Running for Boston.

In April 2010 I ran my first marathon, in Paris. The build up to it was a long and well trodden path of dark early mornings and wets evenings. It is often called the distance of truth because it is the perfect measure to pitch oneself against and define ones perceived boundaries. 26.2 miles. The dreaded number that instills equal parts fear, fascination and excitement. It is a long distance to travel on foot, whether you're a lithe Kenyan from the running-mecca Eldoret or an average Joe (or Josephine) who runs to permit themselves that extra scoop of ice cream on the weekend, twenty six miles is twenty six miles. The hardest distance to conquer though is a mere six inches, that's the distance between your ears, your own brain. It will tell you that you are insane, it cannot be done, walk a little, you've run far enough. As loud as that voice gets we have a fighter within us that quiets its sometimes thunderous roar. We are runners, and we are stronger than we, or anyone else realises.

Marathons unite people in a way that no other sporting event in the world can. Age, race, sex, creed, sexual orientation, none of it counts on the road. We are family. We are not just united on the day of the event, no, we have been united through all the training and the injuries along the way. When we get to the start line we see ourselves in the faces of everyone lined up, and we are genuinely happy. Our hearts are full with love. We have spent time away from our families to get to this starting line and most of our loved ones will be lining the course to cheer us on when it gets really tough, we love them for believing in us and supporting our crazy dreams. We feel the nerves in the air and talk amongst ourselves, we laugh and pat each other on the backs at the beginning, we pick each other up when we fall and we hug and cry together when we finish as we have run in the footsteps of the fastest men on earth. Where else does that happen? Where do elites and the likes of me get to play on the same pitch? Not the Tour de France, Wimbledon, Football, Swimming, Track, Golf. We run the same distance of truth and there is no difference between a 2:05 run and a 7:05 run, twenty six miles is twenty six miles. We do not want any of the fifty thousand runners to fail or lose out either, we are all one mass plodding through the city like a colourful parade of pain.

Runners are often said to be running away from something or toward something, I have a theory on why we run that is not that common. We like to run. Why? Who cares why. If it's fun and not harming anyone then get out there. Some don't get it of course which is fine, all the more room for me on the trails. I think to try and describe why we do it is like trying to quantify what being in love feels like. I run for the meditative time it allows me. Just last week I had a crazy busy day and managed an hour in between work appointments to get out on the road. It gave me everything I needed spiritually and created space where I had none. It's ironic but the faster I run, the slower life feels.

Spectators love to cheer us too. They do not rise early to catch a glimpse of the studs blazing through at incomprehensible speeds. No, they stand at the side of the road for hours cheering people they do not know. Because some of them will never run a marathon (and may secretly want to someday) we are carrying their dreams too. Just as we see ourselves in other runners, spectators see themselves in us. On April 7^th I went to the 30km point of the Paris marathon and cheered the people sometimes called “The Street Sweepers” They are the back of the pack and sweep up all the crap that has accumulated from the people before them. In their faces I saw both agony and discovery. Every bead of sweat a testament to every foot-fall they had made, their eyes full of doubt as to whether they had 17km left in the tank. Heroes, every single one of them, most of them made it to the finish line.

Yesterday our world and community took a monumental hit. As I was texting messages of congratulations to my friend Tim in Boston after his incredible run, he replied shortly after to say there had been a massive explosion at the finish of the race. I jumped on the Internet immediately, the rest is a blur. The past 24 hours has seen an overload of twitter, facebook, news media and source after source of stories, photos and videos. I have avoided it all because I cannot think about it without breaking down completely. I cannot measure how I feel about an eight year old boy being murdered as he waits to cheer his father over the line, as my own eight year old son has done for me in the past. I do not know who bombed those innocent people killing three and injuring hundreds, or why they did it. But I will say this. You cowards have no idea who you are up against. WE ARE RUNNERS. We do not stop, EVER. When one falls we rush to pick them up, when you hurt members of our family we lock arms of a different kind. Our solidarity will be stronger than ever before and our light will shine brightly upon your hatred for all the world to see. We will not stop running, we will run faster, further, stronger, longer. We will not get tired and for us there is no finish line, when you are caught and brought to justice we will still be running through the streets at dawn, hiking up mountains freely, sprinting around a track on dusky nights, we will break world records and personal records. But most of all we will remember, with haunting pain, our fallen brothers and sisters, time will not dim that memory. Our marathons may have more security in the future but our love and camaraderie will triumph over fear and scepticism. We will move forward deliberately and purposefully with sincerity in hearts for the ones we have lost. God bless you all.

