Mud, Sweat and Tears
An Irish Woman’s Journey of Self-Discovery
By Moire O’Sullivan
Copyright 2011 Moire O’Sullivan
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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To Paul, for encouraging me
To Andrew, for teaching me
To Pete, for loving me, and making me write it all down
Cover Photo: Nicky Cinnamond tackling the Caher Ridge during IMRA’s Carrauntohil Mountain Race, Co. Kerry, Ireland.
Photo by John Shiels, Action Photography, Ireland.
Contents
Chapter 7 - 24 Hour Treasure Hunt
Chapter 9 - Warm Winter Weather
Chapter 11 - A Morning of Mist
Chapter 13 - Unfinished Business
Chapter 14 - Around we go again
I can barely walk. Blisters ooze blood between my toes. Ripped skin hangs from my feet. A web of deep scratches covers my shins. My legs ache with a pounding throb that reverberates throughout my body. My lungs are battered and bruised from too many laboured breaths. I am bent over double from the weight of the bag surgically strapped to my back. A belt of raw skin encircles my stomach, grated raw from the incessant rub of the rucksack’s strap. Pain rages and runs rampant through every last muscle and every single vein. My body has reached its end.
But I will not stop. I cannot rest. I have not yet come to the end. “Run faster…try harder…move quicker,” I say incessantly to myself. I know what will happen if I delay, if I’m found out here in the dark.
Less than half an hour ago, I could see Tonduff North Mountain before me clearly, its green and brown hues illuminated against the setting sun. But now, the mountain is nothing but an outline, a silhouette looming large against the nocturnal sky.
I’m scared. The mountain is slowly being engulfed before my very eyes. After all these months of hard work, of sacrifice, and preparation, I’m losing it all to the night.
I can’t go on. But I have no choice. I must climb to the top of the mountain. There is no other way out from this wilderness. My only escape route is from its summit.
I’ve run for more than twenty hours. I have climbed twenty-three mountains and covered over eighty kilometres. And with only three mountains and twenty kilometres left to go, I want to collapse and die.
I am trying to do what others have deemed impossible. I am trying to run around the whole of the Wicklow Mountains in a single solitary day. I am trying to run over one hundred kilometres, up and down twenty-six of these mountain summits in less than twenty-four hours.
I am trying to complete the Wicklow Round. It’s been tried, but never done before. And now I know the reason why.
But I can’t let myself stop at this point. I need to snap out of this exhaustion and stay alert. There are too many dangers out here in the mountains to let myself rest yet.
It’s eerily quiet out here in the Wicklow Mountains. Down below, I can see the glow of Dublin City less than thirty kilometres away whilst it busies itself with a late night of drinking and carousing. Up here in Wicklow, there’s no such dancing or debauchery. There’s just me and these mountains, battling it out to make the Wicklow Round a reality.
I lurch forward, onward and upward, stuttering and stammering as I go. The shin-high heather scores my legs, fresh scratches appearing on top of old scars. Eventually the bushes get the better of me. They catch my foot and I fall, hitting the ground with a thud. I lie here exhausted, my clothes and hands caked in cold brown bog. All I can see is entangled heather, lying here at ground zero.
I want to stay down here, to curl up and die.
“You’ve invested too much time and energy and effort already”, I hear a voice imploring. “You have to continue. You have to finish. You have to get up and go on”.
My body is crying surrender, my mind is pleading clemency, but somehow, somewhere an inner spirit keeps fighting and telling me to soldier on.
Slowly my eyes adjust to daylight’s absence. I can still just make out Tonduff North Mountain in the distance. I have to visit its summit tonight, whether I like it or not.
Guided by my thin head torch beam, I painfully plod my way up the mountain side. As my body slows with every step, my mind begins to run riot. Thoughts of success and failure, thoughts of people and far-off places. Having already physically destroyed myself, I am now emotionally ripping myself apart.
Eventually, at the stroke of 11 pm, I reach the top. And there I stop.
There are only two more mountains to climb. I have three and a half hours left. I have in theory plenty of time.
But I don’t move. I stay where I am.
My body and mind have made their decision.
I cannot go on.
And with the relief of knowing it is over, I crouch down on the mountain top. And one by one, tears of disappointment, relief, obsession, and exhaustion begin to trickle slowly down my face.
A Map of the Wicklow Round
“If you ever end up in Dublin”, Avril says to me. “You should call my little brother”. Avril is trying to help.
I’ve decided to leave Kenya after seven long years of stay. Avril is helping me make the transition, but it’s not an easy move to make. I look up at her through bleary eyes and agree I should track him down. Not that I’ll ever live in Dublin. Not when all I can think of is Kenya and how much I will miss my African home.
Now three months on, I accidentally find myself in Ireland’s capital, just as Avril prophesised. I have a brand new job and a lovely new house. But I still lack the abundant friendships that Kenya always had.
Distant memories of Avril’s offer slowly come to mind.
“He’s into running, and biking, and does lots of mad adventures”, Avril had explained, as I sadly packed my bags. “Could maybe introduce you to a few people, invite you to some races”.
I had always liked running. And I did need some new friends. So, with some shy reluctance, I decide to contact her brother. No harm in making new acquaintances whilst doing a bit of sport.
“You’re just in time. The season is about to kick off”, Paul tells me enthusiastically on the line. He turns out to be a veritable mine of information, cataloguing a long list of races around the country: everything from ten kilometres runs to marathons to ultras, right through from running to biking to kayaking.
