For us, the hydrators, 06.30 on a balmy Saturday morning was like being on that mountain long ago with Jesus: “It is good to be here”, we felt. 45 souls testing themselves for the last time before the Day of Reckoning: all full of fervour, all with varying quantities of self belief, some with mild doses of self doubt, some with niggles that threatened the best laid plans. All 45 survived this long run and made it to the finish line, thankfully. The dress rehearsal has been a great success. Bring on the dancing girls on the last Monday of October.
For some the effort during the run was etched across the face. To-day’s time could be a predictor of the eventual marathon time, a time that matters to that person. For others the growing smile as the miles passed suggested that the time is of little consequence, reaching the start line at 9.00 am on the 26th is the first priority, arriving at the finish line in the early afternoon of the 26th, as the Kenyans board a flight to their next marathon destination, is the second priority. No matter what story the face told everyone’s ambition is sacred. All of this morning’s participants have one ambition in common: to assist in fundraising for the Clare Crusaders Clinic.
Just as the teachers in school long ago had what were known as ‘teacher’s pets’, the hydrator is also drawn in a special way to some of the runners. But unlike the teacher long ago who was usually drawn to the bright kid in the front row with all of the answers, the hydrator’s attention is drawn to the back of the field. And as those two ladies approached each water stop their eyes lit up as if they had found an oasis in the middle of the desert, smiles as wide as the Shannon, apologies with every second gulp for keeping the hydrator out so long, more smiles and a laugh, all I could think of was a seanfhocal in Gaeilge from long ago. Remember the seanfhocals that were drummed into us at school like: Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin which loosely translated means ‘There is nowhere like home’. There is another beauty which is apt in this case: Is minic a bhíonn cú mhall suáilceach. A slow greyhound is often content.
I suppose when one compares each runner in the Clare Crusaders running top to the Kenyans on the plane home, we are all slow greyhounds. The important thing is to be content, like the slow greyhound, as you plod along Nassau Street, the finishing line in sight. The crowds behind the cordons will have waited patiently for your arrival and will greet your efforts as enthusiastically and as tumultuously as if you too were seeking an Olympic qualifying time.
For some the effort during the run was etched across the face. To-day’s time could be a predictor of the eventual marathon time, a time that matters to that person. For others the growing smile as the miles passed suggested that the time is of little consequence, reaching the start line at 9.00 am on the 26th is the first priority, arriving at the finish line in the early afternoon of the 26th, as the Kenyans board a flight to their next marathon destination, is the second priority. No matter what story the face told everyone’s ambition is sacred. All of this morning’s participants have one ambition in common: to assist in fundraising for the Clare Crusaders Clinic.
Just as the teachers in school long ago had what were known as ‘teacher’s pets’, the hydrator is also drawn in a special way to some of the runners. But unlike the teacher long ago who was usually drawn to the bright kid in the front row with all of the answers, the hydrator’s attention is drawn to the back of the field. And as those two ladies approached each water stop their eyes lit up as if they had found an oasis in the middle of the desert, smiles as wide as the Shannon, apologies with every second gulp for keeping the hydrator out so long, more smiles and a laugh, all I could think of was a seanfhocal in Gaeilge from long ago. Remember the seanfhocals that were drummed into us at school like: Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin which loosely translated means ‘There is nowhere like home’. There is another beauty which is apt in this case: Is minic a bhíonn cú mhall suáilceach. A slow greyhound is often content.
I suppose when one compares each runner in the Clare Crusaders running top to the Kenyans on the plane home, we are all slow greyhounds. The important thing is to be content, like the slow greyhound, as you plod along Nassau Street, the finishing line in sight. The crowds behind the cordons will have waited patiently for your arrival and will greet your efforts as enthusiastically and as tumultuously as if you too were seeking an Olympic qualifying time.