UNFORTUNATE as it was for her, there was an upside to that gender row involving a South African runner at the world championships recently, in that it deflected attention from a smaller – although broadly similar – controversy involving me, writes FRANK MCNALLY
I should point out straight-off that I am 100 per cent male, contrary to suggestions from some of my less mature friends, ever since I admitted a while back that I do Pilates; and I can produce the necessary medical certification if required.
But Pilates aside, one of the ways I try to keep fit these days is running: something I used to do a lot. Twenty years after I last took part in any kind of race, I became a born-again runner this past summer: even toying with the idea of attempting the Dublin City Marathon.
This was a daunting thought, however. So I was pleased to discover that there is a now a series of step-up races, the “Adidas Series”, designed with just the likes of me in mind. It takes place in the Phoenix Park, almost on my doorstep: starting with a handy five-miler in July, followed by a 10-miler in August, and a half-marathon in September.
This was exactly what I needed. Alas, by the time I found out, entry for the five-mile was already closed. But then – lo! – I heard that another member of my Pilates class (who shall remain nameless) had entered all three races. And – even loer! – that just before the first, the poor thing had been knocked off her bike and broken several ribs.
This was terrible news, of course. I was genuinely upset for her. But after an interval bordering on decent, I floated the possibility of my taking her race number instead. Naturally I insisted on paying the entry fee: even shameless opportunism has limits.
It was no big deal, I thought. A number is just a number: there were thousands taking part, from all the main gender groups. So long as I wasn’t pretending to be Sonia O’Sullivan, my chromosomes would not be an issue. And so, initially, it proved.
Lining up late for the first race, I was so far back in the crowd that the starting gun was only a rumour. It took several minutes even to reach the official start; after which I spent two miles taking the long way around runners who seemed stuck in reverse. When I finally passed under the finishing clock, I didn’t want to look.
Happily, there had been certain technological advances since I last raced. The most exciting of these was something called “chip-time”. Back in the 1980s, chip time was a craving you experienced on the way home from the pub. Now, thanks to a device attached to your number, it is a net race time: taken from the start-line onwards.
The other thing I found out afterwards was that my friend had entered under a particular age category (which shall also remain nameless). And between this and my more respectable chip-time, it emerged that we had finished in the top 10 of “our” category.
This was mildly embarrassing. Even so, there was nothing at stake, as I thought. So when a month passed and my friend was still out injured, we decided I might as well have her number for the 10-miler as well. “Good luck,” she said; “but don’t run too fast!” Ha, Ha, I thought. As if that could happen.
In fact, I was a bit cowed by the longer distance and planned to run conservatively. Despite which, around half-way, my old inner athlete began to stir. After a certain age, your inner athlete is a bit like your appendix: a vestigial organ, serving no apparent purpose. But it can become dangerously inflamed in certain conditions. And so it happened with mine.
Late in the race, for example, I noticed a runner collapsed by the side of the road (it was only dehydration, we learned afterwards). And although there were others helping him already, I wondered guiltily if I should join them. My inner athlete overruled this, however, persuading me that one of the women helping was clearly a nurse and that the ambulance would be along soon anyway.
I finished the race in a decent time: roughly equivalent to the duration of a GAA match (including stoppages, one of which was an all-in melee involving both teams and a number of sideline officials). Then I thought no more about it.
That was until, some days later, my friend received a cash prize in the post and congratulations for finishing second in her category. This was accompanied by a photograph of me crossing the finish line, which can’t have been pretty.
Of course she was mortified. Either the organisers had failed to notice the discrepancy between her name and appearance (which we would both find worrying); or as I prefer to think, they did notice and were just too discreet to inquire about her testosterone levels.
Either way, others might have pocketed the money and said nothing. My friend, however, is fiercely ethical and hastily returned it with an explanation. I trust the miscarriage of justice has since been rectified.
As I say, the controversy over Caster Semenya’s gold medal was raging at the time. So my mixed-gender race scandal was hushed up and – thank God – it never made the papers. But I have learned a lesson. If I attempt the half-marathon later this month, I’ll be running as myself.