I ran my first full marathon last Sunday. I had always wanted to do one but I was afraid. Afraid that I would hurt my body, afraid that I would not have the mental stamina to see it through and just intimidated by the thought of covering over 26 miles in one day. Then last December while I was visiting my son, Tom in Galway, he told me he was going to do the Cork City marathon the following June: with the job market being so competitive, he needed something on his CV to help him stand out and only 1% of the world's population have ever completed a marathon. I decided to do it too.
There were three things I looked forward to about the marathon: 1. running through the Jack Lynch tunnel; 2. my name on the race number because only the full timers get to have their name printed on the number and I'm a sucker for seeing my name in print, and 3. finishing it.
Tom did his training outdoors, I did mine on a treadmill. When it came time to do the longest run, 20 miles, I started at 8.30 am and finished at 1.40 pm. Every 100 minutes when the treadmill timed out, I stepped off to use the loo and get a drink of water. At the 2nd time out I walked briskly to the locker room to eat a banana and chewed it slowly until it was drinkable: all the better for the sugar to get into my veins. The 3rd time, I ate a peanut butter sandwich and chewed it just as slowly; it was disgusting.
With that 20 miles under my belt I was confident.
The day before the marathon, Tom and I went to the City Hall to register and collect our numbers. I checked for my number for my name but it wasn't on there. Tom didn't have one either. I thought maybe we had to peel something off. I held it up to the light but couldn't see anything. I asked the girl handing out the goodie bags. She looked at me sympathetically and said, "Sorry but the company that was supposed to do those didn't turn up." I was devastated. Tom told me to get a grip and suggested we go look at the marathon route which was up on a large board. Two men were already at the board scrutinising the route carefully. As we waited behind them, a woman standing alongside us said, "I wouldn't mind but I'm actually the one running the thing and I couldn't care less." I asked her if she realised that our names were not on the race numbers. She looked at me surprised and went rooting into her goody bag to check. Her husband looked over his shoulder and told us to get a grip. I grumbled under my breath that it was all very well for him but he wasn't actually running the race. Tom pulled me up to the map board but I couldn't read it: I was too emotional.
That afternoon I drove to Farranfore, Co Kerry to see my friend Susie: we had tickets to see Graham Norton at the Listowel Writers Week that night. I booked the tickets months ago and didn't realise until afterwards that the dates were back to back.
Graham was great. I was in bed for midnight and up the next morning at 5.30 thanks to a nest of starlings outside my window. It was a beautiful morning as I drove home: a rainbow, whole and complete, greeted me as I headed eastwards to Cork. I ate the peanut butter and banana sandwiches, thoughtfully provided for the night before by Susie, taking care to chew them slowly and thoroughly until they turned liquid before swallowing confident they would be well digested before race time.
I arrived home at 7.35 am. Tom was up. I changed into my gear. I felt as excited as Christmas morning. My husband, Neil took a photo of us pre marathon. At 8.00 am, Neil drove us as far as City Hall. We walked briskly to Patrick's Street where the start and finish lines were. That was my warm up. Hundreds of people swarmed the area in front of Brown Thomas which was right next to the start line. The competitors were stretching or jogging on the spot, their supporters chatted excitedly and took photographs while announcements were being made over loud speakers which I couldn't hear.
The street leading up to the start line and beyond was lined on both sides with six foot high steel barriers giving the impression of a long cage. At 8.45 am restless and cold, Tom and I entered the cage and stood a few yards behind the start line. Tom did his warm ups. He planted one leg firmly on the ground and swung the other as far as he could out front and then back. His kick was so high he was in danger of kicking himself in the head.
Soon we were joined by the others; real hard-core lean, wiry men with not an ounce of fat between them in their thin singlets, tiny shorts and low digit race numbers. Only amateurs like us wore the official race top on the day of the race. Then we saw men with yellow balloons tied to themselves with numbers like 3.00 and 4.30 written on in black ink. "I think we're in the wrong place," I whispered to Tom, "maybe we should go to the back?" "Stay where you are," he said. So we did and it was nice: we weren't so cold now that we were surrounded by bodies.
As I stood there, nervous as a new bride, I mentally updated one of my goals. Not only did I want finish it but I wanted to do it within the course time; 6 hours. According to the race booklet the course closed at 3pm after which time the gardai would ask you to move to the pavement. I didn't want that. That would be embarrassing. It was bad enough to be middle aged and running in public but to be asked to move aside to allow the real world go about it's business would be mortifying.
