A DAD'S LIFE: I hate marathons, so why do I sign up year after year?
MARATHONS. I hate them. The only reason I run them is because once, years ago, the old man ran one in under four hours. Now, I’ve done a handful of the yokes and not gone under four yet. In fact, I seem to be getting slower the harder I train. And this stupid competitive streak keeps making me sign up for more just so I can smirk and tell the Da I did it faster than him and it was easy.
This year it was New York. Haile Gebrselassie, the greatest distance runner of all time, was taking part for the first time. Rumour had it the day before that his knee was troubling him. Mine too. I wondered would he like to talk about it, compare notes.
“How are ye Haile, how’s the old knee?”
“Not too bad Adam, me old mucker, but there is a hint of tendonitis and some fluid floating around down there. It is highly unlikely that I will be able to maintain a sub-five minute mile pace for the duration of the race. My world record will probably remain intact.”
“I hear ye Haile. Mine’s been squeaking through the last few weeks of training too. The four-hour dream is slipping away again, but I’ll give it a lash and walk it if I have to.”
“Oh you are a mighty man, Mr Brophy. Good luck on the day.”
“You too, sir, you too.”
Maybe if I’d given him a shout it would have pepped him up and he wouldn’t have dropped out at the 16-mile mark as the Queensboro Bridge descended into Manhattan and the pain became unbearable. Maybe he would have said if Adam’s going to limp around, maybe I, Haile Gebrselassie, world record holder and all-round rocket, should walk too. But he didn’t, he stopped. So, although it was my second slowest marathon time ever and every minute past the halfway mark was sheer misery, I beat Haile Gebrselassie and I’m sticking to that story.
The elder had noted my concerns in the weeks building up to the race. “Where does it hurt?” she asked.
“Just there, on the outside.”
“Oh yeah? Does this hurt?”
“Well, you jumping up and down on my knee is always going to hurt a little, but yes that is a little sorer than usual.”
She looks concerned. “So where do you think you’ll come? 10th? 50th?”
“Yeah, I’ll probably be out of the medals but I’ll do my best.”
That night back at the hotel she rings. She has all the questions. Did I finish, did the knee hold up, was it really sore? Eventually, what she’s been worrying about all along: “Where did you come?”
“23,400th.”
“Yeah? Out of how many?”
“45,000.”
“Mmm. Okay. Next year you’ll have to take care of your legs and you’ll do better.”
So now we have a triple generational input to the torture I am inflicting on myself. There’s the auld fella sitting around all nonchalant with his poxy time that he managed over 20 years ago that I can’t get near no matter what nick I’m in. There’s me with a physique about as suited to distance running as Schwarzenegger was to synchronised swimming, forcing myself to put in the miles each year even though they’re getting progressively more painful. All to improve a time nobody cares about except me and him, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t give a toss if I beat him, he’s far too polite to crow to me.
Now there’s a newcomer who’s experiencing a dawning realisation that her old man can’t make the top half of a field of thousands. That I drag myself off day after day to practise something I’m rubbish at.
It hurt worse than ever this year. It hurt so bad I couldn’t hear the cheers of the two million supporters that lined the route, I couldn’t admire the skyline and relish the entertainment that makes this the biggest race in the world. From the halfway point, I limped, then I walked, then I limp-walked. I staggered through Central Park humming a mantra as I avoided the eyes of the thousands on the sidewalks, “Never, ever, ever again. Never, ever, ever again.” If I said it slow enough, each resounding statement could match my stuttering footfall. This race had no redeeming features, it was a symphony of discomfort. But even as I write this I know I’ll be back. Because I have to beat him and I have to impress her. That’s what family is all about.
ShareThis