Woe to You Oh Earth and Sea
for the Devil sends the beast with wrath
because he knows the time is short
Let him who have understanding reckon the number of the Beast
for it is a human number
Number of the Beast, Iron Maiden
By the time the long road out of Derrynasligaun reached the outskirts of Leenan we were running parallel to Killay Harbour. I was hot and tired. My legs belonged to a tin man in desperate need of some WD40 and I had a permanent thirst. The wheels weren’t off but they were wobbly. Lady number two (the struggler) caught and passed me. I glanced down at my shirt to see a nasty red stain spreading across the right side of my chest. Either I’d been shot or ... Nipple down! Nipple down! I scrambled the Vaseline, smearing a great dob of viscous white grease across the raw teat before treating it’s as yet unmolested neighbour. Have I mentioned that I was hot? Or that my legs hurt?
The good news was, according to my sweat-splashed Garmin, I was just a few hundred metres from completing the second of my three half-marathons. I’d taken a few walk breaks in the last mile or so, taking in the scenery without the horribly loud, rasped breathing or the ugly slap-slap-slap of my too-flat feet. Around the next bend lay redemption; Checkpoint Charlie, the twenty-six point two mile marker. Not one but three tables nestled by the entrance to a beautiful stone bridge, attended by what appeared to be a large, boisterous family. One of the youngsters came up to me holding a plastic beaker filled with orange squash. I took it gratefully and offered what I hoped was a smile but what was in all probability a terrible grimace, bound to give the poor mite nightmares.
I came to a shuffling stop and checked my watch. Four hours Forty-two minutes. Someone asked me for my race number and I realised it was bundled up in my rucksack. I shrugged the pack off my shoulders and dove in, pulling out a horrendous mixture of crumbling bagel, sticky tissue paper, peanut butter, jam and sodden, food-stained Running Commentary shirt. Yuk. The shirt was still wringing wet. I unfurled the offensive garment, showing the battered race number to an official. Then I had an idea. I’d planned to swap shirts back again on the long climb before the finish (when I’d certainly be walking). The idea of wriggling back into this foul rag was abhorrent. But ... if I tied the shirt to the handle of my rucksack (with the number showing for the benefit of any checkers along the route) the sun, still blazing merrily overhead, would dry it out. Genius.
This moment of inspired housekeeping lifted my spirits. I drained the last of the (flat) coke and rummaged for my last-but-one banana. Fair to say this was in poor shape, slightly squished, the skin blotchy and misshapen ... a bit like yours truly. I chomped on the battered fruit and with a cheery wave, and a much friendlier smile, I was away. Immediately across the bridge the route turned sharp right. I followed the road past an enticing pub, pushing thoughts of a pint in the stone cold shadows to back of my broiling head. The road climbed at an alarming rate, a vertical grey snake disappearing up, up and away over the horizon. Harsh, people, very bloody harsh. I trotted at first, keeping my steps short and sharp. As my pace dropped below nine minutes thirty per kilometre I realised I could walk faster whilst resting my increasingly sore legs, so I did just that.
My ‘striding boldly’ pace improved to around eight minutes forty-five, not too shabby for an 'at rest' rate. I still couldn’t see the summit of this long and winding hill, yet I felt certain by the time I got there I’d be ready to resume running. Unless, of course, my ailing legs completely seized up … My brain worked feverishly, trying to calculate pace, times, breaks. Was seven hours thirty still on the cards? Right, 4:42 for the first two halves, that leaves (counts on fingers, scratches sweaty scalp) ... two hours forty-five or so. Walk a couple of miles, maybe stop for a pee (I didn't, not once on whole darned voyage), average's likely to drop a bit ...
My head hurt. I pulled alongside a tough looking hombre in camouflage kit. I saw right away he was in pain. He looked across, eyebrows raised, offering one of those friendly smiles that look like a Death Mask.
‘Alright?’ I offered
‘Strugglin’. Leg’s gone’ (I glanced down, but of course they were both still there. The left one was unnaturally stiff, dragging slightly).
‘Had some injuries in training, thought I’d give it a go. Knee went a couple of miles back.’
