The Marathon Experience

IT WAS the Jazz weekend in Cork and we were leaving for Dublin with a plastic bag of fruit and bottles of water. We had dodged the obvious questions and feeling good about ourselves.

This was a lifelong dream. I had always wanted to run a marathon. A full marathon. Not a 5k, 10k or even half marathon. The full monty.

Eight months previously in the gym where else? I suggested as much to my friend, Geraldine Barry, a fitness trainer. We agreed to give it a go. Hours of great long runs were going to prepare us for our first marathon experience on the October Bank Holiday Monday. Or that was the theory.

In training, the longest haul was 18 miles. Castlemartyr to Cork was our first long-distance run up to then I regarded this place as nothing more than an East Cork GAA venue, now it will haunt me as the ghost town that propelled me into marathon frenzy.

We planked six bottles of water on the way down our first lesson was a harsh one as we only found three on the way back. Nine miles of hallucinating and our marriage was almost off.

Most people told us that 20 miles would be adequate training as the Dublin marathon was one of the flattest and easiest routes to negotiate. True, it is horizontal, but it is still 26.2 miles. I will never forget the last fifth of a mile because when your feet bleed and you have blisters like quail eggs, this is extra yardage you can do without. In fact, I will never forget the 6.2 miles a torture chamber must hold more appeal.

We booked into the Mespil Hotel on Baggott Bridge and arrived on Sunday at noon we were greeted by marathon mania. It seemed like the entire 8,000 athletes had booked into the same hotel. Big lanky men in black Lycra numbers staring at the two novices dressed for Temple Bar hastened our exit to the RDS for registration where we listened intently to various speakers including Catherina McKiernan about her wins in the Berlin, London and Amsterdam marathons.

The best of all was Brendan O'Shea, who as a veteran of over 100 marathons told us we could drink alcohol after the race two beer shandies would, in fact, be good for us. You will grab at anything in the darkest hours.

We also learned of the seven deadly marathon stages ritual, shock, denial, isolation, despair, euphoria, and the seventh is a repeat of all of the above. This made us giddy and think of Brad Pitt, but it was all too real, as we would learn.

Sunday evening turned into Pasta Party Night. Every restaurant around Ballsbridge had buckets of the stuff we were willing participants, sans vino. This was the one time we would have loved a tipple, but seeing as we had come this far we decided another day wouldn't kill us. As events unfolded, it nearly did.

The race starting time was 9am, which meant an alarm call at 5.15am to get some breakfast plenty of brown bread, over-ripe bananas and coffee. I added a few Lemsips as the night was spent coping with the early stages of flu. Nevertheless, my anxiety pushed thoughts of a runny nose, streaming eyes and cough to the back of my mind. Ger did not get much sleep because of my spluttering like a true friend she never heard a gasp!

Our next alarming moment was at 7am. We had to be at the start line in Nassau Street at 8am. We got nervous as the goodwill texts arrived for me it was a bit like the eve of an All-Ireland camogie final except this time I was on my own. Little things like pinning numbers to our vests became difficult the fingers were beginning to shake.

The foyer of the hotel gave us a sample of the start line strong odours of deep heat and guys swinging arms and legs in all directions. It was a beautiful sunny morning but freezing cold. We were so cocky we jogged up Baggot Street hyped with enthusiasm. Along the way we encountered a man who had run every race since the start all 24.

Lots of Americans, costumes of all sorts, grannies and even participants in knee-high wellies provided the fun element many others were running for a cause, with pictures of loved ones who passed away from debilitating diseases.

After handing in our outer garments to the baggage area we decide to join the long queues for the portable loos. Bad mistake the eastern type hole was awash with steaming piles of pong. Ger is fairly traumatised. Her empty-reaching almost gets me going.

On our way to Trinity College we spot the Kenyans doing cartwheels around Frederick Street. They smile as we stare. After watching their warm-up, we run away to hide.

Our start position is calculated on our estimated finishing time. We move along with the other hopefuls to the 4-5 hours spot. The banter is mighty and the support unreal. A quick hug and we are off.

