Standing on my own
It didn't mean that much to me
I thought I had it all
I didn't see the mystery
I stood the test of time
I took the step to find
Love's great adventure
Ultravox, Love’s Great Adventure
Before leaving home I’d not given a lot of thought to the race.
We’d booked flights, hotels, hire cars, entered the race ... it was all there, on various pieces of paper. I’d contacted Ray O’Connor, the affable, well-organised Connemarathon Race Director, two weeks before, asking to upgrade from the half (13.1 miles) to the Ultra (39.3 miles). 'Training has gone well' I explained. He replied that the request was so unusual he would allow it, and that was that. It hadn't dawned on me that I was going to run a half marathon through the western Irish hills before taking on a full marathon through yet more hills. It was all happening to somebody else, and I watched it unfold with morbid fascination.
Sat in the pub in Oughterard, with SP, Down-In-one, El Gordo, M, Suzie Q and fellow Ultranista Antonio, the penny finally dropped. It landed with a dull thud, followed by a tinny rattle. I sat, unusually quiet, whilst SP drowned his pasta in salt (thinking it was pepper) before demanding a fresh plate. He was deeply offended by the absence of an ‘S’ or a ‘P’ (we should all have monogrammed utensils I feel) on the pots and the ubiquitous use of a single aperture. ‘Clearly everyone knows that salt has one hole and pepper has three’ he wailed, genuinely upset, across a backdrop of embarrassed tittering and the sound of dropped jaws striking wood.
The day before we’d landed in Dublin, where Down-In-One, urgently seeking an exit through which to indulge her nicotine habit, did her best to get us arrested by bursting, trolley-first, through sealed security doors. The wailing sirens receded as we pulled off the fastest nonchalant stroll in history. SP and EG secured the hire cars. We piled in and struck out for Dublin’s fair city. Two hours later we’d checked into our city centre hotel (having managed to slalom through a throng of burly French rugby fans) and located a friendly ‘local’. The Guinness was divine. We tested pint after pint, yet failed to find even one less then perfect.
In keeping with the surreal nature of my journey I announced (in what seemed to me like someone else’s voice) my need to obtain new running shoes. The intention to break one of distance running's sacred laws drew gasps of concern from my companions. To me it was simple. My trusty road-runners were tatty, old and battered, with well over 600 miles on them. I needed maximum cushioning for my duel with the road, ergo new shoes.
'You've thrown the rule-book out the window' quipped SP.
I never had a rule-book. I find them at best a guide but often misleading and, in the main, too general to be of use to individuals. Adhesion to the strictures of others distracts from what one must do to overcome an apparently insurmountable challenge: take dead aim. I have the late, great Harvey Penick to thank for that. A wrinkled brown berry of a man, of whom it's been said if one poured a bucket of water over his head not a drop would reach the ground, Penick wrote several books containing principals that he felt fundamental to succes in golf, in sport and in life. Like George Sheehan he believed in individuality, that we are all 'an experiement of one'. One of his favourite sayings is 'take dead aim'. Work out what you need to do, focus on that and don't let anyone or anything break your concentration. Harvey wasn't my only guide on the road to Connemara, but he was a very important one.
After a brief meander through a central shopping precinct we set off for Temple Bar, the infamous quadrant of Dublin 'blessed' with any number of Irish 'theme pubs' pumping out 'diddly-dee' music and Guinness in equal measure. The floor of the establishment was awash with spilled beer and broken glass. I guess Temple Bar ‘had to be done’, yet in spite of the quality of the Black Nectar both EG and I couldn’t wait to get back to a less contrived environment.
On Saturday morning I took breakfast in the hotel. An array of fried meats sweated under vicious sunlamps. Bowls of beans and trays of greasy fried eggs nestled alongside simmering tomatoes. All around us the French rugby legion, supporters of Claremont Ferrant, sat quietly contemplating their sides’ narrow loss (by a single point) to Leinster. Les Miserables mumbled thier discontent as they filled baguettes for the long journey home. Based on the body language I suppose you’d call them a shrug of Frenchmen. I almost felt sorry for them.