Life Trails.

As a kid growing up in The Midlands of Ireland there wasn't a lot to do, which on the contrary meant there was plenty to do. Watching my son and daughter use iPad and Nintendo with ease reminds me of the Commodore 64 computer I had as a kid, it took forever and a day to load a game which in the good-old-days was on cassette tape. Not having the technology we have now left lots of time for exploration and freedom. Fields, forests, quarries, you name it, I hiked, crawled and bushwhacked through it. Often I carried something to eat in my pockets in order to stay out longer. This planted the seeds of adventure in my life, it dissipated for a while in my late twenties and early thirties (thank you drugs and alcohol) but in recent years has resurfaced with a child-like enthusiasm. I feel lucky to have had the chance as a kid to take myself to places under my own steam. The outdoors taught me about respect and humility, about shared experience and meditative reflection. It is something I am trying to instill in my kids and take them away from technology and truly appreciate this wonderful earth. Over the Easter weekend they hiked a total of 10km over two days and impressed me with their enthusiasm and stamina. I can but hope that in years to come nature will bring them all the rewards it has given me.

Beyond Running.

It's 2am. The steam of my breath fogs my glasses in staccato blasts, my hands on knees stance keeps a hold on the involuntary swaying motion of my body, chunks of undigested chocolate-chip cookies are lodged back at the intersection of my nasal passage and throat – a result of brutal vomiting. The sky is black, the ground pristine white with snow (save for the blotch of my vomit) I have just run 42km and as I look back at the support van following me and my running partner, Juan, I see the flashing lights of the Gendarmes (country police) talking to our crew. Is this real, the scene? Or the fact that I have just run an undulating marathon in -4 through a snow blizzard? I don't know any more, all I know is that I am supposed to continue for another 15km and all I want is to get into that van and pass out. I am done, I give up, how did I get here? For that, I have to go back to the beginning. 

Clockwise from top left - Laurent, Marie-Pierre, Francine, Moi, Juan, Thierry, Olivier, Daniel, Carole, Leslie, Ella, Maelize. Photo: L'Bagnard Kikou

Champagne corks fly. Photo: Herve Baete.

Ready to go. Photo: Herve Baete.

It started, as most things epic do, out of the blue. My dear friend Leslie shared a friends event on facebook last Thursday saying Who wants to spend their Saturday night running? The first thing that caught me was the boldness of it. If she'd have mentioned a free entry into the Paris marathon or a Sunday morning get-together I wouldn't have given it a second look. But this was a challenge. I read on impatiently to discover that it would be a night run from Versailles to Rambouillet, a push of 55km each way. I would be aiming to get it done for two causes that I mentioned in my previous post. The details were sketchy though, some were doing it in a relay, and Juan (our captain) would do it out and back. The fact that my longest run previous to this was 19km in mid January did not perturb me, worse still, my last run was 9km three and a half weeks ago. I was dawdling in signing up for races, had no mojo and felt a lack of inspiration as to where my path was really leading. The authenticity of my running had dissolved somewhere along the way, eroded, if you will, like a cliff facing a slow but deliberate tide. The constructs of races are all well and good to force one to bring out the competitor within. But I fear it is that same pressure and anticipation of timing, distance and performance that detract from the purer essence of connecting the mind to the feet. Running should not be about compartmentalising, it should serve as an exploratory means to delve into the most primal of feelings, seamlessly uniting emotion and movement in singularity.

