unironedman

IN WHICH WE REACQUAINT OURSELVES WITH THE WILD WEST OF CONNEMARA, DISCOVER THE DANGERS OF DISCO, AND MAKE SOME NEW FRIENDS: THE CONNEMARA ULTRA RACE REPORT

Somewhere along the road to Clifden, Gary and JC are chatting in the front as I peer out the windows from the back seat. I forget the lead-up to the comment, but the large peak of Tullaghmore is referenced – a singular sentinel that marks your entry into the real wild west – and the punchline to the conversation is that this mountain will be there long after we’re gone. Hundreds of millions of years of geology. We’re just passing through. (More here if you really want to get into the weeds). Just to preamble the following tale by setting out that the quartz-laden rocks of Connemara have seen a lot of things come and go, and a few hundred runners huffing and puffing around their feet won’t have made much of an impression.

I love those first glimpses of the wilder parts of Galway. Passing by the city (which doesn’t show you anything of its charm, alas, from the carriageways that skirt the centre) and heading out through Oughterard by Lough Corrib, there is no sense of the vast landscapes that await. Though of course, I do know, having travelled these roads before, but each time I begin to see the tops of those mountains through the trees, there’s a sense of magic, of wildness, and deep antiquity.

And rain. Ancient Rain, as Mary Coughlan famously referenced.

Back inside the comfort of a plush and air-conditioned car, we are protected from the gloom and drizzle that is doing a reasonable job of dampening or spirits, though we do our best to sound cheery. After all, we have all braved the elements before, and both of my fellow travellers have completed the Connemara Ultra. It is now my turn.

We arrive in Clifden, and the citizens are hosting a trad festival, so music is oozing out of every pore. We check into our rented accommodation and each of us begin the task of laying out the gear for tomorrow’s event. Gary knocks up a tasty carb-loaded chicken carbonara dish and we all retire early to get some rest.

Clifden has other ideas.

Now, instead of fiddles and bodhráns, a disco has set up shop next door. It really kicks off after we have hit the hay, and continues on into the small hours. I am resisting the futility of checking the time, though I gather it was after three before the revellers finished their merriment, and we were certainly not the better for it when we rose again at 7.15am.

Porridge, bananas, a bar and some tea for breakfast, and then Gary and JC very generously escorted me to the bus which was about a five minute walk away, passing the railings at the AIB that mark the start line for the Connemara 100. There are lots of memories from August of 2019 when I took on the 100 mile version. And indeed, between that event and the more recent Gaelforce West adventure race in 2021, I have ran just about every stretch of the roads I will be on shortly. And this morning I have donned the top I received after that adventure race; it has become a favourite of mine for special days like these.

The next couple hours are the standard build-up to a large event; drop bags to be deposited, portaloos to be frequented, briefings to be heard. The added bonus for us ultra-runners is that we can leave a couple of goodie-bags to be picked up at chosen aid stations. I have left some bits and bobs in two clear plastic sandwich bags for miles 19.5 and 29. Then we are herded back onto the buses that have taken us all to Maam Cross and brought back to Recess where there is yet more waiting around and queing for the portaloos.

I get chatting to a young lady in front of me; standard sort of ‘is this your first ultra?’ stuff (it is), and as she reaches the top of the queue as the door bangs open and she heads to the toilet, I say ‘enjoy’ (in reference to her run) and it sounds like I am wishing her a happy experience in the jacks. I turn to the bloke behind me and tell him what I’ve just done. We laugh. We have a brief chat about the run ahead, and then it’s my turn for the loo, and he shouts out ‘enjoy!’ as I head inside the cubicle.

A group photo is nearly kyboshed by a heavy squally shower, but the photographer is a pro and manages to coax everyone in for the shot.

The nervous banter subsides as we are ushered a few hundred yards down the road to the start line. I spot a tall runner with hiking poles tucked into his pack. It seems rather excessive. Then we are off, with a mere forty miles or so of ups and downs ahead of us. We turn right off the busy N59 and head north up the Inagh Valley. We are all just finding our feet and dropping into our respective rhythms. After a few miles we pass our first aid station, and then the start line for the full marathon which kicks off at 11am. The mood is cheery and the volunteers are out in force, handing out water and goodies. Connemara’s offering is less welcoming; the rain begins, and within minutes, squally winds are trying to whip my hat off my head and toss it across the road, so I tuck my chin down and look for shelter behind the hedgerows. These are as rare as hen’s teeth in the Inagh Valley, and with the wind buffeting us amidships, I am soon soaked down my left hand side.

