Help is granted and men are sent with meat and beer. They find two men, barely alive, suffering greatly from the bitterness of the Irish winter. Their prison clothing barely recognisable such is the depth of the ice built up around them. Both men are lifted to their feet and beer is pressed to their lips, only to be refused by their bodies. Eventually the drink is retained by one, but only one. The other slips away and is buried there on that rocky precipice.
422 years later and on the advice of my companion, I decide
against climbing to that rocky precipice, where Art O’Neill lies buried, the
spot commemorated by a cross in his honour. We have covered over 40km of the
53km Art O’Neill Challenge, having ‘escaped’ Dublin Castle that very morning at
2am under the cover of the city’s street lights.
Art, his brother Henry O’Neill and Red Hugh O’Donnell had
made their break from the castle, as we did, in the dead of the night bound for
Glenmalure Valley and for the trio of escapees, the protection of the great
chief Fiach Mac Hugh O'Byrne. We were running for the protection of the
Glenmalure Lodge, a pint of Guinness and an Irish Breakfast.
Henry was lost to the group in the snow and the mist. Art
struggled greatly and was carried by Hugh and the young servant until they
could go no further. The servant’s endeavours in getting aid to the two men
were enough to spare Hugh, who lost two toes to frostbite and had to be carried
to Glenmalure by O’Byrne’s men. Art remains on that hilltop.
This tale of suffering and misfortune is what inspired
around 200 people (and probably more) to wrap up in high viz vests and take off
from the castle in the dead of the night. The walkers, some of whom would not
finish until 5pm, left at midnight, followed by the hybrid group (running the
road section and hiking the mountains) an hour later. The ultra-runners, in
which I was making my debut at any distance over 26.2 miles, would go at 2am.
There was a carnival atmosphere at the start, with runners
and walkers alike milling around, checking their gear, making last minute
adjustments and for some, like me, trying to sleep on randomly arranged chairs.
I got there around 11pm, knowing that the 3 hour wait would only add to the
nerves already building up.
Midnight arrived and the walkers were gone, one man dragging
a tyre behind him as he was in training for a polar walk. An hour later, the
hybrids disappeared out the castle gate, leaving behind the ultra-runners.
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| The Art O'Neill Route |
This was a good time to take stock. I had devoured a curried
rice wrap at midnight and I was still feeling it, sitting there in my stomach –
not good. My running backpack felt heavy, even though I had been determined to
pack light – not good. At this stage, I had been up for 18 hours straight – not
good. Everyone else looked as if they were confident, I wasn’t feeling it – not
good. I frequently visited the bathroom – not good. Stock taken, 30 minutes to
go – oh dear.
One last yawn and a bit of a stretch and I thought getting
outside to get my GPS watch going would help. 10 minutes to go and I am
standing in the courtyard of Dublin Castle with my arm outstretched looking
skyward, cursing the GPS satellites under my breath. “You’ll never get a signal
in here boy!” says a Corkman over my shoulder, instantly recognisable from his
orange Cork Half-Marathon finishers’ hat. He was right, the start came before I
knew it, with no GPS signal to record my distance.
Off we went out of the castle, left, left, right, left and straight
out towards Harold’s Cross. A mile in my watch came to life as did my brain
when I realised I was running it like a 10k - time to slow down, get used to my
pack and settle in to LSD (long slow distance as opposed to hallucinogenic
substances) running. I was quickly set slightly adrift from what I thought was
the back of the field but was determined to run at my own pace.
Enter Ronan and Colette – Ronan an experienced ultra-runner
and Colette running her first. They had a plan, slow and easy and see how it
goes. Perfect. Away we ran, slowly into the night, through Firhouse and out
past the city bounds into the darkness, head torches on.
Not long after meeting the dynamic duo, I ascertained that Ronan had run the MDS in 2013, so picking his brain on the various aspects of what I would be attempting in April 2014 helped to pass the miles.
Not long after meeting the dynamic duo, I ascertained that Ronan had run the MDS in 2013, so picking his brain on the various aspects of what I would be attempting in April 2014 helped to pass the miles.
After around 16km, we hit a long, steep hill and though none
of us wanted to, we were reduced to walking, or power walking at least. The
city appeared below us as we gained height and with it came a gentle sleety
rain, something we hoped was not going to be par for the course. As we turned
onto a narrow road with an increase in incline, we began to pass some of the
walkers and those ultras who had gone out too hard. Power walking past people who
are ‘running’ is a satisfying feeling!
The hill brought us into the mist and we were beginning to
fear the worst for the weather when we
dropped down the other side leaving the
rain behind and things began to clear up. We were now at 20km and moving well.
We allowed time for some pit stops before leaving the narrow road, through a
steep downhill grassy section to the valley below and over the Liffey in its
infancy into the mountains. We had 11km to go to CP1 (check point) but the
hills were just beginning. It was time for head down and slog, running when we
could, power walking when we couldn’t. We reached CP1, 31km in, in a little
over 3 hours.
