unironedman

… but it can rain for a considerably long time…

Running of late has been as scarce as common sense and human decency around the globe. Look, I’m sure there are lots of decent folk around the world, doing thoroughly decent things. Indeed, I know this to be true. I have been among them when they were performing these acts of decency. They can be found in all walks of life, from schools to hospitals, shops to parks, and just about anywhere you can find a human being. Which is just about everywhere.

But as we know, the steaming piles of shit get all the attention while the good folk get, at best, ignored. Or covered in shit. At worst, they get caught up in someone else’s madness and psychopathy, and then suddenly they are on the news, struggling to explain, for example, why masked youths torched their home and told them to ‘leave our country’.

Not that I wanted to rant about the state of the world, but I started typing, and this is what came out. The editor went off to make a coffee, so I’ll have to be quick if I want to get this past the censors…

Running. Yes, that’s what I meant to talk about. But perhaps due to the scarcity of miles on the account, I veered off course, into a bramble patch of madness. Hard not to. Most mornings I get up and check the weather while I’m having my porridge. Recently, I am checking to see if the world has gone up in flames, and we still actually have a world in which to run.

Since Biarritz, there have only been a couple of short local runs, ostensibly to keep the wheels in motion, but largely to get me to the lake for a dip. Last Sunday, Gary and I ventured out along the canal and managed a decent 14k. And in fairness, I was gigging the night before, down the country, and had just over four hours sleep, so I was both impressed by my ability to get out of the bed and run, and also mildly disappointed in my poor planning prowess.

It was another busy week in work, and the whole thing has curtailed the time and energy left to get out there and train. As ever, the motivation to do so comes from an impending event. So I might have to arrange one of those impending events.

(And for some reason, I am reminded of one of my Dad’s favourite jokes:

‘Doctor, doctor; I’ve broken my leg in three places!’
‘Well then, you must stop going to these places!’)

But there was at least one reason to rise early this Saturday morn, and that was to join a group of runners on their own self-made adventure. No doubt over a pint in a pub, someone had suggested doing a 100k, and for reasons unknown to me (Gary may have more insider knowledge), it was decided to make this into a Bloomsday event, it being close to June 16th, and all that (Riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. Not Ulysses, as the keen scholar will point out, but Finnegan’s Wake. Not that I have read either, dear reader. I am a literary lightweight. I just love that quote. I may have to commit some heinous crime that will detain me for the remainder of my days in order that I may take on Joyce. But so far, I have resisted the temptation (of both Joyce’s novels, and heinous crimes…)).

On the plus side, I wasn’t gigging last night, though I was hardly to bed early. But I rose before the alarm, set for 5.45am, and drove up to Gary’s in Maynooth for 6.30. And then it was on to the station. We got fairly wet on the short walk down to the train, and the warm and dry respite from the carriage was possibly not worth the trouble, as we had about twenty minutes to wait before the posse of runners appeared at the other end. They had set off from the Martello Tower at Sandycove, which features in the book, and then joined a few Joycean dots in the city centre, including the statue of the man himself near the Spire on O’Connell Street (affectionately known as the ‘Prick with the Stick’ by local Dubliners), the James Joyce Centre on North Great George’s Street, and Belvedere College. And if you’re curious as to the Mullingar connection, please read this here webpage!

We were waiting under a tree at Binns Bridge on the Royal Canal at Drumcondra with another Irish literary genius. Well, a statue of Brendan Behan, to be exact. The shelter was poor; the canopy seemed to focus the rain into heavy drops which found their target below. Across the lock, a Heron was taking stock of our predicament. I bought some pastries while we waited, and found a loo which was quite the achievement, given the time. Then we were off, in the pissins o’ rain.

The canal along here is steeped in history, which is an apt choice of phrase, given the aquatic setting. But it was not really the day for stopping and taking photos and getting some splendid facts from Gary, though he did gamely offer a few as we journeyed along past the many locks and bridges that feature in the steady drop from Castleknock into the city centre. Alas, this wet morning, we were climbing out. It was a day for getting wet. I am sure Behan is laughing somewhere.

We finally reach Ashtown, and here is a point I recognise more readily from some of my longer jaunts. I can now reel off the landmarks as we pass beyond the M50 Aqueduct and the urban/rural divide, courtesy of the semi-subterranean Deep Sinking. Thankfully, there have been some attempts to dress the surface here, so the path is not 10/10 lethal this slippery morning; more of a 6…

The trick, once you are running along a sodden and uneven path in the lashing rain, is to plough through the puddles. You are not going to get much wetter. The first full submergence of the feet can be dispiriting, but once the water warms up inside your shoes, it acts like a layer of insulation. Like when you pee in your wetsuit. Which is also recommended; just not in the shop when you are trying it on for size… Trying to dodge the puddles is what leads to slips, trips and falls, to use the health and safety term. And at this point, Gary is probably recalling that I managed to take a tumble along this stretch last week when the weather was warm and dry. But we’re not talking about that, Gary, okay?

I remembered to turn on my live location sharing with Mark who was planning to meet us in Leixlip for the last leg of the journey, and indeed, there he was, waiting by Cope Bridge in Confey. And on the other side of the bridge was a lovely lady who had set out her stall with flasks of tea and snacks for the hungry runners. As we were baling out at Maynooth, we couldn’t possibly avail of the hospitality. The larger group of runners who were taking on the 100k were behind us, and far more deserving. We pushed on.

I felt a bit groggy as we made our way towards Louisa Bridge, and stopped a few times to eat the rest of a chewy bar. It did the trick, and by the time we had negotiated the various towpath works around Deey Bridge and Pike Bridge, my head and belly seemed okay again.

Maynooth Harbour came into a view, and a small knot of runners and supporters were there to give us some cheer. Watches were stopped, hands were shaken, greetings were exchanged, and then we trudged back to Gary’s to pick up the car and get myself and Mark home.

It was still raining.

Home, but not before I stopped off at the local shop for a breakfast roll. I was so hungry, I just stripped off the wet gear and wrapped up in a bathrobe. Food first, with a gallon of tea, then a hot bath.

One of the images above is NOT a flower. See if you can spot which one…

Leinster won the URC final against the Bulls, which may or may not be enough to keep Leo Cullen in a job.

As I think about dinner, the garden, and walking the dogs, the rain continues to fall…

For the record, the run was about 25.5k in total, and took nearly 2 hours and 44 minutes, which included about 5 minutes of fannying about and ten minutes or so of stoppages.

You went running in that… seriously?