A Dot Watchers Bonanza

01 March, 2024 - Barry McEvoy

Sli Chorcai Ultra

How many ways can you start a race report?

The Portlaoise man hits the road, glances in his rear-view, the town looms up behind him, a hundred new housing estates and not a scrap of greenery, he’s glad to leave town, glad to put it behind him for a while.

Out of town he’s heard there’s hope and he’s just about forgotten hope ever existed. He drives toward hope. It’s a 2-hour drive as the crow flies but he’s not a crow just a runner in a car still staring out his rear-view. An e-scooter emerges from a cloud of vape and he slams the brakes hard. He nearly hits the e-scooter and half wishes he had.

He’s troubled, something is on his mind, can’t put a finger on it. He makes the motorway and drives in the slow lane. Gives him time to think about running 70km across West Cork. The more he thinks the more he wishes he hadn’t and the sky turns grey over Tipperary and the rain pours and the 2 Johnnies come on the radio. The day has gotten bleak. His anxiety picks up. He’s been trying to worry less but with what’s happening in Gaza and the utter nonsense being spoken on the radio he slumps down lower behind the wheel and wonders where in the hell hope is.

The rain batters the Rock of Cashel and the crows circle in the sky with their beady eyes looking like they might peck a man’s brains out. Nihilistic crows might just make a Portlaoise man in a car pull off and return to town.

The road doesn’t help it just winds on forever, like time, the road is like time. Then he thinks about cul-de-sacs. Then he thinks the road is more like a bout of depression, never ending, until it ends. He pops 2 Prozamel to handle the stretch of road to Cork.

He stands at the cross at Beal na Blath in the howling wind and rain and feels the weight of history. Michael Collins name has started to fade, like we all will in time, even Collins, even Pearse, even Bono. He stares at the coins scattered around the foot of the cross. He picks one up and flicks it high in the air. Heads or tails? Heads he says. The coin drops, spins and falls flat on its side. Its tails. But the Portlaoise man wasn’t waiting for Tails. He was Sonic the Hedgehog and he always beat Doctor Eggman.

Enough of that!!

Top of the rock camping, some place, nice holy man David, cup of tea and chat, glad to wake up and look out at this every day, grateful man, listening. Special mattress set up in laundry room, my own private room. Lucky break. Change gear. Pleasant run along the river. Pink sky, setting sun, heart full. Tell everyone you meet about your plan to be disciplined. Tell them twice. Maybe you’ll do it. Gav Byrne and his lovely partner Claire. Off for Fish and Chips. Alf Tupper style fish and chips and ready to beat em all. Try to sleep, can’t sleep. Need to pee. Bump into Enda. Looks taller. Back to bed, a little sleep.

Up very early. Shower, one-euro coin. Tired eyes, no breakfast, onto the bus. Start line. Music, microphones, brewery’s, toilet queues, shaking legs, drizzling rain, inhales, Robbie Williams and Take That. Who’s your man in a singlet? (Me). Off we go. No discipline. 10 metres, pushing pace. Boys chatting behind, at their leisure. No other option after 50 metres but to go for the win. 71km to go. So, it begins…

Cruising on the roads. Crashing on the mountain. Bad lugs, good bounce. Nike Ultraflys. So many stiles to hop. Confused coming into Gougane. Up and down road. 3 minutes standing, unsure. Hiker appears. Which way? He’s lost, hasn’t a clue, thinks left, go right. Rhythm gone. Hard work wasted. Family claps at the lake. Few prayers at the chapel. 5 minutes gap at the checkpoint. Brutal climb. Legs going, hiking. Quick marathon. So, what? Bad fall on the descent. Knee ripped, hip ripped, hand ripped. Pain tremors. Back up quick or won’t move, mountain rescue. Push on. Weakening. Big climb coming. Empty. Barely moving. Lack of climbing legs. Steep drag to the sky.

