D-Day

Today is assessment day - and what a lovely day it is too!

I have just had my porridge and banana. I'm dressed in a hoody and leggings, runners on, Polly (the dog) on her lead, ready to go jogging.

Commitment to the cause!

I'm proud of the progress I've made over the last number of weeks. Obviously I'm no Sonia O' Sullivan, but I have gotten to the stage that I don't mind running during daylight. People I know may even see me. Someday I'll be able to run with my hood down and be fully recognizable. Baby steps eh?

Like the saying goes, you've got to walk before you run. I have at the very least, perfected walking.

Must run!

To Blog or not to Blog? That is the Question.

It is May and this blog is almost due for assessment. This poses the question – to continue or not to continue – to blog or not to blog?

I saw this video recently.

With so much data being thrown, haphazardly, onto the web each day, it would be naive to think that this simple blog would be noticed. It would be easy to allow this blog to die a slow internet death and rest in a cyber cemetery. I do enjoy blogging. I actually have several (yet another shameless plug for http://onesetoftrafficlights.wordpress.com/). But this blog was, in all respects, just for the purpose of passing Explorations in Journalism.

Yet, I’ve grown to love it.

Okay, the running I hate. But the blogging about my running tribulations keeps me motivated.

My reasons for wanting to run the marathon have changed over the last number of weeks. I wanted to impress the Scot, I wanted to have a subject for my blog, I wanted to do something that would make me look good. But now, I want to do it (in the words of Gemma Hayes) “To see what I am made of”.

So yes, I will continue to run. I will also continue to blog.

Thank you to those who followed my blog until now, I hope you will continue to read it over the next year.

To everyone else – I will see you at the start line. Because, being honest, the finishing line is still just a tad ambitious.

The Netball Match: Visuals

The "Team"

Why yes, I did score that goal

Jane Clarke

In action

Jane in action

Malawi: The Netball Match

Naturally, maintaining a training regime in Malawi was difficult. While I could not run frequently, I did exercise my sporting ability in the form of Netball.

The sky was clear. Like most days, it was dry. We felt the heat on the back of our stiff necks.

We’d been in Mzuzu for over a week. The locals were warm, receptive, energetic people. We spent a lot of our time at Sailsbury Line, working in Áras Kate – a preschool.

Working with the 250 children was fun. We thought them games, they thought us patience.

Every day outside Áras Kate, a group of women set two huge posts in holes in the ground. Rusty rings were nailed to the top which in effect created the perfect setting for a game of netball. These women were seriously committed. Collectively, their average height was no more than 5ft. But where they lacked height, they made up for in swiftness, stealth and steely determination.

Traditionally the female volunteers who travelled with Wells for Zoe accepted the challenge to play these women in a Netball match. Traditionally, the women on Mzuzu slaughtered the volunteers.

To say we were apprehensive would be an understatement. Our “team” was a mismatch of sizes, ability and talent. The only thing we had in common was our inexperience. I, along with another five people on the team, had never played netball. In fact, I’d never even seen a netball match.

Coaching duties fell on the shoulders of Felicity. Felicity was the self confessed runt of her netball team. Though she played consistently during her scholastic life, she –no offence intended- had absolutely no flare for the sport...or probably any other sport for that matter. At the very least, she informed us of what positions to take and how to maintain our boundaries on the field.

My love affair with team sports in school, like my attention span, was short. I had a fling one year with volleyball. It was fun, passionate and I missed French. However it was a demanding lover, and I didn’t have the commitment to train two evening a week.

Soon after I tried doubles badminton – my long spaghetti arms were, for once, quite appreciated. A few shuttle cocks to the head later however, and I realised my basic lack of hand-eye coordination was going to be an issue.

As you may have figured from choice in Jogging, I prefer sports that I can participate in independently. I can maintain my own sense of freedom – and no one need ever see me.

Being quite familiar with my sporting difficulties, I was reluctant to play this net ball match. My sentiments, fortunately, were shared.

