by Rob Cummins
I crest the hill and came onto the lapped part of the run course. There are more spectators here but the course itself is almost empty. I still can’t believe that I'm up here with the leading athletes. It was exactly as I had dreamed on all of those long training rides and runs when I had endless hours to imagine what it would feel like. I never imagined it would feel like this. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would run like this. I tell myself to enjoy it while I can.
I see an Irish flag up ahead and I accelerate a little, the excitement driving me on. I'm vaguely aware somewhere in the back of my mind that I might be going too fast but then I pass the Irish fans and they recognise the Wheelworx kit and they give me a big shout. It gives me a huge lift and I pick up the pace a little more, feeling incredible. I'm cruising, feeling like I can do this all day and although it isn't quite as effortless as it had been, it’s very comfortable and still the Garmin keeps beeping telling me I've done another kilometre and again I'm surprised at how quickly it happens and I also keep on ignoring the voice in the back of my head that’s telling me I might be going too fast. I had practised my nutrition in training and so far it has been working perfectly. I drop down the hill into Bolton city centre for the first time and the crowds and the noise are building.
Ais had told me before that she smiles at the spectators on the course and acknowledges their support and in response they often cheered harder and smiled back. She said to do it and that I would get a good lift from them. I did it from the start of the first lap and I couldn't believe the buzz I got from every smile. The spectators seemed to be getting as much of a kick out of it as I was and whenever they saw me coming on later laps they shouted louder and every time it lifted me a little more.
Bolton is mostly an out and back lap, so you can see the guys ahead of you coming in the opposite direction. I had started counting as soon as I got onto the lap, wondering how far up the field I actually was. I think I missed some through the town and at the aid stations but I was well below 50th at the turn around. This gave me another boost. I was running strongly now and well into what I considered the main part of the marathon. I was still moving faster than I was supposed to be according to the plan, but I had thrown caution out the window quite some distance back and was flying firmly by the seat of my pants. Plans be damned! I again thought of the coach watching the tracker at home and if he had been happy with my pacing earlier on I could see him cursing at my stupidity now as I crossed each timing mat further and further ahead of schedule. I became more and more determined not to fall apart. I wasn't going to give him, or give anyone else the satisfaction of saying ‘I told you so’. The more I thought of it the more determined I became. And my determination turned to anger at his inability to believe in me, so I ran faster. I passed the half waypoint in the marathon, running harder and allowing the anger to sit in the back of my head. Feeding on it, knowing that I was using it to fuel my effort. A part of me knew it was a bad idea. But I ignored that part.
I hadn't seen Ais since the swim start. She was racing as well and I had been looking forward to seeing her for hours. We knew that the first time we would see each other was on the run course. She joined the lap just as I was passing that point and she was flying. I have this image in my head of a cartoon character running around a corner, arms windmilling, all leaned over and skidding almost out of control. That's what she looked like. Oh! and with the biggest smile you've ever seen. Ais loves running and she's savagely good at it. Especially if that running is insanely long or comes after a 3.8k swim and 180k bike race?. She laugh-shouted a greeting as she ran past me, going in the opposite direction. She was charging up through the field and looking like the happiest person on the course.. My emotions in that moment flip-flopped from the anger that had fuelled me for the last couple of kilometres and transformed into massive happiness and excitement.
I was again running on the buzz of the day. I was floating. I was cruising. My effort level was rising along with my speed but I thought I still had it under control. The 25, 26, 27 and 28k markers all came and went with the same speed as the earlier part of the marathon, but now the course was fuller as more and more people started their run. I was enjoying the buzz from the athletes and supporters and was passing and lapping people constantly. The earlier loneliness of the course had been replaced with an almost party-like atmosphere in and around the town. I felt invincible. I knew that this probably wouldn't last, so I kept on telling myself to enjoy it.
