'Battle for mid-table mediocrity'

Open the sports section of any newspaper and you read articles

about elite sportsmen and women, a soccer player who scores a

wondrous goal, a hurler who drives a ball over the bar from the

touchline or an athlete who breaks his or her own national

record. However for each elite athlete, there are a thousand

athletes who are battling for what could be termed mid-table

mediocrity. And these battles can play themselves out in many

different forms. The Loughrea 5k was one such battle for me and

Athenry AC stalwart James Lundon (J.L.), my nemesis for the past

three years or so.

To describe my competition with J.L. in gaelic football terms, I

would say it is similar to midland rivals Westmeath and Offaly

meeting in the first round of the Leinster football championship.

Neither team has a chance of winning the All Ireland final and

being realistic, both teams have only the remotest chance of even

winning a provincial final. But they are neighbours and although

victory celebrations are muted, losing is noted.

Fast forward to the start line in Loughrea. A fine evening, what

seems like a strong crowd of over 200 runners and a high level of

organisation which we take for granted at these races at this

stage. Position myself at the front of the field. Beside the

poster boys of the Galway athletics scene, Johnny O'Connor and

Alan Burke. These guys warm up by running the race route

beforehand, get an idea of the hills, wind direction, kilometre

markers. My warm-up involves running from the registration hall

to the starting line. A token stretch and ready for action.

However unknown to everyone the battle for mid-table mediocrity

has begun. I look over for J.L., he has spotted me and the hand

goes up.

Whistle goes...

One kilometre... I am trying to find my position. The previous week

in Craughwell I gauged myself against Michelle Lynch, keep her in

your sights and you are running well. No Michelle Lynch tonight.

Never use a stopwatch, give it one hundred percent and the time

will look after itself. No sign of JL.

Two kilometres... I have found my markers; Julian Connelly, a sub

19 minute man for 5 k and Tommy Porter, mister consistent of

running. Possibly gone out too fast. I think I see Peter Delmer

not far ahead; if that is the case I have definitely gone out too

fast. No sign of J.L.

Three kilometres... I've hit a lull. Julian is getting away.

Tommy is maintaining the gap between us. My mindset changes;

question now is: 'Where is J.L?'

3.5 kilometres... Dig deep to pass Tommy.

3.6 kilometres... Silence behind me.

3.7 kilometres... The inevitable, silence is broken by the thud

of a runner behind. The thud is unique to one man. J.L. Not

going to look around.

3.8 kilometres... J.L. is alongside. No words exchanged. This

kilometre has been all uphill and I am flat out.

3.9 kilometres... J.L. is gone ahead.

Four kilometres... Sh*t or bust... Sprint! I use that word

loosely as I am sure that Gerry Ryan would laugh if I told him

this is a sprint. Pass J.L.

4.9 kilometres... Somebody in the crowd shouts 'Come on James'.

Panic sets in and I make a lunge for the line.

Five kilometres... Finish in a time of 19:13. A p.b! James

follows five seconds behind, also a p.b.

As Derek 'Del Boy' Trotter would say: 'Everyone is a winner.'

David Dunne.