WE head up O'Connell Street and down the North Circular Road. It is great fun with lots of supporters on the footpaths shouting either for us, or at us (there are some sadistic people out there, y'know). We joke with our fellow-athletes even cod ourselves this is not so bad. We pass the zoo in the Phoenix Park and at the ten-mile mark the clock reads 1.43.02. Every three miles there is water. We sip but it appears that others must be gulping as people are pissing all over the shop.

We pass Inchicore and the South Circular Road. We are still in good form after 15-miles. Children helpfully (teasingly?) hand us jelly babies and barley sugar sweets. These instant bursts of energy are most welcome. Onlookers shout support as our faces begin to grimace. Power Aids (nutrition packs) are available but we tried them before and found them nauseating. We would do this un-aided entirely from our own reserves!

Terenure now. On to Rathgar where I lived in my Civil Service days. It looks so different now. Then again all I can see is the road coming up to meet me. My body is protesting. Seriously. Each mile is posted on a big red cardboard square. People are opting out all over the place, stretching against walls and some just sitting on the pavement refusing to go another inch.

Ger and I lose each other. The loneliness is unbearable because at this stage most of the chat is drained from our exhausted bodies. 'You are doing great. Keep it up.'

Words of encouragement are being dangled in front of us. I am hallucinating about nice things. A man shouts 'you only have 10k to go.' Since when was 10k regarded as merely. I dart towards him for a swig out of the water bottle in his sports coat pocket. He is relieved I did not hit him.

My feet are blistering and I notice blood seeping through my white runners. The back of my left knee is swelling at the rate of knots. For the first time, thoughts of stopping wash over me.

I think back to early morning training stints on stretches of the Mallow and Ballincollig roads, and my burning ambition that is to run a marathon. I look for Ger still can't find her. Of the seven stages, I am definitely at despair. I start playing mind games. Instead of searching for the 21-mile mark I count backwards only five more to go. I am hurting big time. On passing the Radisson Hotel, I wonder have they a Jacuzzi.

I see a sign for UCD and remember someone mentioning that getting this far would thrill him. Not me, though the thought does lift me. I know my way around here so we must be almost there. Shit. Diversion down Nutley Lane and Merrion Road. There is one last hill. Whoever said that the crowd bring you home need their head examined!

They are cheering, but I'm oblivious. Next time I tell myself I will drive around here. I am negotiating my third 'wall', desperate to grasp inspiration from someone, something, somewhere. At 24 miles my throat is raw from the cold air. I clutch my last bottle of water and bring it with me. Something to squeeze as I fight this battle. I frantically look for the 25-mile mark. It seems like an eternity as I trudge along Grand Canal Street. I go around Westland Row and on to Pearse Street, then I see the red mark high up on a pole in the distance. 'Only one more,' I whisper to my weary limbs.

Oh, there is a God. I somehow missed the 25-mile spot and this is 26. I get an unbelievable burst of energy as the adrenalin begins to pump. Hoards of well-wishers line the streets and suddenly my legs take over and I begin to gallop. I sprint to the finishing line and the feeling is indescribable.

Four hours and 24 minutes of mind boggling slog. Twenty-six miles of battering and bruising.

I am presented with my medal and T-shirt as I collapse on a nearby timber crate. My legs are seizing. My ribs are sore and my lips are blue.

Ger and I are re-united. We are too wasted to talk. We shuffle back to the hotel and take turns to soak in endless baths. We lie on our beds with our legs walking up the wall. Nothing soothes the pain. I cannot even stretch my muscles. Every tendon and ligament has gone into distress. So have I.

IT IS about 5pm and we feel we should be celebrating. Three drinks later we help each other (not in a drunken state) back to the safety of our room. My coughing and sneezing re-emerges and the rest of the night is spent in various uncompromising positions. Tuesday morning arrives and rigor mortis comes calling. At funeral pace, we head for Cork. We stop to get some water but neither can get out of the car.

All day Wednesday and Thursday my body is fractured. By Friday and after many visits to the steam room and sauna, little by little it is beginning to thaw out. It is now though that the flu really kicks in.

Was it worth it? Without a doubt.

Would I do it again? I might but I never thought I would do one. Maybe I should be happy with that.