I left the RC gang munching on toast and struck out with SP towards a running shop I’d tracked down. This, I knew (having called last night), stocked shiny new Mizunos, size UK12. I’ve worn Mizunos for many years and had no doubt (provided there was no radical change in design) that I’d be fine in them on Sunday. Sure enough the new boots were as a glass slipper to Cinderella (OK, after a night in Dublin with SP Ugly Sister is more apt. The shoe didn’t fit them, so it doesn’t really work. Oh, please yourselves). I picked up a couple of Powerbars before plundering Tesco for bananas, bagels, peanut butter, water, Coca Cola, margarine, jam and malt loaf. Along with Jelly Babies this formed my supplies for the assault on the Connemara mountains; fuel of the running gods. Fully laden, I toddled back to the hotel where the gang were eager to hit the road.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Valid point about the new shoes. So long as you're using a tried and tested brand and model, and they didn't give you problems last time, then they should work straight out of the box, as it were. You can see why the received wisdom is good advice for less experienced runners, though.
Great stuff so far... is it going to be a monthly serial?
(11-05-2010, 07:41 AM)Sweder Wrote: The irony is I've waited a full month only to dash this thing off in my usual helter-skelter, slap-dash manner in mere minutes.
Ho yes, worth the wait! I've just read instalment 1 whilst sipping a very fine unspellable single malt at the end of a long day. Great work Sweder - I really am looking forward to the next ripping episode!
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
Fail to prepare, prepare to fail Roy Keane (with apologies to Benjamin Franklin)
... what dreams may come
What dreams indeed, tossing and turning in my ale-fuelled flop-sweat. Thoughts swam through my head like creatures from the deep. No longer was this some far-off fantasy. It was right here, outside in the dusty street, tapping its foot in time with the slow ticking of the clock. Time to don my battle-armour and face The Beast.
I felt certain I’d complete the sixty-two kilometres, come rain, shine, or, as it turned out, unseasonal warmth. Just as Feet In The Clouds left me feeling I could run up a mountain, so Born To Run had convinced me that, lack of training and extra weight notwithstanding, I could eat up thirty-nine miles within the seven and a half hour limit and live to tell the tale. This book tells the remarkable story of the Tarahumara Indians, of the power of chia and old tyre shoes, of greed, avarice, man’s inhumanity to his fellow man, of breathtaking, mind-blowing distance running through some of the most inhospitable terrain on the planet. Read it. Beg, borrow, purchase or purloin, ‘get in amongst it’. It takes a hard look at barefoot running and biomechanics, subjects close to my own feet.
Now, in the deathly quiet of my hotel room, advice from those pages flickered across my brain like a rolling news ticker-tape. Pace yourself ... bend your knees ... keep a straight back ... hydrate ... watch your form, calorie in-take ... relax; enjoy the ride ....
Eventually the sun peeped over the horizon, the inky blackness outside my window yielding to daybreak. I busied about, re-canting flat(ish) Coke (a rather messier process than I’d envisaged), checking and re-checking everything, indulging my runner’s OCD. My bottle contained a weak Robinsons blackcurrant mix, the flavour a simple placebo to fool my body into thinking the water had restorative powers. My Garmin sat on the sideboard, fully charged. I strapped it on; one less thing to forget. I loaded two rucksacks; one I’d trained with, a threadbare purple LA Fitness freebie, the other a newer item on loan from SP. I planned to plant these in the mile bins at Race HQ – mile 13 for my grotty old pack, mile 22 for SP's shiny new model. Each contained bottled water, bananas, segmented bagels, powerbars, malt loaf (sliced and buttered), Jelly Babies and ibuprofen. The first also held my clean(ish) Two Oceans technical shirt, a half-used tub of vaseline, a 'little something' from Suzie Q (of which more later) and my iPhone; the second contained the flat coke, a portable re-charging unit for my iPhone, a fresh pair of socks and my old running shoes (just in case). I glanced at my watch: almost seven.