Suddenly we heard the countdown and we were off. I ran at the same pace as the pack: I had no choice. We were corralled into a tight space and it was run or be in someone's way. After a few yards we spread out to the full width of Patrick Street; I kept up the pace. The cold morning air crushed my lungs. I panicked: I wasn't used to fresh air. I kept running. Turning left on to Grand Parade was beautiful : the whole street was open only to us. Left again onto the South Mall and with the morning sun on our faces, it was glorious.
I kept up the pace and tried to breathe through my nose to calm my brain. My legs were fine but my mind and lungs were killing me. Tom was long gone. We turned left onto Parnell Place and left again onto Merchant's Quay. I kept it up. We had now done a full loop. Running past Patrick's Street on the left and the Bridge on the right, we continued on down the quay and taking a right at the Opera House we crossed over the bridge onto Carroll's Quay. Then I got a stitch.
I pulled into the left and slowed down to walk off the pain. When that passed, I started to run again but my breakfast started to come up. I wailed internally, 'But I had that three hours ago!!' I slowed again to walking pace until the heaving passed. According to the race booklet the tunnel would be closed at 11 am. It didn't say what would happen to the runners that got there late but I did not want to be one of them.
I got to the tunnel at 10.15 am. The north south bore was open just for us runners. Oh the joy! I ran into the gloom with my arms outstretched shouting, "I'm running through the tunnel." Two men to my right laughed and advised me to "Take it easy: there's a 50 mile speed limit around here."
In Mahon, a race clock told me it was 10.50 am. That meant the half marathoners started five minutes ago. I had hoped that when I got to the Marina, where the half merges with the full, I'd be able to lose myself among them but I was too late. The Marina is a long, beautiful tree-shaded walk by the river but right then it was the loneliest place on earth and I felt like I had just missed the party.
As I walked past the deserted and boarded up factories, including Gouldings Fertilisers where my Dad used to work, I 'hit the wall'. Ahead was the 3rd relay changeover marked by a sea of sky blue t-shirts - the colour of the relay teams - and mile 16. I assumed I was alone until I was joined by another runner called Aisling who said, "This is so lonely, I don't know if I can go on." I felt instantly better. I noticed that my legs and mind had swapped roles: my legs were crumbling but my mind was telling me to 'keep moving and preferably at a faster pace than you're doing now.'
We chatted all the way up to the changeover. I told Aisling that when all this was over I was going to slice off my arse as it was bobbing up and down behind me like a wet pillow and slowing me down. She looked at me startled and plugging in her earphones said, "I'll keep going." I lumbered up into a slow jog behind her. Past the changeover and to yet another quay, the bright sunshine now just made the buildings look flat and the shining road surface hurt my eyes.
Rounding the corner of Sexton's pub, I tried to gear up the enthusiasm to run the Link. Last year, I thought it was the coolest thing to run on the road I drive on every day to work. Opposite the Elysian building at the start of the Link stood a blonde woman holding out a box. She shouted something to me. I couldn't hear her. As I got closer I heard her say, "Jaffa Cakes." I wobbled over to her. I couldn't get my swollen fingers to single out a biscuit. Laughing she said, "Take two, or three!" I took two stuck together. I let them rest on my tongue. The delicious, divine and exquisite sweetness of the Jaffas perked up my mood and gave me the legs to run the glorious Link before turning up into Turner's Cross and sagging again.
I knew they had changed the course this year to accommodate the churches but when a volunteer sent me down a lane way in Ballyphehane I was dubious. "Down there?" I said, "are you sure?" She gestured wearily but firmly. I probably wasn't the first to ask. The lane, no more than eight feet wide, ran between a park and a housing estate. I saw girl with a half marathon race number enter the park. She had given up. It crossed my mind to follow her in and persuade her to keep going but I didn't.
At the end of the lane, four volunteers sent me on to a long wide avenue with cars parked on both sides and residents sitting at their gateways clapping my progress. I was the only one on the road. It was as bleak and deserted as High Noon. Up ahead was a major junction. A garda was standing there with one eye on me and frantically hurrying cars through. As I drew level he stopped the traffic with two cars to go and gestured me through. I loved that.
The Model Farm Road was deserted except for a long line of portaloos, the final relay runners waiting their turn and, no bananas. Last year they had a long table dripping with bananas but I was too late. I eyed the portaloos. Maybe I should go. So I went. But once on the potty I couldn't get up again. I used the door handle and sink to lever myself up. The sink came out of the wall and landed in my lap. Somehow I straightened up and fled the scene.
