Seaford Half Marathon - 5th June 2005

[Sweder]

Following yet another day’s golf (at the excellent Bantry Bay) and the required nocturnal tour of Macroom’s hostelries, I was rudely awakened at an ungodly hour by an insistent tapping at the door.

Good grief, what time is it?
My addled brain stirred, a leg fell off the bed, my weary carcass slithering behind it. Barely wrapped in a towel I opened the door. Had I a modicum of reflex to call upon I would surely have recoiled in horror; as it was, I stared perplexed at the vision before me.

‘'We did say 8 o’clock?’' queried a clearly wide-awake SP, adorned in last years’ JDRF Team 2005 jade T-shirt. 
Oh God. 
The memory of a foolish arrangement swam up through the murk; Guinness, lots of it, a dark corner of a busy neighbourhood bar; loud music, defiant declarations of early morning sporting endeavour. Bravado, bluster and macho posturing. And the swine had remembered.

‘'Tom coming?'’ he grinned, enjoying the mixture of confusion and horror playing across my pallid features. I turned in time to see a vision of our Captain, Tim (known for reasons to remain untold for now as Tom), rising, slowly, from the remains of his bed. We groaned in unison.

'‘Outside, 5 minutes’', I managed.
As I stumbled through clusters of golfing and evening attire strewn Ermin-like around the room, my memory cells began to warm, like the valves in an early television set. Riding on the crest of a half-decent round at Bantry Bay, fuelled by drink, I’'d extolled the virtues of tackling a woolly head with an early morning run.

A little more than 5 minutes later I staggered into the main street of Macroom, blinking in the harsh daylight. The road and pavements glistened with last night’s rain. We had established early in our tour that it is a legal requirement for rain to fall overnight in Ireland. Once this fact is accepted one can find solace in dampness; all is right with the world, provided that world is ever so slightly soggy. SP was across the street, signalling with an enthusiasm that would at this point have caused me to fall over, and was, by any yardstick, indecent.

'‘You have to see this!’' he called. I trotted across the road, the crisp morning air doing it’s best to clear my head. We strolled along until SP stopped, turning to face a shop window above which a squeaky sign announced ‘Macroom Antiques’. SP said nothing, holding out his arms in presentation towards the central window display, a large oil painting depicting a rural scene. I tried to focus. I tried again. Hmmm . . . something’s wrong with this picture . . . it was absolutely awful.

‘'If your 5 year old brought that back from school you’d slap him and tell him to try again’', grinned the Plodder. 
He was right. 
At this point a small commotion announced the arrival of Tim (Tom) through the hotel doors and into the Macroom morning. Resplendent in trackie bottoms and jacket, our glorious leader wore an MP3 player the size of a small house-brick, hung from his neck like techno-bling. For the love of God . . .

Pleasantries (grunts) exchanged, we established that I had worked out a route the day before. I felt it right to make clear that part of our journey would be off-road. I point this out because, in fairness, my two companions are devout treaders of the pavement and have shunned the ways of the hill runner. They seemed unperturbed and ready to continue.

‘'Right –it’'s that way, down the hill, across the bridge and left behind the shops to the river path’ - ' 
No sooner had the words left my lips than Tim, already bouncing on his toes, cried out in the sort of pitch and volume that only a person with extremely loud music blasting through their earphones can attain;
'‘RIGHT – LET’S GO!'’ -  and he was off. SP and I set off in hot pursuit, but even with a block start I’'d never have caught the Captain.

‘'Bloody hell!! He won’t last five minutes at that pace’.' SP was right.
Tim'’s form disappeared over the cobbled horizon, racing off towards the bridge. What we couldn’t know, of course, is that Tim had no intention of sprinting the first 200 yards. In his eagerness to start he’'d turned sharply and stumbled down a small set of slippery steps. The wonderous power of momentum, Tim’'s not inconsiderable mass allied with the forces of gravity and the steeply declining path, ensured unstoppable acceleration. Attempts to slow down would have been futile and, quite possibly, painful.

SP and I jogged on behind, bewildered. Finally we established order, with me leading (I was supposed to know the way), followed by SP and a rapidly fading Tim/ Tom. Half a mile along the towpath and SP pulled alongside.
‘'I think we’d better slow up’' he suggested. I glanced back. Tim, his pale visage transformed into a worrying puce, laboured behind. We slowed, then walked. After a minute or so our Captain joined us.

‘'A bit of hill-work ahead’', I announced, with no small measure of mischief. We scrambled up a sodden, weed-infested embankment and into the housing development. Back down another slope and onto the muddy track that only I knew would lead to the open expanse of Macroom Golf Course.
‘'Bloody hell'’ (Tim/ Tom), ‘'It’'s a bit muddy!’'
‘'Ouch!’' (SP) ‘I’ve cut my finger!’ A bold yet ultimately foolhardy attempt at a slingshot around a fencepost would provide SP with the perfect excuse for every duffed shot for the next two days : a nasty barbed-wire cut.

We reached a triangle of trees and thick rough, the intersection of flowing river and babbling stream. I paused at the stepping stones I'd found the previous morning.
‘'You sure?’' asked SP.
‘'No worries’' I growled, and leapt across the rocks to open ground. SP followed, but Tim remained poised on the far bank, a Wildebeest wary of waiting predators. Or not.
‘'You’'ve got to be ****ing kidding me’!'
‘'Come on you big tart’' I called. It’s quite something to watch a man of substantial construction tiptoe across a stream as if it were held a mile above a perilous gorge. Indiana Jones this wasn’t.

Safely reunited on the edge of the 12th green we set off across the iron bridge. The late® start meant that most of the natural inhabitants of the course had dined and retired to the safety of their burrows/ nests. Wise council, as a small army of Sunday hackers had already broken camp and were marching steadfastly toward their morning battleground. Still, the fairways and surrounding drapery offered a fabulous backdrop as we chugged up the gravel path inclined towards the road to town. As we reached the final ascent that would lead back to the ancient archway my legs finally found new life, and I pushed hard toward the finish. SP kicked on behind me, looking remarkably fresh, whilst Tim maintained a pace one could safely describe as steady.

We entered the town square as a coach-load of American tourists filmed and photographed the morning scene. No doubt on a whistle stop tour of Europe – hey, I can’t wait for dinner in Paris – these time-travellers, well wrapped in Burberry overcoats and the occasional deer-stalker, filled the air with appreciation of the Town That Time Forgot, delivered in a variety of drawls and nasal East Coast twangs.

Once again exercise had worked it’'s magic; I felt energised, and hungry. A full Irish breakfast awaited, and we set off for the hotel with renewed vigour and a healthy enthusiasm for more golf and gourmet guzzling .