Mid table runner

02 August, 2020 - Andrew Coghlan

Phew, where do I start? Driving along a deserted road, north of the Galtee mountains, wondering where I was. And there, spotted, a discreet IMRA sign, up a side road. Slowly edging around the corner, and a gathering emerged. As if at a clasdestine rave, the place was full of colour. there’s the registration, and the volunteer, directing traffic. “Up there”, he pointed, finger aiming further up the hill. Up I go, second last spot available, pulled in, tight, and wandered back to registration. “ My first race of the year, I’ll need my number”. I smiled, more from nerves than delight. Happy with my acquisition, I stepped back up the hill to the car, exchanging glances and nods from grizzled veterans on their own trip down the hill. Sat on the passenger seat, door open, changing into the calf supports and innov8’s, I put on a long sleeve, with a short sleeve over. It rained and the sun came out. Damn, two tops or one? Looking around at the guys in race singlets, I thought, feck it, I have my rain jacket. Down to 1, repinnned my number and up to the start. Waiting, and then away we went. The first climb, technical but not bad. Crowded runners, buffs up, prevented all but the leaders going off at stupid pace. Suited me, I could power hike at pace, efficient movement. Then the stile. This helped, it started spreading us out a bit. Ugggh, soft bog. Gotta run now, I thought. Off we went, more single line. Staying ahead of the person behind, behind the person in front. All breathing hard now, buff discarded to a spot around my wrist. Thank god I went to one layer. I’m cooking here, I thought. Cush loomed above us, steep and boggy. Up I went, heart beating and, legs under pressure, making solid ground. Sticking with my running group. Steeper than I expected. To the top, runners ahead, stretching away down the hill. Leaders mere specks in the distance, already climbing Galtybeg. Down we go, pace increasing. Can’t catch the guys in front even though I’m solid at decent. Silly boy, this is a mountain race with mountain runners. Everybody’s good at descents. Passed one person, saw the guy in front slip, ending on his knees, but up again before I reach him. We’re alll stretched out put now, like a multicolored ribbon down Cush and back up Galteebeg. Another climb, up and up. God, this is steep. Hands on knees, Body asking me why I do this??? Brain wonders too. Stop whining, I say to myself. Get on with it. Ground levels out a bit but only a brief respite, I’m only half way up. Others around me, nobody talking. Breathing hard. Figures on the top, “Number?” Somebody shouts. I mumble my reply, checking to see I was right. On again, and down the saddle, boggy again, deep deep blackness, sucking at my legs. There’s a solid bit of ground, divert right, get some better traction. Stay going. Bottom of saddle, Leader passes me , heading home. Reckless abandon, arms waiving for stability. Then more, a trickle , 2,3,4. And I lose count. I forget about them, except for the longing of wanting to be that far into the race. Up Galteemor, God, this hurts. Lungs burn, legs scream, quads a bit shot now. Finally, the top. See the cross in the background but around the Trig point and away we go. Hopefully some fun now. Faster down the hill? Not a hope. Steep, and very sloppy with rocks that would reef you if you went over. Into the saddle again, and up, over the top of Galtee beg. Didn’t even look at the marshalls ( thanks for being there guys), down again, better ground now, moving faster, straight down, ready to lean back if the foot looses grip. Looking ahead, runners in the distance. Spread out. But Cush awaits again after that soft bog. And up I go, trying to stay solid. Quick word with the Marshall on Cush. “Tough race” I say. He agrees. Maybe he’s done it a few times and finally got sense. Over the top of Cush. Good running downhill ground now. Tired legs but making progress, I pass one, then on the flat, going hard, I make another place. Go hard now, I say to myself. Around the corner, there’s the stile. Straight to it and over. One person in front, but maybe 30 meters, I check behind. No danger ther. Can I catch the runner in front? No, legs shot. Going as hard as I can. Finish in the distance still, down the hill like multicolored dots, the end is in sight. Still can’t catch the runner, I can’t go faster without the possibility of tumbling. I accept my position. Given everything. Over the line. Happy to complete. I sit down , then lie down. A few words with my predecessor to the line. “ I couldn’t catch you” I said. “If you’d pushed, I had nothing left” he said. Two aging warriors in our minor battle, acknowledged our finish. Mutual respect. What a day, I won a spot prize. Maybe it was a hard race, too hard as a prep for Seven Sisters in 2 weeks. Only time will tell. Loved it reallly. Thank you to the race director and all the marshals.