“But then again”, Paul starts to ponder, “Maybe you’d be interested in real races, ones that involve running up mountains”.
Running? Up Mountains? Did I hear him right?
Well I love running. And I like racing. But combining these two activities in the mountains? Is that safe or even wise? How would I even run up a mountain? Would my lungs not collapse and my legs instinctively die? And what if I fall and do myself damage? What if I get totally lost and horribly die?
It all sounds so dangerous. And yet so oddly appealing.
It’s been nearly three months since I left Africa. And Ireland is terribly sedate in comparison. There’s no danger or disease or threats to make my daily life more exciting. Dublin has no power cuts or water shortages or food rationing. Bus drivers don’t yell insults at me. Men don’t leer at my white skin. There are no corrupt police officers to hassle me or civil servants to demand a blatant bribe. There are no street kids to pick pocket me or threaten to smear me with human excrement.
Dublin is boring me to tears. I need something to recreate the flagrant danger that is intrinsic to Nairobi’s daily grind. I need a challenge of some sort. And running up mountains could be the death defying activity that I’m so yearning for.
“Sure, why not? Count me in”.
“Great stuff”, replies Paul. “The next race is up Corrig Mountain this Wednesday. 7.30 pm start. Just a short jaunt of six kilometres. Shouldn’t be a bother to a runner like yourself!”
Wednesday evening arrives and I’m feeling more than pre-race nerves. In the days since our conversation, I’ve begun to think that I may have bitten off far more than I can chew. True, I need a challenge, but running up mountains might be going one step too far.
I have noticed these mountains that Paul speaks of, barely visible from the Phoenix Park where I do my daily training runs. They look like a set of harmless bumps just perched beyond the city’s limits. But I know deep down they are treacherous and wild, full of every danger my mind can conjure up.
I am scared of Ireland’s mountains.
Sometimes the things that frighten us the most also fascinate us the most. I resolve to stick to my mountain running plan.
Paul suggests that I hitch a lift from him to the race. “Meet me just off the M50 motorway”, he says. It is good of him to offer.
“How will I recognise you Paul?” I ask.
“It’ll be hard to miss me”, he says. “I’ll be the one driving a blue van with a big red boat on top. Not many vehicles like that around Dublin you know”. He’s teasing me in the way that only Irish lads know how. I’ve missed that sarcastic Irish sense of humour.
It’s wet and windy on Wednesday night, a typical Irish summer’s evening. I’m waiting by the roadside, getting more and more drenched by the non-stop dreary rain. I’m starting to feel cold and increasingly fed-up. And there’s no sign of Paul or blue vans or red boats floating down the road to hoist me out of my misery.
The longer I wait, the more time I have to convince myself that this is a genuinely bad idea. The mountains are meant to be just background scenery, something I should look at from afar as I run my merry way around Dublin’s flat Phoenix Park.
And anyhow, maybe I don’t need to always go searching for challenges. Sometimes it’s good to live a banal, stress-free life in a non-third world country. And sure isn’t even the rain trying to tell me to give up and go home. It must be a sign. Suddenly lying horizontally on the couch in my sitting room seems far more fun than trying to run vertically up a hill.
But just as I turn towards home, there’s the van, and the boat, and Paul himself driving the lot down the road. It’s too late to retreat.
I can tell straightaway that Paul Mahon is a huge fan of the great outdoors. His van not only has a kayak on top, but it is crammed full of mountain bikes, climbing harnesses, wetsuits, running shoes, maps, survival bags, waterproof clothing, and backpacks. His face too looks taut and tanned from years of exposure to the elements. And there’s not an inch of fat on the guy, all burnt off from hours of mad runs around the wilderness.
Paul knows I’m out of sorts, being back in Ireland after so many years camped out in Africa. And his sister Avril has already handed him specific instructions to look out for me, to help me settle back into Irish life once more. It’s with this sense of obligation that he makes polite conversation as we drive towards the race start.
There’s no let up in the drizzle as we drive towards Corrig. In fact, the closer we get to the mountain, the heavier the rain seems to fall. “Surely the race won’t go ahead in this weather”, I silently think to myself, hoping and praying for a last minute cancellation. “Great mountain running weather or what?” Paul happily chirps up, secretly reading my mind. It seems that my reticence about this whole mountain running expedition is inversely proportional to Paul’s excitement about the conditions. All of a sudden I feel very soft, not hard and rugged like a proper mountain person is meant to be. I thought my years in Africa would have toughened me up, but I’m abruptly finding it quite the opposite.
Paul is not alone in his enthusiasm. Cars clutter the tiny country road leading to the base of Corrig Mountain, the start of tonight’s mountain race. With Dublin a mere thirty minutes’ drive away, runners have already arrived in their droves from their offices and homes, utterly undeterred by the prospect of running up a mountain on a cold wet evening after work.
The race has been organised by the aptly named Irish Mountain Runners Association or IMRA, as it is known for short. The registration process is surprisingly fast and efficient despite our desolate mountain location. From the back of a car someone has conjured up tables and chairs, forms and pens, race numbers and pins, as well as a laptop and fully functioning printer. I line up, pay the race fee and membership, and get myself a number. Within a few minutes I become IMRA’s newest member.
