MARATHON MEN

“I’m going to finish the marathon in 3 hours,” my son told me on the morning of the recent Dublin marathon.  Confidence oozed from his every word.  He didn’t finish in that time but for good reasons, and I’ll explain later.  This year’s Airtricity Dublin City Marathon produced a ‘Double Irish’ (and I’m not referring to corporation tax or extra whiskey).  Congratulations to Sean Hehir and Maria Cambridge, the first Irish double winners in twenty years.  For their trouble, Airtricity and Renault presented the Irish pair with two years Free Energy and Fluence ZE electric cars.  Nice.

What a marvellous marathon morning it turned out to be: a brisk, sunny, autumn day with no sign of the predicted blustery weather, and just perfect for long distance running.  My family and I rode the Luas into Dublin city to watch the race.  St. Stephen’s Green heaved with wall-to-wall marathon supporters, creating a lively buzz in the area.  Maybe the unexpected good weather ensured a capacity crowd; I don’t know, it was my first time to watch a marathon race.  A long, leisurely ramble (and not forgetting the many walks from the fridge to the Telly) is my ideal walking workout.

“I’ve a tracking device app on my phone,” explained number one daughter, “It’s also linked to my Facebook page, and I can tell when the race leaders pass certain points.”

“Can you track your brother?”

“Yes.  And your brother in Australia is tracking my brother’s progress on my Facebook page.”

“Wow!” I marvelled at the modern technology.  As we could now roughly estimate my son’s finishing time, I decided to have a stroll around St. Stephen’s Green Park.   My family agreed to meet me opposite the American College in Merrion Square, near the marathon finishing line.  I promised to be there in time for the applauding and cheering (well, some are good at running, others are good at clapping).  As it transpired, though, my son’s progress didn’t match his expectations.

Anyway, I entered the park through the Fusiliers Arch.  Staying left, a few yards from the Grafton Street entrance, I stopped at the memorial to Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa.  The commemorative stonework, a large slab of uncut granite containing an inscribed plaque centrepiece and detailing the Irish revolutionary’s name, birth and death (1831-1915), stood at the top end of an oblong-shaped piece of grass area.  A circular row of plants surrounded the monument, not quite blooming but cheerful and enhancing nonetheless.  I reflected on the great man’s life.

O’Donovan Rossa, proud Fenian and founder of  the Phoenix National and Literary Society, an organisation dedicated to the freedom of Ireland by armed force, was exiled to America for his rebel albeit patriotic activities in 1871.  The thrice married father of eighteen children disliked exile and yearned for Ireland.  In his autobiography Recollections he referred to his exile: “My mother buried in America, all my brothers and sisters buried in America; twelve of my children born in America — and yet I cannot feel that America is my country.”  He died in Staten Island, New York City, in 1915. Shortly after, his remains were returned to Dublin for burial, and the Cork native received a massive turnout for his funeral.

Easter Rising (1916) leader, Padraic Pearse, delivered a celebrated oration at O’Donovan Rossa’s 1915 funeral.  The warrior poet’s more notable excerpts from his famous graveside eulogy included: “Life springs from death; and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations” and also incorporated, “They think that they have foreseen everything, think that they have provided against everything; but the fools, the fools, the fools! — they have left us our Fenian dead, and, while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace."  Memorable words.

Leaving the Rossa monument, I looked forward to my walk. There were two more memorials I needed to visit in order to conclude my “Green” series. The park was unusually quiet.   I didn’t encounter another soul.  Trees both sides of me, the pathway littered with scattered, golden brown leaves, I sauntered onwards, appreciating the peace and quiet.  The melancholy melody Lonesome Boatman broke the silence.  My mobile’s ringtone.

Number one daughter rang: “Dad, you’ll have to come now if you want me to keep you a spot at the barrier. The place is chock-a-block.”

“Okay, Love.  Be there shortly.”  Reluctantly, I quickened my pace.  I decided to leave the other memorials for another day.  But there was a little bother ahead.

I departed the park at the Wolfe Tone exit, hurried up Merrion Row, then turned left into Merrion Street Upper.  Halfway up the street, there were barriers at Merrion Square South.  The finishing line was at Merrion Square North.  Trapped.  Only athletes were permitted through the barriers, I was reliably informed by a man wearing an official-type bib. Realising no one in their right mind would mistake me for an athlete, I waited till the bib-man was busy and I sneaked through the barriers.  I zigzagged my way through the happy horde of people to my family.

Number two son managed to keep me a coveted place at the barrier. The atmosphere was electric. Supporters cheered, called out loved ones’ names and mentally carried them to the line. Athletes of all genders, ages and sizes either jogged or walked (some even shuffled) to the finishing line. A man with a loudspeaker congratulated each runner by name.  Very exciting, very emotional.

“Big bro’s not on schedule,” my daughter informed me.  So we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Eventually, number one son appeared to rousing cheers of encouragement from the enthusiastic, vivacious, vibrant multitude, and he trotted rather gingerly (with a face like a constipated greyhound) over the finishing line.

Later, he explained his late finish and restricted movement.

“Picked up a groin strain at ‘Heartbreak Hill.’

“Where’s that?” I asked, as I’m not privy to racing vernacular.

“The Roebuck Road area, around the 20 mile mark.” He winced and rubbed his groin for the umpteenth time. “I was afraid to stop. And it slowed me down considerably.”

“No matter, we’re all proud of you, son,” said the Missus, tears in her eyes.  A sentiment felt by all supporters, I’m sure.  All those marathon runners are heroes and a lot of charities benefited.  Number one son made nearly six hundred euros for a Cancer charity.  Well done to all participants.  Have a nice day.

  Tomas O’hArgadain.