Downstairs Antonio and SP, who’d eschewed a lie-in to see us off, loitered near the breakfast room. There was movement in the kitchen and a swarthy young chap in a horribly stained chef’s outfit asked if we’d like some porridge. He wandered off and I wondered if we might be scuppered by the laid-back nature of our hosts. The Ultra buses were due to sweep through town on route to race HQ (and our not-to-be-missed briefing) at 07:30 sharp. Happily the (excellent) porridge arrived swifly in great steaming bowls, adorned with bananas and honey and wolfed down in double-quick time. SP waved us off and for a moment, despite Antonio standing alongside me, I felt horribly alone.
The buses were prompt. We boarded ours at 07:32 to find it was the third of the four to pass this way. Perched quietly at the back I drank in the heady cocktail of excited chatter and freshly-applied Ralgex as we traversed the narrow, winding lanes to Maam Cross. Race HQ hotel sat at a crossroads next to a deserted Esso garage. In the briefing room the pre-race cacophony swelled as runners busied themselves, checking clothing, re-jigging Camelbacks, adjusting shoes and packing bags for the mile-drop bins. I learned, to my horror, that bags dropped in the bins must be taken on the run or discarded, forcing a hurried change of plan. SP’s rucksack was a good quality vessel. I wasn’t going to trade it for mine as I’d trained with mine and found it most comfortable, vital on such a long journey. I juggled the contents, loading SP’s pack with my change of clothes for the bag drop. There were no other bags for me to use so I had to improvise. My purple pack went into the Mile 13 bin as planned. This would allow me to run the first 13 miles carrying only my waterbelt, a few Jelly Babies and a single pack of Malt Loaf slices. I was left with the flat coke, some energy bars, extra ibuprofen, a banana and my old runners. If I packed that lot into my 'mile 13' bag I'd be carrying a lot of gear for the best part of a marathon. Then, a moment of inspiration. I crammed as much of the excess material as I could into the decrepit shoes, tied the laces together and dumped them into the Mile 22 bin. Job done.
Ray's voice is soft and gentle - earphones suggested for best listening
One story I didn’t record (and which drew the biggest laugh) referred to last years’ race. Standing at the finish line, Ray had been approached by a little old lady who’d just completed the half marathon course. She thanked him profusely for all the ‘lovely gifts laid out for the runners' along the way. She was, of course, referring to the Ultra runners’ provisions, set out on trestle tables next to the water stations. I was glad I’d decided to make 22 miles my last drop, thus avoiding any sharp-eyed magpies in the final third.
After leaving our gear at the bag drop (the 'deserted' Esso shop) we boarded the buses once more. Antonio paired up with the Italian fellow who’d been singled out in the briefing. Alone with my thoughts I observed the pre-run rituals going on around me. A wiry chap next to me kicked off his shoes and socks, wiggling his toes. Another loosened his laces, yet another slurped nervously from a half-empty water bottle. Vaseline was daubed hither and thither, a timely reminder for me to grease my own nipples. The unmistakable stench of Deep Heat stung my nostrils. The raucous banter softened to a gentle murmur as pre-race nerves took hold. I felt calm. My strategy relied on total faith in my recently-adapted running style (based on economy of effort and upright stance) and the daily consumption of a handful of chia seeds, mixed with water and lemon to create a drink bearing a striking resemblance to frogspawn. I could feel the pre-race buzz in my fingers and tried to relax, drawing in slow, deep breaths as the fabulous countryside sped by. Here, nestled in the cleveage of impressively craggy hills, we two hundred and three souls would embark upon an epic journey. We would find out more about ourselves in the next few hours than many might wish to. We'd face our fears; the heat, the road, fatigue, dark moments of self-doubt, ethereal demons gnawing at our bones. And yet, I felt certain I would come through. Blind faith.
The buses pulled over to the side of a narrow road. Runners spilled out into knee-deep, bleached-blond grass, blinking in the sunlight. Several move away to pee along the fence-line. A group of ladies rock-hopped up a slope to find a less public spot. Antonio busied himself, taking photos up and down the road. He too seemed relaxed, unfased by the challenge before us. Ahead, the racers gathered at what appeared to be the starting point, a bend in the road. Expectation hung hot and heavy in the still morning air as the clock ticked around to nine am. Antonio and I loitered at the back, stretching gently whilst gazing across the landscape towards the great grey shoulders hunched over the Hell of the West, the heartbreaking two mile ascent before the final blessed drop to the finish back at Maam Cross. It seemed a lifetime away.
