The 1% Club

I had always wanted to run a marathon but was afraid. Afraid that I would hurt my body and intimidated I would not have the mental stamina to see it through. In 2017, my son Tom, to stand out in a competitive job market, registered for the Cork City Marathon. He told me only 1% of the world's population ever completed one. I registered too. Tom did his training outdoors; I did mine on a treadmill. 

Six-foot-high streel barriers lined the street on both sides, giving the impression of an animal cage. At 8.45 am restless and cold, Tom and I entered the cage and stood a few yards behind the start line.

Soon we were joined by hard-core lean, wiry men with not an ounce of fat between them in their thin singlets, tiny shorts and low digit race numbers. 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.

As I stood there, nervous as a new bride, I mentally updated goal. Not only did I want to finish the marathon, but I would do it within the course time of six hours.

Suddenly, we heard the countdown, and we were off. I ran at the same pace as the pack: I had no choice. Corralled into the tight space and it was run or get run over. 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 tried to breathe through my nose to calm my brain. My legs were doing well, 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 made a full loop. Then I got a stitch.  I slowed down to walk it off.

I arrived at the Jack Lynch tunnel at 10.15 am. The north-south bore was open just for us runners. 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." 

Jogging up Centre Park Road, I hit the wall. A fellow runner Aisling said, "This is so lonely, I don't know if I can go on." I felt instantly better. My mind and legs had swapped roles: the legs were crumbling, but the mind said, 'keep moving.'

Opposite the Elysian building, a blonde lady held out a box of 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.  

  

Except for a long line of portaloos and final-leg relay runners waiting their turn, Model Farm Road was deserted. I eyed up the loos. Maybe I should go. But once on the potty, I couldn't get up again. I used the door handle and wash-basin to lever myself up. The basin came out of the wall and landed in my lap. Somehow, I straightened up and fled the scene.

Turning right into the Carrigrohane Straight, 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 felt 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."

Up ahead, Aisling spotted a sign on a lamp post. "Is that mile 23?"

"I can't see it. It's slipped down behind the toilets."

We got closer. The sign said 'Toilets.'

We plodded on. On a lamppost outside the Kingsley Hotel, almost hidden by trees the sign said, 'Mile 24'. We cheered.

At Mardyke Walk, I could not persuade my legs to up their game from walking to running. I crossed the river, and in the quietness of the shaded walk, I heard reassurances from the other runners, "Nearly there lads, keep going."

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 propelled myself in a forward motion.

At the bottom of Shandon Street, directed to the right, I crossed the bridge where volunteers gestured to run straight on down North Main Street. I was confused: I seemed to be heading away from Patrick Street and the finish line.

A man shouted, "Keep going, you only have 500 yards."

At Washington Street, I turned left. 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 halfway across and would have made 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 turned left onto Grand Parade and almost immediately veered right to take the corner onto Patrick's Street. I stopped. "Where's the finish line," I roared. Nobody answered. I kept going, and there was the finish line in front of Penney's. My race time 5 hours and 48 minutes. I had twelve minutes to spare!

I found Tom sitting on the pavement in front of Brown Thomas, his medal around his neck, eating a banana. His race time 4 hours and 20 minutes. He could've gone home or for lunch but he chose to wait for me.   

We had joined the 1% Club.