The Abounding Magic

19 July, 2019 - Brian Kitson

"Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly..."


It’s great to be among one’s tribe. We had a proper Red Alert weather warning the winter before last. Big snow and double-digit freezing temperatures. Whatsapp groups pinging with a giddy excitement, folks sharing the wild weather forecasts on the hills. Extreme, the kind of weather that has Teresa Mannion losing her mind somewhere. It’s never too hard to find a fellow adventurer though and, sure enough, it wasn’t long before I found myself driving down the road to pick up Caoimhin MacMaolain and head off to Djouce. The run was epic. Seeing our land as it’s rarely seen; deep frozen greys and ancient whites. Just so beautiful. We warmed ourselves on the climb up through virgin snow and blasted off the summit kicking up fresh powder behind us as we carved long ‘S’ lines along the steep drop towards the stile.
The jeep’s body and windows were frozen hard by the time we got back. Wheels half-covered in new snow. We got her going though and coaxed our way slowly towards home over the quiet, icy back roads until we came upon an upturned car in a ditch. An old farmer standing there, distressed. Nobody hurt. We helped him pull his young daughter out through one of the windows and made sure everyone was alright. He was fretting, she was grand. We settled them down and it was only after the initial drama subsided that he finally regarded us. Two lads up to their knees in snow, minus ten, wearing thin leggings and runners, happy out. We could see the look of confusion crossing his face, dawning on him, like the heavy clouds overhead. ‘We were just running in the mountains’, said Caoimhin. Realising that this wasn’t bringing the clarity the farmer was desperately searching for, he helpfully added, ‘we weren’t going to go out at all until we saw how bad the weather was’.

If you have to ask, you’ll never know.

The couple of hundred people toeing the start line last night know. You one-hundred-percent-certifiably-know if you willingly sign up for a race that features a downhill section so steep and treacherous that by any rational standards it would be considered less of a run and more of a base jump. ‘The Ayling Abyss? Sounds terrifying, when’s it on?’, as concerned loved ones wonder why we’re packing jackets and not parachutes.

Warren Swords gave me a lift down. The both of us chomping at the bit the whole way. Spoiling for the fight. He’s flown up the league table over the last few weeks like a cork popping out of water and I’ve only one thing on my mind: a top 10 Leinster League finish. This quest of mine is becoming as much of a feat of imagination as it is a physical endeavour. An 11th place in one race but even then, I was a good way off tenth. How to find another minute or so from busted legs and lungs?

I kept my gaze firmly down the track while waiting at the start line. I wanted to avoid looking at the rake of snappy lads bouncing up and down in their singlets. Fast whippy lads everywhere, more meat on a rasher. It’s a quick downhill for the first while and I let fly as soon as we get the shout from Joe Boyle. Making hay while I can, I’m with the lead pack for a while. Soon in, John Bell takes a slight stumble on the track. He’s barely kicked the rock and his brother Peter is already on hand with the slagging and banter. John barely misses a stride but such was Peter’s delight I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him sticking a boot out to finish the job.

I kept with Eoin Keith until Bernard Fortune passed us at the sharp left which indicated the beginning of the first very steep climb along the single track through the forest. Bernard attacked the mountain as if it had caused him offence. He lashed his way up in defiance of both age and the laws of gravity, swatting trees out of his way with disdain as he went. Eoin tore off after him while I just wished. I had a good old ding-dong battle with Hariette Robinson for the next while until the serious climbing started up Djouce. By then, I needed a roll call to keep track of them passing me:

‘McDonald’: Anseo!

‘Robinson’: Anseo!

‘Sheridan’: Anseo!

‘Bushe’: Anseo!

Ah, not you as well, Graham. Despite the width of the mountain, I still managed a bit of elbow argie-bargie with Graham going past the preservation area. I got into a steady shuffle and regained the advantage over him. Legs steadily pumping now, I embraced the satisfying work as I entered the foggy summit and a bit of a trance. The song still playing in my head.


"When that fog horn blows

You know I will be coming home

And when that fog horn whistle blows

I gotta hear it

I don't have to fear it.."


I turned from the summit and gave it a right good lash going down, picking off a few that had passed me earlier. Thinking I was flying til Graham blew past me. I gave chase, stuck with him to the stile passing Mark Sheridan along the way. Mark was strong on the climbs and I hoped I wouldn’t see him again on the heave up towards the finish.

Shakespeare wrote that, ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’. That maybe true but the word ‘Abyss’ greatly adds to the sense of terror of the downhill to come. So too did the spooky marshall guarding the entrance; hooded and skin covered to protect himself from the flies, our very own Man with No Face waving us to our demise. I was wearing brand new xtalons so had about as much confidence as I could hope to have dropping down the sheer descent of Alying’s Abyss. I passed Gavin Callery and another lad on the way down. Sling-shotting around a tree I heard an earth avalanche behind me followed by a prolonged series of ‘urrghh arragh oooofff huuuuugguufff fffffooohhhh’s and finally an ‘eeehup’ as whoever it was sliding down the hill behind me popped up and resumed their chase in the more conventional manner.

I got disorientated in the forest section along the stream. Alone and expecting to find the crossing earlier, I stopped and waved in confusion at people who weren’t there. Precious seconds wasted before I copped on and continued straight ahead. I worked hard going up the hill, a cold sweat tingling on the back of my neck at the prospect of Mark Sheridan chasing behind. I held on, crossed the line in 15th place.

The delight of people at the finish line was even more palpable than usual. This route of Alan’s is very special. When we experience the ephemeral moment of being pushed beyond our limit, we somehow feel most alive. It doesn’t make sense. Back in Plucks afterwards, myself and Warren joined my wife and kids and their friends who were enjoying a post-race blackcurrant. Sean Mason and his son, Jack, comes in with our Strava mate (and now real mate too) David ‘Lenny’ Lenahan and his wife Natalie who are home on holidays from Minnesota. Everyone’s buzzing. Lenny’s got a huge grin on his face and is riffing away delighted to share the experience with his American wife, ‘Isn’t it magic’, he thrills, ‘a proper mountain race, the pints, the raffle, the people’. He knows too.

"And I wanna rock your gypsy soul

Just like way back in the days of old

And together we will float

Into the mystic".