EAT MY...

... SHORTS, Marlboromanski Oldmills!

It all started about four months ago, when while browsing the web with a nice glass of Bordeaux (see the dangers of drink surfing!) I decided to sign up for the Dublin half marathon in Phoenix Park.
I mean, it's not like I had never done the big one before.
And although my last half marathon may have been 6 years ago, I still thought that it was well manageable.
But that was 18 kilos and 2 more kids ago....
I went to pick up my race number two weeks ago, trying to accentuate in my mind some rather weak kneecap problem excuse, anything to get out of it, even though I'd be pissed off to have wasted 20 euros in a moment of www euphoria.
But then something rather touching and embarrassing (almost in equal measures, with a slight advantage for the embarrassment) happened. Luca and Mimi who had come with me to the sport superstore where the race numbers were collected started declaring very loudly "Daddy, we know that you are going to win the race. We are so proud of you Daddy. You are going to win the race Daddy!"
In the presence of super fit racing snake types who run half marathons as yet another training session for their sub 150 minute 26 mile Big One.
I even spotted one or two who could not refrain the odd smirk.
In front of my kids! I sure as hell was going to show the fuckers what I was made of!

So there I was this morning in Phoenix-Rises-from-its-Ashes Park, ready to give it another go.
The usual round of checking each other's gear and calf muscles was going on (this year I was mostly kitted out by Lidl), trying to assess who might be running faster (most of them).

And then we were off.

After about two miles, I decided to ditch Mimi as she was beginning to slow me down. The first 4 miles were nice and easy, lots of fellow runners around, you just let the group carry you along.
I was going well, found my pace, my breath, had the sweating set on "profusely", wondering if there would be any goodies at the next watering station ("mine's a Guinness pal, make it snappy, I have another 8 miles to run), trying not to stare too hard at the lycra fitness babes 50 yards ahead of me.
Then it started raining... Which made all the runners with camel backpacks (3 to 5 liters of water on their backs) look quite daft. That kit is handy when running a 60 mile race across the Sahel but the chances of acute dehydration in Phoenix park are slimmer than the racing snake bastards who kept overtaking me and block the view of the lycra babes.
The next four miles were the most enjoyable. I was actually going a bit faster, had reached the cruising speed. When the legs go on autopilot and the mind goes blank. Actually not totally blank. I'd get spurred on from time to time as the ego took a hit when overtaken by guys "who look like they do pints and pies every day of the week". I mean, for fuck sake, I only do pints or pies. And then again, only on days of the week that end in Y.
From mile eleven, things got a bit harder. For me. There were still nattering grannies overtaking me while discussing the last episode of Fair Shitty. Where did they find the breath to discuss such nonsense 100 minutes into the race?!?
The organizers had the splendid idea of placing some inspirational messages every mile or so. Nonsensical shite like "every journey begins with one step" or "quitting is for quitters".
All of these truism were anonymous except for one brilliant piece of modern western philosophy: "If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. It's the hard that makes it great." That one was signed Tom Hanks. Tom Fucking Hanks!!! He is right up there with Plato, Descartes and Nietsche. The exasperation gave me another jolt of energy as I was running along while muttering Tom-Fucking-Hanks.

The last two miles were hard.

I finished in just over two hours. I used to be able to run it in 1h40. That maturing thing is not all it is cracked out to be (ok, ok, getting old)

My race directors were quite disappointed when they found out that I had not won the race. I had told Mrs Raheny to expect me on the finishing line between 1h45 (optimistic) and 2h15 (more realistic) after the race start.

They were there early and the kids had the opportunity to see hundreds of fit looking (and not so fit looking) runners zoom past the finishing line before their rubicund dad made it past the 98fm inflatable arch.

But they soon brightened up when they found the kit-kat and jelly beans in my goody bag.