Inspired by Etty's post

Etty, your last post is just BRILLIANT! It is so inspiring and your last paragraph in particular reminds me again what the effort is all about! I am printing it out and keeping it with me to read again, and again, and again. I am so proud that my nieces and nephews were out there, cheering on those elite and not-so-elite athletes! I love the photo of the three kiddos reaching out to 'high-five'. I may put a copy of that somewhere too, for now it's on my screensaver. You are renewing my Boston dream all over again. 

But I must have patience yet to see how my first marathon goes. 'Cos you know, to get into Boston I would most likely have do a marathon other than Cork ... I just wouldn't be fast enough this time round. Jeepers ... hmmm.

Thanks to Thomas (Vienna marathoner) for his good wishes. I shall certainly consider looking for a pacer.

Thanks to Rhetorician too for her continued enthusiasm for running. It's great. And I agree, I enjoy running and sometimes find the 'technical' side a bit overwhelming.

That said, I have yet to run today, if I will get there at all. It's ok. I'm at peace with it. It's a decision I had to make in order to do a whole load of other things. Some days you just have to let it go. I will run this evening, if I can. I have the gear in the car. If not, I will do an 8-miler tomorrow and maybe 5 on Friday.

I visited my friend in Cappagh hospital last evening. He was proud to tell me that the corridor is 140 crutch steps long and so many feet ... he is a Scientist! I smiled to myself. As I say, we are all battling our own distances!

Keep well Etty! I know you are weary! I hope the Remicade eases that chest soon. Out of interest, did your new doctor mention any advances in treatment or cure for Sarcoidosis?  

Musing on the Side Lines

It's Spring Break for the three kiddos this week. Unfortunately Hubby has to work as he didn't quite feel like he could take a week off only 5 weeks into his new job! The Kiddos have been hopping and bouncing like Easter Bunnies, full of expectation and anticipation for the week ahead, hard to blame them really, after all there's a new city to explore.

When you have a mixed gender family of a 12 year old, a 10 year old and a five year old, there is always a grumble or two or three when trying to decide on an activity that will engage and excite everyone. It's nigh impossible actually to come to a consensus so my suggestion that we go watch the Boston Marathon on Monday met with various degrees of excitement, mostly on the cool side. MaeMae was the most enthusiastic, runner-aspirer as she is. "Why would I want to see a bunch of people running down the street?" asked Scootch, living up in attitude to the pimply nose that betrays his impending teenagerhood. "What is it Mom, is it people running in a parade?" asked Little Guy. Various clucking and soothing and I'll admit it, bribing, finally got everyone in the car and off we went, anxious to get an early start, anxious about traffic and parking, anxious whether it would all work out and everyone would be happy, although, the anxiety was all mine!

When the first participants whizzed by the eyes nearly popped out of the heads of my three Kiddos. The first participants in the race are of course those competing in their variously rigged and impressively fast wheelchairs, that only faintly resemble traditional wheelchairs, arms propelling them down the course. MaeMae looked at me in complete disbelief "How do they do that Mom?" she asked, "It's impossible, I mean it's...it's... 26.2 miles....!" And from that moment on my three Kiddos were completely hooked. After the first wave of participants the women's race came by. Our viewing point was fantastic and about 11 miles in to the course, enough time to allow the group to break up a little and for the race leaders to come to the front. We were not disappointed as we saw Desiree Davila running down the course, her white skin in sharp contrast to the dark skin of Caroline Kilel, Sharon Cherop and their Kenyan companions. It was a wonderful and powerful sight. The Kiddos marvelled at the bare, tight, taut abdominal muscles working hard before our very eyes. The ladies looked relaxed and many smiled in response to the cheering crowds.

Thirty minutes or so later the first wave of the men's race came through and we were greeted by US participant Ryan Haul, in front at that point, but close on his heels, the Kenyan men's contingent. Haul ran seemingly effortlessly, passing mere feet from us, again smiling and wooing the crowd and the crowd loved him right back. As runner after runner ran down the field the Kiddos took pride in cheering each one. Soon hands were red and sore from clapping so much, they would take a break briefly and then be drawn back in to it all again. We started to notice those that wore their names on their shirts and had fun calling out to them by name "You go Dan, you're looking good!" "Ted, you're awesome!" "You can do it Mark!" Encouraged by the runner's nods and smiles and occasional words of thanks the kiddos persisted, pouring all their strength, admiration and awe into encouraging these marvellous athletes. Soon they were out at the edge of the course high-fiving runners as they ran by. They quickly spotted those runners that wanted to be high-fived and those that didn't. They loved holding their palms up to me to show how wet their hands were from the contact with bodies that were working so hard. In some way, I think they loved touching greatness.