With the administrative side all sorted, I now get a chance to check out the type of people who turn up to such events. Without wanting to sound too desperate, I’m silently hoping that there’ll be some people here with new best friend potential. It’s a real mixed bunch that I see bounding up and down the hill. There are guys and girls, both young and old, all happily chatting to each other as they stretch out their arms and legs. There are kids as young as fourteen, pensioners over seventy, and every possible age in between.
I am hoping that I won’t seem too out of place at the race. I am new to the mountains, but not to running. My plan is to blend in inconspicuously by wearing some appropriate athletic gear. Back home, I had hummed and hawed over what to wear. Eventually I opted for a running t-shirt, jumper, and jacket on top, and a pair of tights down below. It seemed a functional and comfortable composition designed to keep me warm and dry.
At the bottom of Corrig, my choice of clothing is just about holding out against the cold. However, in comparison with the others, I look positively over-dressed. The vast majority of runners are sporting shorts and singlets, and seem immune to the dropping temperature. Though I am indeed desperate to blend in, I cannot forego any of my three layers of clothing. I’ve become too accustomed to Africa’s heat to suddenly warm to Ireland’s weather.
“Well at least I’ve got good road running shoes,” I think in consolation, looking proudly down at my clean pair of trainers. “Hopefully they’ll still think I’m some sort of athlete”. My gaze passes furtively to their footwear and my stomach begins to turn. Their shoes look different to anything I’ve ever seen before. On the bottom they have knots and knobbles for holding fast in mud, none of the sleek flatness that is required for running on roads.
My disguise has completely and utterly failed.
But what makes me stand out like a sore thumb is my slightly pudgy physique. The majority here are wafer thin figures, floating gracefully up and down the hill as they effortlessly warm up before the race start. All of a sudden, in addition to feeling too soft, I now feel horrendously fat. It seems that the mountains have honed these people into finely tuned athletes with perfectly toned muscles and not a gram of excess flab. They have evolved into the perfect aerodynamic shape for flying up and down mountains, whilst my more rounded shape is only fit for pushing me up to the top and rolling me back down again.
So my shoes aren’t right, I have too many clothes, and my body is comparatively verging on obese. The only way left to camouflage my rookie status is to mimic them and their warm-up routines. I cross the starting line and jog up the initial incline. Those around me are gliding up and down the hill still in mid-conversation. I, on the other hand, have lost the ability to speak and am stumbling more than gliding. I am so out of my depth, and so out of their league. If I had my own car now, I would get into it and drive straight back home. But Paul has the keys and is nowhere in sight. There’s nothing for it but to stay.
By 7.30 pm around 150 people have gathered at the starting line. I huddle somewhere in the middle of the group, a bit unsure of what happens next. All around me the friendly banter continues as athletes wait for the start. The atmosphere is surprisingly informal and friendly. And I’m beginning to feel a little optimistic. Could this be the place where I form new friendships to replace those I left back in Africa?
A registration official now stands up on a dirt mound beside the raring-to-go runners. “Alright lads, enjoy it. One, two, three, go”. And with that uncomplicated countdown, the race begins.
The fastest runners at the front accelerate off at high speed. The pack follows closely behind, pursuing them up the gravel track leading up towards the mountainside. I find myself in the middle of this mêlée, struggling to match the pace. All of a sudden, I feel a looming sense of failure growling deep inside me.
“Everyone’s going to pass you. You’re going to be last. You’re going to fail. Everyone’s going to laugh”.
I have no idea from where this ominous fear has surreptitiously sprung from. But just in case it’s deadly, I resolve to do everything I can to prove it wrong.
The track is already at an angle and I find myself running on my tippy toes. After a few hundred meters, I have established a rhythm and seem to be not losing any ground. “This is okay. This could be good. I can do this,” I think to myself.
I take the opportunity to look up and see where we are headed. But instead of seeing a long line of runners straight ahead of me, the lead runners are nowhere to be found. The gravel track is empty. “Oh jaysus, where have they all gone?” The last thing I want is to get lost. I look behind me and spot some runners directly on my shoulder. I resolve to slow and to stick to them like glue.
The track swings left, but my group goes right, over a dirt bank and straight towards some trees. There seems to be no way through the forest in front. All I can see is a jungle of low lying branches. But one after one, my group bends down and soon they disappear beneath the foliage. There’s nothing else for me to do but follow. I’m too afraid to be left behind on my own.
Beyond the branches, my fellow runners have now straightened up and are just ahead, having found a break through the forest. They are following a faint trail that goes straight up through the trees and higher up the mountainside. I follow their lead and together we run up, and up, and up. I find myself taking smaller and smaller steps as I try to keep my legs moving up this ever increasing incline. Whilst I’m busy adjusting my stride pattern, it becomes harder and harder to find steady footing on this new muddy path we’re running on. My shoes slip on the wet needles, grass, and muck which constitutes this forest trail. The evening’s wet weather has mixed with the undergrowth to produce treacherous terrain. And what with 150 pairs of running shoes coursing up through this forest, the ground has been churned up so badly that it has been transformed into one big muddy slide.
And whilst the forest path disintegrates, my body soon follows suit. My maiden attempt at uphill running is swiftly taking its toll. Within seconds, my lungs catch fire. I can barely breathe. Just when I most needed a glut of oxygen, my breathing faculties have opted to initiate an emergency shut-down. And whilst my lungs are busy malfunctioning, my heart hits record speeds. I can feel it beating twice as fast as normal. Indeed a heart attack feels almost imminent.
