Do not go gentle into that good night…

It is January 1592. High above the Glenmalure Valley in the Wicklow Mountains, two men sit, devoid of energy, wrapped in a frozen blanket of snow, ice and hail. Another has been lost. A servant has been sent to the valley below in the hope of finding aid for those huddled together on a rocky height in the mountains above.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Crossing The Avonbeg River Just Before Finish

 We hit Table Track just shy of 8 hours of perseverance and pain. 4km to go - all downhill on a track made from cobbles. You would think that was going to be easy but my quads and calves were screaming at me. It was a case of head down and go as quickly as you can. The finish came into sight with about 3km to go, which oddly didn’t help my mental state at all. John and I kept up a decent pace to the valley floor at Glenmalure, where you cross the Avonbeg River through to the finish line, finishing 39^th and 40^th respectively. Hugs all round!

Still Smiling! John and I at the Finish

Respect to Art and his fellow escapees. Respect to my fellow competitor with the hip flask of whiskey who generously shared it round at the finish. Respect to all who competed.

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!