|
|
 |
You are > Home > Losing toenails in Castlebar’s marathon
|
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Losing toenails in Castlebar’s marathon
By Michael Gallagher
CHARLIE Haughey was flitting between confidence votes and general elections, Garrett Fitzgerald was getting his footwear mixed up and a distinctly French-looking Mike Murphy made Gay Byrne’s blood boil with a memorable candid camera spoof.
The year of 1982 was filled with intrigue, entertainment and utter madness. ET and Tootsie were drawing the crowds to the cinemas, Maggie Thatcher was reveling in the propaganda of the Falklands War while Boy George, Musical Youth, Irene Cara and Dexy’s Midnight Runners were riding high in the charts.
In Castlebar plans were being put in place for of all things – a marathon. The long-distance running craze had spread across the globe faster than an Icelandic ash cloud and the first Dublin City Marathon had brought 2,103 brave souls to the streets of the capital for the first time two years previously.
A few intrepid Mayo brains got together and decided to host a 26miler in Castlebar and after a lot of preparation and no little excitement The Mayo Post Marathon was born.
At home in Ballycroy, my father had become intrigued by the challenge of running the distance covered by Pheidippides all those years before when he ran from Marathon to Athens to tell everyone that the Persians had been given a bit of a kicking in a well-contested battle.
The colossal mileage involved in the Castlebar project didn’t put Dad off. He wasn’t going to bother with any training; he’d just drive to Castlebar, run the thing and drive home again – simple really!
That approach probably would have worked perfectly, because he was supremely fit, except for one particular matter, which complicated things.
The day before the race Dad went to Castlebar and bought a new pair of running shoes. They were excellent shoes and looked the part but buying them just a few hours before running 26 miles was slightly mad.
The following day dawned dry and bright over Mayo and we set off or Castlebar and the adventures awaiting us there. We had cousins visiting from New Zealand at the time and they came along for the craic too, so it was as much a family outing as a sporting excursion.
Dad hadn’t run any races previously. He had covered many’s the mile around the farm after the cows or the sheep, had cycled in the local sports on a grass track and spent a lifetime playing football, but running a marathon was an utterly different challenge.
I was only a young fella at the time but even I realised that this was a monumental undertaking and the fact that he hadn’t spent a second on preparation made it even more difficult.
There was a large crowd of runners milling around at the start and a sense of excitement wafted over the town as hundreds readied themselves for the rigours to come.
To be honest I was afraid for Dad. I knew that running 26 miles would be hard and like all children I didn’t want my father to experience any discomfort and I had to swallow hard a few times to stop the tears welling up behind the eyelids.
The race began outside the Parish Centre on Chapel Street and took the runners down past the Linenhall and up past the newly built Davitt College, down McHale Road and around the Mall.
The Gallagher brood had made our way up to the Post Office to see the runners pass out the Westport Road. Dad was moving well at that stage so we happily headed off with my aunt Maud and her husband Mikie to pass a few hours before the runners arrived back again.
The route took them out the Westport Road, down through Islandeady and back in the Newport Road. Unfortunately for those doing the marathon they had to complete the circuit twice. Those who wore their race number on their backs were taking part in the half marathon and they gladly stopped running when arriving back in town. Unfortunately for Dad, he had signed up for the full Monty and as he wore his number on the front of his singlet he had to head off around the circuit again.
The new shoes were cutting his feet to bits and as he passed down McHale Road for the second time he encountered some old friends heading in for a football match but couldn’t stop. If he had, there’d be no starting again.
As time passed we headed back down the town to wait for his arrival and I carried with me a great sense of nervousness as well as hope. I knew if he failed to finish he’d be hugely disappointed, but I fervently believed he’d do it.
Then, he rounded the corner into Main Street and I nearly cried. He ran up the street like a gazelle but that masked the damage he had done to his feet.
He posed for pictures with us after coming through the finish line outside Parsons and the delight of completing the huge task masked any discomfort he was feeling.
Later, when he went to remove his shoes, the full extent of the sore feet became obvious. Blisters abounded and toenails slipped away as the rigours of running the marathon in a brand new pair of shoes became obvious.
Of course the sore feet soon healed, nails grew back and more marathons were conquered but the Mayo Post Marathon has found a place all of its own in our family history. Many people remember 1982 for electoral, warlike or musical reasons, but for us it’ll always be the year of the marathon in Castlebar.
Main News Page |
Previous Page
|
|
|
|
Facebook
