Two big hands and a heart pumping blood

I have a big cardboard box full of necessaries and one of those freezer bags full of food and drink. I collect my number then change, load up the running vest and lie down in the back of the car with my book. I get out and pee in a bush. I go back to the car and lie back down. Get up and pee in a bush. Lie back down in the car. I do this eight times, which I assume contributes to the biggest miracle of the day, my not urinating for five hours.  

I miss the first minute of the pre race talk because I am...yes, peeing in a bush. The gist is "Don't be an idiot". I will do my best, sir, I will do my best. As we move to the start I try to position myself near people who look strong, but not too strong. This is a fool's errand. Everyone looks strong, and also too strong. The countdown starts with a seven. Six, five, four, three, two, one. We're off. 

Up the boardwalk, through the forest. It's instantly beautiful. Light through the trees. Hard to appreciate though what with all my focus being on not tripping up in the first 500m like the clumsy newbie that I am. I jump off to the side and follow two blokes up the parallel trail. When a big tree makes this not a thing, a woman generously slows to let me back on the steps. It is the first of many kindnesses I am to be shown. Out of the forest and we're already thinning out.  I am determined to go easy, not go out too hard. I am also determined to not look at my watch for at least 5k. I look at my watch. I am going waaaaay too fast. All the other watches go bing a ling a ling as we hit the first k. "Just 43 to go" quips one wag. I lol, but internally. I iLol. Down we go briefly, then up we go again. 

I am a horrible descender. My descending, I suspect, inspires horror in those around me. Who wants to tailgate a drunken driver? This is all fine on the first major drop, wide and grassy as it is. People can fly past me and pretend I'm not happening. But once we hang a left, the path narrows and becomes what I consider insanely technical, and everyone else thinks of just a bit rocky, I am screwed. And so desperate am I to get out of the way of those behind me, I move to the verge, slip, and go down. I bounce up. I've had worse. Multiple people check on me. More kindness. I let them all go by and gingerly pussy foot my way to the base of whatever the wall we're about to climb is called. 

We go up and I bring them all back. I am going too fast. I am going to pay. We run. There's going to be a lot of running now. I do it all on my own. Men just ahead of me all the way down to the Crone Woods car park. I try leaning back to slow myself. It doesn't work. I'm not halfway and my quads feel...not trashed exactly, but weird. And not good weird.

It's all a blur till we hit that valley with the ferns. The small group in front of me slowly pull away. But beauty! So much beauty. It's goes on for longer than I remember and I love every step. Then up we go again. It's steep, so again I bring them back. Up, up, up. Why can't it always be up? As it flattens I hook up with Trish, who three weeks ago has represented Ireland in a 100k race around Mondello. This is mostly a training run for her. She is inspirational in her achievements, her easy form and the subtle encouragements she hands out over the coming kilometres. I tell her I'm worried I've gone out too hard. She tells me that if chatting comfortably then of course I haven't. Oh okay then! I hate the road and I am blessed to have her to talk to during this section. Once it goes up again we yo-yo a bit and she tells me I'm strong on the climbs. My heart overflows even as my legs deplete. I eat some pitta and peanut butter. It tastes like sawdust. We gradually pick people off. I think I might be having fun? Soon we see the leader, bounding down a rocky descent towards us. "Just a little bump to halfway!" Trish scoffs. We get over the alleged bump and then she's gone. I'm barely a runner, I think, I'm just an uphill grinder. Halfway is coming. 

As I watch Trish disappear I begin counting the front runners who run by. I quickly lose count. More than twenty? Almost certainly. But like, who cares? Me. I care. I finally hit the bridge and turn around. A wonderful stranger goes to refill my bottles. I can't open one of them. She patiently does it for me. I can't thank her enough, then or now. "I don't get it" I say, "I'm not running with my hands". "We run with everything" she tells me. This gives me unexpected heart. I begin to go back up, running with my everything. This turns out to be the best part of my day. I feel that I can go steadily up, if not forever, then at least for a couple of more hours.  I continue to pick people off. I do my counting thing. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. My mantra is just numbers.

