The Long Game.

27 March, 2024 - Brian Kitson

On the 26th of July 1986, Marvis Frazier fought an up-and-coming twenty-year-old boxer named Mike Tyson in one of the most one-sided contests in sporting history. Son of the famous Smokin’ Joe, Marvis had pedigree and talent and figured that Tyson would be “just another guy who was going to be a statistic”. Instead, Tyson blew out of his corner like a mistral and blasted punch after devastating punch on his opponent until he landed a huge uppercut followed by a combination that left Frazier unconscious and slumped against the ropes like a man with no bones. The contest lasted less than 30 seconds.

I bring this up not just because of the mismatch that Brian Kitson vs. the 2024 Maurice Mullins Ultra turned out to be but also because, like Marvis, on the surface, I too had cause for optimism heading into this contest. Last time I raced the Maurice Mullins Ultra I came ninth. True, at the time it may have been a level three lockdown in county Dublin so only fifty or so people could make the race but that’s a minor detail. A top ten’s a top ten, right? Although I hadn’t raced an ultra in the subsequent four years, I had raced a couple of marathons most years so believed making a reasonable account of myself over 50km was doable. In January, I started an endurance training block. Figured I’d be grand.

Training went brilliantly. I rested well, tipped away with easy runs during the week, went hard during my tempo each Saturday, and went long in the hills on Sunday. Old school. Each week I grew stronger and faster. Then I picked up a virus on a flight at the beginning of March and have been coughing since. Every run has felt like I was starting at two thousand meters. No gas in the lungs.

I thought about pulling out, but the day before the race I figured I was well enough for an attempt and that was that. Too much invested not to try.

This decision should have led to a flurry of last-minute preparations but this was completely derailed by endlessly refreshing Twitter to seek updates on Jasmin Paris’ stunning achievement at the Barkley Marathons the previous evening. I eventually cobbled together the mandatory kit early on Saturday morning and headed for the race.

The weather leaving home in Bray was non-descript, in the strict sense of there being nothing to describe. The temperature was average, the sky a little overcast, a bit of a breeze. Twenty minutes later, when I parked the car in Pier Gates, I had to double-check that the car was stopped because it continued to rock from side to side. I looked out the windscreen to see snow and hail blast in from the west and a hardy steward leaning into it.

The registration queue was 10 metres long and barely moving. The heads of those braving it were buried deep in hoods with hands jammed into pockets. I eventually joined them in a show of solidarity but couldn’t hack it. It was so cold, I baled and dashed back to the car and put on every item of clothing I had. I lasted less time than Marvis. I have never experienced a colder and wilder registration setup and don’t know how Race Director Richard Nunan and his team coped so well. Top-end hotels would struggle to find staff who would be so friendly and welcoming in such challenging circumstances.

Registration finally closed and the couple of hundred of us doing the main start huddled in front of Richard as he roared what we assumed was his race briefing. His words, as they left his mouth, either froze and dropped like stones to the ground or were swept away in the gale before they could ever reach a straining ear. He continued regardless, so to play our part we nodded gamely towards him and studied the movement of his mouth for clues to what he might be saying. Then suddenly those nearest him started running so the rest of us started to run too correctly deducting that he had gotten the race underway.

Hats, buffs and other running paraphernalia filled the windy sky over the boardwalk like a flock of birds on their way to join Richard’s words in the east. Runners devised different strategies to avoid becoming airborne too. Some walked, others stayed down off the boardwalk. My approach was to run on the boardwalk with bent knees to crouch beneath the wind while keeping my footsteps as wide apart as possible, giving me the unfortunate appearance of a man dashing to a toilet stall with his strides around his ankles. The crosswind got worse. I leaned so far over to one side for balance that my head seemed to travel beside me like a film drone. This all took maximum concentration but was great craic.

It was even colder on the top of Djouce. Someone said the real feel was minus nine and I’d believe it. Thankfully no summit marshal was waiting up there, only penguins could have lasted. But the sun broke through heading up Maulin. As I neared the summit, two road runner types hiked passed. I heard one lad say to his pal who was struggling behind, “don’t worry, at least we don’t have to come back over this hill on the way back”. I said nothing, I didn’t want to spoil their surprise.

I had problems of my own. I felt good earlier in the race but was beginning to struggle by the time I got to the climb up Prince William's Seat. I was operating on backup power when I reached Mick Hanney who was at the bridge and what I assumed was the turnaround. ‘Keep going, Brian” he called waving me to continue, “this year the turn’s been moved up the hill to the road!”. I dejectedly kept going and only turned back when I heard the various howls of laughter from behind.

After a quick replenishment and chats with Anthony Cahill and Liam Vines who helped me get going, I was on my way again but in slow mode. By now, I was only able to manage sporadic bursts of shuffling. Throughout the race I had been trading places with Aideen Burke; she’d power ahead on the climbs and I’d catch her on the descents. However, by the time I reached the Dargle River, I could run no more uphills. Aideen passed and that was the last I saw of her. By now my implosion was complete. Mike Jordan caught me, briefly paid his respects and zipped past. I’m convinced he put any extra show of vim in his step to rub it in.

I cursed my haphazard pre-race packing (caused by Jasmin) as I rummaged through my bag hoping to find something that might give me a boost. But I packed no miracles. The truth is that heading up Djouce I accepted and even savoured the suffering. It was why I was here. After his fight with Tyson, Marvis Frazier said, “I threw a jab and I don't remember anything else”. People were shocked by how one-sided that fight was but my tussle with this ultra was always going to be a no-contest. The words “ultra-runner” have been part of my identity for a long time but words have a use-by date. Four years is a very long time between ultras. I needed this race and deep down I knew it was going to hurt regardless of how well I prepared. To be an ultra-runner at some point one must run an ultra.

I fell into a trance going up Djouce and even passed a few people. Then I tore off from the summit. The cool thing about ultra running is that sometimes when the body seems broken it’s possible to find a little more. I raced the few kilometers towards home as hard as I could with adrenalin and endorphins now surging through my body. The wind was still fierce but nothing could get me off those boards now. What a wild ride.


BK