Down below, my other body parts are also struggling. After less than a minute of intensive uphill running, my legs are ready to explode. Already I can feel the heat of detonation with every uphill stride. My thighs are ticking time bombs, straining under the load. I feel each ligament igniting and burning one by one.
I have been running up this mountain for less than five minutes and already I can’t bear it any more. I have covered less than five hundred metres, but running a single step more is simply no.
I start to walk.
WALK?!! This is pathetic. I am meant to be running, not walking. I signed up for a running race, not one to find the fastest stroller.
But the walk is at least doing me some good. I have stopped hyperventilating, my legs have stopped squealing, and I am slowly but surely making upward progress. I also take solace in the fact that others around me have also adopted a walking strategy. True, the lead runners ahead of us have scooted up through the forest with a bounding running stride. But we decide to leave those guys to it, as the rest of the pack and I content ourselves with a gentrified walk through the woods.
Just as I’m starting to enjoy this, I see a light at the end of the trees. Soon enough, the path peters out, the forest falls away, and we emerge onto the open mountainside. Foolishly, I had thought that the little winding path up through the forest qualified as hardcore mountain running. Never before have I been further from the truth that I’m now on the verge of discovering.
Up here, all mountain hell is breaking loose. The wind is screeching. The rain is swirling. And whilst I’m busy absorbing this Irish Hades, my fellow mountain runners are disappearing further and further into the mist. I have to stick with them if I’m not to lose them and be lost forever on this ferocious, deserted mountain.
But keeping up with them is an entirely different matter. There are no well worn tracks or paths to follow. Instead, there are furrowed breaks through a knotted mesh of heather that totally submerges Corrig Mountain. These breaks expose bare bog lurking underneath the vegetation. And thanks to another Irish summer of unending precipitation, this bog has been transformed into a slippery swamp of gooey mud on which my feet find zero traction. The more I try to run forward, the more I slide off to the side. Desperately I bog skate my way towards the summit, cursing my sleek but rubbish road running shoes.
The ground is still heading upwards, but this time I can’t afford to adopt a leisurely walk. If I walk, the other runners will definitely get away. Many of them have already delved and disappeared into the mist less than fifty metres ahead. And herein lays my dilemma. If I look up to keep them in sight, I cannot also look down and check where my feet are going. A slight glance upwards and my feet end up stuttering and stammering over grass, rocks, and rutted bog. And so I resign myself to looking straight ahead whilst tripping and lurching forwards, onwards, and upwards in what I hope is the right direction.
By now the physical pain of uphill running has been subsumed into a greater, broader torture. The war is no longer just with my body, but with the weather, the terrain, the mountain, and ultimately my mind.
“Why are you doing this? Why don’t you give up and go home?” I begin to hear my head questioning. “Paul is going to be so embarrassed by this performance. He’s going to wish he never brought you here. You’re such a disappointment”. As if I don’t have enough to contend with already, my mind is now harassing me.
“But if I just continue on a little longer, maybe it’ll get better”, I answer, trying to convince myself. “Just finish the race. Giving up is worse than coming last. Come on Moire, you’ll be fine”.
After what seems like a never ending battle with a mind without mercy towards a mountain without a top, I start to make out a stationery figure decked out in arctic gear. He is barely visible under his multitude of layers, as he tries to protect himself from the rain and wind that bounce off his waterproof pants and jacket. What anyone would be doing standing out here in these conditions is beyond comprehension.
But then I work out that he is standing to show us where the uphill finishes. He is standing on the summit.
With the last ounce of adrenaline left in my drained body, I push myself towards the marshal. I soon become the 90th person that day to conquer Corrig summit.
Now all I have to do is get back down to the bottom of the mountain. I quickly turn around at the top and search for a fellow runner to follow. But as I change direction, the wind picks up, and it rams me straight off my feet. I hadn’t noticed, but on the way up the wind and I had been going in the same direction, giving me the benefit of a wind-assisted ascent. But now running in the opposite direction, the gale is delivering me a full frontal body slam and is determined to push me backwards up the slope. But I don’t want to go back there, to the summit or its marshal. Right now I’ve had enough, and all I want to do is go home. This leaves me with no other option but to lean into the wind and to fight my way frantically forward.
Not content with the mere use of brutal force, the gales enlist more subtle tactics to confuse even my senses. The wind howls so loudly that I can no longer hear anything bar my deep and laboured breathing. It rams into my eyes and makes me cry, leaving me with teary blurry vision. It breaks through my clothing and extracts all warmth from within me, leaving me cold and wet and miserable, and still so far from the finish.
If not the source of enough misery, the wind whips up even more mist to hide my fellow racers. I am left with the distinct illusion that I am out here all alone in my mountainous struggle. And whilst all this is happening, I am still trying to negotiate my way through the shoe-sucking marshes and booby-trapped bog underneath, trying not to break both my ankles in the negotiation process.
“Trees! I can see the trees!” I squeal over-excitedly. It’s the forest I left behind oh so long ago. It is right in front of me.
A sudden sense of relief rushes through my body. I can’t contain myself. I plunge my way down the last remains of bog to reach as fast as possible the forest edge. Right beside the trees, there’s a path, a proper path! Yes, it’s still got rocks and puddles and grassy mounds, but at least I can put my foot on it without fear of falling over. And the tall tree line is the perfect barrier, protecting me from the battering wind and rain. But more importantly the trees are a sign that I am closer to civilisation and to the prospect of finishing this horrendous mountain race.