I pass a woman who has briefly paused to tie a lace. "Stopping is a bad idea" she says as she starts back up again. Makes sense. She comes back to me on the next descent and we run together along the road section to the next big climb. She too was running around a motor racing track three weeks ago, but just 50k. Just. Ha! She's incredibly cheerful, incredibly strong, and just really sound, though it's not till we're about to hit the hill that I learn I'm actually in the presence of running royalty. This is none other than Maeve Hegarty, daughter of Maurice Mullins. This information gives another boost as the climb allows me pull away. Thanks to advice from Trish in the barely remembered country of two hours ago, I manage to not miss that dodgy turn and drop easily back down to the Valley of Ferns. I pass a couple more people. I wanted to finish this race in under six hours. My watch says I might do it in under five. I don't trust my watch and I'm pretty dubious about my body's plans too. As I start to go up again, I pretty much invite my bad patch in. It's gotten warm, I'm out of water, there's still at least a klick to the Crone Woods car park. I tell myself I'm strong on the uphills, but I don't believe myself. I don't feel strong. I feel slightly, yet unspecifically broken.  On I trudge.

I make it to Crone. Another water top up, another beautifully cheerful stranger. I'm grateful for the water, but more grateful for her standing around for hours on end in service of others and the beauty of whatever it is we're all trying to achieve. This, and the fact that I ran the remaining 11km a week ago,  gives me another boost, but the duration of these boosts is shortening. I'm struggling.

So on I struggle. Keep trucking. Keep counting. I pass two more people. I'm not entirely sure they're in the race. They let six year olds do this kind of event, right? Eat my dust, small child. Still, I'm walking hardly at all. Should I still be holding back with ten to go? I inhale a caffeine gel. It makes no discernible difference. I catch a guy just as he climbs the stile before the wall like descent.  He's suffering too. "My expletive stomach!" he says, happily. (He doesn't use the word expletive) At least this isn't a problem for me. Reasons to be cheerful. For all that he still disappears instantly on the descent as I tiptoe my way down like Bambi learning to walk, with a look in my eye like I've just seen my Ma shot by a hunter. I finally reach the little bridge and begin what my tummy challenged friend referred to as "this effing beast".  (He doesn't use the word effing) I danced up this climb last week. There'll be no dancing now. I'm slow but moving and I bring back stomach man and a couple of others. As I turn onto the endless Grassy Up I see two more targets ahead. Five days later and maybe a third of the way up I reach them. They stay with me. There is no talking. I take an unexpected step and feel my first shoot of cramp. Left calf. Concerning. I'm out of electrolytes. I should have just thrown the whole tube in my bag. Coulda woulda shoulda. On we go. I miss my stupid poles. On we go. I miss my mum, not shot by a hunter but still three years dead. She would be aghast, but proud. On we go. 

The grade finally eases and I try a shuffle run. Surely it'd be quicker to walk? I wait for my two companions to shoot past me. Doesn't happen. I keep almost running. I remember that I have a McDonald's salt packet in my bag. It takes about two hours to fish it out. I recklessly put the whole thing in my mouth and chew. Surprisingly, I really am lovin' it. This and the indescribable majesty of the view to my left get me to the boardwalk. Four k to go? Something like that. The cramps are returning but now it's hamstrings. I slow, they ease, I go, they rear their evil heads.  On I go, up and up, slowing, going. It's the first time today I've wanted a descent. It comes and I run, lumberingly down the planks. I try singing to myself. I collapse past the oncoming walkers. Thank you, thank you I say and think as they move to the side. I'm not sure I what'll happen if I make a lateral movement off the wooden boards. Nothing good for sure. I go back to singing. "Reflective tape on our sweatpants, big holes in our shoes!" I realise that I know I'm going to do it now. The last time I looked at my watch, mid crampy walk, I had fallen off sub five pace. I decide not to look again. I practically crawl the final bit of cruelly steep grade and then I run. Run like I ran in the old days before I knew there were mountains or ultras. I get to hate the way the boards rob me of rhythm one last time before I'm guided through the final few hundred metres by cheers and clapping and mercifully, directions, before emerging into the light to cross the line. There are a bunch of runners lying about smiling like medicated shock troops between raids. I look at my watch. Sub five. I do a little jig of joy. I give a little whoop of relief. I get given my mug. I am dazed but happy.

I go and pee in a bush.

I am eternally grateful to all those who made this day possible. All the runners. All the organisers and volunteers. Everyone. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.