An Irishman's Diary

THE ISSUE IS still in the balance as I write: it could go either way. No, not the Lisbon Treaty. I mean the decision on whether I run the Dublin City Marathon later this month.

After last weekend’s half-marathon, my body is deeply divided. Most of the upper organs are still in favour of ratifying the application form, but my calf muscles have now joined their colleagues from the knee, ankle, and arthritic toe department in the No camp. A final opinion poll is due later today, after a training run. The attitude of my upper thighs, currently in the Don’t-Want-To-Know category, will be crucial.

Last Saturday’s race was not, strictly speaking, my first time to run the 13-mile distance. It was just the first time I did it deliberately. Which, combined with the fact that the previous occasion was 20-odd years ago, made it of little psychological benefit.

You might think it impossible to run a half-marathon by accident. But it was the 1980s, when road races were not as well organised as now. I entered for a 10km “fun run”, in fact. And my subsequent confusion arose from the fact that this was held at the same time as a half-marathon, and on the same course.

Both races started in central Dublin – I can’t remember where – and headed towards Tallaght, before doing a U-turn. The 10km runners were just supposed to turn earlier, maybe around Terenure.

Anyway, with the enthusiasm of youth, I attempted to keep up with the early race leaders. And even after they took off at a murderous pace, I was still assuming all of these to be fun runners who had temporarily lost their sense of humour.

But the pace never relented: because, as I realised later, the fun runners were all behind us. The meaningful prizes – first-prize was always a portable television set back then – were for the longer race, so of course all the real athletes were running in that.

Either I was distracted at the key moment, or the fun run’s half-way mark was badly advertised. Terenure came and went. So did Kimmage. Somewhere in Greenhills, hopelessly detached from both ends of the race, I realised the terrible truth. I had just run the fastest 10k of my life.

Now I was going to have to do it again. In the absence of a fare for the bus, there was no other way back.

Normally, one only hears of “the wall” in full marathons. But there was a wall waiting for me that day around the 11-mile mark. I hit it so hard I still have brick-scars.

At least last Saturday I knew in advance how long the race was, and could pace myself accordingly. Despite this, it was a struggle from the start. The emotional high-point for me came early, after about a mile, when a former footballing acquaintance – “Fast Des”, we used to called him, to differentiate from his namesake, “Big Des” – hoved alongside.

I hadn’t seen him for a few years and, as we chatted briefly, it felt good to be keeping pace with him, for once. Then he shook my hand and said “Enjoy the race”. And suddenly I was watching his back recede rapidly, a familiar view from the many seven-a-sides in which I failed to get close enough to kick him.

After that, it seemed like one long succession of runners passing me by. I was just glad they didn’t all stop and shake hands. By contrast, I passed hardly anyone. There was nothing particularly wrong. It was just one of those days when every mile seemed like a mile-and-a-half.

If nothing else, the experience gave me a new appreciation for those generous souls who line the routes of races and applaud. This being Phoenix Park on a Saturday morning, cheering onlookers were vastly outnumbered by the 8,000 runners. But they were all the more welcome for that.

I also gained a new understanding of the camaraderie among runners: or at least the ones not wearing iPods and cut off in their own heroically-soundtracked worlds.

Around the 11-mile stage, for example, my personal suffering was briefly alleviated by the sight of a competitor in front dropping out from exhaustion. There’s nothing like the failure of others to cheer you up, I thought.

Then a third runner took a detour from his own race to clap the falterer on the back and say: “Don’t give up now – you’re nearly there.” Sure enough, the other guy resumed wearily, and I felt like a low, mean thing for having taken comfort from his plight. Between there and the finish, I knew that any pain I endured was fully deserved.

It’s a steep re-learning curve, this running. Having long abandoned my pre-race target of one hour 45, in favour of just finishing, I avoided even looking at the time during the race for fear of discouragement. So you could have knocked me down with a feather when I lumbered across the finishing line and saw – yes! – 1:45 on the clock.

But you could have knocked me down with a feather, either way. I was as shaken as an antique cocktail mixer, and I haven’t quite recovered yet.

Now, suddenly, the Dublin City Marathon is just three weeks away, which seems far too soon. The idea of making my 26.2-mile debut somewhere else, a bit later – maybe even in another European city – now appears attractive. The Lisbon marathon, for example, is in December. I might vote for that.