One man's marathon journey
Former school principal at Ballyhale VEC, Tom Hunt, 65, recently completed the arduous London Marathon with his brother and sister on the anniversary of their father's death. Here, he shares his emotional story about the journey that got him there and the momentous occasion of the race itself.
WE meet up in Blackheath Common for the 2009 London marathon - my brother Michael from Dublin and my sister Lavinia from Canada. All three of us past the age of reason and retirement.
It is April 26 - the anniversary of our father's death. We talk about that. We laugh about what he would say: "Are the three of them gone mad running 26 miles at their age? Someone ought to talk sense to them."
It is a beautiful day, the sun is shining and it is two hours until the start of the race. We are in the international section, only because we are not from here. But it is nice to be classified as an international athlete even if only on the grounds of geography.
There is a big TV screen in the middle of the Heath, a commentary and music wafts across over competitors jogging, stretching, checking laces, drinking water and generally restlessly waiting for the off. The theme for this year's marathon is 'Impossible is Nothing'. Right now I am not so sure about that.
I have been bought new running socks and the claim made for these is so extravagant that when I put them on I thought I would have to hold myself back because they might run away with me! I am ready. We are ready. We are at the start. I know that there is always an end but it is just that this one is 26.2 miles away.
I think of the Greek Pheidippides who started this. In his case, impossible was nothing. He had run from the Plain of Marathon to Sparta to get help for the Battle against the Persians - a distance of 241 kilometers. Following the victory of the Greeks over the Persians, Militades the Greek leader, asked Pheidippides to run to Athens to tell them of the victory at Marathon. It is from this run that the present day marathon gets its name, if not its distance.
We pass through the start, up Shooters Hill Road. We are wearing our Tipperary jerseys with 'Thiobraid Arann' printed on the back and 'The Mac Fiaichs' printed on the front. The crowds cheer and clap. Children hold out their hands to give us a 'low five' for good luck. A voice says "Go on Tipp, you'll make it". I have only gone one mile, I don't know should I feel reassured. It's not just the beginning and the end, it's the journey in between.
My new socks are working. I leave Michael and Lavinia behind me. I am travelling up, would you believe, Ha Ha Road, when the first cheer for Father Christmas rings out. I laugh, it is after all Ha Ha Road.
All the start groups merge at Woolwich. I see a person dressed as a giraffe in front of me. The indignity of being at the rear end of a human giraffe spurs me on. I just must pass him out. "Go on Mack you can do it" rings out, mixing up the Mac of my name with Mack.
A middle-aged woman in front has a tee shirt with: 'This one is for You, Ray 1984-2004' printed on the back. "He was special to you," I say, as I pass her. "My youngest son", she says. "Cancer". Reality.
All around me are people with singlets naming their causes and their charities. Cancer research, spina bifida, heart conditions, hospice foundations.
Two people are running along beside each other with a cord loosely hanging between them. One of them is blind. I am humbled in the emotion of being in the midst of such heroic people. The last man to start today had his legs blown off in the war in Iraq. He has been fitted with prosthesis and will walk for two hours each day until he finishes the course. My charity is Ireland's Special Olympics, Michael's charity is for a Hospice in Dublin and Lavinia, who did voluntary teaching in Africa for a number of months at the age of 68, is raising money to send a girl from that school to university.
I have gone six miles when I hear "Go on Captain Bird's Eye, give us a salute". I oblige. I take a bottle of water from the Vittel Station. I am not doing too badly. I feel fine. I have to focus. I must get to the halfway mark. There are bands and groups dotted along the route. People cheer. The 'low fives' continue to put their hands out along the way. Up in front I see a boy in a wheelchair. His hand is partially out. I am not sure of his condition, I touch his hand and his mother says "thank you so much".
At 12 miles I cross the Thames at Tower Bridge. The infamous Tower is to my left. The Tudors. Henry 11X. Keep the head. I cross the bridge and head off down to the Isle of Dogs. The route here is split and I can see the runners on the other side of the road on their way back. Relatives are waiting for me here. They give me a banana.
The communities are out in force here. Bands are playing outside pubs. People offer water, sweets, fruit and encouragement. I get shouts of Captain Bird's Eye, Mack, and Father Christmas. It strikes me as odd that the English seem to say Father Christmas and not Santa.