Soon I found myself sitting back quietly, just watching. I would never find myself among these runners, never manage even a half mile of running. In recent months I find my breathing to be more labored and tight yet, my heart was full of gratitude for all sorts of things, some things I could hardly find words for, gratitude just bubbled up inside me. Occasionally I found tears in my eyes; like when I saw a shirt that read "This one's for you Dad!" or "Team Timmy", another read "I'm running for my sister" or "Cancer Survivor" or "I'm 41 today!". There were so many stories out there, thousands of them, indeed 27,000 of them, flying by me. The marathon itself was really only an outward representation of so many other marathons that have been run in and around these participant's lives, touching them, shaping them, moulding them. I was in awe of the love, willpower and dedication to the process that brought each person to this point, to this moment in time. I was grateful to each person out there, regardless of age or fitness level, whether they had two legs, one leg or no legs, that was bearing witness to my three children, illustrating the power of the human spirit, the power of determination, dedication and strength of character, the power of having a dream and chasing it, for 26.2 miles, all the way to the finish line.

A tiny clip of the first rush of ladies with Desiree Davila in the middle of the Kenyan contingent


Ryan Haul leads as he races past us

Cranky Runner, Dreaming of Boston and a Bit of History

This morning's run wasn't great. I woke still a bit cranky from a minor disagreement (all sorted now!), headachey, anxious about one or two tasks that had to be faced and generally ... cranky! Sorry folks, perhaps too much information, but it happens to me too and, in the past, I have allowed such humours to affect my whole day!  Happily, this morning I was on my own, able to growl away to myself.  I had my breakfast, did a few quick tasks, headed out for my run, although I found myself walking from time to time, in need of a little inner 'giving out' session.  To add to my crankiness, I was using the local Slí na Sláinte which, for some irrational reason, I have come to detest! That said, between the sun on my back and the gentler pace of the walk, I soon felt better. I did it twice today to make up the 5 miles or 8kms.  My watch told me that I did it in 50 minutes which I find hard to believe, given I walked from time to time. Maybe there was more steam coming out my ears and more pace in my step than I realised.  Perhaps, I should look for scorch marks on the pavement!!! By the time I returned, I had mellowed, climbed down, and found a more rational and 'boundaried' articulation of my grievance. All is well. 

I have been distracted by two marathons this past weekend - the London marathon on Sunday last and the Boston marathon as mentioned by Etty. I so wanted to sit and watch the whole of the races, but I have not had a chance to do that. I would love to do the Boston marathon and, secretly, thought I might until I started training for this. The Boston marathon has an elite status among runners simply because you have to have a qualifying time. The last time I checked (see, my interest), I would need to run a 3hour 40minute marathon. I'll be lucky to do the Cork marathon in 4 - 4.5hours.  I'm not sure now, if I would be able or willing. Correction, I would be willing or would I? I would need to be more dedicated than I am.

That's the thing. I know I have been good to go out and run every day, but in many ways I am quite sloppy about it all. There's my diet. I should be at least a half stone lighter to be really efficient. My runs have really been decided on 'how I feel', not on whether I should be doing 'tempo' or 'race speed' or 'slow'. Rhetorician, you are better at making that effort.  I should have worked up a better base before starting my programme, although I want to qualify that by saying my years of hill-walking are definitely standing to me.  On a Saturday morning, I find it is the same 'feeling' or 'approach' that I used to have on days we were facing 5 or 6 hour hikes through the Reeks. There are other things I need to do, such as study my heart rate patterns more. There would be so much more to consider, more time required to study and plan better! I have stumbled on one or two blogs, one in particular of a guy who has just completed the Vienna marathon in a sub-3hour for the first time in his life. You think my dedication is something, you should read this guy's account and he has 4 children. I have also just finished Benjamin Cheevers book Strides who offers a journalistic (if somewhat egotistical) historical and sociological overview of running. The book is a bit of a mess, to be honest, but enjoyable for all that. It's like a long chat about running and which of us runners doesn't enjoy running talk? In this book, as in the websites, blogs, and so on, the dedication and constancy of the committed runner strikes me again and again. Most admit that there is a touch of the compulsive in them. Hmmm .... I wonder does that shoe fit?

By the way, Cheevers speaks about the Boston marathon which was originally in and around 24 miles. It wasn't  the same distance as the Athens marathon. (I don't have the book to hand) The original marathon distance was based on the run of the soldier Pheidippides from the town of Marathon to Athens in 490 B.C. (24.85 miles). It was revived as part of the modern Olympic Games in 1896 and set at that distance, but it was not universally fixed. The 26.2mile distance was established at the London Olympics in 1908, and eventually became standardised in the 1924 Olympics. There are many technical reasons why the race was fixed at precisely 26miles 385 yards, including suitability of the terrain of the final miles with tram lines to consider. The angle by which the final stage could be viewed from the Royal Box dictated the 385 yards rather than the full circumference of the stadium.  Most stories involve the Royals, but I like the version (not true, I think) which recounts the race must begin at the nursery window of one of the young princesses in Windsor Castle and finish in front of the royal box in the London Stadium.  As I run that last mile and a half on June 6th, I will be thinking of that Princess!

Kenmare to Sneem

I found myself in Kerry on Saturday morning. I had every intention of staying in Kildare for the weekend, running my 18 miles in the Phoenix Park and so on.  On Friday, I finished work a bit earlier than I had planned and suggested we head West to enjoy the fine weather. That's the good thing about running, it can be done anywhere.

