You know that thing where everything goes wrong before a marathon and you somehow still do it anyway? Yeah. That.
Let’s rewind. My training in the final weeks before the Dublin Marathon was like playing Jenga after six pints, shaky and definitely not sustainable. I’d just about recovered from the Belfast Half disaster (which actually wasn't a disaster at all), did my 18 mile long run but only to get walloped with a fresh injury during a midweek training run. Hamstring twinge. I felt it straight away. One of those “oh bollocks” moments that sticks in your head like the last biscuit in the tin, you know it's going to come back to haunt you.
Cue the physio.
His advice? Ditch all time goals. Just try to get around. “You might not even finish,” he said, with the tone of a man reading your obituary before you're actually dead. So, any illusions I had of sub 4hrs 20 mins were out the window. I started entertaining bizarre backup plans. Like: Should I DNS? Should I fake my own death?
I ended up doing none of those things. What I did do, was line up at the start on race day beside Paddy Ryan, the founder of Run Republic, armed with the kind of optimism only shared by people who’ve clearly forgotten how painful this is meant to be.
The Start Line: All Guns Blazing
We didn’t go in expecting glory. We went in planning to finish. That was it. Run and walk if needed. Be smart. Be humble. Be dry, if the weather would allow.
It didn’t.
It was raining at the start line, not a downpour, just that stubborn Dublin drizzle that soaks your sleeves without you noticing. By the time we hit mile one, it had mostly eased off. The clouds hung over us like a bad omen, but at least we weren’t drowning. Spirits were decent. Shoes were wet, but manageable.
Through the Phoenix Park and down Chesterfield Avenue, the buzz was unreal. Crowds, trees, chatter. the early race illusion that this might actually be fine. The drizzle came and went, but nothing to write home about. By Chapelizod, I was starting to think we might have gotten lucky with the weather.
Inchicore to Halfway: False Comfort
Coming through Inchicore, we were still comfortably in the game after 10/11 miles. Not breaking records, not breaking down either.
The miles ticked by through Kilmainham and the South Circular Road. There was a lull. calm before the storm, as it turned out. The crowds were good, the rhythm steady, and the drizzle was still just that: drizzle. We even joked about how the weather was “grand, all things considered.”
Then came the South Circular Road and that’s when it hit.
Miles 12 to 15: The Monsoon Section
Around mile 12, the wind picked up like someone had opened a portal to the Irish Sea. It started lashing rain. Not friendly rain, full on, face slapping, shoe flooding misery. We ploughed through Walkinstown, soaked to the skin, wind roaring head on. Everyone around us looked equally betrayed.
I’ll never forget that stretch. The South Circular Road into Crumlin Road, then down Drimnagh Road and finally the Walkinstown Road. It was pure carnage. Puddles, puddles, and more puddles. You’d overtake someone only to hear the unmistakable squelch of their shoes following behind like backup singers.
At around mile 15, we turned onto Cromwellsfort Road West, as the rain began to back off and mercifully the wind shifted. Suddenly it was at our backs. You could feel the lift instantly. We’d survived the worst of it.
The Templeogue Bounce and the Bushy Park Bluff
After running through Kimmage Road and down into Templeogue via Bushy Park, we started feeling light on our feet again. For about fifteen minutes, I genuinely thought: “You know what? We’ve cracked this.”
We hadn’t.
That bounce was short lived. As we exited Bushy and veered into Orwell Park, it hit. Nineteen miles. The infamous wall. Quads? Gone. Cement blocks. Moving them was like trying to stir porridge with a chopstick. We were still running, technically, but it was a run and walk strategy now. Not because we wanted to. Because we had to.
My hamstring held up, thankfully. But everything else was screaming.
The Drag to Clonskeagh and the Great Run and Walk Shuffle
By the time we hit Milltown, we were in full on shuffle mode. Run a bit. Walk a bit. Repeat. The miles were dragging. Everything felt slower. Clonskeagh Road was an eternity. I remember passing the mosque and thinking, “I might convert if someone gets me a taxi out of here.”
We turned onto Roebuck and hit Heartbreak Hill. Didn’t even feel it, to be honest. That’s the upside of run walking, hills become less heartbreaking when you’re already emotionally broken. I passed the Spar where I used to buy tins of Tuborg during my UCD days and considered popping in for one out of nostalgia and desperation.
Down through Fosters Avenue, we managed a longer jog. That downhill was a gift. A brief reprieve.
The Never Ending Crawl to Merrion Road
Back onto the N11. Still run walking. Everything was stiff. Slowed. By the time we turned onto Nutley Lane and passed St. Vincent’s Hospital, we were basically in zombie mode. Limping, shuffling, promising each other we’d finish together no matter what.
We broke it down into tiny bits. Run one lamppost. Walk to the bin. Run to the next crack in the pavement. Repeat. It wasn’t pretty, but it kept us moving
The Final Push: Relief Over Glory
Northumberland Road brought the crowds. The rain had eased. You could smell the finish. That bit through Ballsbridge and back towards Merrion Square was emotional, not in a triumphant way, but in a “thank Christ this is nearly over” way.
At 500 metres to go, I turned to Paddy and said, “Right. No more breaks. Run it home.”
We did.
We ran the final stretch without stopping. We crossed the line wet, broken, battered, but done.
And I wasn’t jubilant. I wasn’t emotional. I was relieved.
Nothing had gone to plan. Not the training. Not the taper. Not the time goals. Nothing. And yet, somehow, we’d done it.
My first marathon in years. Not sub 4. Not even sub 4:20. But done.
I Survived
Everyone bangs on about marathon PBs, training plans, Strava stats, blah blah blah. But for most of us, finishing is the win. Some people never make it to the start line. Some don’t make it to the finish. And that’s okay.
Sometimes, just showing up is enough.
This wasn’t my prettiest race. It wasn’t even close. But it’s one I’ll never forget, for all the wrong reasons, and somehow, all the right ones too.
See you at the next one. Probably wet. But definitely there.