(aka Seven Deadly Runs)

by Deirdre Hassett

With apologies to the late, great Frank O’Connor. Readers please note that some or all of the below may be marginally or wildly exaggerated and some of it may be a true account of the 2009 Dublin City Marathon. Please take your leisure to figure out which bits.

Scene setting:

October 27th 2009. A beautiful, young (okay, disheveled, thirty something) woman limps into a confessional. A priest draws back the shutter.

Priest: How long is it since your last marathon?

DH: One year, Father. Berlin. I know – I’m well overdue another. I just finished Dublin yesterday.

Priest: Surely you have no sins to confess with a fine race such as Dublin under your belt? (Consults notes). Three hours, 22 minutes. Quite acceptable.

DH: Oh – ahem, sorry – I have loads of sins, Father.

Priest (leaning forward with excitement): Loads! Such as?

DH: Well – sloth, for example.

Priest: Sloth! But you’ve just run the Dublin marathon! How could anyone accuse you of sloth?

DH: I’ve been following the Run Less Run Faster plan. Run your way to marathon success in only three runs a week! I’ve been only doing low thirties in mileage, Father. Tops.

Priest: Low thirties! That’s shameful. How do you expect to run a fast marathon with that sort of mileage?

DH (feebly): In my defence, I have been cross training….

Priest (muttering and writing notes): Cross training won’t cut the mustard. You should be following the example of your good club mates, like Valerie and Brian. They know how to run. Kick the mileage up into the nineties. A few marathons a weekend. That would be more like it. Don’t know how you even broke five hours on thirty miles a week. Anything else?

Deadly Sins ?

DH: Gluttony, Father. I’ve just been hungry all the time. Pre-breakfast snack, breakfast, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea, pre-run snack, post-run snack, dinner. I can’t stop eating. The cashiers in Dunne’s think I manage a hurling team. And I had four gels during the marathon. Just in case. You never know when hypoglycemia is gonna strike, that’s my theory.

Priest: Well, I can see that you have an inner Paula Radcliffe trying to get out but you look like you’ve already eaten her (giggles).

DH (spluttering with indignation): And I felt a lot of anger. All those selfish people in the Portaloo queue. Doing Lawd knows what. Big marathon pre-race number twos. And here we were, Lady Team Athenry, crossing our legs for need of a quick wee. So we took matters into our own hands, Father. I can only tell you that there are some flowerpots on Merrion Row which won’t need watering for a while. (Pauses, then adds hastily) Not that it was my idea!

Priest: Haarumph! Not ladylike at all.

DH: Oh, and pride. Such pride I’ve been feeling at finishing another marathon! Is that bad? Sure, I thought I was a rock star; coming down Nassau Street, all the love I was getting from the crowd. I was just glad that Adrian Fitz had moved himself off the 26 mile mark by the time I got there; it would have totally wrecked my buzz if I had to step over his body. I’ve been wearing my new beige (is it taupe?) “I ran Dublin City Marathon 2009 and all I got was this Lousy T-Shirt” shirt for the past two days, in bed and all. It’s getting a bit whiffy now, actually….

Priest: I can tell. Does it actually say that on the front?

DH: Well, something like that. I’m suffering from terrible greed, too. I want it all. To run forever, in the autumn sun, yellow leaves, happy endorphins, all downhill, passing people out. Such a great race! I want to do it all again!

Priest: Now, I think you’re imagining the whole race was like mile twenty two. Roebuck Road is all very well for ya. But you weren’t so happy at mile twelve, now, were you, hmmmm? Puffing and sweating! Is that all?

DH: No. Envy and lust, Father.

Priest (with sudden enthusiasm, breathily): Lust! Tell me about it!

DH: I have a terrible lust for hardware, Father. Medals! Trophies! I thought about robbing Mick Rice’s master’s medal on the way back from the Ballybofey half last month, I was so envious, only I was afeared he’d throw me out of the car somewhere in Sligo. And I even did up an algorithm to work out our best chances of winning a marathon championship team medal between seniors and masters. Except I kept getting the same answer. We were going to have to kidnap JaneAnn Green and fill her with Red Bull.

Priest (Slightly disappointed, but still hopefully): Any impure thoughts, my child?

DH: Sure only the f**ckin’ sports massages nearly killed me!

(A veil may be drawn over the scene at this point).