And so, on Saturday morning, I loaded up with water, some jellies, smeared myself in sun cream and headed down the lane, through the town (pausing to pick up some energy bars in the health shop) and out West towards Sneem. It was a glorious day. I was a reluctant runner to begin. It wasn't so much that I didn't want to run.  It was just a case of wanting to do other things too, ranging from reading the Weekend paper to browsing through the town to a spot of gardening. I was almost in the 'grumble zone'.

That said, as soon as I left the town, passed the suburbs and was heading West, I left all the distractions behind and bent into the task ahead with better grace. I was determined to keep it a slow, steady pace, almost chanting this to myself from time to time. 'Slow and steady wins the race.' It became something of a mantra, something I locked into from time to time to test my pace and breathing. Before I knew it, I was at the entrance to Letter, sooner again I was passing Templenoe Church, Pat Spillane's bar and then, I was really on my way. I paused at Blackwater Bridge for another energy bar, checked my distance from Kenmare and into Sneem to discover I was about half way and on I trotted again.  Although it was a warm morning, I was enjoying the shelter of the trees. The coconut scent of gorse floated in the air with the odd, more pungent smell of wild garlic where someone had mown or strimmed in front of their cottage.  Everywhere, there were men in Saturday-morning mode in the gardens of the homesteads that dotted the roadside. One stood brandishing a shears (not at me).  Another strolled across the road, brush and bucket in hand. Another worked diligently at fences, a thatched mansion facing the sea behind him.  It was all leisurely and not a lawnmower to be heard. I noticed Blackwater Pier on my left for the first time ever, less a feat of being on foot than the clearance of trees, I think. There were lots of trees, chopped and tidied of last Winter's damage. Most noticeable of all are the Cordylines, amputated stumps where once there were flowing leaves. It had been a severe Winter, although hard to remember now on this alive April morning.  The birds were in full chorus, although I failed to hear a cuckoo. Even the Primroses put in appearance from time to time. 

Shortly after Blackwater, I turned a corner. The sea, heretofore glimpsed only as dappled patches of light between trees, now laid out all her charms, blue and sparkling, moving in the breeze.  The hills of Beara Peninsula leaned away on the opposite shore. It was a magnificent morning! I breathed deep, trying to embrace it all as I paced onwards.  Equally dramatic was the blast of warmth that assaulted my senses from time to time, almost as if I were passing under a huge hairdryer. The slabs of rock on my right were radiating the morning's sun back to me.  

On I paced, bemused by the motherly-looking woman on her bike all decked out in her 'Fit4Life' high-vis jacket as she went out a mile or so, passing me on her return trip with a smile. The Kenmare-Sneem road is busy, but I think I chose my times well. It wasn't too stressful. It was between times, too late for morning work traffic and too early for the return of the Tourist buses. I had to negotiate a corner or two on the wrong side of the road, I had to step to one side from time to time, but I felt safer here than I did on the back road to Sneem a few weeks ago where locals seemed to think they had the road to themselves. The busyiness of this road, lent some caution to the drivers. On I paced. Slow and steady. My muscles were beginning to tire, my upper left hip joint was beginning to 'catch' in a whole new way. Still, I was comfortable, had more energy and knew that I was able. Soon, No.1 arrives, pauses up the road. He tells me that I have 24kms done. I think, great, only 3 more. Then, I do my sums and realise, no. I need 5 more. minimum.  I hand over my water bag though and enjoy the coolness at my back. Stiff as my legs are, at this stage, I now manage to run a bit easier, a bit freer without the weight of the rucksack. 

I pass Parknasilla on my left. I am reminded of my childhood visit there, linked to an incident in which I nearly sliced off the thumb of Café-Java brother during a ball game. I, playfully, used an old knife found in the grass to try and knock the ball from his hands. My geometrical mind had not yet kicked in. I did not know that a knife would slip off a sphere to splice through the bearer's hands requiring stitches in the local hospital. That happened days before a weekend trip to Parknasilla. I can still see him on the side of the pool looking in at myself and Etty splashing about while he holds his bandaged arm aloft. My splashes were tinged with guilt. Mind you, he did elict the attentions of Maeve Binchy who pitied the boy with the bandaged arm as she (I did not know her) took her daily swim.  

Here I was today, far from a weekend in Parknasilla, plodding past, all hot and sweaty. How strange is life.  Soon, other landmarks passed me by (or rather I passed them) - the cottage with the cheese, the artist's lodge and so on. I knew the end was in sight. No. 1 was giving me distance reports.  He drove off then and I finished the last few kilometres, rounding the corner to the town entrance.  I thought kissing the sign with the town name might be a bit dramatic and, besides, I would lose stride. I trotted down the hill, stopping alongside one of the ghost estates that now litter many of the small towns of Ireland.  I eased down onto the pavement, gratefully took a Sports drink and guzzled it in one go.  I was less overwhelmed than the previous week, sorer in one or two spots but overall content.  Only two more particularly long runs before the marathon itself.

Next week, it's only a half marathon! Oh the joy, the joy! I'll be back in Kerry by then, I am already considering my options for routes. Oh the joy, the joy!