Does Life Peak at the Age of 28?

I woke up on my camping mattress on the floor of Vicky’s apartment. The nervous tension of a looming half marathon effort, combined with the chaos of packing everything I own into the back of a Vauxhall Corsa (again) and the uncertainty of moving country had reached a crescendo, which meant forcing the Weetabix and a banana down my neck was a chore. They sat heavily on my stomach as I ran into town with Connor. The day was overcast and muggy, with the previous night’s rainfall evaporating into a dry-ice-like mist above the pavements.

I mustered up some token strides and sussed out the competition: a Kenyan lad who apparently goes around Ireland minesweeping prize money, and an ex-pro who’d won the 5 miler down in Ardmore last month. Now that I’m a podium contender (podiuming in a local village 10k where most of the competitors don’t show up because of weather conditions still counts), naturally it’s important to scope out the possibility of prize money. 50 euros here and there won’t be enough to quite the day job, but it’ll do well to reignite the spark of motivation that tends to dwindle after miles of pavement pounding.

Connor had persuaded me to run the half, and then proceeded to race the lesser contested quarter like the trophy-hunting weasel he is. Pat was setting off at a calmer pace for the full, so opportunities to cling on someone’s heels (like the work-shy weasel I am) were scarce. Some nervous fist bumps exchanged, the gun sounded and we lapped up those first few miles that are essentially free, before the hard work really kicks in.

These lads (as well as 'Hard as Nails Noel') have played a small but instrumental role for me during my time in Ireland. I can’t describe just how crucial the accountability of a likeminded group is, and how much more pleasurable it is to chat whilst eating up easy miles. I say chat, I really mean listen contently, whilst struggling to decode their accents and the relentless hurling chat. Every question I ask about hurling makes me sound like a Yank asking about ‘soccer’, my genuine curiosity sounding childlike and almost patronising, but I’m glad they’ve been kind enough to have me along for the ride these past months.

Standing on the shoulders of giants truly is the way to go when searching for a performance boost, but it’s the gentle piss taking and bemoaning of one’s other half that really brings us together every week. They don’t know it, but that friendship was my anchor during a depressing winter, in which I struggled to assign meaning to life in a fishing village.

It's hard to know who to stick with when there are three different races going on in one. I stuck with Aubrey the triathlete until the iconic toll bridge that bypasses Waterford. I thought he was going for the half, but it turns out it was the full - he’s another one that’s prone to bolting from the gate and praying the price further down the road. In hindsight I should have clung to the lad in the blue singlet with shredded calves that disappeared up the road after mile 4. That would’ve saved me from the no man’s land that is so hard to navigate mentally, but as it was, I had nothing but the intermittent patter of applause from spectators to break up the pain. In my opinion, half marathon pain is considerably nicer than 10k pain, and nicer still than the short sharp burn of a 5k. It’s the attritional type of pain that I’m more accustomed to, where learning to embrace and then separate oneself from the mild discomfort will serve you well. Keeping your hand over the flame during a lung busting 5k is arguably more impressive; I’m still in awe of how the lads do that.

The hills towards Kilmeaden were just as disgusting as they looked on paper, and I was glad to circle back around towards the sea of neon polyester now filling the Waterford Greenway. The support of fellow runners gave me tingles in the back of my head, and actually made me push a bit too hard, to the point where I threw up in my mouth a little. It must’ve made an odd sight; this heaving, slightly overweight runner who’d somehow got himself into 4th position, pulling all the facials on the way back into town.

The gentle downhill past the new build houses of Gracedieu to the finish line on Grattan Quay was very welcome, and helped me secure in my sub 3:45/km goal. I bloody love that feeling of bending over double on the finish line, spit shamelessly dangling from your mouth – to the disgust of the kind volunteers waiting with medals and bananas. Even better when Vicky, Connor and Aisling are there, ready to entertain your endorphin fuelled, post-race waffle.

I was due to catch the ferry from Rosslare to Pembroke the next morning, so after one pretentious plate of poached eggs, we exchanged goodbyes. I cleared the lump in my throat with a macho thump to the chest, like the repressed caveman I am. Me and Vic walked back through city streets, made incredibly muggy by the sun beating down between rain showers. Right then I felt like the happiest bloke in Ireland. Daunted by trepidation yes, tinged with the sadness of leaving undoubtedly, but above everything, overwhelmed by gratitude for the people around me and the experiences I’ve had here.

I added to that collection of experiences that very afternoon. I’ve always wanted to go full Bear Grylls and dive into the sea stark-bollock naked, emerging ten minutes later to a rugged, secluded piece of coastline, harpoon on my shoulder and that evening’s dinner in hand. Ok, I’m not nearly practical enough to spearfish my dinner – I’m far more likely to nip into an artisan bakery and pick up an almond croissant and flat white like the watered-down adventurer I am. I did however experience the thrill of swimming with your crown jewels trailing behind you (kidding, this is the Atlantic ocean and they had long since retreated into their shell), after waiting out a storm in a cave near Bunmahon, and having the beach entirely to ourselves for a brief window.

With beers and a slap-up Thai meal proceeding later that evening, I couldn’t help feeling that life had well and truly peaked. I find it hard to believe that any money I make or any knowledge I gain will provide me with a day that tops this one. Granted, I might win the race, or go to the beach in a shiny Land Rover defender as opposed to a Vauxhall Corsa filled to the brim with my life’s possessions, but that’s all shit that doesn’t really matter. The fulfilment and reward of hard work, the tranquillity of nature and good food in good company is all I personally need. I had all that in abundance today, and maybe from this point forth, life will be about replicating those things in new and novel ways.

Apologies if this sounded a bit Dear Diary-esque. I think I just had the urge to commit something to paper, for fear of forgetting any of the details. As I write this I’m sitting on the ferry back to Wales, reflecting on the past 9 months in Ireland. It’s a beautiful country, as I’m sure you know. However my short spell here has taught me that the beauty of a place lies first and foremost with the people you surround yourself with, and the network of individuals you accrue as you begin to build a life there. That’s what will keep me coming back to the Emerald Isle for the rest of my days.