A Lap Around Dublin

I started running casually in 2004. Inauspiciously, I might add: I came home from a feed of beer and chips and felt the best thing I could do was go for a trot around the block to wear off some of the badness, and wound up doing 5k. Thus emboldened, I turned this into a semi-regular habit. In 2006 and 2007 I took on a few actual races: 5k, 5 miles, 10 miles, half-marathon. I joked about marathons and told people it was madness to suggest I'd do one myself. Roll around 2008...

I was talking with That One Friend about maybe doing the Dublin City Marathon as early as February. I'd found a three-days-a-week, 16-week training plan that pretty much gave me the luxury of not deciding to start training properly until about July, and in the mean time I figured I'd go ahead and do the Adidas Race Series (5 mile, 10 mile and half-marathon races, a month apart) - the same as I'd done in 2007.

The best laid plans, and all that. In the end, my training schedule got knocked out of whack by a variety of things: the Race Series itself didn't coincide with the distances I was supposed to be running on those weekends, and being races, they knocked me flat for a few days afterwards, too. I decided early on to abandon the speed training and focus on the pace/stamina stuff, which meant two days a week of running, but for some reason I had a tough time even keeping to that. On top of that, there was a two-week holiday in Cyprus (after my first day or so, I went out for a run every day) and a two-week work trip to Seattle where despite staying in the Washington Athletic Club, I only got in two runs, and both were 5k or less on the WAC's ridiculously small running track. It was beginning to look like I'd have to skip the marathon. Nagging away at the back of my head, however, was a combination of wanting to do this crazy thing in my 35th year, and also wanting to impress the aforementioned Friend.

The closing date for entries was October 6th, three weeks before race day. I looked at my running schedule and figured I'd do the 20 miles on the 5th, and then make my decision based on that. Come October 5th, I put on my gear and headed out. 80 minutes and ten miles later, I stopped at the house for a drink, and then did the second ten miles in 90 minutes, making for 2h50 total; if I could do a little over six miles more in an hour and ten I'd not only have done a marathon, I'd have done one in four hours. And so I hit up the web and a few minutes later had my electronic receipt telling me I was runner number 11195.

A brief aside here: because I was effectively doing this in secret, and because I had done no real research beyond finding the training schedule I was failing to adhere to, I had no idea of the significance of the four-hour mark, just that it seemed like a pretty neat target to aim for.

I ran the rest of the scheduled training, less the speed runs, over the following three weeks. 4 miles, 15 miles, 8 miles, 10 miles. There was something bizarre about running a straight 15 miles with no breaks for a training run, given that previously I'd raced a mere 13.1 and found it pretty physically destructive. During this time I also read Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, wherein he describes being overconfident going into a marathon, feeling fine at 20 miles or so, and then pretty much dying in the last few miles. It's a great book, but don't read it when you're training poorly.

I still wanted to keep the whole thing quiet. I'd told The Friend the day after I booked my entry; later in October it seemed like I might have to go back to Seattle at short notice and so I told my boss why it was that I couldn't do that; but for the most part, people didn't ask me straight out (and I'd certainly said enough in the past to counter the idea) and so it wasn't too hard to keep it a secret. Of course, that couldn't last: a friend of mine, Brendan, was also running, and we met on the Friday before the race. Me, Brendan, Brendan's better half Rach, and Cliffy. Rach hadn't seen me for quite literally years; probably around fifteen or so. And the first thing out of her mouth? "are you running on Monday?" I tried to hem and haw my way out of that one, but I couldn't flat-out lie about it, and so the Secret Circle expanded to five.

Race day! A pox upon Irish Rail and Dublin Bus for their bank holiday schedules! I had to drive to Sandyford to catch the Luas into town, as that was the only public transport running. As advised, I'd packed my gear the night before, so it was basically fall out of bed at 6:15am, don the running kit, have some breakfast, then head to the race. I arrived with plenty time in hand, walking down Baggot Street in biting cold wondering if I'd have to wear my hooded top to the start line (which essentially meant discarding it, as there's no way I could retrieve it after the race). As we turned onto Merrion Square South, however, the sun was shining all the way over the rooftops in the Mount Street direction, and it started feeling a little warmer, and I ditched the hoodie with the rest of my gear. Having juggled things around in the pockets of my waterbottle belt, I figured I'd give up on the GPS toy as well; I wanted to bring my phone in case I keeled over out on course and needed to contact some friends, and once I'd filled pockets with phone and energy bars there wasn't really room to safely hold the GPS as well. A shame, as I'd like to have tracked my progress a little more closely.