‘Shur, otherwise you’d only be at home watching Murder She Wrote’

01 August, 2020 - Aidan Hogan

This is what my fellow sufferer said to me as we trudged wearily up Cush (the fifth and final climb of the day) after we had both solemnly agreed that this was a proper b***ard of a race that we never should have entered. And I suppose he was right.

Today was exactly 5 months since my last IMRA race down in Bweeng. Despite people wearing masks / buffs at the start line, minor changes to registration, and the absence of the tea and sandwiches afterwards in the local pub, there was still that friendly and relaxed atmosphere that we all love about IMRA events. Good to be back.

I met a few familiar faces as we waited around for the start. We all shared our excuses as to why we might not perform quite so brilliantly today. “I got no hills the last few months. Sure Listowel is dead flat”. “Same here”, I said, “no hills to be had within 20km of Limerick City either”.

Chatting then to another fella who lives at the foot of the mountains in North Tipp. Now this fella surely can’t have any excuses I reckoned. Well how wrong was I? He said he had buckled his leg recently falling over a trailer and before that he had busted his eardrum when a stick went through it as he was poking a sliothar out of a ditch. Mother of divine!

I could bore you with a chronological description of the race - the ups, the downs, the viciously competitive racing at the non-business end of the race. Instead I’d like to share two little vignettes which will tell you all you need to know about the ruthless competitor that rages within me.

Vignette No 1:
I’m prone to taking a few pictures when I’m out and about in the hills. I then post these photos on social media to depict an unrealistically wholesome version of my life and personality. The likes and follows I receive give me that dopamine hit that I so desperately crave. So when I spotted a ram (you know the ones with the horns) perched majestically on a rocky outcrop, chest puffed out like the mighty Simba, and with the Glen of Aherlow stretched out below as a spectacular background, the temptation was great and you can probably imagine my dilemma. On another day, I’d be down on my haunches framing the shot carefully to get the best angle. But not today. In a nanosecond, my decision was made. The Insta-ram (see what I did there?) could wait for another day. I had a hill to climb, a race to finish, some chumps up ahead to chase down. I think I shed a single tear, but did not once flinch in my upward and onward trajectory.

Vignette No. 2:
We’re climbing up Galty Beag and I’m coming under a bit of pressure from the runner behind who is gaining on me. Then a stroke of luck. A group of hikers coming down the mountain recognise my pursuer and attempt to engage him in conversation. He’s like a rabbit in the headlights, wracked with indecision. But I’m also faced with yet another dilemma. What’s the ethical thing to do here? - it’s a tricky one. It’s a bit like when the runner in front of you falls flat on their face on a fast descent and you’re not sure whether to stop and help then back to their feet or use their prone body as a springboard to propel you to the finish line - 50:50 call, see what I mean?. Anyway, I see my opportunity and, like Alberto Contador in the Pyrenees in 2010 when Andy Schleck’s chain came off, I put on the after-burners and streak away into the distance shouting over my shoulder “You guys should have a little catch-up, it’s lovely to meet casual acquaintances unexpectedly in the mountains on a Bank Holiday Saturday”. Sucker!

All things considered, a great day out in the hills and great to be back with the IMRA family.

I shall now leave you with a final thought, courtesy of Hollywood actress Angela Lansbury, who spent many years living in our lush green isle:

“Oh Mighty Galtys, how art thou so green of hill, so squelchy of bog, so slippery of slope, and so fresh of sheepshit?”


DISCLAIMER: All characters and incidents portrayed in this report are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased) is intended or should be inferred. No person or entity associated with this report received payment or anything of value, or entered into any agreement, in connection with the production of this report.