The best race in Ireland

21 June, 2025 - matthew mcconnell

One of my favourite races on the Irish calendar — Mweelrea. The tallest mountain in Connacht. A true sea-to-summit test, starting from the golden sands of Silver Strand and climbing over 800 metres to the roof of the province.

A long, sustained, runnable climb followed by a rapid, wild descent. “The best descent in the country,” as Brian Mullins puts it as we congregate in the carpark.

We’re lined up at the Silver Strand car park, the ocean behind us, the peak hidden in mist ahead. Liam Vines' voice replaces the starting gun, sending us on our way with a casual shout, no ceremony, the rawness of mountain running.

It’s a fast start, familiar now. I dig myself into a bit of a hole early on the road section before we shoot onto open mountain. I take a hard right to cross the river before it becomes impassable, something I’d scoped out during my warm-up.

What follows is a few frantic minutes of trying to pick up one of the many faint tracks that snake up the mountain. Finding the right one is key. The long, energy-sapping climb can hurts the lungs more than the legs especially when the ground is as wet as it is today.

There are moments where it feels like I'm running through treacle. But strangely, today, I feel like I’m floating. I’m catching a few early starters, slower runners that start 30 minute before the main race. There’s the usual exchange of breathless pleasantries. “Good Snowdon training,” I tell Vivian O’Gorman, who manages the Irish team for the Snowdon International every year.

I accidentally spook Lillian as I approach her near the top of the col. Visibility is almost non-existent now. The flags are there, placed at regular intervals, but even so, I question my route choices more than once. Up is best.

The final few minutes to the summit begin.

Just two weeks ago, at the trial races for the World Championships, I secured selection for both the uphill-only and classic up-and-down disciplines. I approached this race differently. I want to treat it like an uphill-only race and empty the tank before I even think about the descent.

As I near the summit cairn, the visibility somehow gets worse than it was at the col. But I feel strong, well within myself, despite the fast start. That gives me huge confidence as I begin to refocus my preparation for the World Championships.

Nearing the summit, I know I’m on track to run the climb faster than last year, and I was very happy with last year’s time. I spot my dad near the top, volunteering as summit marshal. He’s fumbling to pull out his phone for a photo, and I feel like saying, Don’t worry about it, but I say nothing. I tap the cairn, lap the watch, and begin the descent.

There’s something special about this descent, Mweelrea truly is one of the best in the country. A real gem. It’s one of those rare descents where you can almost completely let go. Even if you were to fall, it’d be soft. Boggy. Wet. Wild.

That said, the top section is anything but easy foggy and a bit of a minefield of rocks ready to snap an ankle. The flags are there, generous in number, but there’s still room for missteps. A wrong turn could cost you.

So I lock in. On the line. On the effort. On the decisions.

“Inspiring,” someone says as I pass them, grinding their way up while I bounce down off the summit.

“Disgusting lead,” another voice mutters, not unkindly, maybe even admiringly, as I descend from the col.

I enjoy it. Confident in my route from experience, I shoot out of the cloud, hit the long run to the gate, and know exactly where I’m going. That gate marks the end of the mountain proper, and the start of what I believe is one of the hardest parts of the race: the final road section. On smashed legs that have grown fond of soft surfaces, the hard trail and tarmac is a rude awakening. Over a kilometre of undulating tarmac. Net downhill, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not when your legs are jelly and your lungs are burning.

I glance at the watch. I’m on pace to beat previous years time, which was itself a significant improvement. I glace over my shoulder, no sign of second, but I don’t let u. Partly for the mental discipline. Partly for the training stimulus. Mostly because I know that the satisfaction at the finish will outweigh the discomfort I feel.

Even though a faster time means very little to anyone but me. Well, perhaps my coach too who’s grown used to receiving excited post-race texts like this reporting an improvement, I’m not used to sending them yet. They always give me a quiet thrill and I never take them for granted.

The wind picks up in the final stretch, head-on, as if to test me one last time. I round the final corner and spot Mick Hanney and Liam Vines, first-aid officer and race director, waiting at the line. Mick had planned to race, but when no one else volunteered as First Aid Officer, he stepped in. Sacrificed his own day so people like me could have theirs. These are the true legends. The quiet heroes of the mountain running community.

I cross the line and I send the text.

Two wins from two in the Irish Championship.
The stoke is high.
Best race in Ireland.
Until the next one.