The valley is the guts of ten miles, and whilst it is pretty on a fine day, I admit I am not sad to see the end of it today, with the rain now at our backs as we turn north-west onto the N59 once more. There is a decent climb and it puts manners on us. The landscape opens up as we reach the top and soon we pass the odd church that is Our Lady of the Wayside. No time for prayers today, other than an exhortation to the weather gods through clenched teeth to ease off on the soaking. There is truly nowhere to hide on this stretch, and even the telegraph poles sigh into submission from the prevailing winds.

Then we reach another aid station and a group of hardy volunteers are at hand with the water. We turn left into the teeth of the wind and soldier on towards Glassilaun where I know there will be some shelter from the worst of the wind. A mile or so on, I stop for yet another pee (I seem to be peeing a lot in the early stages, which feels odd as I don’t think I have over-hydrated). I have just passed a lady similarly braving the elements. She passes me. Then I catch up again and as I move past at a very modest pace, we exchange greetings as fellow travellers do. I gamely say ‘it’s going to be alright!’ or words to that effect, and I glance to my left, and in the flooded ditch, I spy a sheep carcass with not much left but the horns and ribs to identify it. Poor thing must have drowned. I’m not one for omens. I push on.

I round a corner, and the race leaders pass in the opposite direction.

The road drops down past Lough Fee. In finer weather, a lovely spot to do a little fly-fishing. But not today. At Lough Muck, we take a right and head up a hill. I was not expecting this as I had thought we were pushing on to Glassilaun Beach, but the marshalls were on hand to steer us. The upside of this stretch was that we were away from the weather, and indeed, it was brightening up a little. The downside were the hills. There was a considerable drop into Rosroe Pier where we circled a cone and headed back again. I took the opportunity to stow away my rain jacket, trusting to good fortune that I would not have to use it again.

The climb reduced me to walking for the first time but it meant I could enjoy the impressive surroundings. The wide expanse of boggy plains that dominate much of the spaces between the flinty mountains of Connemara were now replaced with deciduous trees and moss-laden stone walls. It felt like another world.

Then I spot that tall runner again, and he is surging up the hill with his hiking poles being put to good use. I smile to myself. What do I know?

At the end of the climb, I stopped at the aid station and retrieved my Tailwind sachet and a bottle of water to replenish my hydration pack, plus munch on a few random goodies I had stashed in the bag. Fig rolls and milk teeth. Recommended!

I knew we would soon leave the shelter of the surrounding hills and be back out in the open once more, and sure enough, the wind had not gone away at all, but was lying in wait. I was prepared for the ambush, and at least the rain was holding off. But the wind! At one point we are hit so hard from the right that I am pushed off the road onto the grass verge. I avoid the fate of the unfortunate sheep and press on with head down. Along this road, I note on my watch that we have passed the halfway point in the race.

We reach the end of this 10 mile dogleg and are back on the N59. We now turn left and head for Leenane with views over Killary Fjord and 35km on the clock. I know this road reasonably well, but I am tired and the legs are weary. The groins are sore but we have reached a stalemate of sorts. I stop at the Wild Atlantic Way viewpoint to take a few pics and shoot a short clip of video. Then it’s on to Leenane Village. I know this road will go on longer than I think, and sure enough, it doesn’t disappoint. But eventually I make it, and here is the start point of the half-marathon, and therefore, I have completed my own marathon. Now I just have to knock out one more half myself and I can stop running…

There is a nasty hill out of Leenane, and once again, I am reduced to walking for a bit to get myself back on level ground. It’s about 80 metres of elevation, but it’s quite the gut punch at that point of the journey. Then we are on the last leg and heading for Maam. The last time I ran this, I did it in the opposite direction, so I had failed to appreciate the challenge. But then, there were other challenges up ahead, as I would discover.

The weather was improving. The aid stations came and went, and I stopped at 29 miles to retrieve my second goodie bag. Alas, it was nowhere to be found. A relatively small SNAFU in the general scheme of things. Though I knew I had stashed some peanuts in there, and I was looking forward to something savoury. As any ultra-runner will attest to, sugary gloop loses its charm after a few hours. Nothing to be done. Just drink some more water and keep going. At some point in these events, I reach a stalemate with my body; it agrees to keep moving in a forwards direction, and I agree not force any more gels down my throat. I reach this standoff in the hope that I have stored enough glycogen in my system.

I pass a portaloo on its side, and I hope nobody is inside. There are no cries of help from within, so I press on. Signs appear for pubs ahead in Maam, but they are aimed at tourists in their cars, not runners plodding along at a very slow pace. Consequently, the small and charming village of Maam takes longer to appear than I would have hoped, but eventually we cross the bridge over the Bealnabrack River that flows into Lough Corrib and begin our very last leg. Film buffs may know this area from The Quiet Man, the 1952 John Ford film. Much of the village itself is Cong, in Co. Mayo, but the cottage was here. It is currently in ruins, and stands as a perfect metaphor for how I am feeling as I pass the site.