We psyched ourselves up before the match by blasting T.I from cheap ipod speakers. Poster paint, which we had been using to paint a charming mural on the birthing centre, provided us each with war paint. In our unwillingness and fear, we were united.

Elaine played football at home and was a pillar of strength in mid-field. Claire and I played forward. Claire was quick. I was not. Fiona and Grace played semi-back and were semi-successful. Likewise, Sarah was close to Elaine, only in position though, not in talent.

I caught the ball awkwardly early on, bending my fingers back. It hurt. It really hurt. Determined I played on.

Fortune was granted upon us in the shape of Jane Clarke. Tall and agile, Jane had previously been an imperative volunteer. She had successfully painted the pink balloon in the mural. Like the entire team (and probably most of the spectators) I didn’t expect much from Jane during the match.

Oh how I was wrong.

Jane, in defence, was inspirational. Nothing got past the girl. Her bravery, strength, and raw un-nurtured talent inspired us all. After a quick change of positions and a positive team talk we were ready to rock.

Jane moved forward. Claire stayed as a goal scorer. I went in defence (fingers still throbbing), mimicking Jane’s awesome sweeping defence actions. We were losing. Then we were drawing.

It was tense. A crowd had gathered. Immersed in the game we played over time. Never before had the women come so close to defeat. Never before had we felt so involved. We had been playing for 90 minutes when the referee announced next goal wins.

I was tight to my opposed player. We were all in position. Elaine moved forward from centre position. Our main goal scorer moved back. We had the ball. The crowd erupted. It was thrown to Claire. Then, to Elaine. Elaine, a GAA enthusiast, landed in front of the post. Unable to move, she threw the ball. All eyes were to the sky as the ball swept through the ring. We won. We were victorious.

My fingers were broken. Endorphins numbed the pain. They wore off. The pain did not.

Being in Malawi, we did not have easy access to doctors and medics. I did not realise at the time my fingers were broken. As I sit here now, the knuckle of my middle finger on my left hand is suspiciously lumpy.

We won. It was fun. Alas, I maintain...Sport is the Devil.

Malawi

This month, my focus shifted from my marathon training to my pre-arranged travels to Malawi. While I could sit here and type endlessly relaying my tales of the beautiful country, I’d rather keep this blog focused on my sporting efforts.

However, please feel free to browse my other blog which gives an account of my travels (complete with photographs). For more, check out http://onesetoftrafficlights.wordpress.com/

The Potential Movie Poster.

Mon Marathon et Moi - The Movie

When this blog is inevitably made into a film, Gemma Hayes “Ran for Miles” will be the song that’s played over the dramatic montage trailer.

I’d like to be played by Charlene McKenna. We’ve the same colouring and I think she has the potential to be an international star. I’d imagine she’s slightly shorter than I, but we can over look that. The Scot will be played by Kyle Howard, charming and endearing. The story of course will centre on my struggle to the finish line, battling obstacles along the way. Of course, there will be conflict. I imagine it would read something like this:

“Mon Marathon et Moi” is a charming tale of love, courage and self-discovery. Based on actual events, the film follows Cassie (McKenna), a wide eyed and witty journalism student, with big dreams and an even bigger mouth. Cassie meets a handsome and endearing Scottish man (Howard). The Scot is a committed and successful sportsman. Cassie, stubborn and ignorant, underestimates the skill and agility of the athlete and enters into a deal with The Scot to run the Paris Marathon.

As the challenge progress’s, so too does the relationship between Cassie and The Scot. Cassie learns not only how to run, but also self-discipline and commitment. The seemingly opposed worlds of the sporty scot and the juvenile journalist become intricately intertwined. Love and friendship blossoms, but struggles continue to build.

As the long distance relationship with The Scot proves to be too much, Cassie is faced with the decision to run the marathon, a phenomenal distance, alone. As obstacles mount, it is uncertain whether the forlorn Cassie has the motivation and ability to succeed. The Marathon becomes more than just a distance, but rather a journey from inexperienced student to a disciplined young woman.

McKenna is superb in the role, perfectly replicating the enchantment and sincerity of a young Cassie Delaney (now a highly successful and renowned author and publisher). Likewise Howard is handsome, captivating and positively irresistible.