I think you can get a sense here of how poorly prepared I was. Yes, I really had to choose between my phone and my similarly-sized handheld GPS... ironically enough, I have no idea if the energy bars actually did me any good. Or the drink in my belt, other than giving me an excuse to slow down to a walking pace a few times. There were ample water and energy drinks being handed out (100,000 bottles of Ballygowan and 25,000 of Energise), and random people were handing out sugary stuff as well. I think I could probably have done without the belt, which would have saved me an abrasion on my lower back (from the label in my running shorts, of all things...)

I met up with Bren, Rach and Cliffy before the start, and Rach took a picture of Cliffy standing next to myself and Bren, at which Cliffy quipped, "two and a half men - and I'm the two". For some reason I thought Bren was in the over-four-hour category, so we wound up starting from different points, but I think it was probably better for Bren that we weren't running together. Or maybe worse for me. All is revealed below.

Again, note that even at this point, I still wasn't really clear on the idea that four hours was A Thing, just the target I'd chosen for myself and a convenient dividing line in the starting groups!

Once the start area started filling up, the icy wind that had been blowing intermittently didn't matter so much. There was a real sense of camaraderie among complete strangers; people asking about each others' targets and that sort of thing, but idle chatter as well. One guy near me was wearing a chicken costume; I overheard one of his colleagues saying that he'd won the bet, so I can only assume there was a hapless egg wandering around elsewhere... 20 minutes to go. 19 minutes to go. Time was crawling by. Suddenly, a burst of applause: the wheelchair racers were off. The crowd shuffled forward, overclothing and plastic bags being discarded left and right over the heads of the runners. A pistol shot, and we were off!

We passed one of the wheelchair racers inside the first 5 miles, somewhere on the North Circular Road; most people gave him a wave or a cheer as they went by (I gave him a thumbs up). From the sound of it, someone he knew caught up with him just after I'd passed him.

Into Phoenix Park. We ran up by the zoo. Two guys came up on my right-hand side, bantering with each other: "they must think we're some sort of migrating animal", "like Wildebeest". "It's not much of a migration,", I interjected, "we wind up in the same spot we started from". They laughed, one of them adding, "and the weather hasn't changed, either!" Like I said, a real sense of camaraderie.

The weather, actually, was nice enough at this point that I'd taken off my gloves. We ran up the main road in Phoenix Park, then off to the left and down Furze Road towards Chapelizod. My feet were starting to blister at this point, much as I expected, and running downhill wasn't doing them much good, either, but there was nothing for it but to ignore it and keep going. Somewhere along here was the 10k marker; I don't recall passing it, but the official split said 0:50:02. We ran in under the Chapelizod Bypass flyover, and someone started up a chant: "AGGIE AGGIE AGGIE," and the response came back: "OY OY OY". "AGGIE!" "OY!" "AGGIE!" "OY!" "AGGIE AGGIE AGGIE" "OY OY OY" and we were out into the sunshine on the other side of the bridge, smiling and laughing despite the fact that we'd completed 9 miles by this point, and had been running for over an hour. The ten-mile marker came and went, and I glanced at my watch: 1:20. Excellent. I told myself I could drop off the pace a little, and I did, pretty much.

Somewhere in Crumlin, a little kid told us we were nearly there when we hadn't even gotten half way. By the time we had actually reached 13.1, I was on 1:47 (official split time 1:47:33) - again, pretty much bang on target.

Most of the southside loop is a lost memory at this point: mainly I think because I didn't know the roads we were running on, and I'd gotten into a bit of a zone where the main thing on my mind was nothing. I have piecemeal recollections (16 years later) of it. Someone had a sign made of giant foam squares with letters embedded in them using different-coloured foam, and crenellated edges to fit the squares to each other together. It seemed like they were still trying to put the sign together when I passed, but it certainly looked the part. Most of the signs were just marker on cardboard, and generally didn't say much more than who they were supporting, but I guess all that mattered was that it was your name on your fanbase's sign.

