The cruelist of truths

I wrote the following piece on the 06 February 2007(Americans should note the way the date reads from smallest to biggest ie: logically). It’d work better in a book than in a blog but fuck it, I’m never gonna write a book.
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The following should be in an introduction but nobody ever reads them and anyone who does is probably a bit sad. So I’m forcing you to read this boring little piece about who I am and what I’m about not only to feed a gluttonous ego but also because it is vital to understand what I am about to do.
Who am I? A drunken Irish stereotype mixed with a drunken student stereotype and a precious dash of the bourgeoisie junkie stereotype. I also have a penchant for hair brained schemes, unnecessary verbal cruelty and really big words like ‘utterance’ and ‘incandescent’. Throw in my genius complex and its quite an impressive résumé for a man of just nineteen years.
Who I am not? First and foremost I am not English. Secondly, I am not British. I am an Irishman, a small geo-political difference which is important all the same so as to ensure one is not claimed for the pride(or shame) of the wrong team. I am not nor ever have been a particularily hard worker(unless of course the going gets tough and I‘m actually challenged, this results in a puff chested reaction not dissimilar from injecting nitrous oxide into a cars engine). And I am most certainly not by any stretch of your acid induced imagination; an athlete.
And therein lies the crux of what I’m about. Two and a half days into a three day bender and weighing in at an impressive thirteen and a half stone-I decided that I want to run in the Dublin Marathon. Not walk. Not finish. Run. I want to run from the starting line to the finish line and be faster than at least one person who isn’t clinically obese .
Its not much to ask but from where I’m standing its a long way to the finish line. I tried to kick off my training with a game of football the other day. I left my breakfast on the sideline after twenty minutes and spent the next day nearly bedridden. The race is nine months away, you could have a baby in that time so even starting at my pathetic level of fitness it should be possible to reach my goal. This is however scant consolation as the fact remains that a lot of hard work has to be put in between now and then.

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Ok, that was written on the 06 February. This next piece was written this morning, it is a dramatization of my first ‘real’ day of training-which was yesterday(the 26/07/07)

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Day 1-Reality, and the cruelest of truths
My back is aching, down low where you can’t stretch it out. The backs of my knees too, they feel so tense, like springs stretched that bit too far and about to curl up at any moment. The sweat pumps out of me, my whole body is slick and greasy, droplets of sweat run down my hair and into my eyes. It stings. I take a right turn, slowly, nearly arthritic. I restart the stopwatch-time to start running again.
The first step is painful, it always is, but the next step is worse. I feel the acid in my chest build and burn, I could throw up at any moment but I know I won’t. I think about quitting for the fourth or fifth time in the last half hour, this is too tough. Everything hurts. Everything. Even my pride hurts at this stage, how could I let myself get so unfit, I’m like an old man, a fat old man. Technically I’ve only been running for fourteen minutes. I stopped the watch every time I stopped running and its been a half hour at least since I left the house. Why is this so hard? I can run on a treadmill all for forty minutes without really pushing it but apparently that counts for nothing in the real world.
I get to the end of the road and turn left onto the last hill, the biggest hill. There are a group of pensioners walking in front of me. I pant past them. I could stop right here, start walking, stop the watch forget about the big race, I’ve left it far too late to start training. For whatever reason my legs keep moving.
The hill is too steep, this is agony, I really can’t take anymore. I quit, I’m gonna quit ,any minute now I’m gonna quit. My last legs last grasp at glory and I feel so sorry for myself . Everything hurts so bad. I’m only at the foot of the hill, I won’t make it to the top. I’m not strong enough.
Then it kicks in. My engine starts ticking over and a bit of my old toughness returns. I’ve gotten so soft over the last while that I’d forgotten what it really means to push yourself. That part of your brain that says no matter how bad you’re hurting you’ve got to keep going. Death before dishonour, I’ve invested far too much of my ego into this to quit on the very first day of training. I dig deep, as deep as ever before and still everything hurts. And still, my legs feel ready to fall off. And still, this is one big fucker of a hill. And still, I keep moving because all of a sudden I remember all the guys I’ve seen give up and all the times I kept going because this is what I was built for. Physically, mentally I thrive on PAIN. More, MORE, harder, steeper! Come on Hill! YOU CAN’T BREAK ME! YOU WON’T BREAK ME!!
A stitch shoots up my right side, it nearly knocks me over-too much, NOT ENOUGH! Dig, push, breath, fight, C’MON keep goin. Keep goin’every last inch! C’mon dig deeper. I see a bus stop, that’s the finish line, no that’s too easy-stop there and the hill will have won-you can’t let the hill win. I have to get over the hill, onto the other side. There’s a signpost, perfect, that’s the finish line-fuck you hill! FUCK YOU!
I pass the bus stop, my knees drop a little. C’mon YOU FUCKING PUSSY, if a blind man can learn to read you can reach the top of this hill. I straighten up and dig deep one last time just another few feet. I can’t think of a time when my body has hurt so bad, its worse than broken bones, blows to the head-its just everywhere, all over at the same time. Just as I approach the poll I visualise the finish line on race day with people cheering me on-one last piece of inspiration and I’m over the line. I collapse against a wall. Look at the watch and stop it bang on fifteen minutes-I was supposed to run for another five minutes. I can’t.
Before I started that day I arrogantly thought it would be easy-20 minutes, no stops, no problem. I was wrong. The gym is easy, this isn’t. I’ve just had a short sharp jab of reality. This is going to be a nightmare-marathons are really really unnecessarily long.

26/07/07