A must see for all those who believe in strength, love and the human potential for greatness.

“Magnificent! *****” – Empire

“One of the greatest successes of our time. If we could give more than 5 stars we would! *****” – Total Film

*FADE TO BLACK*

Cue: Ran for Miles

Fin.

What has happened to Declan?

Declan Moffit.

Inspirational.

Poor Poor Pheidippides

As one of the earliest recorded battles, The Battle of Marathon is considered one of the most famous military engagements. It is believed the Greek’s victory over the Persians, instilled a confidence in the countries defence mechanisms. Unafraid of foreign attack, people congregated into cities and towns for the first time. These towns multiplied, each establishing cultures and traditions, thus beginning to define Greek, and even modern European culture.

Circa September 490 BC, a Persian armada of 600 ships discharged an invasion force of approximately 20,000 infantry and cavalry on Greek soil just north of Athens. Previously, Greece has been instrumental in supporting their Ionian cousins who had revolted against Persian rule.

Undaunted by the numerical superiority of the invaders, Athens mobilized 10,000 hoplite warriors to defend their territory. The two armies met on the Plain of Marathon twenty-six miles north of Athens. The flat battlefield surrounded by hills and sea was ideal for the Persian cavalry. Surveying the advantage that the terrain and size of their force gave to the Persians, the Greek generals hesitated.

Greek General, Miltiades made a passionate plea for boldness and convinced his fellow generals to attack the Persians. Miltiades ordered the Greek hoplites to form a line equal in length to that of the Persians. Then, in an act of complete and utter madness, he ordered his Greek warriors to attack the Persian line at a dead run. In the ensuing brawl, the middle of the Greek line weakened and gave way, but the flanks were able to engulf and slaughter the trapped Persians. An estimated 6,400 Persians were slaughtered while only 192 Greeks were killed.

The remaining Persians escaped on their ships and made an attempt to attack what they thought was an undefended Athens. However, the Greek warriors made a forced march back to Athens and arrived in time to thwart the Persians.

The Battle, was indeed momentous. It showed the stealth of the Greek warriors. It showed the conviction and courage of their leader Miltiades. It showed strength. It showed power. It showed hope.

And then there was Pheidippides. Poor poor Pheidippides.

As the story goes, Pheidippides, was a warrior in the great battle. Upon realising the Greek triumph, Pheidippides ran the twenty-six miles from Marathon to Athens to share news of the victory.

Robert Browning commemorated Pheidippides in his 1879 poem, Pheidippides.

“So, when Persia was dust, all cried, "To Acropolis!

Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due!

Athens is saved, thank Pan, go shout!" He flung down his shield

Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the fennel-field

And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through,

Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine through clay,

Joy in his blood bursting his heart, - the bliss!”

Reaching Athens, Pheidippides burst into an assembly, exclaiming "Νενικήκαμεν" (Nenikékamen, 'We have won.')

Then, Pheidippides dropped dead from the exhaustion.

In Paris, April 2011, Pheidippides and I will have that in common.

The Next Day

Note to self: Do not skip stretch number 7.

Day...Quite some time later

"Fail to prepare, prepare to fail"

Okay okay, so I cheated a little bit. I had posted day one, roughly, a month and a half ago. Ashamed by my lack of progress I have copied and pasted my last post into a new blog to give the illusion of commitment to the cause.

With the journalistic skills of conviction bestowed upon me, I could easily type away here and convince you, my loyal readership, that I have been training hard during the past six weeks. I however, will not lie to you. I have not. The closest I came to training was missing a bus and strolling a mile down the road. My research extended as far as having cocktails with Super-fit Stephen who ran a marathon one time. He advised me against it.

Now, despite Stephen's wise words I am determined to struggle on. Partly because this blog is now a college assignment and partly because I really really want to go to Paris in spring.

Alexander Graham Bell once said; "Before anything else, preparation is the key to success".

For most people, I suppose this would mean hiring a personal trainer, maybe even popping into the gym every once in a while. Perhaps even just asking a fit friend for advice.