A choir are singing gospel songs outside a church: "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" No, I was not. I pass the pub where in 2005 a man shouted after me "I bet your beard was black when you started." Not helpful!. I pass the 17-mile mark. Now it is about survival.
A man shouts "Here comes Worzel Gummidge". Jesus! Am I that scary looking? Keep going. A band is belting out Sweet Home Alabama. I know this song, but the singer throws in some lines I do not know about "making love in the afternoon". I think, how could you? I am a Catholic get me out of here. I was reared on the green and red catechism. I know my mortal sins. I think of my days in the national school in Lisronagh.
I pass Canary Wharf, a place associated with the shameful IRA bomb. A woman dressed as a bee, complete with wings passes me. It stings. A ladybird passes me on my right. My focus is on the blue line on the road that marks out the course. "Go neiri an bothar leath" comes out from the crowd. I wave in recognition. Mack, Father Christmas, Captain Birds Eye, go on the Beard, up Tipp waft me on towards Tower Bridge on the double back. It is hot. I take only sips of water from the Vittel stations.
I focus on the distance stretching out before me. I try to break it down into manageable sections. If I were at home I would be just coming up to Coppeneagh. I can even see the sign outside Dreay's pub. "Guinness is good for you". Yes, but not now.
I can see the 1798 monument on the turn back for Dungarvan. I try to think of the lines from Seamus Heaney's poem where the Irish rebels had grain in their pockets going into battle, which spilled out onto the ground when they were shot and corn grew the following year. I can't put the lines together. I abandoned the cause. I tell myself I'm going down Stook Hill when I pass the 22 mile mark. The bee and the ladybird are sitting on the side of the pavement. I would love to say I breeze past them, but the reality is I shuffle past.
A young man with tattoos shouts "go on Mack my son, you can do it". He is 20-something, I am almost 66. Age turned on it's head. I'm now moving along Victoria Embankment.
The river Thames is to my left. We are all struggling. I hear a chant from a large group of people who are corralled and surrounded by policemen. They are protesting about the impending disaster in Sri Lanka. They are supporters of the Tamil Tigers. The world en-croaches. I move on.
I look up. I see Big Ben on the House of Parliament. I think of Charlie Haughey and Ben Dunne. "Thanks, Big Fella" when Ben gave Charlie the cheque. I tried to remember what year that was but I cannot. At the 25 mile mark, a policeman smiles and says "Almost there sir, pass the big house on your left, wave to the queen and you're there".
I turn into Birdcage Walk. I come around the bend and Buckingham Palace is to my left. Up the Mall. The crowd cheer and clap and encourage. I hear a loud shout "Thiobraid Arann Abu" from behind me. I raise my hand in recognition. I cross the line. I remove the electronic timing device from my shoe and hand it over.
A woman says "well done" and puts the medal around my neck. I am directed to have my photograph taken. I am given a bag of goodies. I swallow an energy drink. I stop. I remember Pheidippides, when he arrived in Athens he delivered his message "Victory is ours", and then dropped dead. I have made it and I am alive.
I go to find my family. I am stopped by a Japanese boy and girl with cameras. "Can we take your picture, Sir" they ask. Can I resist? No. They take pictures. They ask me my age. Two more Japanese join them before I answer. They also want to take my picture. So this is what fame is like. Another set of pictures is taken.
They ask again what age I am. I say "65". They respond with an oriental "aaw". "It was hard", they say. I know that this is really a question and not a statement. I say "yes, but it was ok. I'm getting ready for the Olympics in 2012 here in London". They look at me and are not sure how to react. "I'm Irish", I say. They go "aaw". As if that explains it! I repeat, "I'm Irish and we have a legend that there is a place called Tir Na Nog the land of youth where you go to and get young again, and that is where I am off to now. Be here in 2012 as I will be back, my beard will be short and black by then. Bye. See you ". They seem a little confused and then they laugh.
I go to the truck to pick up my tracksuit. I meet Michael and Lavinia. We embrace. Lavinia says "what a way to remember Dad". We shake hands, "till the next time". We go our separate ways to Dublin, Toronto and Essex. I need to soak in a bath. But I know pain is temporary, glory is forever.
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Thursday 17 May 2012
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