Unknown

28 November, 2009

Sunny when we arrived and sunny when we left but windy and rainy while we ran and Gary Bailey from the North got the victory while perennial Connaught womans champion, Roisin McDonnell won for the women. Thats the short summary and here is a very personal account from Mr. McMullan

With my mind heavy with questions of mortality, the call finally comes from Donough and we're off to Westport. Thank God. Donough arrives with Ben Moore and a couple of surfboards a while later. We're leaving relatively late and having been delayed by diabolical traffic in Enfield finally make it to the Old Mill Hostel at about half past midnight. I'm telling you that I was asleep before my head hit the pillow and I awoke to an empty dormitory at ten minutes to ten the next morning. Ah the joys of a leisurely breakfast, porridge with mixed dried fruit (monkey droppings says Donough), OJ, yoghurt and coffee. Can't be beat.

There's a major contingent of Donough's work colleagues, henceforth known as the Environmental Consultants, down for the weekend for the race, surfing, socialising and sinning. The others have already gone for an early surf down to Carrownisky beach near Louisburgh. Topless surfing was introduced to the West of Ireland as a female Environmental Consultant lost her bikini top twice (once is a mistake, but twice?) whilst in action. Quite a gusty or rather busty experience for all concerned. I was just damn glad that they were knackering themselves for the race in that cold water.

We drove back to Murrisk and joined the other 61-in-total heathens who had lined up to disrespect the Holy Mountain. There was a decent drizzle falling but the air was certainly warm enough. Rain tops or long sleeve thermals were called as mandatory. Vivian O'Gorman preached a sermon about how the body and blood would be laid down should our eyes deviate from the true path. We ran, too fast in my case, toward the steps and the statue of Naomh Padraig. Ben, a visitor from Ramsey Street in Melbourne, wondered if Naomh was a common name for a bloke. Surely it's a girls name, like Niamh. Very confused on this issue of doctrine we continued.

The ground turned into eroded track and the incline steepened. The climb is pretty relentless. First Roisin and then Joan pass me but they are still in touch. This is a very familiar scene. This is the part where I get ground into dust trying to keep up and then they turn and destroy me utterly on the downhill. I can keep reasonable pace with Joan ahead but Roisin has gone for it. The only chance is she'll burn before the top. (Some chance as it happened). Arriving at the shoulder offers some respite and it's a chance to get striding again. The wind is pushing from the other side against us and I'm wondering whether it's helping or hindering my chances over the lighter smaller runners.

Back on to the final and steepest climb. The eroded rut of a track is a runnel through a stoney slope. It's nicely loose and the rocks are soaking. A runner, visiting from overseas and maintaining a healthy gap on me, comes to a halt on this sea of shifting stone. I can only guess that he had never seen the like of soul destroying scree before. This is where penance is paid. We're back to a walk. Now the lead runners are coming towards us, wild eyed and purified. Keep left? Left of what? Left be damned! Push push for the chapel.

Once anti-clockwise around (the devil's direction?) and I feel I've earned my wings if only I could get the engines started. There's not many beads in my rosary from the climb and the stagger over the flattish summit ground turns into a faltering stumble down the initial descent slopes rather than a saintly stride. My halo is dim but the gravity assisted fall into Hell awaits. I humble myself in front of the hordes of sinners processing up the track and keep my eyes firmly on the ground. I feel the tug of temptation. Some true believers cling to the righteous path with staffs of wood. These are innocent folk, having undoubtably made sacrifice and suffering to commune with the above over the course of hours and not minutes, their motives are pure born out of love and not competitive destruction of their fellow man. They are about to be subjected to an onslaught of demons and shrieking from all sides. My halo slips and the horns emerge. Salomon clad cloven hooves work better on the scree. There ain't no use for sandals up here.

My world darkens and I feel a tightness in my chest as I run past the pilgrims with centimetres to spare. There is no room for error, eternal fires and anal pitchforking await should I claim one of these souls on my fiery descent. They are not mine I've been informed. The pilgrims halt with rigid shoulders as they sense the passing of evil. Various prayers, curses, spells and incantations are cast in my direction to ward me off. "Um sorry" I respond. Down, down, down I go with the smell of cordite in my nostrils and grinding rocks in my ears. I come to a place where I weary. Should I continue in my present ways or turn aside? My eyes are still downcast. Have I lost my way? It's all very quiet.

Alone I'm afraid to raise my eyes in case I should see a vengeful God behind me. I decide to turn back to the path of righteousness and keeping pureful thoughts thank every pilgrim on the road for making way for the weary. They wish me Godspeed on my road to salvation. Praise and thanks are offered to on high when I see the carpark below and the shining white of St. Patrick in front of me. My thoughts turn to those who follow me and I suppress a utterance to our patron to forever cast them out. Think nice thoughts now. Love your enemy, blessed are the meek and pure of heart and so on and so forth.

As I pass the statue of St. Patrick, he turns to me and says "The Environmental Consultants are right behind you - all of them!" "Yeaarrrrgggghhhhhh" I go shrieking for the finish line. Unfortunately there is no-one ahead to sneak up of before the line (Donough says "Sneak up McMullan? It's like that scene out of Jurassic Park when you're approaching with the vibrations sending ripples over the puddles - BOOM.........BOOM...........BOOM BOOM...BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM).

Nevertheless I nearly run into the traffic on the main road. Afterwards there was much joy and celebration. Gifts were offered to the most high (a Northerner, by God, St.Patrick must be spinning on his cross). The saved congregated in numbers and imbided volumes of a draught brewed in the vaults of St. James whilst I consumed a refreshing concoction of sports nectar which goes under the title of Growling Dogma.

Back to Westport and myself and Donough cleansed our wounds in a lake of sulphur, room of brimstone and pool of ice at the Leisure Centre and discussed the harrowing and close called affair of the race all mortal men and women must run at some stage.

Leading times to the summit(recorded by our volunteer summit marshall Xavier from Catalonia):

1. Des Woods 33:45
2. Gary Bailey 34:03
3. Eoin Keith 34:53
4. Thomas Blackburn 35:21
5. Aaron O'Donohue 35:59
6. Barry Minnock 36:13
7. Paul Mahon 36:47
8. Bernard Fortune 37:23
9. Paul Murphy 37:33
10. Kristofer Muldoon 38:18
11. James Kenny 38:21
12. Kevin Grogan 39:11

Women

1. Roisin McDonnell 42:27
2. Joan Flanagan 43:59
3. Jacqui Howard 47:22
4. Loretto Duggan 48:05
5. Sile Smith 48:06
6. Majella Diskin 49:50
7. Deirdre Horan 50:19
8. Georgina Quain 51:37
9. Noelle Cullimore 53:01
10. Grainne Connor 55:43
11. Christine Hill 61:35