The Marathon Journey: From the Starting Line to the Finish
This weekly blog started last June. It documents my weekly training and thoughts ahead of the 2024 Dublin City Marathon and it began with a photoshoot in Dromineer, Tipperary with photographer Michael Molamphy. This is the first and last update from my weekly blog.
My goal wasn’t to break records but to experience the journey of preparation, setbacks and persistence that every amateur runner knows well. I wanted to reflect the spirit of a “runner's republic” where, like in any true republic, everyone is equal. No elites or special treatment—just runners, like myself, whose primary aim is simply to cross the finish line and beat our own best.
Training Setbacks
Marathon training wasn’t without its hurdles. Shortly before the first entry, a minor tear in my right calf muscle threw me off. A few trips to the physio and many barbell calf raises got me back on track, but panic lingered—what if I couldn’t make it to race day? Then in July, Achilles Tendinopathy reared its head, the bane of many male middle-aged runners. Calf stretches and more exercises kept me moving, but once again, I delayed the blog updates.
By August, I threw up my hands and said, “Sod it.” I’d save the blog for after the marathon if I finished it, sparing myself the embarrassment of an unfinished story. Now, having crossed the line, I can finally share the first and last chapter of this blog.
Race Day: The First Half
The 2024 Dublin City Marathon marked my third marathon, with a goal to break the elusive five-hour mark. My plan was to stick to the 4:50 pacers, giving myself a buffer if I needed a breather. The pacers were incredible from the start, urging us on with camaraderie and humour. Passing through Stoneybatter, one called out for a song and soon we were belting out “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen to the cheering crowd’s delight.
The support along the 42.2 km course was overwhelming. Children held “Power Up” signs, adults waved ones that warned “Never trust a fart after 22 km” and “Pain is Temporary, Strava’s Forever.” Every few kilometres, volunteers offered Jaffa Cakes, sweets, bananas, gels and water—lifelines of fuel and kindness. Each village felt like a music festival, with DJs, bands and people cheering us forward with energy that lifted us all.
I even spotted some familiar faces along the way. Near The Phoenix Park, I glimpsed Olympian Catherina McKiernan and later in Drimnagh, I recognised RTÉ sports presenter Darragh Moloney. Around Rialto, I even managed to chat briefly with comedian Des Bishop, who had just done a show in Wexford that I attended.
The Second Half: Where the Real Race Begins
Cromwellsfort Road had been my undoing in my first marathon in 2019; a bathroom break then led to my legs giving out, reducing me to a walk-jog till the end. This time, I was feeling strong, though still wary of stopping. When I saw an old friend, Michael Heavey, cheering me on at the KCR, I waved but kept moving, afraid to tempt fate.
By this point, I was ahead of the 4:50 pacers but knew better than to glance back, keep looking forward and keep going I told myself. My Garmin told me I was eleven minutes clear of the five-hour mark and I knew If I could keep going to Terenure the downhill stretch from there towards Milltown Road would feel like manna from heaven. The energy from the cheering crowds fuelled my pace, but as I approached the climb at Wilde and Green on the Miltown Road, my spirits dipped. The incline seemed to soar like Everest before me, so I decided to conserve energy and walk it.
Once I hit the infamous Heartbreak Hill on Roebuck Road, my determination wavered. A volunteer cheered for the real heroes—the five-hour pacers—and I felt a stab of panic. How did the 4:50 pacers pass me by? How did I not spot them? Were they always ahead of me? Was I deluded in thinking I had been running well? Just as my mind spiralled, the volunteer clarified that they were, indeed, the 4:50 pacers. Though momentarily relieved I also realised at the same time that the 4:50 pacers have tracked me down, I had slowed and they were passing me. Even the downhill on Fosters Avenue did not provide me with any glee. I knew I was not going to beat 4:50 but I tried to remain composed and kept thinking that I was still well ahead of the five-hour pacers and I had about ten minutes to spare over the final five kilometres or so.
The Final Stretch: Mind Over Muscle
With the Stillorgan Dual Carriageway in my sights, I felt exhaustion weigh me down. Well-meaning spectators shouted encouragement, but being told I had just two miles to go rather than lift my spirits actually had the opposite effect and plunged me into despair, their encouragement was more cruel than comforting. My legs screamed, my spirit flagged and I found myself walking. I knew those were going to be the longest two miles of my life. The legs were tired, my spirit was almost broken, my mind had had just about enough. I walked, I strolled and I jogged. Some kind man saw my state and handed me a can of Coke. I cracked it open, inhaled the fizz and gulped down as much as I could. I don’t know who he was but his generosity got me running again as the sugar buzz kicked in.
My Garmin informed me I’d only just over a kilometre to go. My mind told me I could do this, my legs agreed and as more and more photographers appeared my pride would not let them catch me walking. I jogged. The noise from the crowds intensified. I jogged faster. 400 meters to go, just one lap of a track, “my victory lap” I told myself. I ran faster. The wind flowing through my hair. In my mind I was sprinting like a cheetah pursing its prey, in reality I resembled something from the hit TV show The Walking Dead. 200 meters. 100 meters. I glanced up, looking for the finish line. Gliding towards it like a gazelle. One question entered my mind, where the hell is that finish line?
Either my Garmin or the course was lying to me. The finish line was nowhere to be seen. The crowds cheered me on. The noise seemed to me to be akin to playing in Croke Park on All Ireland final day, it reverberated off the buildings and gave me extra energy, where that energy was coming from, I don’t know but after what seemed like an eternity I saw a sign. 300m, soon it changed to 200m then 100m and just ahead that lilac coloured floor and the finish line in all its glory welcomed me home. As I approached the finish line the thoughts of a fist pump for the cameras crossed my mind, maybe even a dance for the photographs but alas I had no more energy and I probably looked no better an inmate approaching death row. I didn't really care how I looked in the photographs, I had achieved my two main goals, one to finish the marathon and two, beat five hours. I finished in four hours, fifty minutes and 25 seconds.
After the Finish Line
I collected my finishers medal and goodie bag and cried. I don’t know why. Exhaustion perhaps? Maybe some deep-seated childhood trauma surfaced? I know for sure it was not exhilaration. There was no adrenaline rush, just a relief that it was over. The pain quickly surged through every part of my body, even my hair hurt and like a sacked school teacher, I immediately knew it would not leave me anytime soon. In that moment, I wasn’t a competitor or an athlete, just someone who had finally reached the finish after months of doubt.
The marathon is over, but the journey—every mile, every ache, every cheer—is something I’ll carry. Today, it feels like both the finish and a beginning.
A Special Thank You
I want to thank Tracy Browne, a running buddy from Wexford who reguarly cajoled and nagged me to go training. I cursed her when she'd text suggesting "a quick 10km?" but was always glad I did it. Tracy ran also and was raising money for Acquired Brain Injury Ireland, a charity close to her heart as they provide superb care for her sister Karina who, following a car accident, suffers from a brain injury. If you would like to donate to this amazing charity you can do so here Below is a photograph of Tracy and I at the finish.