Pitter patter feet behind. Fresh man, intelligent man. Spit on the ground. Discipline he says. Spits again. Discipline my you know what. ‘Carbs’ comes the call from behind. G’way with your carbs. Give me greasy rashers and buttery toast and few sow-soges. ‘I’m done, no legs’, feeble reply. ‘Keep going mate’. 50km game over. Enda gone, late realisation, I’d love a few carbs. Walking- defeated. Not too deflated. Legs gone are legs gone. I ran the race I ran. Winning feeling at finish either way. Run it the way you like to run. Run with abandon and style and flare. Run the legs off yourself. I take the good and the bad, no sulking. I used to sulk. I don’t like sulking. No sulking, no bad sportsmanship, do your thing, your way, winning a bit then. I ran hard from the start because I thought I could. I couldn’t, but one day I might and that will be a beautiful day on the trails. I’m a rocket. I need to crash and burn sometimes. But why did you go off like that Baz really?
Do you enjoy a spot of Dot Watching?
I’ll claim I did it all for the DOT Watchers. Those god damned dedicated fans who spend their weekends literally watching dots on phones for hours and then write about it on forums. ‘WOW, some thrilling dot watching over the weekend’. I did it for those people, to give those dots some life, to get the conversation going.

‘he’s gone way too hard again’ ‘no hope of keeping that pace’ ‘Enda is only biding his time’ ‘Gav Byrne will be there or there abouts’ ‘look 8 minutes ahead now, he’ll hardly keep it going’ ‘I said it from that start he has it in him’ ‘Enda’s moving on fast now’ ‘he has him, Baz must of totally collapsed’ ‘I said it from the start Enda would catch him’. I did it for the drama, for the spectacle. In reality I did it because I got 2 metres ahead and thought alright I’m leading this, think i’ll win it. Why did you do it? Simple answer. Dot watchers. Long answer. Dot watchers. True answer. Pure impulse.

Long last 20km. Coke, water, Tuk crackers, snickers, jellies and biscuits at Kealkill. Zombie man. Half marathon coming by. Nick Hogan like a bullet up the road. Quick handshake. Good luck. In awe at the pace. I can’t run that fast. Shuffling feet. Caught up in the swarm of the half. Fall in with Robbie and some others. Felt great to be with a gang. Usually all alone.

HIGHLIGHT OF THE WEEKEND

Coming onto the mountain and seeing a trail of runners ahead, real life dots. Runners with me, behind me, everywhere, as we move up Mullach Meise. I follow in someone else's footsteps. They drag me up, I'm grateful to follow. A sense of wholeness wraps around me and comradery. Suffering but happy. Sheltered in the company and protected in the heart of the community. Something I'll never forget. Strong feelings of affection toward every single runner out there.

Follow a train of 4 runners led by Robbie along the river. Last 2km, push on a bit. Final climb, big smiles. Family hugs. Congratulate Enda. Class Act. Big future, big present. Pizza van. Good luck to ya. Up the rebels. Photos, shower, sleep. Dave Yelverton thank you, Robbie thank you, a hundred others thank you. Cillian Fleming and Brian Buckley thank you for the junk food. Gav Byrne thank you for the banter. Thank you to everyone I met and shared the time with. Lianne van Dijk, machine.

Few zero beers. Meeting with mountain running legends. Brian Byrne and a bottle of whisky. The coast to coast dream. Deep chats, race analysis and the rest.

In the words of many a great philosopher and now the enlightened guru which is Gavin Byrne “it’s about the journey man…”

Big clean up next morning, the work that doesn’t get seen. Chip in. Left behind drop bags. Baby food, socks, hats, gels, bars, powder, soft flasks. Sort it out. 2 gels and a snickers richer.

Best set up I was ever at, good times. Sli Barra, 100 per cent.

Final note, I had 29 slices of pizza in less than 24 hours after the race. That’s how memories are made. Real memories that last.

Big one coming up, MM50km – I’ll go hell for leather or maybe I’ll hang back… whatever the dot watchers want I’m up for it.