The last part of my nutrition plan had been to take an energy drink I had used before. It was high in sugar and caffeine and I found it gave me an almighty kick. I'd carried two small 125ml bottles of it since the second transition, with the plan of taking it at thirty kilometres or a little earlier if needed. I was almost at the 30k mark and I downed one almost in one go. I waited a couple of minutes before taking the second one. My legs were getting sore but I was still moving well. Any second now the energy drink would kick in and I'd take off like a rocket. At least that's what I told myself. It didn't take too long to have an effect but not quite what I'd planned. I got a stitch in my side. The pain grew and I tried stretching while I was running. Probably looking drunk as I leaned crazily to one side with my arm reaching way above my head. It had no effect. I tried backing off for a minute. No effect, except for a growing fear that I was going to get caught. This forced me to speed up again, despite the growing discomfort. But the stitch became more painful the harder I pushed. To make matters worse my legs had decided to join in and let me know how supremely pissed off they were with the day’s abuse. I focused on the spectators, looking for a smile or a cheer. I found one and then looked for another, desperately hoping to distract myself from the mounting pain. My head started to drop and I was slowing. I heard a shout, but didn't look up. They shouted again and I looked to the side of the road and a girl who'd been cheering hard all day shouted that I was on my last lap and that I was flying. ‘Push hard’, she shouted while she smiled broadly at me, so I again piled on the pressure. I stopped feeling sorry for myself and focused on the next athlete and went after him. Then the next. I started to pat them on the back again every time I made a pass, as I had done earlier in the day when I had still felt good. It took my focus off my own suffering and I heard the Garmin beep again. Another kilometre done and then I was dropping down the hill into Bolton for the last time and I let gravity drag me faster, despite the screaming pain in my legs and side. It was only a couple of minutes now. ‘You can suck it up and hold on to this pain for a couple of minutes’, I mentally shouted at myself. The crowds were huge in town by now and the roars were deafening as I got into the last mile. I could feel the emotion building and I didn't fight it. I could feel tears building. I still didn’t know if I'd done enough to win, but I knew that my time was faster than last year’s qualifying time so I kept on hoping. I dared not slow down and pushed hard all the way to the line. I struggled to contain the emotion as I crossed the finish where I staggered to a halt, supported by the marshals as they warmly welcomed me and put the medal around my neck.
That buzz at the finish line of an Ironman is still one of the most incredible feelings I've ever experienced and it doesn't seem to diminish no matter how many times I re-live it in my mind.
As soon as I stopped I wanted to lie down. And I didn't mean the normal process of leaning back sitting then kicking my legs up and stretching out. I wanted to go from vertical to horizontal instantly, with no time in between. I briefly gave in to the urge and started to crumple before the marshal beside me grabbed my arm. I was both grateful and a bit pissed off. Grateful of the help and support, but a little annoyed because I really did want to lie down really badly. He helped me into the recovery tent, where he put me into a chair. I only took a minute to get myself together. Then I struggled to my feet and went to find the results. I still had no idea if I'd qualified for Kona or what position I'd come. I went back to the finish line where the race director told me I could get the results online. I thanke
d him and hobbled to the baggage area to get my phone and clean clothes.
I switched the phone on with badly shaking hands. I was getting cold and weak. I opened the tracker knowing that there was seven provisional qualifying slots in my age group. At nine hours forty-nine I was almost twenty minutes inside my time target, but qualifying was based on position not time, so I still had no idea where I stood. The page loaded slowly and it said I was fifth. I knew I had qualified!
For the second time in ten minutes my legs almost collapsed under me. The massive rolling feeling of euphoria and relief was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. I immediately headed back out to the course to see Ais and tell her. It was bursting out of me, I could barely contain my excitement. I waited for her on a corner, hardly able to stand, but definitely unable to get up unaided if I sat on the kerb, so I stood. Tears of relief were close but I held them back. I wasn't going to start crying in public.
Then I saw her and waved. She was still smiling her huge beautiful smile and she was flying. At that stage she was easily the fastest person on the course. I shouted ‘Fifth! I did it, I qualified!’ She squealed with delight, did a little jump and dance all without breaking stride and ran on laughing. She did the short lap around town before heading back onto the course. I waited and watched her go out to start another lap. I rang my folks and told them that I'd done it, that I'd qualified. They were delighted but I felt couldn't stay on the phone very long. I was losing control and I could feel all of the pent up emotions rushing to the surface. I made an excuse and said I'd call later. I walked away from the crowds and found a small quiet side street. I sat in a doorway and let the feelings I'd been barely able to hold back gush out of me. Tears streamed down my face as I sat there, somehow smiling. After a couple of minutes I took out my phone and texted the coach.
‘Fifth’ was all I said. His reply was like a kick in the stomach. ‘The trackers were wrong, the updated results have you as eighth’. I almost got sick. The euphoria and relief turned to a small hard knot of hot acid tension in my stomach. All I could think was how am I going to tell Ais? I couldn't believe it. I checked the updated results and I was eight. Fuck! I went back to the finish area and tried to eat something. I met a friend who had also raced. He was in my age group and had beaten me by finishing fourth. He had seen my result and my face and knew what I was thinking. ‘I'm not taking my slot for Kona. I can't race there this year. It will roll down so you will go to Hawaii,’ he said.
I couldn't believe it. It was like being on a roller coaster. One minute I thought I’d done it. The next I knew I hadn’t and then I thought I still might have a chance. The only problem is that I wasn’t to know for certain until the following day at the awards ceremony.
❖
Chapter 2
Smoker
Most children grow up wanting to be something special. A star footballer, Formula 1 driver, championship golfer, ballerina, princess, film star, professional cyclist or maybe an Olympian. For most of us these aspirations remain dreams, despite realising at some stage, perhaps in our teenage years or early adulthood that we will never be the next Michael Schumacher, David Beckham or Marilyn Monroe. Even so, many of us never fully let go of these dreams of youth. Some escape reality by heading out on a Sunday to the golf course, while others pull on a pair of runners and shorts and knock out a twenty-mile run.
