Djouce without the wind

17 May, 2017 - Greg Byrne

What a turn out, 240 runners… well 200 runners and 40 disappointed souls. Diarmuid Collins and his new dancing shoes were in, but Adrian Hennessey had missed the cut, #201 for those with an interest in conspiracy.

National Park rules, 200 was the limit… condolences ended with the gun and the mass charge for the rumoured single track at the forest exit. Diarmuid went out too fast, or at least that is what I told myself. Michael McCarthy and Pat Foley led the chasing bunch from a distance. Slowly the gap closed before we entered single file and the mountain proper. As we progressed the ground got steeper and the surges got shorter.

Michael McCarthy made his move just below the Wicklow Way, while Pat & Diarmuid Collins used each other for motivation. Just behind Paul Keville and Mikey Fry were stubbornly refusing to the let the elastic break ensuring that we hit the Wicklow Way in sight of the leader. At their shoulder was Diarmuid Meldon making sure the boys were not slipping into their own little race.

I am always amazed how I look forward to the flat sections while climbing, but despair at my dead legs when I do reach salvation. Turning off the Wicklow Way I could barely make out the letters C-R-O-G-H-A-N ahead, but that was the focus.

I should pause here to thank Diarmuid M & Pat for dragging me up the hill. The silent encouragement of shared suffering is an usual experience and hard to explain, but we got there. As we reached the summit the old game of who can sprint the last 10 yards to the summit began. I say sprinting, but Usain Bolt need not fear.

Summiting we noticed that Michael was gone. Diarmuid C and his new shoes got up to chase speed first. Pat followed. And so it stayed across the boardwalks. The narrow track providing an easy line of sight on the leaders, but also the hazard of early starters. Pat got unlucky and had to detour through the bog to overtake the first pair. I was more fortunate to arrive 10 metres later with solid ground to the right.

Onwards we descended with reckless speed, or at least that is what I thought until I realised Diarmuid C was gone from sight. We exited the boardwalks to the left and along the edge of Ballinastoe forest. No looking back… focus forward. The undulating fast surface testing the leg turnover before the mad dash descent tested the coordination. I reminded myself of the priorities: stay upright, breath and catch Pat… in that order.

As we turned away from the forest and onto the single track I made myself believe that the gaps was closing… push harder… gradually it came to pass. Some of the early runners stood aside and shouted encouragement, others tried keeping up, which inadvertently provided the passing runner with a slingshot effect. A curious scene came to play as the gap opened and closed as we individually passed each runner. But it was closing, until we hit the kicker… not more than a few metres in height, but my chest contracted, I couldn’t get a lung full. The bouncy descent had completely shifted my breathing pattern and now I was taking longer than Pat to adjust to the climb. The gap grew, but I didn’t want to let the hard work go… so the chase resumed as we crested and ran the last 100 metres to the forest entrance.

Exiting the single track the gap was a mere 2 metres, but the question remained… who had the road legs. Pat did.

More Rea Lemonade at the finish… I’m hooked. It is almost as addictive as mountain running.

Thanks to Sorcha, Brendan and the volunteers. Seemed a flawless evening to me, one of the lucky 200.