unironedman

I have extolled the virtues of parkrun before on this blog. And I’m going to do it again. Even though I drifted away from this wonderful event over the years when I indulged my marathon and ultra habit, it was always there, waiting patiently for me to return. Well, strictly-speaking, that’s not true, of course. The great team of volunteers and all the various runners – many of whom remain loyal and regular attendees at their chosen location – just did their own thing while I was doing mine. Such is life. The great thing about parkrun is that it has largely refused to change. Which is what makes it so marvellous.

There are currently 139 locations in Ireland alone, with over 2,000 worldwide. They take place every Saturday morning at 9.30am and are always free. The beauty of them is not just that they are free to run, but also they are well-organised and have a nifty timing system.

If you are not familiar with it, I suggest you give it a whirl, assuming there is one near you. I suspect, if you are on this blog, that you are already a regular parkrunner, or at the very least, are aware of its existence. Simply log on to the website, register (for free), download your barcode, and then bring this with you to the run. When you cross the line, you are handed a token, your barcode is scanned, then your finisher token is scanned, and that’s it. Within a few hours, the results are posted online, and you will get an alert to let you know.

Sure, if you want a fancy T-shirt, or get (as I did recently), a wristband, then you can fork out for those. But you can also now put your barcode onto your Garmin or phone, and have that scanned instead.

And it’s all free.

The Wikipedia page on parkrun is actually great fun to read, with lots of great history and anecdotes (the original tokens were flat washers, for example). The most significant improvement since it began is probably the use of smart devices to allow eejits like myself take part in timekeeping and scanning. Even though I had done a couple of marshalling sessions before, I had never really considered them to be proper volunteering. When a mail popped into the box this week to say they were short at Castletown and needed some help, I emailed off a quick reply to say I would love to get stuck in.

So this Saturday, I found myself once again sauntering through the grounds of Castletown Demesne to the start line of our local parkrun. I met up with the team, and they gave me a quick crash course in barcode scanning on the app I had installed on my phone. It turns out it is quite straightforward, and I really enjoyed the experience.

Nothing to my mate Gary, of course. Gary will be riding shotgun next week when we tackle the Wicklow Way. Gary is a proper parkrunner. Today was his 276th parkrun. And that doesn’t even tell the full story, because he’s also a hugely prolific volunteer too. It says something for my neck that I can even write a blog about my one experience scanning barcodes, given what Gary has done for the cause 😉

Anyway, all being well, I guess neither of us will be doing parkrun next week. Indeed, this time next week, we will probably still be toiling away through the hills and valleys of Wicklow and Dublin.

In the meantime, my brother Rob and I were clearing out my folk’s barbecue stand last week, and Rob found one of Dad’s hats. Indeed, not just any hat, but possibly the hat that began the whole hat journey.

We used to spend Summers down in Kinsale with close friends, and one of the perks of staying at my Aunt’s place was that they had a charming little wooden half-decker anchored out in the bay. So we would go out jigging for mackerel with hand lines, and Dad’s speciality was gutting and cleaning the catch on board and then anchoring up in some quiet cove before rowing us all ashore in a little inflatable to the beach where he would fry up the fish. My addled memory tells me these were the tastiest fish you ever ate, freshly-caught not an hour previous, and devoured with crusty, buttered rolls.

I think the local shops sold these ‘fisherman’s peaked caps’; probably to tourists just like us. They also did a good trade in smocks, as I recall, and I’m sure no decent, self-respecting trawlerman in Kinsale ever wore one. But Dad had a cap, and he wore it regularly when we were out fishing, and I guess it became a habit. I think those were perhaps the happiest years of his life, though I never asked him.