Figures of Text

‘It must be a great feeling’ said my aunt afterwards.

‘Not really,’ I said.

‘Everything hurts. I feel like I’m recovering from major surgery.’

‘Ow,’ I added. ‘Ow.’

* * *

So, I ran the Cork City Marathon yesterday, with a final time was a respectable four hours, thirty-six minutes. It was my first marathon, and probably the only one I’ll do. I’m proud of the accomplishment, but the training eats more time than I’m willing to give it. Either I work out a way to type while jogging, or I just put a neat little tick in the [ ] RUN MARATHON life goal chart. (Actually [ ] RUN MARATHON was never on the list; it’s all deli’s fault. Still, huzzah.)

* * *

How not to start a marathon, in three easy steps.

1) Arrive too late to put your bags in the changing room

2) Wake up poor Denis at 8.50 on a bank holiday, thrust two bags of underwear into his sleepy face, and sprint back to the marathon site.

3) Walk the wrong way through the assembled crowd of runners to get to your starting position, knowing that if the starting gun fires, you’re going to get trampled.

* * *

The cliche about marathon running is that you hit the wall at around twenty miles. We took precautions to avoid this. We were ready. We tooled up like Colonial Marines. Lots of hydration, breathable running vests, a bandolier of gel packs that are supposed to contain vital electrolytes and sugars, but taste like an Appletini with added salt no matter what the packet says the flavour is, a watch so advanced that it impressed futurist Charles Stross. We had a plan, we had tactics… and we still ran into an impassible wall at Mile 19. Up until then, we both felt as close to fine as you can be when you’ve just ran nineteen miles. (In the rain. Mostly uphill.)

After that, we ran for as long as we could, then walked, then ran a bit more, and then crawled. You get to the finish line any way you can. Pain becomes an irritating distraction. Your stomach, churning with a dozen variations of salted apple, becomes an enemy you’ve got to wrestle into submission because throwing up would break your stride. You remind yourself that it’s only 800 meters to the next kilometer, and then it’s only .6 of a kilometer to the next mile, and it’s only 12 miles to the end.

* * *

Weather is a factor. The ideal conditions – for me, anyway – are a light drizzling rain, not too cold, and maybe a gentle breeze. The sky should be overcast. For most of the last three weeks, we’ve had unseasonably warm weather. (Yes, it’s summer. Summer in Ireland traditionally means we get slightly warmer rain, not blazing sunshine. Note that ‘blazing’ in this case translates as ‘mildly warm’ for most places.) I am a creature of Nordic climes, and running in the sun makes me overheat like an alpha-striking Rifleman ‘mech.

The marathon today started in perfect miserable weather.

Then it became perfectly miserable.

Then the winds changed from ‘light breeze’ to ‘gale in the face’, and someone started shooting a machine gun with bullets made of ice. Plus, there were stupid people on the route. The middle of the marathon is not the time to take your morning constitutional. We’re not going to stop for you. We are going to trample you.

* * *

Many thanks to those who came out to support us. Many, many thanks to the wonderful Maurice, who practically carried us home afterwards.

Many thanks, also, to those who sponsored us. We raised €1,200 for charity, which is much more than we’d anticipated. It’s astonishing how much someone cheering from the sidelines can spur you on, and the knowledge that so many people had donated money kept us going when our own determination flagged.

* * *

‘You must feel on top of the world’ insisted my aunt.

No: Quiet calm sense of satisfaction and relief inside, physical exhaustion and extreme stiffness outside.

Euphoria can wait until I can bend my knees again.

Trackback URL