And then, before I could think of a thing to say, it was time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Two Hundred and three souls lined up along the otherwise deserted road from Teernakill to Maam Cross, a colourful collection of generally athletic folk dressed in vests, shirts, jackets, hats, back-packs and ration belts, each person bearing the yellow Connemarathon Ultra Marathon race number. The starter reminded us that for the first thirteen miles we’d share the road with traffic. If compelled to venture too far off the hard-top we’d ‘like as not sink up to your waist in devilish peat-bog.’ With that valediction ringing in our ears he sent us on our way.
As we shuffled towards the chip mats, conspicuous reddish-brown strips laid across a carriageway riddled with pot-holes, I took stock. The sun felt warm on my face. My water belt sat snug around my middle, chew bars trapped under the left side, wrapped Malt Loaf slices wedged on the right, iPhone (I'd decided to carry it for the duration) nestled in the centre like a flat black Joey peering from my paunch. The gentle sloshing of my drink and the rhythmic slap-slap of shoes on tarmac formed our soundtrack as we got our show on the road. Our Rap-Master DJ was an American, a verbose reptilian blue-blood of ample stature. He sported a shiny blue top, chino shorts and full-length, flesh-coloured tights, the sort you might see on low-rent dancing girls or spy beneath a tight leather microskirt strolling along the docks in Nice. He delivered an endless stream of commentary, freely imparting advice on what not to do on such a long, testing run. Listen to twats like you sprang uncharitably to mind but, being British (and by default polite in the company of strangers) I buttoned my lip. Aware that a number of us were staring at his shiny nylon-clad legs, he hurriedly explained that this was his 'unique way of dealing with a variety of career-threatening ailments'. It sounded like a lame excuse for blatant transvestism to me, but each to his own.
Focus from the off was essential if I was to get round in reasonable shape. I struck a comfortable, upright stance, holding my upper body still whilst moving with an economy of effort to make the Tarahumara ... well, giggle, frankly. As El Gordo would say I was 'getting my (Ultra ) Race Head on', setting the parameters for the next few hours, priming my body for a long, hot run. I sipped from my water bottle and nibbled on Jelly Babies to keep my digestive system active. Jog Shop Sam once told me that eating early on a long run helps maintain blood-flow around the gut. Fail to start right and your body diverts resources to your cardio-vascular furnace and hard-working motor muscles, leaving the stomach in stasis, unable to cope when eventually fuel is taken on board. One of my favourite quotes from Born to Run - ‘Ultra marathons are just eating and drinking contests with a little exercise thrown in’ - reminded me to refuel and hydrate at regular intervals. Ultra running, the ultimate moveable feast.
Antonio dropped back, leaving me alone with my scaly new BFF. A handful stayed with us, easing into what for most would be a long, hot day on the road. The peloton pulled away like a train in an old Western, leaving our disconnected carriage to roll along under its own momentum. After a series of corners they were gone. Slap-slap, slosh-slosh, blather-blather, the early miles ticked by. A light sheen of sweat coated my brow, kissed by a light, cool morning breeze as I tried not to think about how easy this felt and wonder when and where it was going to start to hurt.
Amidst his self-agrandising tales of daring do, the Lizard dropped a bombshell. Ever since I’d thought about taking on the Ultra I’d planned to take regular walk-breaks, to conserve energy and re-fuel carefully (ie without spilling stuff). My training, such as it was, included several runs at seven-minute/ kilometre pace, taking one-minute walk breaks every ten minutes or so. Now we were into the race proper, no-one else in our group was doing this and considering we were in the best (coolest) part of the day, I changed strategy. What I heard next confirmed my decision.
‘Yep, I'll sure be happy to reach twenny-six mahls in under faav Aars.’
To this point I’d deployed a non-commital grunt by way of propping up my half of the ‘conversation’. Hardly polite, I suppose, but infinitely better than, say, shoving the fellow into a ditch.
