Ardmore Road Race 2023

At the risk of sounding ignorant to any Irish readers out there, after a while all Irish seaside towns look more or less the same. Let's be honest, they tend to follow a formula:

1. Windswept sandy shores

2. Ruggedly beautiful cliffs, topped with luscious green pastures

3. Quaint high street, lined with pastel coloured bungalows and an incomprehensible local on a park bench

4. Monolithic tower or monument of sorts, for charm and character

Sugar-Crash Siestas

Ardmore is no exception, and is certainly no less stunning than its seaweed-ensnared counterparts further up the copper coast. The distances I'm willing to travel for a race nowadays, might be suggestive of the seriousness with which I'm taking my running. The game is of course to majorly downplay the keen-bean mentality, and thus always have a valid excuse up your sleeve, should you underperform. With that in mind, I took Vicky and Noa (the dog) down for the day, thereby disguising it as a beach trip with a little jog thrown in at the end. In hindsight however, this is fine way to ruin your day, what with the anticipation of a lingering VO2 max effort hanging over you. It will add a sour taste to your 99, and have you secretly hoping that you mixed the dates up, as you struggle to rise from your sugar-crash siesta in the car.

For some reason, I was hankering for a stack of American style pancakes that day. I've been watching some bloke on Instagram knock up gourmet grub in the fells of the Lake District, so figured I'd take my camping stove down to the beach, and save the money I'd otherwise waste in pretentious, 'smashed-avo' cafes. As is often the case with Instagram, reality is not quite as idyllic as the touched-up image it resides behind. I affirmed this as I picked out the sand from my pancake, which as it happens, resembled more of a scrambled, syrupy mess. Noa took great delight in bounding between us as we ate, tennis ball in mouth, kicking up yet more sand into our stupid camping crockery.

The Slippery Slope Towards Caravan Ownership

I should probably upgrade my cookware setup for excursions when we have the luxury of a car boot, but I'm reluctant to indulge, for fear of straying on to that slippery slop towards caravan ownership. If you're not careful, it's easy to be brainwashed into replicating the entire contents of your kitchen cupboards and beyond. Before you know it, you're precariously balancing a TV arial so as to enhance the signal on your travel TV, succumbing to the realisation that you've spent two hours setting up what is basically a less comfortable version of your house, only outdoors. By this point you're too far gone, and must proceed to justify your life choices by assuring everyone in earshot that 'it's a sense of freedom that you don't get in a hotel'. You also don't get the smell of disinfectant and morning dumps that ruminate from the nearby shower block in a hotel, nor the jarring sight of Martin from Stockport, half naked with pot-belly on show, whipping up a bacon sarney for him and the Mrs - pros and cons I guess.

Sandwich Spreads

Anyway I digress, this was meant to be a post about a 5 mile road race. So we rock up to the race about 7:00pm on a Friday, and I begin to lace up my Endorphins Pro's, just as Ardmore bathes in golden hour sunshine, shadows growing longer across the country roads. To be honest I feel more like sinking a crisp lager, than chewing on that metallic mouth taste that comes with a VO2 max effort.

That said, I'm completely enamored with these little village races. The vibe is so homely and wholesome. From the couch-to-5K-ers getting in a good workout, to your racing snakes hunting down a PB, to the marshals/organizers diligently serving their community, it's all good stuff. Races like this encapsulate small town resourcefulness and sense of humour, which you don't get at a big city marathon. It's the race announcer who's sent the runners off, only to realise the safety van has gone off without him, and must now desperately clamber into the moving vehicle or be swallowed up by the oncoming pack, and the heart-warming spread of sandwiches in the village pub after, that make them so special.

Pace Yourself

I'm also enjoying the sensation of racing, which I never did before. I think it has something to do with not bolting out of the gate like a madman, only to pay the price at mile 3 as your legs flood with lactate, and proceeding to be overtaken by old geezers who you defo thought you could have on the start-line. Reeling people back in, in the latter half of the race is a great feeling, and finding you have enough for a final kick renders the pain unnoticeable. That said, it's a fine line to tread between a perfectly paced race and finishing with something left in the tank - something that will irk you for the duration of your journey home.

The course was the usual lap and a half of the village, with a spicy little uphill drag, just after you've swept past the spectators on Ardmore's main street. Hard-as-nails Noel was still in my sights at mile 3, just as the hill levelled off and the course circled back round to the town center. I think that has more to do with Noel's illness on the day than how well I'm going at the moment, but for a moment I did consider being brave and bridging the gap. It was a thought that lasted all of two seconds however, before I came to my senses and proceeded to race conservatively. I was expecting the course to jut out to the seafront on the way back into town, like it did on the first lap, but instead it followed the main road, cutting straight to the finish line. Had I known this, I might have buried myself a little more in the last kilometer, which is always easy to say in hindsight.

Time to Get a Garmin

I think a new sports watch could compensate for my lack of local knowledge at these courses. My trusty Suunto doesn't have the customisable face that a Garmin does, meaning I can either see pace or distance covered, but not both. I try to avoid looking at the watch at all during a race, for fear of disturbing my rhythm, so the little kilometer/mile beeps that you get with a Garmin would be a godsend. I suppose I could just listen to the beeps of my competitors, but then you'd have to assess whether they as a person look like the imperial or metric type, and I don't have that presence of mind in a race as short as this. Anyway, it's a good excuse for some retail therapy - while I'm at it I'll see if they've any Next %s from last season on sale. I think I came 7th, and a good day was had by all, so that's a win. We went to a local restaurant afterwards for a quick bite, but upon browsing the menu and finding nothing below 35 euros, we realised this was not the place for us. The candles on the table and the lobster special should've given it away, but alas we'd underestimated the affluence of this sleepy town, and began the walk of shame straight back out the door. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind paying top dollar for top nosh, but not when you're still wearing your salt-stained, skin-tight Nike shorts. We stopped in Dungarvan for a curry instead, because curry houses are seemingly the only establishment serving food past 8pm in this bloody country. Fine by me; couple of Cobra's and a madras always hits the spot.