I'll take all you've got of that.

24 August, 2023 - Brian Kitson

I played the usual mind games with myself before the race. Gems like, “well the body’s not right so I’ll take it handy” and “shur, it’s not a league race, no point in busting a gut”, but just 60 seconds into the race I bitterly regard each one among the drove of runners who pull ahead on the laneway towards Paddock Hill. What are these people thinking? I know what I’m thinking. I’m thinking, “what’s the hurry, people? Let us enjoy this bittersweet swan song of Wednesday night summer running without all the racing”. It’s unedifying. But resistance is futile and as I watch them pull ahead I begin to feel the usual ineluctable ambition, if not the power, to give chase.

The procession of passing runners eases shortly before I turn left off the lane. I settle into a rhythm and take stock: I feel fit but not fast. My TTracers comrades Sonya McConnon, Niall Fox and Conor Nolan up ahead are becoming an increasingly distant memory. Despite my left Achilles feeling like old rubber whenever I run, I begin to pass people as I move through the forest. I awkwardly climb over the stile onto the mountain like a small puppy scrambling out of a box and am amazed by the sight of how far the line of runners stretches into the distance. Among them, I spot Sonya. She is recovering from both illness and injury but, even so, she is a formidable climber. I make up ground and eventually pass her when the terrain flattens out. That gives me a lift and I try not to dwell on the realisation that I take shameless pleasure from passing sick injured people.

It’s a beautiful evening on the mountain. I take a moment to enjoy the lovely view of the sun beginning to lower in the western sky over Brockagh and Tonelagee. My brief reverie is broken when, ahead in the distance, I spot Conor Nolan cleverly trying to disguise himself in a blue baseball cap rather than his customary red one. By now, I’m in a decent flow, the ache in my Achilles has eased and I concentrate on picking people off in the hope that I eventually catch him. After 3km, I take the right turn and my rhythm is interrupted when I'm forced to lunge through the thick heather like a man trying to trap a plastic bag with his foot on a windy day. The rough ground gives way to a rough trail where I pass Alan Ayling who’s on his 500th IMRA race. Once again, he’s injured. Once again, I’m pleased.

I am just behind Conor by the time we join the Wicklow Way and manage to pass him on the nice grassy descent adjacent to the Paddock Hill reserve. I take the right turn and settle in with a group of runners for the long gradual climb up the ramp beside the forest. After a short while, I make a burst and drop a couple and bring a couple with me. It’s nip and tuck but I lead our little group when we turn left into the forest. I blast along the descent towards home hoping to build a gap. It's not enough and they both pass me once we hit the fireroad but I manage to re-take one of the guys and run like hell.

I’m broken up when I cross the line about 30 seconds behind Niall. What a race. I sit on the barrier heaving for air among the happy faces. I look like someone who has crawled out of a car wreck. Viv looks at me and tells me it gets easier. The chap I battled the last mile with comes over to shake my hand. That’s proper and what these nights are about. Notions of an easy night become a fight to the death followed by banter and laughter. Such a summer of rain it has been yet hardly a drop has fallen on the brow of a sweaty runner during these Wednesday night races. The warm glow cast from evenings like this will see me through many a winter run to come.

You can’t bate the mind games.