‘Hmm? Five hours you say? Well, yes, that would be great.’
‘Boy you BETTER be through in faav or less, else they’ll throw your ass in the sweeper wagon!’
‘What? There’s a cut-off?’
‘Yup. Beat the clock or your ass is grass and they’re a lawn-mower’
He chuckled horribly, clearly pleased with his well-versed dictum.
Damn, I must’ve missed that. The timing didn’t worry me unduly. I felt capable of running the marathon in under five hours, perhaps even leave something in the tank, yet this rather strict deadline left no wriggle-room. I plugged away, letting the road rise and fall gently as we wound our way westward toward Athry. As the sun warmed my back I wondered just how hot things were likely to get.
Just past Boheesha, a couple of run-walkers came into view. We reeled them in, exchanging greetings as we drew alongside and, at their next scheduled walk-break, moved past. The Lizard had been blissfully quiet, but somewhere around mile eight he piped up again, sharing his views on the state of the US Nation whilst revealing his political stance to be just to the right of Atilla the Hun. Barack Obama, he informed me, was an implant, a harridon halfbreed, part of an Al Qaida plot to destabilise the United States government. Obama would empower every freak minority in the country before finally ceding control to Muslim extremists who would nuke the state of Israel ‘within weeks’.
I could, perhaps should, have taken him to task, offered an alternative world view, used reasoned argument to outline the hopes we in the West held for a future under a more sensitive, culturally aware America. Or I could just as easily have hauled his shiny hide off the road and battered his flabby corpulence into the soft heart of the bog. A criminal waste of precious energy, perhaps, but satisfying none-the-less. I was staring down the barrel of another six hours of this babbling nonsense unless I did something right now. So I did the only reasonable thing I could do under the circumstances. I dropped a gear and kicked on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I once ran the last few miles of Beachy Head with an man suffering from aischrologia; but once I realised he wasn't swearing at me and his obscenities were his way of getting himself up and down the Seven Sisters, we became friends.
That you coped with an ultra, and the company of a man who seems to have embraced the world view of General Jack D. Ripper, is even more of a tribute to your strength and stamina.
I would advise against strolling around the docks in Nice in a leather microskirt, though. People might mistake your intentions.
χαιρέτε νικὠμεν
Next race(s):
In the lap of the gods
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.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(27-05-2010, 07:53 AM)marathondan Wrote: One thing I'm not clear on -- were you run / walking from the off, or just pacing yourself slowly?
sweder Wrote:My training, such as it was, included several runs at seven-minute kilometre pace, taking one-minute walk breaks every ten minutes or so. Now we were into the race proper no-one else in our group was doing this and, considering we were in the best (coolest) part of the day I changed strategy.
I didn't mention this again did I? Too much editing, sorry. Frankly the thought of getting reeled in by my scaly friend kept me on my toes. I took my first walk break around 40k. They were rather more frequent from then on ... but you'll have to wait for the final installment to hear about that. It's done, just need to review and post tonight.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I left alone, my mind was blank,
I needed time to think, to get the memories from my mind...
Wow, not sure where to start on this. In my experience, the last hour of a marathon is a make-or-break, men-from-boys, sheep-from-goats, torturous cross-examination of the soul. What it seems you've done here is willingly extend that to 3+ hours, in the interests of furthering your scientific research into your own emotional limits.
The good news is that this invasive procedure actually enhances the subject being studied.
I take off my hat, and all other forms of headgear, to you.
And I think the report can be filed in the top drawer, as well.
Sweder, I have so enjoyed reading every word of your magnificent race. You make it so real; like I'm running right beside you (thank goodness I wasn't!). I still say you're a machine and in a league of your own. My hat is definitely off to you as well! I stand in awe.
Thank you.
SP reminded me that I've (inevitably) missed a few details. I've invited him to chip in as they may sound better coming from him. There's also more to tell; the assault on Croagh Patrick is an epic all its own, and there are some great photos from that day too. I'll add this later.