I confided that I, too, was struggling, but found that upping my rate I 'felt better about walking'. He matched my stride and we marched up the hill like a couple of squaddies returning to camp after a night on the town. We exchanged running histories. This was his second Connemarathon. He’d hoped to break six hours thirty but would be pleased just to get to the end before nightfall. I told him my own story and his eyes got rather big when I got to the part about my recent upgrade.
The hill, (just over two kilometres long), took us fifteen minutes to complete. At the top I felt OK to jog on. My new-found friend thanked me for picking him up and wished me well on my quest. My legs were still tight but, with plenty of fluids onboard, I felt pretty good. The main thing was to keep moving, and to my great delight I started passing more runners. I noticed one of them had a different coloured race number, meaning he was most likely taking part in the Marathon. He called out as I passed. ‘Ultra! Go man, hardcore!’ That gave me such a boost I actually looked like a runner for a good thirty seconds.
At mile twenty-nine I assessed my posture and stride patterns. Not pretty. My upright stance had melted into a slouch, my short, sharp stride was now a scraping, slappy shuffle, yet incredibly I wasn’t wobbling from side to side, which I put down to keeping my knees slightly bent. OK, aesthetically this might conjure images of the late, great Max Wall (good job I wasn’t wearing leggings) but hey, it’s not a beauty contest. The bent knees thing, another gift from
Born To Run, helps alleviate stress on the lower back, a real problem for me during the Two Oceans and subsequently on most long runs.
Somewhere around the fifty K mark the road started to rise perceptibly. I ran for a while but after a series of tough, rising bends took another walk break. My legs were aching pretty much constantly - have I mentioned the leg thing at all? - but I was managing to shut those pesky alarm signals off and occupy my mind with happier thoughts, such as 'wow, look at those mountains!' or 'Hmm, she's got a rather nice bottom'.
The time came to brave that last banana, an effort to stave off imminent limb seizure. Once again I performed the awkward Reverse Heimlich required to shift the decrepit rucksack off my back. My RC shirt was a good deal drier and I allowed myself a small, self-congratulatory whoop. I thrust my hand into the dark recess of the bag, fingers scrabbling over all manner of foul wetness, until I found the mangled fruit. This felt like some deadly right of passage, like the Treebeast scene in
Flash Gordon, where Timothy Dalton’s ultra-camp Prince Barin oversees the unfortunate demise of erstwhile Blue Peter presenter Peter Duncan during a bizarre macho contest featuring a lethal stinging claw hiding in an old tree trunk. I’m not joking.
check the link I drew my arm out slowly to reveal my prize, a blackened, limp appendage that could barely have looked less appetising if it had been covered in flies.
Back in the real world, finding a tiny blemish on an otherwise pristine banana induces shrieks of alarm and wide-eyed terror. Fifty kilometres into a hot, hard road race this ugly battered mush was manna from heaven, gulped down with all the relish of a Gastronaut sampling the rarest truffle. I even smacked my lips. This pleasure was fleeting. Soon I was hunched into another climb, taking yet another walk-break to catch my breath in the heat of the afternoon. My legs un-cramped enough to let me run as I embraced the down slopes. Changing stride patterns helped shift the pain.
Six hours in, just before Griggins Bridge, I came across a couple of Ultra runners leaning against a dry stone wall. The lady had her shoe and sock off and the chap seemed to be applying some kind of lotion to her foot.
‘You guys OK?’ I asked. They looked up, smiling. The lady answered in a soft Irish lilt.
‘Oh yes, I have a skin condition. Just need to apply ointment now and again.’
‘Okay. D’you have plenty of water? Food?’ (a bold enquiry, considering the horrors lurking in my sweat-soaked bag).
‘We’re good, but thank you.’
I rumbled on, sipping on bottled water, munching on Jelly Babies, sickly sweet and horribly tacky. Another mini-hill at fifty-five kilometres had me huffing and puffing, sucking air that felt like it came from a hot oven. I walked 'till the road dropped once more. I felt really rather warm, yet I knew I’d faced much worse. I had none of the stomach cramps I’d suffered in Cape Town and had plenty of fluid to hand. I was moved to tweet
56 k. We’re in the fiery belly of the Beast.