My senses slowly start to thaw as I finally enter the forest. It’s all downhill from here. And for the first time my legs feel the freedom of running downwards, of turning off the brakes and letting gravity bring me to speeds simply not possible on flat boring roads. I let myself fall freely down the slope, faster and faster, until I reach a speed where my legs can no longer keep up. I feel like a child again, a child without a care in the world. I plummet down the hill, filled with innocent, infantile fun, leaving behind as I go all my worries, my stress, my loneliness, my pain back up on the turbulent mountainside.
I hurtle round a corner, and through the trees, the finish is in sight. One final last effort and I reach the end in a little under fifty minutes. I collapse across the line, absolutely relieved, totally traumatised, utterly exhausted, and completely exhilarated.
Paul finished the race fifteen minutes ago. He has already warmed down and changed, and is busy catching up with fellow runners as they come across the line. He seems a cheerful and popular character within the mountain running circle, talking to all and sundry about tonight’s race and their forthcoming mountain adventures.
“So how did it go?” he asks me once he sees I’ve caught my breath. I’m really not too sure what to say. Do I tell him how terrified I was out on the mountain? How I’m so unfit that I could barely run half of the course? How disappointed he must be in my final time and position? How all I want to do now is curl up in the car with a sleeping bag and with the heat on full blast?
Or do I launch into an impromptu counselling session, describing how this mountain mayhem has momentarily let me forget my loneliness and fears? Or do I tell him that I’m an adrenaline junky and ask him why he thinks I need the mountains to scare me just like Africa used to do?
However, I don’t want to sound like the soft, slightly fat, psychotic wimp that I’ve discovered tonight I am. “Hmmm, it wasn’t really what I expected”, is all I can muster up. I need to divert him away from the subject of my own dismissal performance, my nearly coming last in the race. “So how did you get on yourself?” I enquire right back. “Ah sure, not too bad. Could have been better”, is the eventual reply I get.
“Not too bad” is an understatement. Against a tough field, Paul has just finished twelfth in this race.
I am relieved to have finished my first ever mountain running race. Relief is also what I feel when Paul whisks me away to a nearby pub to join the IMRA crowd for prize giving and post race pints. It takes us less than ten minutes to drive from the desolation of Corrig Mountain to the cosiness of Scholars Pub in Firhouse, just on the outskirts of Dublin City. Compared to the blustery and damp conditions found on Corrig Mountain, Scholars is warm inside, and only wet with the right kind of drink. Runners soon fill the pub with the same gusto they had when lining up on the mountain less than an hour beforehand.
The results soon roll in from the mountain and prizes are given to the night’s top runners. Prizes are also given to those who had helped out with duties such as registration, course marking, first aid, and results compilation. I watch to see if the poor marshal on top of Corrig summit gets something for his display of extreme valour against the foreboding Irish elements. Even if he does, I wouldn’t recognise him without all those layers of clothing he has surely shed by now.
It is already 9.30 pm, over an hour since I finished, but I’m still dazed from the race’s exertion. I’m also uncertain whether I enjoyed running up the mountain or if I hate the whole notion.
However, regardless of this evening’s mountain race, there’s another reason why I’m here. I have also come along to get to know a few people to help me settle in. Paul is busy chatting with his crowd, so I decide to talk instead to an unsuspecting mountain runner who’s waiting at the bar for his pint. I’ve a few mountain running questions that I’d like answered, so who better to ask?
“So do those guys really run all the way up those hills?” I ask him straight out.
He looks round in my direction, surprised by the directness of my query. His skinny wind-blustered face relaxes with mild amusement as he realises that I must be a newbie.
“Well yeah, of course they do”, he answers, trying hard not to sound condescending. His tone of voice is trying to tell me that that’s a really obvious answer.
Figuring that I’d be satisfied with his to-the-point reply, he leans his long body back over the bar to continue with his order. But I’ve not finished.
“And how do they manage to run across that heather and bog?” adding “I found it really difficult”, at the end with a deferential smile.
“I suppose its practice”, he replies, shrugging his shoulders. Even though he’s trying his hardest to be nice, I’m getting the impression that I’m making him feel ill at ease. His eyes have started darting around to find the barman and his pint. He’s hoping to make a hasty escape. But the barman has gone looking for some peanuts for the order, so I fire another question.
“And what do you do when the path is flooded and has loads of mud on it? How do you run through that without slipping or falling over?” He turns to look down at my formerly clean road runners and silently shakes his head. “You need to get yourself some proper shoes girl. And sure, we’ll be seeing you again next week”. And with that statement, his pint and peanuts arrive, and raising his glass in salutation, he’s off before I know it.
Next week? Hold on now, who says I going to go mountain running ever again? Certainly not after tonight’s episode! There’s no way I’m going back out to endure such a physical and mental massacre. Yes I love running. And yes, I like racing. But combining these two activities together in the mountains? Now that I’ve tried it, I know from vast experience that it’s a very bad idea.
The next morning I wake up tired and sore. Everything hurts, my legs, my lungs, my heart, my head. The mud, sweat, and tears washed off in the bath last night, but my body still remembers.
It’s not until that evening that the pain eventually subsides. And then my mind starts to evoke a different set of memories from the physically tortuous ones. It starts to remember the cool mountain air, the scent of the forest, and the familiar smell of fresh rain. It recalls the wonder of exploring one of Ireland’s mountains, albeit at far too high a speed. I reminisce about the people, those 150 runners I met last night on the hill. Never before had I seen such friendly camaraderie in the midst of serious athletic competition.