I started sport relatively late in life. I was almost 27 years old when I quit a ten-year, forty to fifty cigarettes a day habit. I tried a number of sports in school, including football, boxing and swimming, but most of my efforts only lasted as long as the compulsory PE class and even then I was pretty awful. It turned out that my real skills were in underage smoking, drinking and getting into trouble. I was a difficult teenager and my parents had a hard time keeping me in line.
I don't have a sad story to use as an excuse behind my troublemaking. There was no broken home or abusive parents to blame. There was nothing to excuse me becoming a total pain in the ass. Mam and Dad were as good as I could ever have asked for as parents. They have always been quite exceptional. I just didn't see that at the time. In fact it took me a long time to realise that they were far from ordinary. Dad was a very successful self-made businessman and my inspiration to start my own business. From the time I was quite young I wanted to ‘be the boss’ just like him.
As we grew up and moved on with our own lives his business allowed him the freedom to try new challenges. It was his nature to face all challenges head on – bringing him right to the limits of his ability. At some stage he decided that golf was not for him. He started on a series of daunting projects, including becoming a crew member in a round the world yacht race. This was despite the fact that he knew nothing about boats or sailing and that he was the oldest member of the crew. He was over 60 years old at the time, but he was one of the fittest and strongest in the team. He has trekked the Inca trail to Machu Picchu in the Andes of Peru and both Mam and Dad have spent time on charity projects building schools in Lesotho in southern Africa. They even climbed Mount Kilimanjaro successfully at their first attempt. Probably Dad’s most impressive sporting achievement, however, was at the age of 72, when he took up running for the first time in his life and in less than nine months ran his first marathon. Mam is also a champion ten-pin bowler and even in her sixties makes national and international teams, despite having only taken it up less than ten years ago. I suppose when I look at my own activities now from the point of view of my parents’ exceptional achievements I was always likely to set high, difficult targets for myself.
After school I gladly left sports behind and spent a dozen or so years abusing my body and health. I was smoking, eating junk food, drinking and living a completely sedentary lifestyle. I was heading into my late twenties and I couldn't walk up a flight of stairs without becoming badly winded. I had tried to quit smoking dozens of times, each time lasting anything from an hour to several months. But I believed people were either smokers or they weren't and if you were, it was for life. I felt like I was trapped, never to kick the habit.
In 1998, after another Christmas of hangovers, colds, flu and an ever-worsening smokers cough, I along with a large part of the population, decided to set 1 January 1999 as a new beginning. I had never really bothered with any New Year’s resolutions before, but I was desperate. I had tried all the usual remedies, like nicotine patches, gum and willpower, but none had worked, so I decided to try something new.
Being a reader I went looking for a book about how to stop smoking. I knew it would change my life if I became a non-smoker. I knew I would feel better, have more energy and maybe even try some exercise. Despite not having any interest in physical exercise as a teenager, I was envious of those who were strong and fit enough to run. But to be honest I had no idea just how liberating it would be. When you finally do something you have always seen as being impossible it changes you as a person.
I discovered a book by Alan Carr called The Only Way To Stop Smoking. At the time I was a voracious reader. I had plenty of time, aside from work and family commitments. I didn't really have any other hobbies and usually got through books in hours or days, rarely taking more than a week to get through one. This one, however, was different. It took me over three months to read. I realised it was working after a couple of days and I slowed myself down, stupidly hanging on to the cigarettes just a little longer. As much as I wanted to stop I was afraid to do so. In the end I finished the book and smoked my last cigarette on St Patricks Day, 17 March 1999.
Ironically at about the same time, in another world, Aisling my wife – whom I didn't yet know and wouldn't meet for another nine years – discovered and read the same book. Aisling being a more leisurely reader would normally take weeks rather than days to get through a book, but it had the opposite effect on her. She sensed freedom from cigarettes coming the minute she started to read and didn't put the book down for three days. I believe it was at a time that she would now call a PB (personal best) At this point she, l
ike me, was a non-smoker. I love her description of how it felt to be free of cigarettes. ‘It was like coming up out of the trenches.’
It opened up a whole new world for Aisling. She started to run, and in what was to become her standard modus operandi, she dived straight in to the deep end, entering and finishing her first marathon later that year in Dublin. And that was only the beginning. The deep end was not quite deep enough, or maybe just the standard marathon of 26.2 miles wasn't long enough for her, so she immediately moved up to ultramarathon distance races. An ‘ultra’ is anything longer than a marathon. Some of the normal or traditional distances are fifty and one hundred kilometres, fifty and one hundred miles or double and triple marathons etc., but are not limited to these distances and some are much, much longer.
