EXERCISE:If you can overcome rickety knees and endure early mornings, training for a triathlon is an ideal way to experience a side of your homeplace you won't normally get to see. In the first part of a new series, EMMA SOMERSgets to grips with her fitness regime and explores Dublin
here’s a grand stretch in the evening, but not so much in my hamstrings. And so it is that I find myself sobbing into the hole of a physio’s massage table. Again.
We’ve been here before, myself and the physio. Last time it was before the New York City Marathon in 2008. The US election was scheduled for two days after the race and Obama was giving it all that about change, so a few of us took him at his word. Twenty-six-point-two miles and a couple of sprained ligaments later, with medal in hand and foil cape on shoulders, it was worth all the pain. Sort of. (Life is all about the stories.)
The marathon bestowed upon me the knees of a 90-year-old, a love of running and a new-found respect for the American way (Irish cynicism won’t get you over the finishing line but hundreds of New Yorkers cheering your name will). This summer it is the turn of the Howth Sprint Triathlon to injure and inspire, no doubt in equal measure.
First, the injuries.
The race starts with a 750m swim from sea to shore, followed by a 20km cycle and a 5km run.
The run, you would imagine, should be a walk in the park after the marathon. But there’s those knees to contend with, and thanks to a bulging disc (at L5/S1, if you’re into that sort of thing) my over-protective glutes and hamstrings have the consistency of walnuts (the physio’s poetry, not mine).
The cycle shouldn’t be a problem: it’s a seven kilometre round trip to work most days, contending with potholes deeper than the plot of Inception, not to mention the general venom of every taxi/van/SUV driver in greater Dublin.
A fear of fixed-gear bicycles and those pedals that attach foot to bike may prove troublesome. But if it came to it, Jem – my 30-odd-year-old Olympian Puch (more on 30-odd-year-olds later) – could probably manage 20km, albeit at a leisurely pace.
That leaves the swim. A big motivation for doing this triathlon is to become one of those smug types who swim in the Forty Foot in Dún Laoghaire of a summer’s day and gloat about it over creamy pints afterwards.
But first I must learn to swim.
And face a fear of diving into the water.
One-on-one swimming lessons with the good folk at the Markiewicz Centre on Townsend Street have exposed a spectacular lack of co-ordination to the goggle-wearing public. The breathing is a cinch; the arm work is, apparently, “not bad at all”; the legs are a challenge (“keep them straight – you’re going nowhere!”), but we’re getting there. The real problems arise when it comes to doing all three together, flopping around, ironically enough, like a fish out of water.
So there are obstacles to overcome. And, having set a target time of “before I turn 30” in which to finish the race, the goal is not so much to get super fit, or to win, as it is to give up the fags (check!), lay off the booze (check-ish!) and undo a decade of having the crack (hmmm), thereby clinging to the last vestiges of my youth.
It’s quite the paradox.
But who wants to spend the last months of their 20s in the gym?
And so to the inspiration. This great city of ours, and a small tome called Slow Dublin by Anto Howard. The book is a Dubliner’s guide to the city, full of lovely titbits and ways of connecting with this old town that leave you feeling a bit, well, slutty. There I thought I’d spent years getting to know Dublin, when in fact we’d been on nothing but a series of fun but ultimately meaningless dates.
It’s time we were honest with each other, Dublin. I love you and you love me and I want to take this to the next level: to greet the odd sunrise at the start of the day rather than the end of the night; to cycle your streets unencumbered by traffic and potholes and the sound of my own swearing; to swim in the Irish Sea for the first time in more than 20 years; to run the length and breadth of your parks and paths and strands.
THE FIRST RUN
Inspired by the spring sunshine, I’ve set the alarm for 8am on a Saturday morning, determined to get the first run out of the way.
After half an hour of doing stretches and physio exercises – the silly ones that make you question the scientific soundness of physiotherapy – I’m at the door, dragging the dog along with me.
It’s raining.
Moe looks perplexed; he doesn’t like the rain, and what’s all this running about?
By the time we reach Griffith Park in Drumcondra, we’re both in our stride. The park is normally full of children (by day) or teenagers (by dusk). By dawn (well, close enough) on a soft Saturday morning, we have the place almost to ourselves, aside from two lads gurning their way through an argument about runners (as in footwear, not gasping 29-year-olds).
After dragging Moe away and making haste to the other side of the Tolka, the park warden gives an earnest warning about “them fellas over there. Watch yourself, love.”
Thanks, love.
Meanwhile the dog has spotted a terrier beyond the bed of tulips and is off like a light, with no regard for my hamstrings or the spring blooms. We have words.
Down by the water he happens on a bit of bread left out for the birds and nearly sends me flying, flitting under my feet for the prized morsel. More words.
At this point, the (full-size) iPod and the (full) set of keys in my back pocket are weighing my leggings down to the point of indecency, and the clouds of flies have me wondering about Harold Camping’s Rapture. Feeling incensed rather than inspired, we make for home.
Then, on the way out of the Mobhi Road gate, a Coal Tit (thank you birdsireland.com) darts out in front of us, saving the day, like a little superhero in yellow underpants.
Where do you love to run, and when? E-mail esomers@irishtimes.com with your suggestions and pics, or follow @auldtriathlete on Twitter to see ours.
Motivation and maintenance: survival tips
Preparation
Here are a few simple tips to stop you tearing your (chlorine-soaked) hair out. Keep a washbag just for swimming. Most supermarkets or big pharmacies do a range of mini toiletries, including the Aussie range of hair products, which help in the battle against chlorine.
Keep plenty of spares for running. Any old leggings/shorts and T-shirts will do, but it's worth investing in two sports bras and two running vests so that laundry doesn't become an excuse to skip a run.
Stretch in the mornings and evenings, not just before and after exercise. Focus particularly on your legs. It doesn't take long and could save a lot of time on the physio table later. Remember, it's hard to injure a relaxed muscle.
Physiotherapy
The lesson learned from running a marathon was to catch injuries early on. They won't work themselves out so the sooner you get them sorted the less damage you do in the long run. Plus, physio is handy for picking up tips and stretches tailored to your particular brand of debilitation. Sessions cost about €50 and can often be claimed back on medical insurance. The Physio Company in Temple Bar (thephysiocompany.com) is particularly good, with work-friendly opening hours.