And as the physical pain finally fades away, the whole event takes on a far profounder meaning. I start to realise that last night I did something that most normal people would deem impossible.
I ran up a mountain and back down again. Most people wouldn’t dare. Last night I proved to myself in a small, insignificant way that if I put my mind to something, I can make the impossible happen.
But even if I did manage to run up a mountain last night, my 90th place in the overall race clearly testifies that I’m not very good at it at all. Maybe it is like the guy said in the pub. Maybe it will be much better if I just get some proper mountain running shoes. Maybe then I won’t be afraid of falling over in all the mud and rock. With such shoes, I’ll be able to run, not walk up all the mountains. If I wear such shoes, no wind will be able to blow me over. With such footwear, before I know it, I will be crowned the new Queen of the Mountains!
I go and buy some mountain running shoes. Then I turn up to my second mountain race to test out my newly spun theory.
Second time around, it is Howth’s turn as the mid-week mountain running destination. Jutting out into the Irish Sea, Howth Head is a peninsula that’s hanging on in there on the north side of Dublin Bay. And with my brand new shoes in toe and even a hill training run done that week, I know this time round everything will be good.
One of the reasons I left Ireland all those years ago was due to the country’s atrocious weather. Why live in a country where it’s cold, wet, and windy except for two weeks of the year, and where no one knows when those two weeks of good weather will be? I soon found out there were plenty of other countries where sunshine is the year-round norm. That discovery, amongst others, made me stay away from Ireland for as long as I possibly could.
But tonight I am proven wrong. There is none of the rain, mist, wind, or mud that Ireland normally displays. Instead the weather has taken a turn for the better, and Howth is displaying a picture perfect vision of a beautiful Irish summer. All I have to contend with tonight is the mountain and the run.
This evening’s race is a nine kilometre circuit, with two laps of the hill to provide runners with plenty of ups and downs. And with all the same friendly informality that left such an impression on me after the Corrig Mountain race, we are soon off for our Wednesday night race at the strike of 7.30 pm.
I soon realise my shoe philosophy is fundamentally flawed. I hit the first uphill section and my heart and lungs immediately reach their health and safety limits. My legs instantly buckle and break from my feeble attempts to gain any uphill running momentum. Even in my brand new running shoes, I’m reduced to walking my way up to the summit.
When we finally reach the top, the course brings us on a tour of the hill’s flat plateau. I have discovered since Corrig that race routes are in fact marked by IMRA with little flags and tape. It means therefore that, despite my initial conviction, it’s not necessary to always have a runner in front to follow at all times. These markers I now see visibly spread along Howth’s network of trails. The trails in turn transpire to be wonderfully bog-less paths made of sure footed solid stones. On either side, green gorse bushes line the path boundaries. These bushes lie close enough to define the tracks, but distant enough to avoid chance encounters with their proliferous array of thorns.
With the route well marked, the paths well delineated, and the race well in hand, I take a few moments to take in Howth’s stunning views. Above the summer sky is crystal blue. All around, the Irish Sea’s waters are azure and clear. I smile contently inside. “It’s hard not to like mountain running when the sun is shining and the scenery is this stunning”, I think to myself between strides.
I complete the first lap and start the second, sweating now from both the heat of the race and the warm evening summer sun. Up and around the summit I go for the second time, before approaching the final downhill section that funnels straight into the finish.
The descent is a steep section on a narrow rocky path, forcing runners to go down in single file. Confident in my new mountain shoes, I throw caution to the wind and plunge my way downwards kamikaze style. I should have read the safety instructions that came with the shoes, because before I know it, my foot clips a rock and I am sent flying forward, straight into the gorse bushes thick with their barbarous wire.
The runner behind me sees it all happening. “Are you alright?” he quickly asks. I nod in shock, surprised he hasn’t used my misfortune to overtake me and gain a precious place. Without thinking he picks me out of the bushes and places me back on my two feet. I’ve barely time to catch my breath before he ushers me to run on. I clamber on down the hill at his behest, using my remaining reserves of adrenaline to get me to the end.
I flop over the line and immediately take a seat on the grass. It takes me a while to summon up the courage to inspect the damage from the fall. It’s not as bad as I thought. Just some cuts, a bit of blood, and a few hundred thorns embedded in my legs.
The guy who hauled me back to my feet comes over to check I’m still alive. “Not a bother”, he courteously replies when I thank him for his help. “Those needles should pop out in the next few days. Then you’ll be all fit and ready to go again next week”.
I like the way he comes over to check that I’m okay. But it’s not just him who’s being kind. Just being with these mountain runners is helping me get back on my proverbial feet again after being away from Ireland for so long. And I am starting to get the hang of this mountain running game. I am slowly but surely getting tougher and thinner with each mountain race. So I decide to persevere. And in the end, I am right to commit.
The summer of 2006 is wonderfully warm and sunny. I turn out every Wednesday, as much for the weather as for the race. The calendar in turn never fails to produce a plethora of picturesque places and marvellous mountains to run.
