Two Hundred and three souls lined up along the otherwise deserted road from Teernakill to Maam Cross, a colourful collection of generally athletic folk dressed in vests, shirts, jackets, hats, back-packs and ration belts, each person bearing the yellow Connemarathon Ultra Marathon race number. The starter reminded us that for the first thirteen miles we’d share the road with traffic. If compelled to venture too far off the hard-top we’d ‘like as not sink up to your waist in devilish peat-bog.’ With that valediction ringing in our ears he sent us on our way.
As we shuffled towards the chip mats, conspicuous reddish-brown strips laid across a carriageway riddled with pot-holes, I took stock. The sun felt warm on my face. My water belt sat snug around my middle, chew bars trapped under the left side, wrapped Malt Loaf slices wedged on the right, iPhone (I'd decided to carry it for the duration) nestled in the centre like a flat black Joey peering from my paunch. The gentle sloshing of my drink and the rhythmic slap-slap of shoes on tarmac formed our soundtrack as we got our show on the road. Our Rap-Master DJ was an American, a verbose reptilian blue-blood of ample stature. He sported a shiny blue top, chino shorts and full-length, flesh-coloured tights, the sort you might see on low-rent dancing girls or spy beneath a tight leather microskirt strolling along the docks in Nice. He delivered an endless stream of commentary, freely imparting advice on what not to do on such a long, testing run. Listen to twats like you sprang uncharitably to mind but, being British (and by default polite in the company of strangers) I buttoned my lip. Aware that a number of us were staring at his shiny nylon-clad legs, he hurriedly explained that this was his 'unique way of dealing with a variety of career-threatening ailments'. It sounded like a lame excuse for blatant transvestism to me, but each to his own.
Focus from the off was essential if I was to get round in reasonable shape. I struck a comfortable, upright stance, holding my upper body still whilst moving with an economy of effort to make the Tarahumara ... well, giggle, frankly. As El Gordo would say I was 'getting my (Ultra ) Race Head on', setting the parameters for the next few hours, priming my body for a long, hot run. I sipped from my water bottle and nibbled on Jelly Babies to keep my digestive system active. Jog Shop Sam once told me that eating early on a long run helps maintain blood-flow around the gut. Fail to start right and your body diverts resources to your cardio-vascular furnace and hard-working motor muscles, leaving the stomach in stasis, unable to cope when eventually fuel is taken on board. One of my favourite quotes from Born to Run - ‘Ultra marathons are just eating and drinking contests with a little exercise thrown in’ - reminded me to refuel and hydrate at regular intervals. Ultra running, the ultimate moveable feast.
Antonio dropped back, leaving me alone with my scaly new BFF. A handful stayed with us, easing into what for most would be a long, hot day on the road. The peloton pulled away like a train in an old Western, leaving our disconnected carriage to roll along under its own momentum. After a series of corners they were gone. Slap-slap, slosh-slosh, blather-blather, the early miles ticked by. A light sheen of sweat coated my brow, kissed by a light, cool morning breeze as I tried not to think about how easy this felt and wonder when and where it was going to start to hurt.
Amidst his self-agrandising tales of daring do, the Lizard dropped a bombshell. Ever since I’d thought about taking on the Ultra I’d planned to take regular walk-breaks, to conserve energy and re-fuel carefully (ie without spilling stuff). My training, such as it was, included several runs at seven-minute/ kilometre pace, taking one-minute walk breaks every ten minutes or so. Now we were into the race proper, no-one else in our group was doing this and considering we were in the best (coolest) part of the day, I changed strategy. What I heard next confirmed my decision.
‘Yep, I'll sure be happy to reach twenny-six mahls in under faav Aars.’
To this point I’d deployed a non-commital grunt by way of propping up my half of the ‘conversation’. Hardly polite, I suppose, but infinitely better than, say, shoving the fellow into a ditch.
‘Hmm? Five hours you say? Well, yes, that would be great.’
‘Boy you BETTER be through in faav or less, else they’ll throw your ass in the sweeper wagon!’
‘What? There’s a cut-off?’
‘Yup. Beat the clock or your ass is grass and they’re a lawn-mower’
He chuckled horribly, clearly pleased with his well-versed dictum.
Damn, I must’ve missed that. The timing didn’t worry me unduly. I felt capable of running the marathon in under five hours, perhaps even leave something in the tank, yet this rather strict deadline left no wriggle-room. I plugged away, letting the road rise and fall gently as we wound our way westward toward Athry. As the sun warmed my back I wondered just how hot things were likely to get.
Just past Boheesha, a couple of run-walkers came into view. We reeled them in, exchanging greetings as we drew alongside and, at their next scheduled walk-break, moved past. The Lizard had been blissfully quiet, but somewhere around mile eight he piped up again, sharing his views on the state of the US Nation whilst revealing his political stance to be just to the right of Atilla the Hun. Barack Obama, he informed me, was an implant, a harridon halfbreed, part of an Al Qaida plot to destabilise the United States government. Obama would empower every freak minority in the country before finally ceding control to Muslim extremists who would nuke the state of Israel ‘within weeks’.
I could, perhaps should, have taken him to task, offered an alternative world view, used reasoned argument to outline the hopes we in the West held for a future under a more sensitive, culturally aware America. Or I could just as easily have hauled his shiny hide off the road and battered his flabby corpulence into the soft heart of the bog. A criminal waste of precious energy, perhaps, but satisfying none-the-less. I was staring down the barrel of another six hours of this babbling nonsense unless I did something right now. So I did the only reasonable thing I could do under the circumstances. I dropped a gear and kicked on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