I am not like most people. I do not have the resources to hire a trainer. I do not care for the gym. I do not want to embarrass myself in front of a fit friend. And so, I consult google.

Exhibit A.

In approximately 15 minutes, I will be fully dressed in my jog-wear, in my kitchen ATTEMPTING these stretches. Except number three, because I can't quite figure out which way the arms are actually going. And perhaps not six either because it just looks a bit crude. Oh and definitely not seven because I know for a fact that I actually cannot do that.

Wish me luck. I will need it.

Jogging Playlist Song of The Day: The Lion King - Be Prepared.

Day One

"Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbour's Jog-wear"

I don't know why I expected to open my wardrobe and find state of the art run wear. From the moment I decided that I was capable of running the 2011 Paris Marathon I envisioned myself clad in Nike therma-training whats-its and Adidas vapour-vanishing something or others. I can picture crossing the finish line, perspiring in Paris, tiny perfectly formed beads of sweat running down my (by then) perfectly toned torso. And perhaps the fantasy finish line is so sweet and vivid in my mind that I've managed to forget the work that it may take to get me there.

The decision to run the marathon was made in a split second, partly because it was mentioned by a very handsome Scot, in a very endearing accent. The first thing that sprang to mind was of course the sultry image of me crossing the finish line, sticky and sweaty, yet positively irresistible. The reality is I am your average, unfit student. I think my dog ate my runners in an act of revolt ages ago. I have never watched a marathon let alone run one. It is approximately 6pm on the day I have appointed as Day One in my official Marathon Training regime and I probably should have know it was off to a bad start when I decided to have muller rice for breakfast. Yet, being the bastard child of Monsieur Stubborn and Lady Ignorant, I have decided to indeed train for this wee marathon and in fact, blog my efforts. It must be noted that writing this blog is in no attempt a way to delay the actual exercise part of this challenge. None what so ever.

I have begun my pre-training preparations. Running playlist. Check. Facebook status update about decision to run marathon. Check. Google image Boutique Parisian Hotel to stay in post-marathon. Check. Sleek running gear. No chance. Florescent blue sale Adidas tracksuit bottoms (roughly one inch too short), green University of Michigan hoody, half-chewed runners. Check.

My last attempt at physical activity did not go so well. It was approximately a year ago and I swear I'm still walking with a certain swagger. I went rock climbing. It was a date. Mistake numbero uno.

I sat next to a torso baring soldier on the edge of a quarry in Killiney. The views were some of the greatest I've ever seen of Dublin bay. As i sat there absoring both beautiful sights it occured to me that i could get used to this. There had been no previous spark between I and the soldier but after the 2nd date, who knew? Things felt like they were picking up. Hopeful and trusting in my budding new relationship I got eqipped with a harness, very unflattering but at this stage I felt it was perhaps okay if soldier saw the true me. I attempted to climb A QUARRY. A flat wall of solid rock on a swealtering hot day. I never led soldier to believe i was a successful climber. In fact, I distinctly informed soldier that at times my spaghetti arms lack the strength to opens doors, let alone hoist me up A QUARRY. But alas, like a fool, I tried. Honestly, I got about 3/4 of the way up THE QUARRY and died a little. I couldnt even feel my arms. I fell. I shouted up to soldier that I had enjoyed my experience but felt it was time to absail back down.

I got to the bottom again and walked up to the top of the climb, which in itself is no walk in the park. It took a fair while, wrestling with bushels and twigs and strange foreigners. I finally returned to soldier, bleeding and scratched, red faced and out of breathe but proud that i had climbed three quaters of a quarry. I was becoming a new person, trying things i never before dreamed of, completing goals i never dreamed possible, enjoying dating people with completely different interests. I bid adue to soldier and hobbled back to my car, taking my time as the climb had me walking suspiciously like John Wayne. I climbed a quarry.

I never heard from soldier again.

Things will be better in Paris. This time, I shall be prepared.

Watch this space.

Jogging Playlist song choice of the day: Miley Cyrus - The Climb