The park closes at five…

The year is 2038. Garmin announce a breakthrough. They have finally designed a GPS watch that charges without any cables, tears, or fits of rage. But it’s all too late. Nike have already announced the rollout of their new shoes, which, when worn, give you a full workout of your choice without you having to leave your couch. Mind you, why the marketing team didn’t call them ‘couch to 5ks’ is beyond me.

The park this morning, along by the Liffey

Anyway, that’s enough idle nonsense from me, here, at the tail-end of 2020. A year that will go down in infamy. As in “infamy, infamy… they’ve all got it in for me…”

And if that classic Brit comedy quote has sailed clean over your head, fear not, dear reader. It turns out there are other joys in life. You just have to find them.

For me, that simple joy is running. Not that the Marcothon hasn’t done its damnedest to suck the life out of that as well. But that’s the pact you make when you try and run each day for the month of December. So far, so good. We should, assuming my legs don’t fall off in the meantime, be well clear of the 200k mark, because we stand at about 198k already, with four days left to go.

The Marcothon should wrap up nicely with a half marathon along the banks of the Royal Canal. It was along those banks I jogged yesterday, for my Stephen’s Day workout. no futuristic Nike runners for me; this slog had to be done in the flesh, with Storm Bella tracking over the North Atlantic from Iceland, threatening all sorts of woe and destruction. The towpath from Lucan into Leixlip was slick and muddy, and I learned two things on my journey: where not to run when it has been absolutely lashing out for days, and (I suspect) how the moon walk was invented.

Along the towpath, I came across a juvenile heron. I reckon he was a rookie because each time I got within about ten feet, he would lift off and fly down the towpath about a hundred yards, to alight in the assumed fishing position, only for the same huffing and puffing sweaty human to force a repeat of the manoeuvre. We performed this dance five times before we parted company. The older herons simply don’t move and blithely fish on. I say that, but if you slow to a walk, they will take off. Just another one of those odd human/animal interaction foibles.

There were several bridges at which I could bail out but I gamely soldiered on (did I mention I was dropped on my head as a child?) and finally left the canal at the third option, which meant I ended up with 13k on the watch. A good haul. Stupendous, even. (Check spelling. Did you mean ‘stupid’? Ed.)

Mark and I knocked out over 10k today, post-storm (which seems to have left us largely unscathed). The knees are resigned to a low grumble now. They know the finish line is in sight, and they also know this business is not going to stop until the new year. So a grumble is all they can muster.

And as you know, I made a short film this year. (What? You made what? You never told us!). And avid viewers of this soon-to-be classic of the genre will know that there is a reference in there to me being a cheapskate bastard.

Well, good news, dear readers, for my beloved family bought me a splendid GoPro camera for Christmas, so I am merrily plotting my next adventure which will feature plenty of dashing GoPro footage, and me (probably).

Have a Happy New year.


8 thoughts on “The park closes at five…

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