Ross O’Carroll Kelly: ‘I’m throwing up - a pavement pizza with everything on it’

I'm doing my stretching exercises in the orangery when I suddenly notice Honor filming me on her iPhone. I'm there, "Okay, what are you doing?"

I’m a little bit out of breath actually.

She goes, "I've decided to do an online vlog – of your training for this 10k race in Toronto. "

I laugh. I'm there, "Well, I haven't decided if I'm 100 per cent definitely doing it yet?"

She goes, "You are 100 per cent definitely doing it because I entered you for it."

“Did you?”

“I filled in the form for you online. Your race number is 7704.”

I’m actually blown away by this. “It’s incredible that you’d have that kind of belief in your old man,” I go. “This is a definite moment for me, Honor.”

She’s like, “Yeah, don’t stort losing the run of yourself. I only want to see you win so you can wipe that smug smile off Garret’s face. The ideal scenario for me would be that you beat him – but then, like, five seconds afterwards, you break your ankle. A bad break that leaves you with a permanent limp.”

“Even so, Honor, the vlog, filling in the form for me – I’m taking this as support.”

“And I’m telling you not to. I just hate him slightly more than I hate you.”

She’s such a daddy’s girl.

“So,” she goes, still pointing her iPhone at me, “tell the camera how your run went this morning.”

“Sorry?”

“As in, what distance did you run and what time you did it in.”

"Honor," I go, "I haven't actually been out yet?"

She lowers her phone. I can’t even begin to describe the look of disappointment on her face.

She’s like, “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, no,” I go, “I’m only, like, limbering up here?”

“But you’re out of breath.”

“That’s from doing my stretches.”

“And you look knackered.”

“It’s called being 36, Honor.”

She shakes her head. “Oh my God,” she goes, “the state of you. You’re not going to be able to run 10 kilometres. You’re bursting out of those shorts, by the way. You’ve an orse like a rhinoceros.”

“I know this is all just talk to get me motivated.”

“It’s not. Look at you – you’re sweating.”

“I’ll tell you what, Honor, let’s go outside and I’ll show you that your old man’s still got a little something in the tank.”

So that's what ends up happening. Out onto the Vico Road we go. I'm like, "Back in the day, I was considered possibly the best runner on the Castlerock College team? Make sure you film this, okay? We'll put it on this vlog of yours and a hopefully Garret will see it and know he's in a race."

I set off at a gentle pace, just to ease myself into it, then I decide to step it up as I’m approaching the first hill. I’m thinking to myself I’m not actually in as bad shape as I thought, but then after a while I stort to feel it – the famous burn that always gets talked about.

My shoulders and my thighs feel like they’re suddenly on fire and I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs no matter how fast I breathe. I decide to try to push through the pain barrier, reminding myself of one of Fr Fehily’s most famous motivational quotes: age wrinkles the body, quitting wrinkles the soul.

So I push on, further up the hill, my legs heavy and my head light, remembering that the first run is always the hordest, just like the first night back at rugby training. You get through this and it’s guaranteed to get easier. Tomorrow will hurt less than today and the day after tomorrow will hurt less than tomorrow and eventually it won’t hurt at all.

I can suddenly hear wheezing. It’s like when you puncture a dog toy – there’s just this, like, inhalation and exhalation of air with a slight whistle in it and I know it’s coming from me.

I try to block it out by thinking of other quotes. Pain is temporary, quitting is forever.

But my legs are suddenly like jelly. There’s no strength in them at all and I’m thinking, please, just give me 50 yords of downhill.

Onwards I run, using visualization techniques to try to block out the actually agony I’m in.

I’m picturing myself crossing the finishing line in Toronto, then waiting around for Garret to finish, then I eventually spot him coming down the home straight, behind all the novelty runners wearing costumes that make it look like they’re riding ostriches, and he eventually crosses the line to find me standing in front of him, making an L in his direction with my thumb and my forefinger.

It definitely helps, but just as I’m reaching the top of the hill, I get this sudden taste of acid in my mouth and I realize that I’m going to vom. I try to swallow it down, but it’s no good. I have to stop – no actual choice in the matter.

I find myself standing on the Vico Road, with one hand on the wall, literally throwing my breakfast up – a pavement pizza with everything on it.

I look back in the direction I’ve come from. And that’s when I cop it. I’ve only run about the length of a rugby pitch!

Still, I think, as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, at least my daughter isn’t here to see this. And just as I’m thinking that, I hear a voice go, “Oh! My God! You’re an embarrassment!”

I turn around. Honor has been running beside me the whole way up the road, filming my struggle – and, worse, she’s not even out of breath.

I’m there, “Hey, Honor, don’t worry about your old man. I’ll get my second wind, then I’ll show you what I can actually do.”

“Don’t bother,” she goes. “I must have been mad to think you could beat Garret.”

I’m there, “Honor, please, you’ve got to believe in . . .” but I don’t get to finish my sentence. Because I feel another wave of nausea coming on, then my stomach does a quick lurch and I’m suddenly spewing again.

Honor walks back to the gaff, stopping only once to shout over her shoulder, “You’re a loser!”