Ultra-competitors were advised to be quick at the check
points so you didn’t get cold. Found my bag, changed my tops and threw on a
pair of Goretex Salomon runners before refilling the water and taking some soup
(something my protestant ancestors were good at!). Putting on the shoes I
thought of Art in his leather brogues and prison clothes as it snowed heavily
as they trudged wearily on – no soup, no bread, no man shouting encouragement
at them, no guided hiking groups.
The three of us headed off into the night, having spent
around 20 minutes at the checkpoint. Section 2 began with a forest road, which
we started walking – it was here we caught up with the man dragging the tyre,
still going strong. I was surprised at how strong I felt and decided to push on
and try to run as much as I could. Ronan and Colette wished me well.
Well was not how I felt as I left the road onto a bog trail,
where most of the time I was knee deep in boggy goodness. It was a sharp
incline and sapped most of my strength before I was even half way up. I took
the path of least resistance over some heather and passed a guided group as I
came out of the woods on the treeline. South was the general direction towards
the mountain pass known as Billy Byrne’s Gap, so off I went taking some advice
from another competitor on my bearing. After 4 minutes, bang on, south. After 5
minutes, I was heading west. A minute later I was going east. I couldn’t see
more than 4 meters ahead of myself. I wasn’t panicking yet, but decided it was
best to use my GPS just in case. Even with the technology it was still
difficult to maintain a southerly direction.
Getting to the top of the gap was simply a head down and
trudge affair, with the GPS giving a good idea of distance to go. The hill
flattened out and I felt relieved as after 10 minutes of running, falling,
tumbling, slipping, sliding and more falling downhill, I was below the mist,
with some head torches in the distance in front of me to get my bearings.
Apart from the cerebral requirements to deal with descending
the steep downhill at speed, you also have to decide on the most efficient way
to enter the woods at the foot of the hill that leads to CP2. There are several
options once you have crossed the Ballinagee River, which rises out of the
mountain you are descending – stay east and skirt around the hill side,
maintaining a degree of altitude and enter the woods on its upper road; go low
following the river and enter the woods on its lower road; or go hell for
leather across the bog and see where you come out! I went for the third option
thinking the woods were closer than they actually were. I found what I thought were
tractor marks and followed them which took me toward the lower road and I was
just beginning to curse my decision making when out of the bog emerged John
Condon.
John had done his reconnaissance before the race and knew an
entry point into the woods from where we were, he had planned this. I had also
done my reconnaissance, but it was done the day after my staff Christmas party
and involved a lot of recon from the car. John was spot on and got us into the
woods having crossed the river and its tributary. His line of “look for a
branch that looks like it is praying” didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but I
was reassured after what seemed like an endless crawl through forest
undergrowth onto the lower road of the woods. From here we high-tailed it out
of the woods, across the road to the welcoming site of CP2. Daybreak has just
arrived.
43km completed, a bowl of the nicest porridge I have ever had, a can of Red Bull and some jellies and John and I were off again with 11km to go, billed by the organisers as the toughest section of the race. After a short flat section of road, we climbed up through a section of felled forest (where I got a nasty gash on my shin from a slip on a large branch) and began to run again toward the hill where Art O’Neill lies buried.
43km completed, a bowl of the nicest porridge I have ever had, a can of Red Bull and some jellies and John and I were off again with 11km to go, billed by the organisers as the toughest section of the race. After a short flat section of road, we climbed up through a section of felled forest (where I got a nasty gash on my shin from a slip on a large branch) and began to run again toward the hill where Art O’Neill lies buried.
John has obviously done his homework because we took another
detour off the road through some forest to come out higher up the hill toward
the cross, thus avoiding additional slog through boggy terrain. We then took a
bearing to the west of Art’s Cross, which was a more direct route to the
finish. We could see some people scrambling up the steep approach to the cross,
looking tired and struggling. Our route involved a steep, wet and somewhat
painful trudge following a line between Table Mountain and Convalla to an old
road known as Table Track.
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| Art's Cross |
The boggy terrain seemed to go on forever and we eventually
passed the shore of one of the ‘Three Lakes’, which gave us a long but
straightforward descent to the track. This was the part route that Art himself
had not managed to reach and as we descended the sun came pouring over the
hills, very different conditions to that fateful night in 1592. There are few
finer sights in Ireland that the Wicklow Mountains bathed in early morning sunshine.
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| Crossing The Avonbeg River Just Before Finish |
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| Still Smiling! John and I at the Finish |
I can safely say it was the best event I have ever done to
date, made even better by the people you meet on the slog and by the excellent
preparation of the organisers. A bus was laid on to the Glenmalure Lodge
followed by a bus back to Dublin. 32 hours after waking up on Friday morning, I
got back to my car in UCD, sore, battered, bruised but happy. Most importantly
I had passed the acid test for the MDS, it’s game on now.
A big thank you to those who helped along the way -
especially to Ronan and Colette on the first section and John and his
reconnaissance from mid-section 2 to the finish.
Huge credit must go to Declan Cunningham and his team. They
have found the perfect way to salute Art’s final journey.
Can’t wait for next year, if Declan and his crew get permission to run again and I get selected in the lottery!