The week after Howth is Paddock Lake, with its course looping up through Djouce Forest and Crone Woods via the Wicklow Way walking trail. Next is Brockagh, perched perfectly over scenic Glendalough. On to Tibradden in the Dublin Mountains we go, with its unsurpassed views over Dublin City from its Fairy Castle cairn. Then it’s the longest mid-week run on the calendar, Ballinastoe, a twelve kilometre loop taking in river crossings, muddy marshes, and forest rides, and anything else sordid that the mountain can possibly throw up. And lastly we arrive at the finale of the summer mountain running league, the Sugarloaf race and barbeque.
Sugarloaf is a lonely old hill. Huddling close to the Irish Sea, it seems cut adrift and ostracised from the nearby Wicklow Mountain range. With its distinctive steep slopes and scree-topped summit, it’s the perfect place for IMRA to close its mid-week summer mountain racing season. Many come for the six kilometre circuit, with its screaming descents from its perilous peak. But many more come for the barbeque feast afterwards in the car park of the nearby Glencormac Inn.
The Sugarloaf event embodies the essence of the Irish mountain running scene. Not only do the IMRA races provide a time and place to run around Ireland’s hills. They also offer a space to meet new mountain loving friends, young and old, fast and slow. At 7.30 pm, we are battling it out, adversaries on the mountain. But by 9 pm, we are in the pub together, discovering the wonderful healing powers of a proper pint.
The IMRA community is a group of people united in their love of running, of races, of mountains, and of drinking. This unity they achieve regardless of their speeds, gender, ages, or abilities. And, thanks to Paul, Avril’s kid brother, and his companions, it is here that I am finding the new set of friends I have been longing for ever since I left the African shores.
By the end of the summer, I am addicted to the sport. But the Wednesday night races are sadly over for the year. So I search for something else that can keep me running in the mountains. I then hear about IMRA’s ‘Navigational Challenge Series’, and decide that this is going to be my next mountain running conquest.
The Navigational Challenge is a set of three weekend races run across remote open mountainside. But unlike the Wednesday night season of runs, where there are a series of signposts on the mountain to show us exactly where to go, the Navigational Challenge races are completely devoid of markings. Instead, they demand ‘navigational ability’. This means that I need to know how to read a map and work a compass if I want to participate.
“Sounds simple enough”, I think to myself. “Sure didn’t I use a map once to find my way around the mountains in County Donegal? Aren’t the blue bits on the map water, the green bits forest, and the brown bits, I think they’re open land? What more would I really need to know?”
Finding out where the race actually starts is the first navigational conundrum I face. For the Wednesday set of races, clear instructions were always given on the IMRA website telling me exactly where the race would begin. They would tell me the precise roads to take, the country villages to pass through, and even provide mini maps to download with exactly where to go. But for the Navigational Challenge Series, providing such information would make it far too easy. No, in fact directions to the start are purposefully omitted from the race information pack. Instead, all they give is a grid reference. Apparently the race I am attending will start at ‘O 058 118’.
“Ye what?” I splutter. “Where the hell is that?” I rush to find my mountain survival books and resurrect one that explains the basics of navigation. I flick through the starting pages to figure out what the letter O and the accompanying list of six numbers means.
“The area of Ireland is divided into 25 squares, measuring 100km by 100km, each identified by a single letter. The squares are numbered A to Z, with I being omitted.”
Well that’s not much help. All I want to know is where O is and then I’ll be fine. And what about the 058 118 code numbers? What are these all about? And so I read on.
“A
grid reference is a combination of two numbers that identify a
position on a map.
One number counts across from left to right
(west to east) - this is the easting.
The second
number counts up from bottom to top (south to north) - this is the
northing.
The grid reference is the easting,
followed by the northing”.
Already I am lost, and I’ve not even left home. How am I meant to run this race if I can’t even understand these letters and numbers, or whatever they call them, ‘grid references’ or something like that? How can I run if I can’t even find my way to the start?
I spend the next hour pouring over my map, trying to decipher this code of ‘O 058 118’. I eventually work out that the O refers to a part of the Wicklow Mountains, just south west of Dublin. And that 058 118 is located somewhere in the middle of nowhere, a place called ‘Ballydonnell’.
Through this use of secret symbols, the race organisers are sending out a clear message: If you can’t understand grid coordinates and if you can’t figure out where the race begins, then you don’t have the elementary skills to run the race in the first place. It is blatantly obvious from this little exercise that I don’t have the required skills to run. But that doesn’t stop me. “Ah sure, I’ll be fine,” I say to myself. “Don’t I understand grid references now after reading the book? It’ll all be grand”.
A few days later I find myself driving down a tiny country road. I’m slowly weaving my way through Grid O in the Wicklow Mountains trying to find the race start. The road is barely wide enough to take the width of my car. And with a line of Ireland’s finest green grass growing right down its tarmac centre, it doesn’t look like the road has seen much traffic lately, let alone this morning.
I’m beginning to wonder if I’m in the right place. Usually on Wednesdays I’d see at least a few other cars packed with thin, fit people going in my direction. But thus far this morning, I’ve seen absolutely no one else driving up this god forsaken road, let alone anyone who looks like they might be a mountain runner.
Thick mist is hanging menacingly low on the horizon. I look at my map and see that I should be in the Wicklow Mountains by now. Sorrell Hill and Moanbane are apparently on my left and right respectively. But looking out both my car windows, neither of them are there.
Already I’m having flashbacks of my first mountain race up Corrig. It’s the same kind of mist now as I saw then, the type of mist that won’t let you see further than fifty metres ahead. And it’s the same type of terrain as Corrig that is now visible outside my car. To both sides, where the tarmac stops, it’s all heather, bog, grass, and mud stretching ad infinitum up and down the slopes.
