unironedman

I can’t say I’ll really miss 2024. The feeling is mutual with my better half. That said, I guess one should never wish time away. Shit happens, and we just muddle through it the best we can. Some days there is more shit, and a lot of muddling to be done. Actually, I think, as analogies go, this one might need a little work… as you were!

I appreciate it’s a tradition to a do a review of the year. I’m tempted to just skip on ahead. But for posterity, I’ll quickly just say that falling off my roof gave me a finer appreciation for our emergency services and hospitals. I would obviously prefer to be the one working in the back of an ambulance rather than lying on the trolley, and I feel like I have spent more than enough time in hospitals in the last few years with my Dad. But given there are times when these things are taken out of our hands, we can only hope that if the situation should arise, there will be somebody there to look after us. And so it came to pass that for the first time in my life, at the tender age of 56, that I found myself in a hospital where I was actually the patient.

I think I got off quite lightly under the circumstances. Though I won’t forget those gloomy few hours in A&E with Saoirse when we were digesting the news of the back injury. Well, actually, now that I think about it, I did get back onto the roof later in the year to finish the job I had started so badly. Absolutely daft, really, because I realised that the roof is really not that ‘safe’ at all, and has become slippier over the years, and also, that I had somewhat lost my bottle when it came to heights. I suppose being in the actual spot where I came a cropper probably contributed to the flashbacks. Oh well. Not to worry. The Velux windows got a much needed clean, and Tamsyn, understandably alarmed to spot me back on the roof again, came out to marshal me back down to terra firma.

The postponed EMT exams went ahead, and I passed. The Connemarathon, scheduled for April of last year, obviously stayed postponed ’til the following year. Which means it’s now looming on the horizon (April 27th, to be exact). Instead of the Western Way adventure I had planned for myself, Gary and I took on the Slieve Bloom Way during the Summer, and we had a fine old time. And a film was made too.

In May, we lost our dear friend Jeff (who was one of Dad’s best friends; he spoke so wonderfully at Dad’s funeral, and did a reading from his own Bible that he brought with him from Leicestershire.) And we also mourned the passing of my uncle Pete. Saoirse lost her best friend, Emma, in July.

My brother’s eldest, Adam, was married In August, and we all managed to attend a most magnificent wedding in Oxford (‘we’ being the four of us in the family, plus my Mum). And just to make sure the universe maintained a balance, we lost yet another dear old friend when Helen passed away, another part of my parents’ life.

The band played a few gigs, and indeed, I saw the New Year in not with my nearest and dearest family members, but rather with the band in a pub in a small village in Co. Westmeath, population approx. 1,500 (about half of which were in the bar).

And before the musical extravaganza that is Cool Hand Luke, the last day of the year started where it has done for a number of years (we reckon 13, if anyone is counting). In other words, Lock up the Year trail run along the Royal Canal. Christmas brought some quality time with the family, lots of tasty food, and one rather funny night playing Cards Against Humanity with some old friends, and of course, some lovely gifts. But the end of the year always sucker punches you. And so it was I realised, with no time to spare, that I needed to coordinate the turn-point signs for the run. The organising committee for Lock up the Year is essentially just me and Brendan, a local runner who has been doing this fun run for years. With ongoing works to improve the towpath in Leixlip, we were unable to send out the various out-and-back run options (marathon, half-marathon and 10k) from the local GAA club. But luckily for us, an athletic club from a nearby town (St. Coca’s AC in Kilcock) stepped in and offered to host the event. They are about 14km west of us, and as luck would have it, the canal passes through the town, very close to the club grounds.

On the Monday morning (the day before the run) I met Bernard, the club chair, out at their grounds, and we cycled the route in order to set out the turn points. This meant a little GPS cunning and a lump hammer. It also meant by the time we had banged in the three turn-point signs and made it home, we had clocked in over 44kms. Pleasant cycle for sure, but perhaps not the best prep for a run the next day.

The settled weather vanished overnight. If one was being Shakespearian about it, you would have to admit that the portents were not good. Three or four days of blue skies and coolness were forecast from New Year’s Day onwards. But the last day of the year was promising to be an absolute bastard, and it didn’t disappoint.

I made it out to the clubhouse in time to meet the early risers, and walk the small knot of marathoners out to the start point along the canal. The tiny sliver of crimson spotted at sunrise as I made my way to Kilcock had long been devoured by dark clouds which were now spitting rain, and the wind was delightedly driving this into our faces. I made it back to the warmth and sanctuary of the neat little clubhouse and pondered the wisdom of attempting the half. Perhaps a 10k would be acceptable? Then Mark arrived, and the decision was made for me.

And so a decent troupe of runners set out at 11am to do the half. The speedier folk went on ahead, and Mark and I settled into an easy pace of about 6 minutes per kilometre. I had to keep my head down much of the time on the outward leg as the wind tried to whip my cap off and no doubt deposit it in the canal. As we neared the turn point, I jokingly said to Mark that you know you’re wet when even your arsehole is soaking (apologies for the TMI image). Well, dear reader, it turns out I was wrong.

Turning for home meant the back was now exposed to the elements (remind me to tell you about a mountain in Ireland called Tonlagee, which roughly translates as ‘arse to the wind’). For good measure, the heavens opened, and for a steady couple of minutes, we were lashed unmercifully. I realised that I had been misleading myself about my levels of wetness, and figured I would probably be better off jumping in the canal to stay dry.

But I was with Mark, and no doubt he would have found that behaviour strange and startling. As would I, I suppose, shortly after I hit the water. No matter. We trudged on, and with about four km to go, I let him off to catch up with a posse of runners up ahead, and I picked up the last runner on the course doing the half, and we finished together in about 2 hours and ten minutes. Then there was the short ten minutes back to the club where the angels of St. Coca’s had laid on tea, coffee, hot chocolate and mulled wine, along with a smorgasbord of treats to delight the weary runner.

The cabin was literally steaming with post-race runners but everyone seemed to have had a good time. When the weather is as poxy as that, a mediocre run can be elevated to epic levels, simply by your completion of the task. I changed into dry clothes and Bernard and I waited for the last stragglers to make it home. Two marathoners were still out on the course somewhere, but they showed up in the end, and we were able to close up shop.

The next day was a slow one, following both the run and gig, but I kept my promise to go out and collect the furthest sign along the canal. And having driven out to do just that, I was reminded again of just how far the marathon run is. And I wasn’t even completing the full distance by car. To his great credit, the first one home yesterday was a Coca’s athlete called Alex who did an amazing 2.42. The first half home was in 1.25, and the best 10k was 43 minutes.

These are impressive times under ideal conditions; given the driving wind and rain, and endless puddles, I think they are fantastic.

So Lock up the Year has been completed once more. And given the year that was in it, I suppose I can be forgiven for saying that I hope it stays locked up.

But then again, careful what you wish for, I suppose.

I did a little recovery run today into the trails around the park, and the weather was perfect for running. And for some photographs.

And I will finish with some doggy pics. The first is Charming Bonnie, the second one… not so much!

And now for some silliness… (the tweet is me, desperately trying to kicked off Twitter by the owner).

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And I am going to dedicate this meagre post to Niall and family, who lost their beloved Rosie recently. Tóg go bog é. x

The Hardest Goodbye