At the turn into Inchigaggin Lane two volunteer ladies were holding plastic boxes. "Sugar?" I enquired hopefully. "Jellies," they replied and one of them placed two in my hand. They were disgusting but I sucked them slowly until I came to the Lucozade tables which I knew was waiting ahead. I detest sugary drinks but last year when I did the half marathon I tried one. The effect was electric: the sugar exploded in my mouth; pricked up my brain; sent bolts of energy through my veins and gave me the belief I could carry on. I was expecting the same effect this year. When I arrived at the tables I spat out the jelly, eagerly took one of the cups and gently drained the contents into my mouth. There was no explosion, no hit to the brain just my gut gurgling nastily.
With my belly bloated I waddled around the corner on to the Carrigrohane Straight, surely the most boring, mundane road in the whole of Ireland and pure torture to put at the end of a marathon.
Up ahead I saw Aisling chatting to a fellow woman runner wearing a Carrigaline AC top. I shuffled painfully to catch up with them.
"Where is mile 23?" asked Aisling. I looked around and immediately became dizzy.
"I don't know," I said, "maybe we passed it?"
"Couldn't have, I've been looking out for them: they're what's keeping me going!"
We discussed our training preparation for the event each trying to outdo the other in how little we did. Up ahead Aisling spotted a sign on a lamp post. "Is that mile 23?"
"I can't see, it's slipped down behind the toilets."
We got closer. The sign said 'Toilets.'
We plodded on. We approached the Kingsley Hotel. We could see a sign on a lamp post in front of the hotel almost hidden by some trees. It said 'Mile 24'
Aisling shouted, "Yes, that has made my day!" She turned to me and plugging in her earphones said, "I don't mean to be rude but I'm going to run on and I need to hear music to do it." I waved her on.
I got to Mardyke Walk and despite the exhortations of a lovely lady volunteer I simply could not get my legs to up the pace from walking resolutely to actually running. At the end of the Mardyke Walk there is a bridge over the river Lee on which stood a volunteer handing out bottles of water. I asked him if I was the last. He laughed and said, "Ah, no. I'm sure you're grand."
I crossed the bridge and walked the leafy walk at the far side of the river. In this same spot last year I was among a glut of runners and in the quietness of the glade I heard reassurances of, "Nearly there lads, keep going." Now, they seemed to have re-opened the walk to the public as I met dog walkers and buggies coming the other way. They must be closing the course.
I emerged on to Bachelor's Walk and bright sunshine. I saw two male volunteers leaning against a wall talking. I asked them the time and when they told me it was 'a quarter to three' I realised I could still make the six hours. I heaved my screaming, aching carcass into a running position and relying on the laws of gravity I proceeded to propel myself in a forward motion.
On arriving at the bridge at the bottom of Shandon Street, I was directed to the right. Crossing the bridge I assumed I would be sent left and down the quay towards Patrick's street but no, they gestured to me to run straight on down North Main Street. I was confused: I was being sent away from the finish line.
An official race photographer sitting on the bridge took a photo of me. He didn't give me time to unstick my fringe from my forehead.
North Main street is riddled with speed bumps made of cobble stones which are quaint but hazardous if you're a runner whose body no longer has the dexterity to manoeuvre itself from full pelt to gingerly picking its way over lumps. I heard later that another runner had tripped on one of these speed bumps and cracked his head open. Thanks to quick thinking pedestrians he was put into the recovery position and an ambulance was called. But he didn't finish the race. Which is the greater agony - having your head split open or getting that far only to be stopped at the last hurdle?
A man shouted, "Keep going, you only have 500 yards." Looking ahead I assumed we'd turn left on Castle Street which would take me quickly to Patrick Street but nooooooooo, I was told to go straight on to Washington Street which was still leading me away from the finish line.
I don't know why but I always get emotional at the end of a race and sure enough the tears started to well up. Later than usual mind you: last year they started on Bachelor's Walk and didn't stop until I got over the finish line.
At Washington Street mercifully, I was guided left and then, the best moment happened. Up ahead, at the traffic lights on Finn's Corner, twenty pedestrians had started to cross the road when the garda managing that junction spotted me approaching. Even though the pedestrians were half way across and would have make it, he stopped them and ordered them to go back. That made me laugh. Amazingly, the pedestrians obeyed him and, far from resenting the inconvenience, they applauded me as I passed. I got all emotional again.
I turned left onto Grand Parade and almost immediately veered right to take the corner onto Patrick's Street. I stopped. "Where's the fucking finish line," I roared. Nobody answered. I geared up again. Past Waterstones on the left, Holland & Barrett on the right and finally, there it was in front of Penneys with a race time of 05 hours and 48 minutes. I had twelve minutes to spare!
Neil and Tom were sitting on the pavement in front of Brown Thomas waiting for me. Tom came in at 04 hours and 20 minutes. He could've gone home or gone somewhere close by for lunch but no, he waited for me so that we could share the moment.
We are now in the 1% Club.
