The 10 day weather forecast spells doom. 8 degrees and rain for Sunday May 6th in Limerick. After all of those hours of toil on the road, cramp or exhaustion may not be the defining moment but hypothermia. The thought of being ambulanced in one of those silvery coats haunts the enthusiasm. So many doubts slide into one’s consciousness and erode the previous confidence. We are now in taper and diet mode. Food is no longer three meals a day with five a day of fruit and veg but ‘protein intake’ and, wait for it, ‘complex and simple carbs’. Weather forecast improves but the pasta seems stranded on a platform somewhere en route. The Expo is a let down except for the guy at the Sun Warrior stand. He has anti-aging miracle food at €57.99 a bag. “Sounds the job. I’ll discuss it with my wife”. Sunday dawns and sunshine, even heat. The threat of the silvery coats recedes. But that stuffed pork tummy-feeling is not what one associates with elite performance. A photographer of eastern origin suggests a photo. Me in my worst working jumper, for heat. He suggests I remove it, takes the photo and says he will meet me at the finish. “Thanks for the confidence”. It is lonely enough around the start line. And the distractions do not help. Some people are wearing waist bands full of goodies. That lady seems to be carrying a small shop round her waist. Others are wired to the sky with high tech bits and pieces for which I have no vocabulary. And the gyrations of some of my fellow travellers. I know I would not be able to disentangle myself from some of those positions. Am I at the wrong address. At ten to nine of a Sunday morning maybe it is at Mass I should be. A final visit to the jon. At least in here one is alone with one’s doubts. Suddenly its nine. With school yard precision we are off. The plan is 9.20 a mile, easy maths. The body clammers for extra rein during those early yards. It is like a temptation in one’s ear: “You can speed up no bother”. The stuffed pork sensation seems to have moved on. People are in great humour. Don’t talk, save it for later. Bodies come in all sorts of shapes, in all sorts of contortions. I am sure that lady has a wardrobe of labels at home but look at her. I apologise for being anti social to the young fellow from Wexford who has been with me for a few minutes. He is a joy. Collapsed at around the 23 mile mark last year. Ambulance and A and E. All ok. Got a taxi back to the race and finished. ‘At least I finished. Fair play’. The volunteers are a wonder, full of enthusiasm. A full day on the Fás course on marathon volunteering must have been devoted to giving encouragement. Then Pat Bogue. The comfort in a familiar singlet, face and voice. At UL he shouts: “Your sons are an embarrassment to you”. How the hell was he aware of their antics in that august institution. The 9.20 plan is working. Then we meet the leaders coming back from the country. Soul destroying. Why would a course designer inflict such torment on the contorted as we pound the road and squirm at the sight of the elites glide by in their athletic gait? Was that guy sneering? Wait til I c….. No don’t go there. Along a lane someone is approaching, from my rear, where else, and I can hear: “I’m a champion, I’m a champion, I’m a champion”. Approaching and passing and the mantra fades. Suddenly a corner, a Powerade stall and delirious Crusaders with cameras, glasses of whatever, clenched fists for encouragement. A real fillip. Now halfway and all is well. I had looked forward to the countryside but it was a forlorn enough experience. The onlookers were more judgmental that enthusiastic, the roads were largely empty of other runners, the volunteers were scarce too. Concentration slipped. Strangely Howard became part of my stream of thought. His legacy has me on this road. Back in the city and the buzz restored. Limerick is a friendly experience. Now its down to six miles. All well with the body and the mind is more focused. Go for it. The legs respond despite a gnawing anxiety that the whole body will cease up. Passing the 23 mile mark where the Wexford boy collapsed. Through it. I do not believe it. Next thing I hear is: “I’m a champion, I’m a champion, I’m……..” except this time it is getting louder. “You are a champion”, I reinforce as I pass him by. I find myself saluting those shouting my name. This is how Tiger feels on the 72nd at Augusta. Up by the Gaelic Grounds but now as the crowd become more excited the volunteers seem to have hit the wall, much more muted. Body great. Onlookers have become a crowd. Cheering now. Crowds love extremes. A sudden spurt of speed or a face creased with torture raises the volume. Paddy average is not noticed. So I try a spurt for the line. Over it. Its over. You have crossed the line. No thunder. No lightening. There is no Wayne Rooney celebration, more a Mickey Harte sensation of a job well done. A medal. Bananas. Martin is there with an outstretched hand. In one of the silvery coats. Pat Bogue dresses me in another silvery coat. The warmth. The glow. No nee naw. No more pasta. I have the answer to the question. A pint of Guinness is a simple pleasure. The OG at 10.00.
3 Comments
Ronan
9/5/2012 03:40:26
There was more than one pint had in the OG!...I see both running and writing run in the family John
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Pat
9/5/2012 04:40:09
Well done John, great performance on Sunday, smiling all the way. As for your sons, Rules of the Road was obviously something you did not teach them! And I can't remember why they were an embarrassment at that stage of the route on Sunday - must have been a comment they passed about one of those label wearing ladies!!
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Siobhan
9/5/2012 11:59:35
Well done - expected nothing short of brilliant from a Finn!! Fair Play to you and all who ran Limerick and Belfast at the weekend.
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