After many online messages and a few questions as to what exactly would happen (no one knew for sure) we agreed to meet at the Mairie de Versailles (think town hall, but epic) at 20:30 on Saturday evening. I met Juan and the rest of the team. Leslie, Carole, Francine, Thierry, Maeliz, Marie-Pierre and Ella. Olivier would drive a car in front and Laurent would drive behind with our change of clothes and water/food etc. We wrapped up to the maximum, drank champagne (well, they did) and set off at 21:00 with 55 snowy km ahead. It was a jovial start, the excitement of the unknown a welcome distraction from the knowledge that in a few hours time there wouldn’t be much talking at all. The route itself wound steadily up and down through quaint little villages and valleys, folks in the window seats of restaurants peering out over crème brulee wondering what the heck we were up to. The snow came harder and we laughed in its face. Occasionally Olivier would drive off into the distance and we would meander trough a country lane with just our head lamps to guide us. The unpredictable snow-covered trails were technically deceptive due to poor visibility. The pace was steady and at 20km another car that had been along for the ride and driven by Daniel, a friend of the group, took Marie-Pierre, Ella and Maeliz back home. Leslie and Carole jumped into the van. That left Juan, myself, Thierry and Francine to push on. Approximately 7km later I decided I needed to stop and eat, we pulled over quickly and swigged on Coke and devoured cookies, cakes and anything else caloric. We continued at a decent clip with each of the four of us taking turns up front to shield the hostile wind. The country lanes had given way to open roads and fields with no protective shelter. At 35km Francine jumped into the van, Thierry followed at 37km. Now it was just Juan and I. Quick background on Juan – when I grow up I want to be just like him. Generous and supportive beyond belief and a machine on two legs, has run the toughest races in the world (finished the Spartathlon three times in 33hrs and a list as long as my arm of other great physical feats) I knew I was in good hands. The wind howled at us like a wolf in the night trying to guard its territory, the conditions told us we were not welcome, we told the conditions to to f#*k off. 

Early days, photo opp. Photo: L'Bagnard Kikou

Leslie keeping me topped up. Photo: L'Bagnard Kikou

Flying with Juan on my right. Photo: L'Bagnard Kikou

 At 41km I started to teeter dangerously on that ledge where everything feels like it is starting to cave inwards. The very core of my stomach, the gut that keeps the engine pumping, was not digesting and I felt a rapid descent into wooziness. I wanted to puke in hope that it would purge me, but I knew an empty engine would go nowhere fast. The darkness that surrounded us now was pervasive in my mind. It mirrored my fears that it was all going to end for me soon. Juan held back to speak to the crew as I walked limply up a large hill, slipping from lack of purchase on the glistening ground. My head tilted to the right as small amounts of water dribbled down my cheeks, freezing in my beard. Then I hurled it all up, it was like an inverted Icelandic geyser with a chocolate hue. Gushing towards the virgin white powder like an explosion in a rigid pipe. By the time Juan reached me and told me that the Gendarmes were just checking out what was going on, we were ready to go. I felt good, but acutely aware that I was on borrowed time. I had no fuel in my body so I would be running on fumes from here on in. My stomach was too sensitive for anything other than the frequent sips of water that Leslie passed me through the window of the van. I told myself that I'd call it a night at 45km, who would be disappointed with that? I mean, come on, 45km in these conditions was already heroic, right? I got to 45km and decided to stop looking at my GPS watch, it was too distracting, so I gazed at the silent road ahead and put one foot in front of the other, quite simple really. Juan coaxed me and nurtured my declining state until I hit 50km and entered that zone where you are not you any more. The pain was not mine, it belonged to the guy with the burning oesophagus I'd left in the ditch an hour ago. My legs were the legs of a person who has the ability to go forward without impediment or restraint. My legs belonged to every person who would give their all to be able to walk without aid or care. My mind became free in all the ways it had never been in my lifetime, free of the guilty flashbacks of addiction, free of barriers that we place on ourselves everyday in how we judge others, free from distractions whilst balancing on a razors edge of heightened awareness. Juan and I took it home together, arm in arm, after 5:43 spent on our journey.

A beer, and he's off again. Photo: L'Bagnard Kikou

Done. Photo: L'Bagnard Kikou

Once changed and in the car I marvelled at Juan as he downed a beer, ate a sandwich and ran back through the night, Leslie, Francine, Carole and Thierry joined him for the last 15km as I watched in admiration from Olivier's car. There was no shiny medal at the finish line, there was no crowd gathered to cheer us on, no record of what we had done. In our minds rests a camaraderie that time will not distort, a shared collective of being part of something that is greater than any one of us. Stepping out into that night changed everything for me, it gave my running a purpose again and gave me back a slant that was until now a distant memory. The uniqueness of this endeavour will be the yardstick in measuring the purity of everything else that comes after. 

Taking it home. Photo: L'Bagnard Kikou