Keep cool down in the quiet of the morning
The maximum stay for the parking spot is ten hours. I hope to finish in under eleven. I pay for the ten, and cheerfully add clamping terror to my big bucket of anxieties. Yes, I hope to finish in under eleven, but more, I just hope to finish. I have no idea what happens after seven hours of running, as that is not something that I have ever done. Perhaps I will be reduced to crawling the flats, walking backwards down the descents. We’ll see, I guess.
Bray Head looms, a big black block of hill in the near distance. I’m good going up, but it is daunting still. I pick up my number, get my free t-shirt (strangely reminiscent of Harchester United’s home strip from the late nineties football soap Dream Team) and go back to the car. I still have an hour.
Which is good, as it takes me almost that long to pin on my number and load up my bag. I have too much food, probably. I have too little food, maybe. My porridge and falafel breakfast already sits a little uneasily in my stomach. The bag feels so, so heavy. I get out of the car and make my way to the start line. There is a rousing Christy Moore song about Wicklow and being brave blaring. Okay. I stand at the very back of the field. The countdown happens. I am feeling kind of blank. We’re off and I realise that I have forgotten to start my watch. I start my watch. The sun slowly rises to my left.
Bray Head has been oversold. My Hellfire legs kick in and I comfortably grind my way up, keeping my heart rate low as I pass about half the field. We crest and yes, it’s beautiful, with sea and sunlit sky forever. I settle in to my trundle pace. I feel fine, I think.
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Most of my fear comes is born of my last two long training runs. They were no fun, these forty-five and fifty kay jaunts. Tired from the start, mostly minorly miserable, occasionally nauseous. Finished at the finish. But I go into this way more rested , having learned lessons. We’ll see, I guess.
For the most part the first descent is relatively gentle and non-technical. And yet. I feel a phantom niggle on the outside of my left knee. Ah my old mucker the iliotibial band. It’s been a while, dude! Didn’t expect to see you here. Thanks for showing up. We’re not five kilometres in. It’ll be grand.
We pass through Kilruddery Gardens and I think some thoughts about income inequality. I have a stone in my shoe, I stop to remove it and lose the group I’ve been straggling behind. There’s a little road running for which I have not trained and then we’re up the N11 flyover. I recognise the volunteer at this junction from youthful 5k days. She was fast. She almost certainly still is. I trundle on.
Next up, the Little Sugarloaf. It’s not that little. But it’s not too bad. I settle into what will be a day long pattern of catching and passing people on the way up, and getting quickly swamped on the way down. It’s all very pretty and I’m feeling good. I eat a quarter of a peanut butter bagel. My bag feels not even a little bit lighter.
There’s a bit more road and I hate it and then The Great Sugarloaf. It’s not that great. Except it is. I’m strong and steady. I eat a bit, drink enough. The view is spectacular. The weather is about perfect. Some guy says he prefers it when it’s cold and wet. Weirdo. Another guy asks why I have two Airpod cases on my left hip. I don’t really know how to answer. “Those are my emotional support Airpods” I want to say, but do not. It’s hot, it’s cold, I roll down my arm warmers, I roll them back up. Thirteen kilometres gone and we start to descend. This is not good. It’s technical, and I’m bad at descending, and Itb Boy is back which makes me even worse. I get passed plenty. That’s okay. They’ll all come back on the ups.
Aid station! Woo! Flapjacks! Peanuts! Bananas! I unsuccessfully attempt restraint, furtively jamming fruit cake into my mouth, fearful of the vegan police. I don’t know for sure that I am consuming butter, as there are no signs regarding dietary restrictions, but mouthfeel and well, butteriness, point to my being a very naughty animal rights boy. I try not to linger and hit the literal road again. Did I mention I hate roads? It doesn’t last. I decide to go with some audio stimulation and fire up this week’s saved up Arsecast. My long runs are normally on Friday, publishing day for this Arsenal podcast (you knew that right? You didn’t think there was a weekly show about literal arses, did you? What would they even talk about after the first hundred episodes? Why would I continue to listen after the first two hundred?) so Andrew Mangan’s voice provides a nice jolt of comfortable familiarity. I have no memory of the specific topics under discussion. Xhaka probably. It’s always Xhaka. This football chat is interrupted by a phone call from my wife. She has finished her morning two million mile swim and is walking to work. She has swum extra hard in my honour. She allows me babble about how it’s going and makes comforting encouraging noises. I would not be here without her. We all know this. Then she gets to work and I get to Powersourt waterfall. It’s pretty. I take a photo. I do some running. Then suddenly there’s a left into a forest and I’m going up a wall. No one mentioned this. Sure it’s not particularly long, and this is what I’m best at, but Jesus it is steep. Steeper even than my oft-cited Hellfire repeats. I churn, I grind. My heart rate goes inadvisedly high. It levels off a bit, but I realise that this is it, the big one is beginning. We’ll do it twice. I’ve been looking forward to it.
