MY MARATHON:WAS THE sun getting to me, or did the Green Party's European elections hopeful Senator Deirdre de Búrca really hand me a banana on Nutley Lane? There's no running away from politics these days.
Yesterday’s mini-marathon was a hot one. Squinting skyward at the start of the race, a woman who could body-double for Sonia O’Sullivan muttered: “Serious sunstroke weather.”
There was surprisingly little chat once the event got under way, just the rhythmic pad of feet upon the street and the swish of overtaking ponytails.
The T-shirts did the talking. Backs were branded with the logos of charities supporting cancer patients, abused children and other causes.
Personalised shirts were printed with snapshots of lost mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and, spare us, children.
Now we’re getting to the heart of this special event: so many of us were really running in memory of people who’ll never give us a “well done” hug again in this life.
The surprise stab of a stitch stopped one young runner in her tracks close to the halfway point. She urged her pals to race ahead. “No,” said her friend, “whatever happens, we’ll stick together.”
Runner number 2238, your correspondent, was depending on what athletes call muscle memory to complete the race, proper training having fallen through due to lack of willpower.
There was a panicked phone call to the mother the night before the event, demanding to know where she had put my trainers during her last tidying blitz.
Of course, they were where I’d left them: in the hall beside the door, tongues out, yearning to run free.
I crossed the finish line after one hour and 12½ minutes, carried through by the sisterly spirit of 39,999 other women.