Aside from the chicken suit guy, I was passed at one point by someone wearing a Fred Flintstone costume over his regular running vest, and there were three guys wearing French colours and fairly sizeable afro wigs. I didn't see the member of the Guinness family who ran dressed as a toucan (or his friend running with him dressed as a pint of Guinness), or the any of the superhero costumes, or the guy who broke the world record for completing a marathon on crutches.

Running somewhere in the vicinity of Templeogue, there was one of a team of Italian runners near me (branding: terramia.com); various people slowed as they drew up level with him, wished him well (some in Italian) and continued on their way. One wag said, "welcome to the walking tour of Dublin". Bystanders cheered him on, too. And I heard a Frenchman being cheered on elsewhere with "Allez les Bleus!" Given how racist us Paddies can be, that was certainly nice to encounter.

I think the first time I dropped to a walk was probably somewhere on the 17th mile; I found I couldn't really run and drink at the same time, so I slowed down to drink and then picked back up into a run again. I was still just about on pace, hitting the mile markers - when I could see them - more or less on schedule. There were a few hills on the southern part of the course, despite it reputedly being "a flat course" - oh how we joked about that - and the hills tended in general to be short and steep, but there was a seriously long haul around Clonskeagh where it seemed like about a mile and a half of uphill - and that was around the 19th mile of the race. On one of the corners, a lady stood on the side of the road, repeating over and over something along the lines of "You can do it! You have the power!" at the top of her voice; a few runners looked bemused, and I quipped, "she certainly has the power" which raised a few tired chuckles. I just can't help being a smartarse, even when I'm gasping for breath.

My official 30k split was 2:38:14, probably 2:37 something on my watch; I hit 20 miles on the top end of 2:50, probably closer to 51, and told myself I'd try for 21 miles in three hours, since we were cresting the hill on Roebuck Road and heading down for Foster's Avenue at this point. I passed the 21-mile marker right on 3 hours according to my watch, and dropped to a walk to drink and catch my breath. Two minutes later, I started running again, and arrived on the Stillorgan Road heading for home. The UCD flyover seemed flat, which I guess it is - the road dips to go under it - and we crossed over the top and passed the 35k marker on the other side. "I can do this", I told myself, "I can make it" - but my pace was seriously flagging at this point, and I think I probably ran at least one ten-minute mile around here. Down Nutely Lane, and then left onto Merrion Road. It was daunting, on one hand, because I knew this road, and I knew how far it was to the city centre, and on the other hand it was a blessing - for exactly the same reason!

We came up past the RDS. Some well-meaning but misguided person told me there were only two miles to go, but it was several hundred meters before we would pass the 24 mile mark. I grimaced a little and kept pounding; the crowd support was fantastic the whole way around the course, and it kept me moving. People were handing out boiled sweets and jellies and chocolate bars and I don't know what else, and they were cheering us along as if we were Olympians. It really did put a spring in my step, even though my feet were burning up, my right knee was voicing some serious complaint, and my thighs...

Ah crap.

24 miles, 3 hours and 30 minutes of running, and my thighs had had it. We hit a slight rise to cross the Grand Canal, and I literally could not run: no wall, no cramps, just a steadfast refusal from my thigh muscles to do what I asked of them. I dropped to a walk. An old man offered me some wine gums, which I gratefully accepted, and I kept trudging forward. Up the bridge. Over the canal. Down the other side, and an enthusiastic spectator tried to encourage me to run, trotting backwards next to me and telling me I was nearly there. I appreciated the sentiment, and smiled wanly at him, and kept walking. A Dutchman pulled level with me - at least, I assumed he was Dutch due to the accent and the bright orange top he was wearing. He said to me, "we'll finish no matter what, eh?" and I nodded and smiled and said, "if I have to crawl". He was walking too, but I couldn't keep pace with him - as soon as I stopped running, my knee seemed to take this as a signal to freeze up completely. I pushed on through Grand Canal street, occasionally checking my watch. I could see the time slipping away, and it was killing me not that I wouldn't make the four hours, but that I'd just barely miss it.

