‘That was born to run the boss himself, Bruce Springsteen. If that doesn’t motivate you to enter our 10k fun run in two weeks time, you’re already dead’ said Declan Meehan the presenter on Radio Nova. The station was the market leader in the burgeoning pirate radio phenomenon in early to mid eighties Ireland.
We were ten young men living in two rented, dreary, ramshackle semi detached houses in Kilnamanagh, a sprawling housing estate in Tallaght Co. Dublin. Tallaght, once a tiny village sprouted into a conurbation of housing developments, the corollary of a social engineering programme relocating up to 50,000 inner city residents. It had no leisure centre or recreational areas, completely devoid of essential municipal amenities. In short, it was a dump. We had to make our own entertainment, which was mainly drinking alcohol, drinking more alcohol followed by drinking even more alcohol whilst listening to music. I was the only teetotaller in both houses frequently bored with the inanity of the excess.
‘I think we should do the 10k run’ said Shaun the house lothario from Leitrim. He acquired this appellation based on his nocturnal activities in tandem with his aptitude for sourcing members of he opposite sex with his suave distingué. If he went to the local Spar for a pint of milk he would return without the milk but with the female shop assistant and disappear upstairs for the rest of the night. Apart from expending energy regularly via coitus the only calories he burned was reaching for the TV remote. His idea of a hundred crunches was a six pack of Tayto Crisps. Somewhat taken aback at his suggestion we all agreed that we would start training as soon as possible.
Considering that the race was only a fortnight away it was going to be a challenge. Well it was for me considering I was smoking 25 Major cigarettes a day which were the strongest tipped brand on the market as well as being two stone overweight from eating junk food. I couldn’t afford proper running shoes so I bought a pair of plimsolls for two quid. These were unsupported shoes that altar boys wore serving mass but nevertheless I went out running with them nightly to build up the miles. Some of the lads had all the proper gear as they were GAA stalwarts, well acquainted with exercise. Shaun’s training programme lasted as long as his last orgasm, retiring after one session, immersing himself in cans of Harp lager listening to a Chris Rea album, (left behind in his bedroom by his most recent conquest), aptly titled Wired to the Moon which the lothario certainly was.
We headed off early on the bus finding ourselves in the North Docklands area of the city outside Radio Nova studios. Without even a rain jacket to protect me from the inclement weather, I started the race in my altar boy shoes, borrowed shorts which were a size smaller and a Bisto Gravy T-shirt that I scrounged off a sales rep. At the halfway mark I thought I was going to die. I felt like a mobile ice cube as the rain bounced off me diluting the blood that was running down my legs, the shorts cutting into my thighs. There was an active volcano in my chest. I swore I’d never smoke again, but was determined to finish it, which I did in forty four minutes. Not an unfavourable outcome.
On our return to the house which had no heating system, we had to boil about twenty kettles of water for a communal bath. The lads tore into the lothario’s lager supply. Post race dining was copious amounts of spoiled Findus French Bread Pizza that we retrieved from a freezer breakdown in the supermarket that we were working in. Shaun’s latest conquest, Lan, a petite girl from Vietnam I recognised from the butchery counter challenged me to maintain the exercise momentum by entering the upcoming Dublin City Marathon which was scheduled for the October bank holiday weekend, six weeks away. Foolishly I agreed, despite my throbbing thighs, now smeared in Sudocrem and registered the next day.
On an old fashioned Bakelight phone I rang my brother Barney for advice, him being an accomplished sub three hour marathon runner well prepared for the event. He categorically told me under no circumstances could I run a marathon with only six weeks’ training, suggesting I compete in the marathon in Belfast the following May. Not easily daunted I totally ignored this advice informing him I was doing it regardless. He gave me loads of training tips and schedules, outlining dietary programmes, which I subsequently also ignored. I gave my last pack of Major to the lothario preferring herbal cigarettes to wean myself off the habit. They were absolutely revolting but I persevered. Fortunately I was given a decent pair of shorts from a GAA player to complement my Bisto T-shirt and altar boy shoes. Determined, I ran every night to the point of throwing up.
Barney rang to ask if could he stay in our house so we could travel to the event together. I agreed. He arrived the night before for some Harp and beans on toast. The next morning he was up like the proverbial lark requesting the important pre marathon breakfast. ‘What breakfast? Do we not get breakfast there before the race starts?’ I said in all naivety. He must have interpreted what I said as ‘our mother is dead’ as his Eburnean face, so drained of blood, assumed the countenance of Christopher Lee. ‘Then what have you got to eat before we go?’ ‘Nothing’ I candidly retorted. ‘You work in the second biggest supermarket in Dublin and you have no food in the entire house’. Then I remembered something. I presented him with a two litre tub of supermarket vanilla ice cream. He was incredulous. He must have thought it was a mass card as he started blessing himself. I thought he was going to weep. ‘Where’s your running gear?’ ‘ I’m wearing it’ ‘ you can’t run a marathon in gutties’ ‘I don’t have anything else’. In gut wrenching despair he went to the toilet. On his return I was close to finishing the entire two litres of ice cream. ‘Are you sure you don’t want any Barney as it will give you energy?’ He had moved from being dumbfounded, to nonplussed, to apoplectic, into a paroxysm of anger, practically dragging me out the door to get the bus.
He never spoke a word on the journey despite my enquiries as to what his estimated finishing time was. We disembarked near the start line going our separate ways as he was starting further up the line. Unbelievably, I was able to finish the race despite hitting the wall early at the Dolphin’s Barn stage of the race. I remember the leader of The Workers’ Party Tomàs Mac Giolla giving me a Mars bar as he thought I was about to collapse with exhaustion. Just beyond the finish line I saw Barney wrapped in a tinfoil cape, I declared my wooden plaque to him with my finishing time of 3.45. On the verge of tears he congratulated me but announced his time of 3.05 highlighting that he could have smashed three hours had he eaten some food. I left to get some water watching him bent over, head in his hands, as if sobbing, like Alexander the Great when he was told there were no more worlds to conquer.
Originally from Clones Co. Monaghan, Houdi McCabe is a legend in his own mind. He worked as a
Branch Manager with Dunnes Stores all over Northern Ireland for 42 years. Retired, he now writes
and acts on a full time basis, with over thirty films/plays within his oeuvre. Some of his stories have
been adapted for short films, by himself and with other collaborators. He is a regular performer at
literary events TENX9, Soundwaves Portrush, Pub Poetry Causeway Coast, First Drams NI and
Flash Fiction Armagh. Resident in Portrush Co. Antrim he is married to local girl Carole Robinson.
They have three adult children and one grandchild, Genevieve. Houdi doesn’t have any pets as he
loves himself too much.
Discover more from Slugger O'Toole
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
