‘If Simon Zebo can leap over an All Black, I can finish the NYC marathon’

“It’s all about pain Seamus!” Alone it Stands, Act 1, Scene 4.

This is a line from Alone it Stands (more on that title later), a play I wrote 17 years ago.

I was supposed to take it easy this weekend. Ref a few soccer games. Then stay off my feet; watch the match at home, nothing too strenuous or stressful. It didn’t really work out that way did it?

The script for the game had been written. The All Blacks had put seven tries on South Africa, Ireland had a shallow bench. The damage would be done in the last quarter.

“About accepting excruciating pain as part of the fabric of your everyday life.” Alone It Stands, Act 1, Scene 4.

Two hours of screaming at the television, hiding behind the sofa, gnawing my fingers. Praying, begging, then, exhilaration and relief, and my inbox is full of Alone it Stood gags. I am scouring Twitter and Facebook for news, trying to stay connected to this momentous event. So I was nice and relaxed going to bed the night before the New York City Marathon.

The clocks went back here on Saturday. No one told the cats so I was awakened by my son’s cat at 4.45. I got up fed the cats had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and left the house.

The journey to Staten Island on the ferry is beautiful but then you have to wait about an hour to get a bus to Fort Wadsworth where the race starts. Looking around me at the sea of bright nervous faces, I thought that a marathon brings out the best in people.

It is a triumphant thumbing of the nose at death. Many people have pictures of loved ones on their shirts who have died from cancer or other diseases. Others like me are running to feel alive. To be tested.

Well I was tested all right.

The start is magical, people hug and kiss and take photos. The anthem is sung and two Howitzers blast. They fire live ammunition aimed at New Jersey so nobody really cares what damage they do.

We are warned in seven different languages not to pee on the bridge. On to the bridge, selfie on the central median. Then into Brooklyn, Party Central. Gospel Choirs. Mariachi bands and trash metal groups.

Loads of Trump signs “If Trump can run so can you”, “Run Like Trump is trying to grab your junk”.

The miles fly by. Up Lafayette Avenue the road is narrower and the sound is deafening, then onto Bedford Avenue and the Hassidic neighborhood which is eerily quiet. I ask some runners around me where did everybody go?

“Your body doesn’t feel safe working this hard. It sends out signals to this effect. your lungs ache, legs feel tired and heavy, your head feels tight, mouth dry. You ignore it, accept it.” Alone It Stands, Act 1, Scene 4.

My family are at mile 13 just before we leave Brooklyn. They have a big sign –

GO BEANO!! (my childhood nickname) is on the poster my daughter is holding and a Munster flag so I can spot them. I hug them all sweatily. Half way and I feel great.

Then the wheels come off a bit. The 59th street bridge is a gentle enough climb but there is a very cold wind off the East River. It sucks the energy out of my body. My legs feel dead. My shoulders are cold and aching. We turn into a cacophony of noise on First Avenue and I look up a gradual hill nearly seventy blocks up to the Bronx. First Avenue is mostly in shade but there are bands of sunshine. I try to stay in the sun to warm up. Mile 16. Ten miles to go. Time to dig deep. I ignore the crowd and try to focus on my rhythm and breathing. I make my way agonisingly to the Bronx.

I was shooting for a 4.40 time and am trying to run the second half faster than the first. But on First Avenue each mile is slower than the last. In the Bronx I try to pick up the pace. I pass people walking then we are heading south. The wind is behind us and heading south psychologically feels like going down hill.

Then bizarrely the road is full of banana peels! People are slipping and falling. For once I manage to avoid falling on my face.

“Now your body gets more persistent. Stop. Pain. Stop. Pain. Stop. This is when most people do stop!” Alone It Stands, Act 1, Scene 4.

The dreaded Fifth Avenue climb. I feel good. I am out of my head. Enjoying myself in spite of the pain. My wife and kids will be at the finish, this thought pulls me along the route.

Then I do something mean. Mile 25. Uphill. I see the words “New Zealand” emblazoned on a yellow shirt. A flag. A silver fern. He is maybe 10 years younger than me. He is struggling with the hill. Panting and grunting. Four deep breaths and I run up behind him.

“Hey New Zealand!” I pull level. “Your boys didn’t have a great day yesterday. Did they? One hundred and eleven years!”

To say he is not amused doesn’t begin to describe his reaction.

“Up Ireland!” I show him a clean pair of heels and take off up the hill.

I’m not proud of myself. But it had to be done.

“But if you look at great athletes in their prime, at the final stretch of the 1,500 metres at the Olympics, if you look at the faces of the runners as the come down that final straight. Or at the face of a wing forward making a break for the line late in an International. The look on their faces isn’t elation, Seamus, it’s agony.” Alone It Stands, Act 1, Scene 4.

The bottom of Central Park. I am running on fumes. When I wrote those lines all those years ago I liked the rhythm. I knew it to be true but I didn’t understand the experience they described. Well now I was living them.

I think of yesterday’s game in the last mile.

If Simon Zebo can leap over an All Black and grab the ball, I can finish this race.

If Conor Murray can confound the defence and score a try Springer would be proud of, I can finish this race.

If the Irish pack can front up and dominate the All Blacks, I can finish this race.

If Ireland can beat the All Blacks for the first time in 111 years, I can finish this race.

I finished the race. I didn’t stop. Not once.

After I met my wife and kids we witnessed a man go on his knees propose to his girlfriend who had just finished the marathon. It was a great end to a magical day.

Best weekend ever!

PS: Some, (actually all) of my New York friends inform me that DUMBO stands for Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass. So now you know.