I looked up and saw the sign for 25 miles.

"To hell with it," I told myself, "I'm running."

I ground my knee back into action, and suddenly I was passing people, and moving through the crowds. I passed the Dutch guy; "come on, it's the last mile," I said, but I don't think he had anything left. I had maybe 14, maybe 15 minutes to get to the finish line. A mile and a bit in 15 minutes. I could do that. Hell, I could run twice as fast as that normally. Go! The crowds were phenomenal. We were running up Pearse Street and they had lined both sides of the road. People were trying to cross at College Green, but there was no break in the runners. We came around the front of Trinity College, and a guy coming up behind me asked what time we were on. I looked down at my watch. 3:50. I was going to do it! "Three fifty, bang on!" "Great!", he said, and tore off ahead of me like he'd just started the race, one arm raised in a victory salute. The crowd were loving it; they reached out to high-five him as he ran past. We were running along Nassau Street now, really running despite the pain, and there were people three and four deep on both sides of the road, shouting for all they were worth. I raised my own arm in salute. Nassau Street became Clare Street. We rounded the corner onto Merrion Square West, and there was the finish. The clock was at 3:54, and damned if I was going to stagger across the line. It was 100m or less. It didn't even feel like I was digging deep at this point: between the clock, the crowd, and the closeness of the finish line it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to sprint for the line. I passed a dozen runners on the way, and... I was done. 3:55:15 on the clock, 3:54:55 chip time.

I was almost in tears when I got my finisher's medal. I thanked the girl who gave it to me profusely, then queued to have my photo taken, picked up my goodie bag, and retrieved my stuff. As I exited the "participants only" area, I pretty much ran straight into Cliffy who'd been waiting for me since I'd texted him just after crossing the line. Bren was sitting in a doorway over to the left, having probably passed me while I was walking the 24th mile; he'd reeled in a 3:46 personal time - I figure if I'd actually run with him, he wouldn't have gotten that, but at the same time I might've made a better time; it's not really important now, though. We sat there laughing and joking and hurting while Rach and Cliffy took some photos, and then headed for home. On the way, I stopped to thank a completely random Garda for supporting the marathon; he looked surprised, but accepted my thanks graciously.

Oh, the hilarity of dragging myself up the steps to Charlemont Luas station so I could go home. I got back to the house, showered and rested for a bit, then headed out to treat myself to a steak dinner and a few pints. A job done, and done well enough.

No cramps. Not during, not afterwards. I had a nervous stomach in the morning on the way in, which I initially thought might be more of a stomach upset, but it had vanished by the time the Luas arrived at Stephen's Green so I guess it was just a dose of butterflies. Even a day later I was somewhat perplexed at how little pain I was in. One thing I really noticed over the course of 2008 was that while my pace had picked up a little, my recovery time had improved massively - I was in pretty much perfect working order the day after I did the 20-mile training run at race pace, for example; and walking for ten or twelve minutes in the race itself was enough to give me back a pair of (mostly) working legs. I'm not saying I'd immediately recovered to full health the day after the race or anything, but I wasn't lying on the floor looking for a wheelchair, either.

Oh, I did have blisters. In fact, my left foot had a blister that was too big for any of the plasters I had to cope with. My right foot was more chafed than blistered. For bonus points, both my feet bled through my sneakers. Hardcore! My right knee... well, I had to take a week or more off running. My right shoulder was also a bit sore, and I had that lower-back chafing from the waterbottle belt pressing the label of my running shorts into my spine. But the thing that hampered me most in the days after the race was the fact that I had bruises on two of my toes, and I kept catching them on things or bumping them off things. Owie!

Thanks to That One Friend for making me believe I could do this, and for encouraging me along the way; thanks also to the organisers and volunteers who did an excellent job, but please, overhead mile markers would be so much of a better idea if I ever do this again; and apologies to anyone who asked me about marathons and bank holiday weekends and either got no answer or some silly answer that distracted from the question.

About the best smile I could muster under the circumstances.

Official Race Timing