Running like the wind – An Irishman’s Diary about a wild weekend

The wildest part of a wild weekend was an hour I spent stewarding a road race in Dublin’s Phoenix Park on Saturday morning. It was the “Jingle Bells” 5k, a major annual fundraiser for my local club, Donore Harriers, held always on the first weekend in December.

And if you could choose the weather, it would be run in bright, frosty conditions, with perhaps a smattering of snow – just enough to decorate the antlers of the park’s deer herd, which, again ideally, would line the route of the start in the park’s 15 Acres.

But this year the race was run in the midst of Storm Desmond. So the deer, being sensible creatures, were sheltering in the woods. In their absence, the only animals in the 15 Acres were two-legged runners. And if they weren't wild, exactly, they must have been half-crazed.

Elf accessories

True, in keeping with tradition, many had taken on winter plumage. But for this race that tends to mean Santa suits, or elf accessories. It hardly qualified as sensible either.

The weather had a sense of humour, clearly, because the man who organises the race every year is also called Desmond. He must have heard many variations of the same joke in the previous 24 hours as his personalised weather system threatened to blow the fundraiser into the Irish Sea.

But it could have been worse. In fact, it was worse in Munster (a part of Ireland once known as Desmond, ironically). There, the Clonakility Waterfront Marathon had to be called off after the waterfront became too involved.

Also cancelled was the Waterford half-marathon.  And whereas normal people seek any port in a storm, some Waterford entrants actually abandoned the port in search of a race – heading instead to Dublin for the 5k.

On the other hand, conditions in the capital did have a deterrent effect on the sane – a section of the market that, even among runners, remains important. In mild weather, the Jingle Bells attracts 1,200 or more entries, including many at the last minute. But potential latecomers stayed in bed this year, and the field was about 800.

Full flight

Still, they were an impressive spectacle in full flight. Indeed, speaking of flight, you feared for the lighter participants – including some fun-runners of single-digit age – as the gale that was behind them at the start threatened to turn Acres Road into a runway.

But they were all counted out and back safely. Amid the happy buzz at the finish, as usual, we felt sorry for those who were still asleep.

The main part of my weekend was spent at another annual event up in Patrick Kavanagh country, or as one of his poems called it “wild wet Monaghan”. And although it wasn’t that wild by then, the storm having subsided (bad news for the now-famous Nina and her wind-farm), it was even wetter than usual.

Micro-brewery

I say this not just because of the waterlogged fields around Inniskeen, but because this year’s pre-Christmas reunion with old school friends involved a tasting session in a micro-brewery.

The Brehon Brewhouse is, in a sense, turning Kavanagh’s poems into beer. At any rate, it has a brand called Shanco Dubh (a black porter, naturally) and another called Stony Grey (not grey, but a pale ale).

I found the Stony Grey, with its 6 per cent ABV, to have a slightly bitter finish. But then, so did the poem. Whereas the Shanco Dubh was, if anything, too easy to drink, considering its strength (7.7 per cent).

It was probably just as well, or so I thought next morning, that the brewery haven’t yet come up with a beer to match another Kavanagh poem, Epic.

Voice of racing

Back in post-storm Dublin on Monday, I attended yet another annual fixture of early December, the

Horse Racing Ireland

awards, where, among those honoured this year, was yet another Desmond – Scahill by surname.

The voice of Irish racing has been commentating, or radio and at tracks, for decades now.  And it was for that lifetime’s contribution he was rewarded. But to most people, he will always be associated with one particular race, almost 30 years ago. A race that, funnily enough, was a 5K, or nearly.

Not that they call it 5k in horse-racing.

Officially, the Cheltenham Gold Cup is run over three miles, two furlongs. And in 1986, it was during those last two furlongs, as Dawn Run first faded and then fought back to win, that Scahill's description of the action earned commentating immortality.