At last, after more walk-run shambling, passing half a dozen fellow runners including a few more Marathoners, I reached the junction at Moneenmore. Slightly delirious I staggered past the turn across the bridge and on to a deserted garage forecourt. I looked around and saw a few people lining the bridge. They all seemed to be watching me to see what I’d do next. Realising my error, I stumbled back towards them, grinning sheepishly. They returned my smile, clapping politely as I crossed the bridge. The road stretched away, and off in the distance it rose between two great hills; The Hell Of The West, the two mile climb before the final descent to Maam Cross. I ran on, now at around seven minute thirty pace, determined to keep running until I reached the start of the hill. Once there I slowed to a walk, standing tall and marching rather than ambling. This took me past a few more run-walkers, including, incredibly, some Half Marathoners who appeared to be out for a Sunday stroll. Every now and then they’d see the number (still on my back) and I’d hear them speak in hushed tones. ‘Ultra runner - wow.’ I felt incredibly proud to be spoken of with such reverence, perhaps even a little bashful considering I’d walked for a good mile or so since Leenan. I strode and drank, munched and marched. As the road took me higher the views around me became ever more spectacular. They were as nothing compared to the glorious vista laid before me at the summit. A winding trail of roadway snaking down through fields of gold, bordered by magnificent mountains under a Very Big Sky. In the near distance a clump of dark trees guarded a lone building; the hotel at Maam Cross. The end was literally in sight.
My heart leapt. For the first time in a while it occurred to me I was going to make it. I glanced at my Garmin and nearly cried out when I realised I would not only finish but, barring a collapse of Devon Loch proportions, would do so within the allotted time. Once more I hoiked the pack off my back, this time to untie my RC top. The black shirt was perfectly dry, though there’s no denying it wreaked of stale sweat. No matter. I wanted to cross the line in ‘corporate colours’, stuffing my Two Oceans shirt into my bag before setting off on the long, gentle descent into heaven. My legs felt like hardened concrete, every step spiked with tight, niggling pain. I'd managed that pain really well up to now. This last of three Half Marathons had been a real slog, brutal at times, yet despite the continual stream of complaint from my legs, hips, back and chest, I’d managed to enjoy every step. This was in part due to a conscious effort to reject these signals, to shut them off. As the messages came in from various fronts my brain simply filed them in the tray marked ‘not required on voyage’ and told everyone to ‘carry on’. Somewhere in his book Chris McDougall talks about dealing with pain and self-doubt, rising above it by focusing on style and posture. For whatever reason that worked for me. Those last few miles, from the top of The Hell Of The West to the finish at Maam Cross, were impossibly painful, yet a part of me barely noticed. I was basking in the glory of completing the challenge way before I crossed the line. From a kilometre out people lined the road. Finishers clutched their hard-earned medals, friends and family scanned the road for signs of loved ones, all clapping and cheering the procession of half, full and Ultra marathoners heading for home. My yellow Ultra number afforded me extra claps and cheers, and again I felt a swell of pride in my tired, sweat-soaked chest.
At last I was round the final bend – or is that finally round the bend? The beautiful finish line, red banner limp in the still air, beyond it a familiar figure beaming the world’s widest smile. As I crossed the line, arms held aloft, Ray O’Connor stepped forward to shake my hand. ‘Well done! Well done!’ he beamed. I grinned back at him, shaking my head at what I'd achieved.
Minutes later I sat, slightly dazed, perched on a high curbstone, medal round my neck, fresh bottle of water in my hand, letting the sweat drip off my nose to splash into the dirt. A couple of girls chatted next to me but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I gazed dreamily across the road and fields towards the rising shoulders of the Maumturks as Phil Lynott’s distinctive drawl filled my head. Emerald has always been one of my favourite Thin Lizzy tracks. Sat there, in the roadside dust, after the heat of my very own battle, the day cooling around me, the lyrics resonated as never before.
Down from the glen came the marching men
With their shields and their swords
To fight the fight they believed to be right
Overthrow the overlords
To the town where there was plenty
They brought plunder, swords and flame
When they left the town was empty
Children would never play again
From their graves I heard the fallen
Above the battle cry
By that bridge near the border
There were many more to die
Then onward over the mountain
And outward towards the sea
They had come to claim the Emerald
Without it they could not leave
I’d claimed my Emerald. Now it was time to leave.
And time for a beer. Maybe two.