We begin the last climb, and it’s a bastard. It goes from about 7m to 96m – the highest part of the race, and the worst aspect is that you can see all of it from the bottom, and it’s open to the elements. If the Maumturks had been offering us a little shelter since Leenane, the wind was now gleefully howling down the road into our faces. As I trudge up the hill, I fall into the company of Alan from Glasgow, who is a veteran of ultra-running with a hugely impressive CV that includes two of the world’s greatest events: the Marathon des Sables, and Spartathlon. We chat about running, family and work, and anything to take our minds off the buffeting. On a couple of occasions, we are hit with gusts so severe we are stopped literally in our tracks. All one can do is laugh.

My phone rings. It’s Gary. I tell him I’m 4k out from home. He’s finished his marathon and is changed. He offers to hang on for me, but I point out that this is no normal 4k, and I could be a while. We leave it that if he decides to hop on a bus back to Clifden that he will send me a text.

There is nothing for it but to crest the hill and hope for better conditions on the other side. And sure enough, we reach the top and begin to run again. Eventually, I spy the distinctive tower of Peacockes in Maam Cross and our pace quickens a little. Alan suggests we have a sprint finish, but then apologises, as I am the one doing the ultra. It is only then I realise he is wearing the green race bib of a marathon runner. I laugh anyway, and then it’s all academic as he spies a friend and slows down to chat and I light a match and burn the last dregs of fuel in the tank for a finish that I hope is worthy of the Connemara Ultra. It’s not really, but it feels good to be actually running properly, albeit for about three hundred yards.

Gary is there to capture the moment. That is a magnificent gesture, and hugely appreciated. I am funnelled down the finisher’s chute and given my medal. I am offered a banana but I politely decline. I spot Ray O’Connor (Connemarathon and Connemara 100 race director) in the small huddle of people, and I have a quick chat about the 100 miler all those years ago. I am babbling, really, at this point, so it’s good to meet Gary and ground myself in the warm surroundings of the bus and eat some solid food in the form of ham and cheese sandwiches. I can’t even be arsed to change into my dry gear.

We get back to Clifden and JC is there to meet us off the bus; again, a show of decency that may have been lost on me at the time, but proof positive that I had spent the weekend in the company of two fine gents. It’s a short step back to the apartment to get a shower and change. The body is feeling okay in the general scheme of things, which I put down not to training or experience, but rather the pedestrian pace in which I have completed the event. Total time: 7.47. In amongst that, Garmin detects about 50 minutes of walking in total, and roughly 30 of that were gobbled up by the last climb up out of Maam. And there is 17 minutes or so of what it charmingly calls ‘idle time’, which in my case would include stopping for a wee, pulling in at an aid station, and taking video clips. And though I may have bragging rights on the day as the runner who did the longest event, both Gary and JC have completed this ultra, and in better times.

JC was literally home and hosed when he met us, so it was a matter of Gary and I washing the day off and returning to civilian life, and then the challenge of finding somewhere to eat. Our first choice was packed and the proprietor apologised profusely, and suggested we return within the hour and he would try and find us a table. A quiet pint in a nearby hotel gobbled up that time, and soon we were tucked into the back corner of Guy’s on the Main Street, enjoying some fine hospitality.

JC celebrated the day in style when he opened a bottle of whiskey back at the apartment. This was a special gift from Gary that he himself had bottled and labeled at the distillery. The two gents know – and love – their whiskey, and even to my uneducated palate, I could tell this was a special drink.

It was the perfect way to end the adventure, and Clifden agreed not to spoil it with another disco, though I suspect I could have slept in the middle of the dance-floor without too much trouble that night.

Home then, the following morning, and the journey in reverse is always bittersweet, as I bid farewell to the mountains; the movie reel plays backwards, and the mountains slip away into the distance. I delay the inevitable by asking Gary to pull over at the Pine Island Viewpoint on Derryclare Lough. We record a short clip of video and take a few pictures. Seamus Heaney’s Postscript springs to mind, but we capture the moment nonetheless. The image I have used at the top is from that spot.

The weather continues its trickery by laying on some fine hot days when we return, and indeed, April temperature records are broken across the country at several stations. Work keeps me busy, and there is no respite from the physicality of it, between running up and down the stairs, and dragging and hauling boxes. Active recovery, I believe 😉

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It needs to be said you could not wish for two finer companions than Gary and JC if you are setting off on an ultra adventure. And in JC I have met my match when it comes to awful puns. I hope we can do it all again sometime!

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