Unknown

28 November, 2009

Brockagh 2000
Report by Douglas Barry
Hi Douglas, It's Matt - Matt Ebiner.
Matt Ebiner, the ah, the ah, the Mount Baldy record holder? That Matt?
The Matt Ebiner who has won many US trail races and done a sub 2.20 marathon? That Matt?
Yep, the same. Can you give me a lift to the Brockagh race?
No problem, Matt, I'll pick you up in Bray at 7.25pm.

7.35pm I'm late.
"As you're going down that direction, drop that video back to Greystones...."
"Greystones, but it's way off the route to the race. I'm dead late and I have to pick up this American guy!"
"Well, you think you're a fast driver..." A sardonic smile from my wife, I slam the door.

"Hi Matt, hop in"
Wrrmm (excited Peugeot noises)
Scrreeech. "Have to stop here, Lotto ticket. Fortune might smile. Not in, can't win. " Slam.
Slam. Wrrrmmm for a considerable number of minutes.
Greystones. Scrreeech. Slam. "Video!"
"Oh yeah, thanks" Slam.
Wrrrrmmmm for an even longer number of minutes.

"What the f*** is he doing?"
"Why is he sh***** about?"
"Doesn't he know I'm trying to pass?"
A narrowish road and an expansionist farmer is weaving his erratic way up the steep hill and blocking me for the past ten minutes. Every time the road straightens, I move to pass. Every time I move, the son of the soil puts his very large and unlicensed tractor over into the overtaking lane. "F***, f***, and f*** him" I feint to the outside, he weaves out to block and I sit back. I feint to the outside again. He weaves out to block. I quickly feint inside. He shoots back across to the inside. Too late, he realises my ploy. Having sold him a dummy, I shoot back to the outside and past him. There's a gulp from the passenger seat.
We reached the start at Laragh shortly afterwards. I left a still recovering Matt and headed up the race route with my camera. A warm bright evening embraced the course. I walked and ran as far as I could. At last, high above the sacred lakes of Glendalough where St. Kevin resisted the fulsome blandishments of the temptress Kathleen, I stood alone on the spine of Brockagh mountain surrounded by stillness and the Wicklow hills. There is no better cure for a fractured soul.
I wasn't alone for long. Matt appeared, looking comfortable, and well ahead of next man Hugh McLindon and a long line of runners. Now Hugh at his peak is a good runner and a fearsome descender, but he admits he's a little off his best form at the moment. Matt was forging ahead on the climb. I clicked away at them and the rest of the field, all the time watching Matt getting smaller and smaller on the skyline as he approached the summit. After a while, Matt started to get bigger as he made the return descent.
He repassed me looking relaxed. Despite his pre-race admission that he wasn't much of a man for the downhills, his lead had stretched. Hugh, although looking slightly faster, wasn't going to trouble the Californian runner. After the first six or so had gone by, I ran out of film and ran back down beside Paul Mahon for a few hundred metres to stretch the legs. Enjoyed that, must get training again.
When all had finished, I went up the dirt road in my car with Vivian in to collect some of the marker flags. When we had done our bit, we headed down to the pub where the remnants of an exciting semi-final in the European (soccer) Cup awaited us. A packed pub swayed and shouted to the sublime skills of a masterful French side just subduing an exciting Portuguese team in extra time. The crowd at the Laragh Inn was as one, as the subtle, yet mesmeric, weavings of the teams held us spellbound.
Eleven o'clock and a couple of drinks later, we leave the pub to get race winner Matt to the last Dart. What time does it go, Matt? 11.20. Shit. Wrrrrrmmmmmm. The unlit country road flicks beneath our wheels as the stars struggle in their battle with the clouds. Little traffic was out. We whipped through Annamoe, Roundwood, and past the Vartry Reservoir along the narrow twisting road towards Kilmacanogue and Bray. Cresting the twists beside the Calary fairy fort, I spot a strange flash of light that doesn't match my road memory.
I eased instinctively. What was it? A UFO? That's all I need. Kidnapped by aliens and the only witness an American... Two corners later, and my unspoken question is answered. Two cars are stopped just before a well known bad bend. I pull up. Beside the two cars, and strangely elevated, are another pair of lights. It's not a UFO, it's a BMW. Upside down, it lay forlornly in a ditch.
Jeez, let's go. I say to Matt, pushing the hazard light switch and jumping out the door. We run up the road to a woman standing beside the wreck. Is anyone hurt? I don't know: I'm ringing an ambulance. Are they're many in it? I don't know: I haven't looked. I notice a plume of smoke spiralling heavenwards from the BMW. Sh**, it could blow Matt. Let's go.
I climb over the barbed wire fence that separates us from the BMW and shout. Are you OK? A gurgling noise emanates from the BMW. The smoke rises ominously. I kneel down and rip the door open. A shook looking blonde face greets me. Are you OK? Ish tincks sho. Come on out, I'll help you. I give her my hand and a leg pokes it way out of the door, followed by the blond head still happily attached to its owner. Spared Jayne Mansfield anyway.
I help her to the arms of Matt, and between us we get her over the barbed wire. Matt sits her down and I turn back to the car reassured by 'Jayne' that there's only one other in the car, the driver who we'll call 'Dick'. Are you OK 'Dick'? Duuuhhh. Can you move 'Dick'? Ish tincks sho, came the slurred reply. Are you hurt? Don't tincks sho. OK turn off the ignition. Fumbling is followed by more fumbling. Can't. OK, come out this way to me. I'm thrapped, thrapped. Can you move your arms? Yesshh. Can you move your legs? Yesshh. OK what's trapped. My body ish thrapped.
Can you undo you seat belt? Duuhh. Nuuhh. It's shtuck. I crawl into the inverted BMW to see a hairy face staring upside down at me. I fumble for the belt buckle, locate it, and press the release catch. The hairy face drops down to the roof. Are you OK? Uurrgh. Crawl out quickly. The hairy face comes closer. I grab his arm and haul him out of the wreck. He seems in one piece. With Matt's assistance, I help him over the fence. He joins 'Jayne'. I crawl back into the BMW, turn off the ignition, and hand him the keys.
A car pulls up. A woman alights. Is anybody hurt? They're OK. What happened? It spun and rolled. Were you driving? No. Ish whas. You? Look at the condition of you! You're drunk. She moved to attack him. Leave him alone. He's in shock. Shock, he's drunk! Has anybody called the police? 'Dick's' wits are returning and the implications are beginning to hit him. He heads off up the road and into the heart of Wicklow darkness with 'Jayne'. Thanks a losh, mate, he shouts.
We got to go, I say to the ambulance calling woman. We jump back into our car and speed off to Dublin. Well there you are, Matt. A bit of excitement to liven up your Irish visit, I ventured later. Does that sort of thing happen regularly, Douglas? Yes, Matt, every week....... When I got home later, I checked my Lotto numbers. I hadn't won. What's that they say? You've more chance of being killed in a motor accident.......