I came very close to getting lost at Corrig. And that was fully marked with flags and tapes. “Oh jaysus, just how lost am I about to get?” I am starting to violently fret. My stomach sinks as reality slowly settles in.
But turning back is simply not an option. “I’m going to do this”, I tell myself, slapping my wimpy side into submission. “Shut up and keep driving”. Like it or not, there’s nothing worse in my mind than giving up before I’ve even tried.
I am still wondering if I have got the right grid reference when I come across a small car park hidden behind some trees. Inside it are a handful of cars, with svelte shaped people huddling behind their steering wheels. They look just like mountain runners. “This must be it!” I excitedly squeal.
I park my car and walk over to a woman hanging out by her open car boot. “Is this the start for the IMRA navigation race?” I ask. “It is indeed”, she replies. I beam inside, momentarily proud that I didn’t bottle out further back down the road.
I register for the race and hand over my entrance fee. She gives me in turn a plastic coated piece of paper with numbers and boxes drawn on it. “Here’s your control card. You’ll need it for the race”. I have no idea what she’s talking about. This wasn’t part of the website’s race briefing.
“I’m sorry”, I can’t help but blurt out as I take the card from her. “But what am I meant to do with this again?”
She gives me a look of mild impatience. She knows a rookie when she sees one. She’s met my sort before, lads who can’t use a compass, can’t read a map, can’t run over mountains, and, hopefully can’t find their way to the start. But I’ve found the start. So now that I’m here, she’s no option but to explain to me how this race actually works.
“There are certain places you have to visit on the course. Some of these places have marshals and they will note down that you’ve arrived. Other places do not have marshals. These have control flags instead”. My eyes glaze over. Control flags? What are they? She can read the flagrant ignorance blazon across my entire face. She knows now that she has to start from the very, very beginning. “Control flags are orange and white cloth flags used in the sport of orienteering. They are shaped into a box and you’ll see them hanging from a short bamboo stick. You’ll also see hanging from the same stick a small plastic punch that resembles a mini-stapler. However, instead of staples, the punch has a unique set of pins inside. Put the control card I’ve just given you inside the punch, line up the control flag number with the box number on the card, press down, and you’ll get a unique set of pinprick holes on the card. Then when you give us back the control card at the end of the race, we’ll know that you actually visited the place”.
“Oh, I see,” I mumble back. “Thanks for the explanation”. I walk away, not having understood most of what she has just said. But I’m too embarrassed to admit my ignorance. And I desperately don’t want to seem out of place. So I try to act cool like all the other competitors, by going back to my car, looking thoughtfully at my map, checking my laces, drinking some water, and doing a few random stretches.
My thoughts are soon confirmed that this race at Ballydonnell is a lot less popular than the one held at Corrig. There are none of the crowds of one hundred plus runners limbering up beforehand. All that turns out to Ballydonnell on this wet and misty Sunday morning are a committed band of thirteen entrants. It could be the course length that is putting people off, Ballydonnell being over double the distance at fourteen kilometres as compared to Corrig’s six. Or it could be the race’s navigation element that is deterring them from running, many honestly acknowledging to themselves that they don’t have the skills to run an unmarked race. Or maybe it this morning’s depressing, drizzly, and misty weather that is encouraging everyone to stay in bed. But whatever the reason, the reduced number of runners means that there will be considerably less people on the course. Slowly it’s starting to dawn on me that I’ll probably have no one directly in front of me to follow. I may end up running much of this race on my own.
I’m starting to wonder if I made the right decision about coming to this race. “What do all those other runners who stayed at home know that I don’t know?” I begin to speculate. But then again, I kind of like the fact that there are fewer people out here this morning. I like doing things that are different, things that set me apart. I like doing things that very few other people also want to do.
I don’t recognise any of the other twelve runners who are waiting at the race start. In fact, it’s a completely different set of people from the usual Wednesday crowd. As I look curiously at them, I feel them staring straight back at me. “Who’s she, and what’s she doing here?” I’m sure they are asking themselves. “Doesn’t she know that this race requires navigation? Don’t tell us that another mid-week runner, used to running around marked courses, thinks she can now find her way without the flags and tape? Look lads, if she gets lost, I’m not the one who’s going out there to find her and bring her home again”.
I have just entered the covert cell of the Irish mountain running scene. I have turned up to an event with the tough guys of mountain running. These are the mountain goats that have been to every nook and cranny of the hills and know them all like the back of their wind-weathered hands. They are the accomplished navigators and orienteers of this sport, guys who can read maps and follow compasses whilst running uphill and across bog at high speed. These are the guys who avoid the Wednesday mountain races like the plague because they find them not long enough, not steep enough, and not rough enough. These are IMRA’s hardcore.
And I’m starting to feel very scared.
“But it’s too late”, I tell myself. “They can’t send me away now. I’m already here and I’ve paid my entry fee. I’m running, whether they like it or not”. Tough inner words are what I hear resounding when all I want to really do is run far, far away.
The race starts before I know it precisely on twelve o’clock. But it’s not the usual type of start where everyone lines up in a row and waits for the gun to go off. Instead, with the word ‘Go’, we all run straight at the race organiser who hands each of us a little piece of paper. “Now what’s this all about?” I wonder exasperatedly. “Not more pieces of paper!” I look down at what’s written on my slip.