‘I finished behind a man in a cow costume’

IT is a surreal experience to stand among throngs of people giggling to themselves in Dublin city centre on the October Bank Holiday Monday as they realise the mental instability that inspired them to face into 26.2 miles of road running.

Different colour bib-numbers differentiated between those aiming to finish within three hours, in less than four hours and the majority of us 10,600 entrants who would have settled for crawling along Merrion Square on all fours.

Not that I can speak for runners whose legs clocked up a serious mileage in preparation, but there is no amount of training that can prepare a person for their first lash at this distance.

Turning into the Phoenix Park it is half-past nine and the body starts to wake up to begin its unholy protest.

It tries every trick to escape. Stomachs cramp, blisters surface and the bladder lets loose on hundreds of runners who give trees near Garda HQ their best watering since the Great Flood.

Meanwhile, groups like “Rand’s Road Warriors” blitz past and my fellow strugglers silently prayed they will execute a flying pincer movement and force us directly into St James’s Hospital.

At 11 miles, the legs are starting to seize. There are two long hills and 15 miles to go and every rational thought screams for a quick exit via Murphy’s Off Licence.

This is when Dublin plays its trump card. The people of Rialto and Dolphin’s Barn forego a Bank Holiday lie-in to stand three deep and scream encouragement.

Three women handed out orange slices in Rathgar, a fistful of magical jelly beans lifted me up the hill at Clonskeagh.

At Terenure College legendary TV pundit Bill O’Herlihy was chief cheerleader.

With two miles to go, I was staggering just to get over the Grand Canal bridge when another runner slapped me on the back, told me I had two miles to go and I was on my way again.

Another mile up the road the legs of the same man seized completely. We went to his aid but, heartbreakingly, he just could not move, however, if it took him three hours and a set of make-shift crutches he was determined to finish.

I finally cracked in agony in the city centre and would have gladly walked home but a woman roared that I had only 300 yards to go and to get moving. Obediently, I raced the last of the 26.2 miles.

The 365 yards she was talking about was actually only added at the London Olympics because the Royal Family wanted the finish line under their box. Eight hundred years of oppression and now this.

I finished two minutes behind a man in a cow costume but I got my medal so I was on the pig’s back.

Sixteen years my senior, Ray D’Arcy pipped me by 30 seconds, both of us well inside the four hours which means 20 firms will together contribute €100,000 to the Little Star Fund.

It was that kind of day; goodwill and good vibes. Only our legs can complain.