Grassroots celebration robbed of its fragrance

ATHLETICS:It's a day charged with the promise of spring and the pure joy and camaraderie of running, but at this year's 'Nationals' one man arrived to break the spell

Last Saturday morning I was swept out of bed by a one-word text message: "Outside." This was Dad informing me the lift to Belfast had arrived. Early, as usual.

We've been travelling to the National Cross Country together for over 20 years now, and he insisted on driving. As usual. I tried convincing him my old Alfa Spider was the way to go.

"I couldn't," he said. "I'd freeze to death in that thing."

So we took his beat-up Audi with ancient plates.

The first of these trips was back in 1987, to far-off Killenaule. My brother was running the junior race, and I went along to lend support. I don't recall where he finished but I know we spent the whole journey back talking about this young Cork girl named Sonia O'Sullivan, who at just 17 had won the senior women's race.

"I'm telling you, lads," Dad said, seized with enthusiasm, "she's going to be good. She's the best I've ever seen."

Three years later the venue was the University of Limerick, where I ran the junior race, and so we travelled as athlete and coach. Dad insisted we head down the night before to ensure I was properly rested, and I swear he was more nervous about the race than I was. In reality I was never going to medal, and ended up seventh. He said I ran my best and I felt I did too, but deep down I sensed his disappointment.

One year, 1997, he couldn't make it, so I travelled alone. I ran the senior race and then filed a report on his behalf for the Irish Independent. Every year since, we've travelled as reporters in name but runners in spirit - and in many ways the National Cross Country reminds me of the finest things I've experienced in my life.

Still, aware of Dad's tendency to nostalgia, I usually travel armed with Bob Dylan tapes, and last Saturday was no exception. Yet by the time we pulled off the M1 for fresh coffee and my mother's flapjacks he was already reliving the good old days.

"You know I have 11 team gold medals from this race? I'm sure that's a record."

I said he should have worn all 11 medals around his neck coming up here, just for the laugh. I was serious when I asked when he last actually ran it.

"It was 75, in Belfield. I was flying that year, and knew the course so well. I should have won it. Led nearly the whole way, but got a terrible stitch, ended up fourth. It's amazing, I used to get much more nervous later on in my career. That's my only regret. I was depressed after that one."

So how many did you win, again?

"Three, only. But we had the AAU championships back then as well. You know I should have won 65, but went out far too fast. Derek Graham just hung on and hung on, and beat me in the end. He was a good runner though."

We arrived at Queen's University playing fields an hour before the first race. As usual. By chance the first person we ran into was Derek Graham. Dad hadn't seen him in years, and like two old heavyweights they shook hands and briefly looked each other squarely in the eye. The respect was enduring.

Heading up to the course we met Séamus Power, the four-time champion from Clare. I asked Power if he was running and he just laughed. "Ah God, I'm too old for that. Didn't even think I'd make it up here - one of the herd had a calf last night. Looking forward to it though."

Power walked on, and Dad nudged me in the shoulder: "Look at the natural strength of that guy. What a great champion he was. A legend." Damn right, I said.

Then we ran into Jim McNamara, Dad's old team-mate from Donore. Jim Mac, as he's affectionately known, never won a National Cross Country, but he's something of a legend as well. They shared endless training runs in the Dublin mountains; one was so ferocious Jim Mac insisted they stop off in Johnnie Fox's for a pint.

"Who do you fancy?" asked Jim.

"Alistair Cragg," replied Dad. "Has to be."

One of the traditions of the Nationals is comparing present champions with past, and when Fionnuala Britton won the women's race by 66 seconds, Dad was once again seized with enthusiasm: "That was the best performance I've seen in years. At least since Catherina McKiernan."

We'd just finished talking with Britton when the pistol was fired for the men's race. We climbed a small embankment to get a view of them after the first lap, and I'll never forget the look of disbelief on Dad's face when Cathal Lombard passed us at the front.

"Did you see that?" he said. "He's not even breathing."

As the realisation of Lombard's win gradually sank in, so too did Dad's enthusiasm disappear. He was filing for several papers, but said he could hardly face it. I could see the frustration across his temple, like a taut knot, and a sort of sick trembling in his hands.

"That guy leaves me completely stone cold. What do we call him? Drug cheat? What do you think?"

I told him I wouldn't trust the guy for love or money. That Lombard had lied to my face once before. That I had no respect for him. That I did not believe he had done anything to make amends. And to just look at the reaction he was after getting.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

Usually, we'd finish a day like this with a quick pint in Birchall's or the Bottler's Bank, but Dad said he couldn't stomach even the one, that he was sickened by the whole thing. That's how it is when the age of innocence truly and finally dies.