Denis Lehane: Running is au naturel for farmers
Yes, your favourite farming correspondent will be turning 45, come September.
The hours are on the clock, the writing is on the wall. The lights, I fear, are starting to dim just a little.
Recently, in an effort to halt the onslaught of old age, I went to the trouble of growing a beard. Inspired by the great Conor McGregor, I figured a hairy chin might give me an air of youthful notoriety.
I grew a beard years ago, and the thing was a wonderful concoction of black and ginger hair.
But alas, this time my facial hair is mostly of the white variety. And owing to the fact that my complexion is of a reddish hue, my effort has me looking more like Santa Claus than the sporting McGregor.
And worse again, since the arrival of the beard, my small children have now begun to ask, “When are you going to die?” so clearly my efforts have been in vain.
But never a fellow to throw in the towel, last Thursday I made one final bid to halt Father Time.
I entered our local 5km road race, after my son Robert had asked me if I would do it with him.
And I signed up, not only promising the young lad that his old man would complete the race without the use of a defibrillator, but that I would cross the finish line before himself.
For this road racing caper, a certain type of attire is usually required.
But being a man without a pair of shorts, or rubber dollies to his name, I decided to run the race au naturel.
And before ladies start getting hot and bothered, what I mean to say is I ran the race ‘in my natural state’, in my farmer’s clothes.
And why not? Sure if my gear is good enough for the farm, it’s good enough for the road.
Anyhow, last Thursday evening in the village of Kilmurry, surrounded by a legion of runners, and me dressed like Miley from Glenroe, off we set.
For the first mile or two, I galloped along with great taspy.
Wearing my jeans and old working boots, I gallantly kept pace with the joggers. With Robert by my side, we passed the 3-kilometre mark with ease.
And as we turned into Kilmurry wood, entering the final leg of the race, my recent experiences of running after stray ewes and contrary weanling bulls served me well.
I was in my element trotting in the forest, all I really needed was to imagine a loose weanling or ewe up ahead of me.
As we came near the end, we had a hill to conquer, and admittedly the old throttle had to be pulled all the way for me to splutter over that particular peak, but I did it.
Then, with the finish line in sight, like a calf after spotting a bucket of milk, I made for it regardless of who was around me, I was neck and neck with my boy as we crossed the line. I had run the race of my life.
Unfortunately, owing to the speed I was doing, or perhaps the height of dust left in my wake, my time was not registered, so I am regrettably unable to furnish you with the remarkable time recorded by myself.
Suffice to say, for a man supposedly in the autumn of his years and dressed like Miley from Glenroe, it was a run that would bring tears to the eyes.
I dealt Father Time a mighty blow. There’s life in the old boy yet.
