DUBLIN—I’m sorry, Trotteriacs. I feel like I’ve failed you. I gave it all that I could, but in the end, I didn’t win the 29th running of the Dublin Marathon. Good thing I didn’t make any money-back guarantees.
In the end, it was Ukrainian runner Andriy Naumov who was first across the line in Merrion Square, managing to hold off my valiant challenge by a barely perceptible gap of one hour, 43 minutes and one second. I appealed the result immediately, petitioning the race jury to review the photo finish, but it turns out the exposure time of the finish-line cameras is significantly less than one hour. Amazing what they can do with technology these days…
It started off so promisingly, on a cold Monday morning. I’d arrived with Mlle Trotter on Saturday to a wet, wet, wet Irish capital. Sunday was a blustery freezefest. On Monday there was hardly a cloud in the sky, and the temperature was barely hanging onto positive territory. No wonder they spend so much time in this country sitting on barstools — they keep the barstools indoors, where it’s heated. I’m surprised you can’t order a “Hot Guinness” on a day like Monday.
In the starting corral I found myself wedged in the middle of the 11,700-man pack (a Dublin marathon record), so I knew I’d have to execute some sneaky manoeuvres to stick to my plan of drafting off the Kenyans for the first 24 miles (sounds like my coach and Naumov’s coach swapped strategy notes before the race). But the starter’s pistol sounded, and the Kenyans flew off the line, and I stood there behind an unmoving pack of short-shorts-clad hunks of flesh-and-goosebumps, looking like an idiot as my main competition racked up a minute-and-a-half lead before I even crossed the starting line.
By the time I reached the three-kilometre mark at the top of O’Connell Street, where Mlle Trotter was waiting for me in front of the Gate Theatre, I had a bad feeling that everything was going horribly, horribly wrong.
“Have the Kenyans gone past yet?” I screamed out to her through deep gasps, as I streaked past.
“Looking great, honey! Keep it up!”
“Yeah, but the Kenyans? Are they, I mean have they — have you seen them? Big guys, long legs, stride like gazelles?”
“Only 24 miles to go, you’re doing a super job!”
I could only conclude from my wife’s generous, unflinching support that the odds that the Kenyans were still within striking distance were low.
As we continued north and then west through downtown, I gradually recalibrated my tactical plan. Entering Phoenix Park, Europe’s largest urban green-space, I focused on maintaining a steady pace and tried to minimize the damage done during the starting-line debacle. As we crossed south over the River Liffey, I also rocked out a little bit to LCD Soundsystem, because if anyone could motivate me to push back to the front of the pack, it was James Murphy.
I spotted Mlle Trotter again at Kilometre 15, just in front of the infamous Kilmainham Gaol. But I decided to play it cool with the status update this time around, lest the still-thick pack around me catch on to my little plan of afting-dray off the enyan-Kays.
“That’s it! Keep it up! You look great!” she said.
“Yeah, but do I look the best? Is there anyone that you’ve seen run past that looked, er, better than me?” (Italics used to denote my verbal emphasis and use of “air quotes,” to clue her into my coded little ruse.)
“No, you’re doing great! Go, go, go!”
This was fantastic news! She had confirmed that I was actually ahead of the Kenyans. I didn’t even remember passing them, but no matter. I was in it to win it now.
I picked up the pace over the middle third of the race. It was still pretty chilly, but I figured that with my thick Canadian skin the elements would actually favour me over the sun-baked Kenyans, so I didn’t let it bother me. Nor did I succumb to the obvious traps that had been laid for me in the form of routeside pubs, cleverly ordering my beers to go.
When I crossed the halfway point with the clock reading 2:00:09, I grew even more confident — the Kenyans usually finish in the 2:10-2:20 range, so the fact that they were so off their game today meant that the conditions were really getting to them. Either that or they were finding it even tougher than me to keep up a strong pace without spilling any of their Guinness. All my months of steady-pint-arm-specific training exercises were paying huge dividends.
As we turned north, for home, the crowds of Irish supporters intensified and I felt like I had a little gas left in the tank – after all, a pint of Guinness contains some 170 calories, so by my calculations I had more than enough of the black stuff in me to carry me across the line (as my coach always reminds me, you can’t spell the word “drunk” without “run”).
We were still running six-abreast on narrow suburban streets, but these other competitors were clearly pace-rabbits, and were going to hit the wall and drop out of the race any minute, allowing the real challengers to duke it out to the finish. Plus, I hadn’t seen any sign of the aforementioned Kenyans, even as I checked my rear-view mirrors to insure that they weren’t drafting off me.
I shirted into another gear as we hit Mile 23, teaming up with an Irish girl named Liz who’d been running at a similar pace all race. We flew past hundreds of challengers over the final four miles (no, we really did), matching one another stride for stride like the goat and lioness from Animalympics.
With a mile to go, and still feeling strong, I began to formulate a proposal for Liz and I to cross the line together, splitting the €15,000 prizes for the men’s and woman’s race winners. But Liz beat me to the punch:
“Go on, then.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah, I can tell you have something left. You should go for it.”
I thanked her for the teamwork over the last couple miles, and switched on the after-burners.
As I crossed the finish line, running alongside what I assumed were fans who’d jumped on the course to share in my historic victory, and with the final trumpet fanfare of Broken Social Scene’s “It’s All Gonna Break” blasting through my headphones, I pumped a fist in the air. After marshals removed my timing chip from my race bib, a nice Irish girl slung a medal around my neck with a “congratulations.” What a feeling!
It was only later that I learned that the “actual” winner, Naumov, had already crossed the finish line in a time of 2:11:06, with the Kenyans in hot pursuit. Six Kenyans finished in the top 10, and my appeals for a full investigation into the matter were rebuffed. (I was certain I’d been Rosie Ruiz’d – hey, it’s happened to a Canadian marathoner before!) I decided to be the bigger man about things, not wanting to “pull a Gore” and drag the nation of Ireland through a lengthy, frivolous appeals process. It was for the good of the country.
Still, I had run my fastest marathon ever, by 10:30, and had managed to pull off the elusive negative split (my time for the second half was three minutes faster than my time for the first). Shivering, gimpy and wrapped in Mlle Trotter’s winter jacket (.ie. doing my best Chris Farley impression), I walked home, chomping down the post-race oatmeal cookies she’d brought for me.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” I told her.
“No, you did amazing!”
“But sweetie, I was going to use the prize money to pay off my September sports-betting debts.”
“Aw, don’t worry about it. Those thumbs of yours are unbreakable! Come on, I’ll buy you a Guinness.”
And yes, I can now officially report that it’s true what they say: a pint of Guinness really does taste better in Dublin. Especially after you’ve run 42.2 kilometres.
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