out before the long, steady descent into
Killary Harbour. I relaxed, embracing the gentle slope towards the fjord (there’s some debate as to whether Killary was formed by glaciers, and therefore not strictly a fjord, but frankly that’s too anal, even for me. It’s a fjord). The water called to me, a siren song of cool embrace to sooth my burning legs. I shook this off; there’d be no swimming here. Instead I turned my attention to the two ladies just ahead of me. They'd been dropping back over the past mile or so. I huffed along in their shadow for a few minutes before one of them slowed to a walk, causing her companion to check back. I kept going, flicking a handful of sweat from my forehead once I’d reached safe distance. My legs were tightening by the stride now. I could see a water station just ahead and I could make out an assortment of bags and packages on a trestle table next to the mile 22 marker … and there they were, my ancient running shoes, parked solemnly next to some carefully labelled packages. Relieved, I plundered their contents, restocking my water bottle and taking a long pull on the flat coke before stowing supplies in my rucksack. Moyleman extolled the restorative virtues of flat coke during the Two Oceans, and I gulped down the warm, sickly-sweet fluid hoping he was right. For a split second I considered wedging the loyal runners into my pack, but this was no time for sentiment. They’d served me well, carried me over many a mile. It was time to say farewell. I set off with a final glance at the sad, empty shoes, and turned my attention to the road ahead.
The two ladies had passed me whilst I’d loaded up. One was clearly much stronger than the other and I sensed an imminent parting of the ways. To my left the ground dropped sharply towards the dark waters of the inland sea. Some of the high gorse on my right cast a merciful shadow, so I risked the heavier camber to take respite from the sun. Once again I caught, and passed the two women. A glance confirmed that one was indeed red-faced and blowing hard. The other was upright, relaxed and looked horribly full of running. Five minutes later it was my turn to slow, my legs unhappy with the constant down-hill pounding. Tired and hot, I’d lost some form and had been over-striding for the last mile or so, ramming my full bodyweight through my knees and heels with each heavy footfall. I adjusted, shortened my stride and tried to keep my landing foot directly below me. This helped, but inevitably my pace dropped. I could hear strong, fast foot-falls coming up behind but I didn’t look back. I guessed it was the stronger of the two women and so it proved as she sailed past, flaxen hair streaming in her wake.
My Garmin flashed up 40k. I could see the rooftops of Leenan, the comely village hosting our 26.2 mile check point and the start of the final Half Marathon. I was OK for time so I took a walk break. ‘Only for a minute’ I promised myself, yet one rolled into two as my hammered muscles relaxed and my lungs celebrated with deep draughts of warm air. I flipped the rucksack off my shoulder and took another slug of coke, followed by water and a couple of Jelly Babies. As I rummaged around in the increasingly unpleasant depths of the bag I realised that my RC shirt had soaked everything, wreaking havoc with the carefully-wrapped chunks of bagel. I shook my head, sending a spray of warm sweat across the tarmac.
Come on old son, let’s get through this checkpoint and sort this lot out.
