. . . on coming last
I MET GRÁINNE AT a 10-mile race in the Phoenix Park on Saturday. I say race, but neither Gráinne nor I were racing. We just happened to have a race number stuck to our fronts with pins and there just happened to be 10,000 people somewhere ahead of us racing properly. We passed each other at mile seven like war-weary battleships, very little juice left in our spluttering engines. So this one is for her.
You see, I'm walking the Dublin marathon in October. If I write this down enough times that might make it true. Look at me! I'm walking the marathon in October! And there are, oooh let me check, 58 days left to prepare. Everyone keeps saying the same thing: "Er, why?" And the answer is that I promised my sister I would do it and even though I know she'd understand if I cried off, I just feel somehow this marathon is going to happen with me in it and my only ambition really is to ensure I don't trouble the good people of the St John's Ambulance too much along the route.
My training had been going perfectly well until June and then I just stopped, because that is what I do. I love the smell of self-sabotage in the morning. Also, I have this friend who did a marathon in New York with very little training and didn't die. And Jedward ran the Los Angeles marathon while jet-lagged. They were at the back of my mind when I packed in my training. I sort of thought if I turned up and took it very slow and carried a couple of bananas, I'd be grand. Then I started to panic a bit and thought I'd better step up the preparation and so I signed up for the 10km race in the Phoenix Park, except it turned out to be 10 miles, which is another kettle of blisters altogether.
At the start of the race I met Tony who is one of the Spartans, a first-time marathon participant sponsored by Spar, where he works. We got chatting and we clicked and I had this thought that if I just stick with Tony, I'll be grand. He had a gizmo attached to his arm which told him how long it was taking us to walk each mile. At the beginning we were doing 14-minute miles and I was doing sums in my head and thinking at this rate the marathon will only take six hours.
Tony was an ace motivator. He told me how, since he'd started training, he had transformed his eating habits and turned into someone who went out walking five times a week. His family laughed at the new him but he didn't care. He had the look in his eye of the zealot and as we passed out other walkers I thought again to myself, I just need to stick with Tony and all will be well.
At around mile six, I lost him. Tony's well-trained legs stayed strong and he ploughed on while mine began slowly and inexorably turning to lead. At around mile seven, the people we'd passed out earlier started to pass me out. They included one woman I had noticed earlier who appeared to be in a similar fitness range to me. It was Gráinne.
As Gráinne passed, I asked her how she was getting on and we talked about how tough it was. "I just don't want to come last," she said.
"Me neither," I said. "But just so you know, I have been last in things before and it's not that bad. Somebody has to come last."
"I just don't want it to be me," she said, powering on and leaving me behind.
I wasn't completely alone, though. The emergency support vehicle kept me company. There is nothing for the spirit like trudging tortuously along while a man drives discreetly behind you just in case you suddenly keel over. It started to rain so I put on my jacket and covered up my race number and just pretended to be someone out for a stroll in the Phoenix Park. A slow motion stroll. Each mile was now taking around 23 minutes. At this rate I will be doing the marathon in just under 10 hours. Good to know.
By mile nine-and-a-half, I was fielding phone calls from my fairy godchild, Hannah, who kept saying I was not just brilliant but "super brilliant", which made me cry. I could hear the announcer in the near distance cheering on the last stragglers as they past the line.
"Gráinne!" boomed the announcer suddenly.
"You have the honour of being last in the race, Gráinne. Well done! And that concludes our event today."
If I had any strength left in me I would have sprinted over to tell them they'd got it all wrong. As it was, I limped towards the finish line to see a glum looking Gráinne walking off with her goody bag. "You didn't come last," I mouthed in her general direction, but I don't know if she heard me.
So, for the record, Gráinne didn't come last. I did. Again. And also, Tony Spartan, if you're reading this: help?
In other news . . . That wonderful organisation Acquired Brain Injury Ireland is hosting a charity fashion show, The Style of Dublin, on Sunday, Septebmer 9th at 37 Dawson Street, Dublin 2. Hosted by Brendan Courtney, tickets are €35 and available from abiireland.ie