My overriding sense is of an adventure that I observed rather than took part in. There was a kind of surreal stream running through the weekend. None of it really makes sense in the cold light of day. It sounds churlish and arrogant to suggest it was easy, but pain aside it really wasn't that bad. It certainly laid to rest the spectre of my Two Oceans agonies, and has given me pause for thought on my running future. 'Adventure running' - a clumsy term that I'll no doubt improve upon - seems to be the (long) way forward for me.
I mention Born To Run a few times. I cannot over-emphasise the affect this book had on my Connemarathon experience. Had I not read it in the weeks before I've no doubt I would not have completed the Ultra. I owe a huge debt of thanks to Antonio too. If we'd pursuaded him to drop the Ultra and find a way into the Half I never would have had this opportunity. He remained resolute in the face of incredulity. 'Do not underestimate the determination of a quiet man.' Gracias Amigo.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It's a long way to the top
If you wanna rock 'n' roll ACDC
On Sunday night the rehydration committee sat in session 'til the Witching Hour. Finishers' shirts, photos and trading tales of our racing day were de rigueur as the Guinness flowed. We ate at a pub two doors down from our hotel where the steaks were as good as any I’ve seen. Mine was inhaled, devoured with a rapacious fervor that alarmed nearby diners yet worryingly seemed to delight our waitress. After nursing a last pint alone with my thoughts I called it a night. As I slid from my bar stool it seemed rigour mortis had taken hold in my legs. My painfully slow, stiff-limbed ascent of the hotel stairs was a thing of cruel ugliness.
Next morning we met for breakfast. The descent from my room was no easier. My quads were raw mince, calves and hamstrings as tight as Will Scarlett’s drawn bowstring. My back throbbed and I was generally battered and sore. A generous full Irish repaired some of the damage yet I still had no idea if I’d be able to take part in the day’s planned activities. With M away to Galway in search of shops EG, SP, Down-in-One, Suzie and I were set to scale Croagh Patrick, a climb of some 2,500 feet over 10 kilometres (round trip) of rough terrain and, for the final push, up treacherous loose scree. I bade Antonio a fond farewell, my fellow Ultranista headed home via Galway and Dublin. Read his race report here. The sun had his hat on once more, beaming down out of a clear blue sky. There was a breeze of sorts that took the edge off but it was still pretty warm for mountain climbing.
I made it, but at some cost to the nails on my two longest toes, since turned black, even now still hanging on by the merest thread. Once I got some warm blood pumping through my legs they responded, but I’d be misleading you if I said the two hour climb wasn’t brutal. Thankfully Andy had travelled this path before and recommended we borrow stout staffs from the base camp café. These proved invaluable in both directions. On the ascent I leaned heavily on the long stick, using it to find purchase where my feet had none. I started the descent gingerly, concerned that should the scree suddenly yield I might start a small avalanche. After ten minutes of prancing about I cast caution to the wind and started bounding down the steep slope. To my delight I found the rocks gave way to a degree then stopped, allowing me to spring forward onto the other foot and repeat the process, creating a sort of surf-slide hybrid action. I whooped a few times as I slalomed my way down the mountain, grinning madly at the poor souls still clambering up the slippery trails. When the shale gave way a little too readily I planted the staff behind me in the manner of a crazy land-locked Gondolier. Suzie had started her return to base some twenty minutes before me and I caught her around halfway down. We finished together, perching outside the café to share an ice-cream, squinting back up the low-lying trails to see if we could spot our companions as we ruminated on the pleasures of lazing in the afternoon sun.
I snapped a few shots (via phone cam) which I’ve posted below. The views from the summit were breathtaking. Out across County Mayo, back towards the Maumturks and away across Clew Bay, where whelkers of human and avian extraction strode the mudflats side by side in search of supper. Sadly my paltry 2.0 megapixel lense does not do the vistas justice. You can read more about this and a perspective on the half marathon route here on Andy’s blog.
Well worth a visit I assure you.
LtoR: SP; Not half way; Still a ways to go; Pilgrim's Shadow; Author at rest; Andy close; Andy closer; View from the top; SuzieQ
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
RE: Connemarathon 2010 
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RE: Connemarathon 2010: Part Three - Sunday 
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