The marathon runners have all been congratulated but did anybody spare a thought for the poor spouses who suffered from Marathon Suffering Spouse Syndrome, asks Maura Kearns
Well, thank God it's finally over. As a spouse of a newly addicted marathon runner who is now affectionately known as Marathon Man, believe me, I too have felt the pain of participating in a marathon for the past few months.
You may have read about all the right foods to eat, the clothes to wear, the websites to visit, the training regimes to follow and six hundred million different ways of getting around that bloody wall but did any of you spare a thought for the poor spouses who suffered from MSSS (Marathon Suffering Spouse Syndrome)?
I had it, my friend Finola had it and I bet thousands of other spouses suffered from it.
And boy oh boy, no one warned us about that last week leading up to the marathon aka "The Final Countdown" as copious amounts of Irish Timesarticles on how to get through the week were stuck to the fridge.
There's the advice from the marathon-participating journalist, the veteran marathon runner, the marathon coach, the physiotherapists and then the strategically placed one - highlighted in pink - the nutritionist's advice on the right foods, ie pasta, carbs, rice, potatoes and wait for it . . . energy-inducing gels.
You see, MSSS does not have obvious outside visual symptoms, it's a thing that gets bottled up inside. It's that awful inside submerged bubbling feeling where you want to scream "I don't care about your run, I don't give a fiddlers about the pace, I'd rather stick needles in my eyes so go away", but instead you smile and force MSSS back by perfectly feigning that earnest "I really am interested in your training darling" look on your forehead.
We sat and got excited about the new watch gadget thingy that got strapped on before every run and ripped of with such excited anticipation as the calibrated data uploaded onto the PC to tell Marathon Man his heart pace minute by minute, moment by moment and mile by mile.
We had to look, listen and lap it all up and offer all the ooohs and aaahs that one normally reserves for children - under five.
I escaped the first two Adidas runs in the Phoenix Park where Marathon Man and his buddy, who we'll call Limerick Lad, headed off in seriously serious silent competition.
Oh they were friends alright but they were going to beat the crap out of each other no matter what and, believe me, beating the crap out of another runner by 1.234567 seconds is enough in this game. They smiled and encouraged each other but behind each other's backs they jumped for victorious joy and blasted their I-pods which, by the way, are now coolly stuck to their arms with this rubber cover jobbie that doesn't keep the rain or the badly directed cups of Ballygowan water out - ha!
Finola, wife of Limerick Lad, suffered too. Many times she seriously considered calling an ambulance after Limerick Lad, having added an extra 3.415 miles to his route, flopped in the back door to announce to her that he's too old for this game (at 39).
But he still proceeded to ask her if she would like to see his new route on his same watch gadget thingy that Marathon Man has. When she smiled and thought: "This too, shall pass," he then excitedly asked if she would like to see his really large blisters.
Which, of course, led to the conversation about all the things that can happen to Marathon Man and Limerick Lad on the day of the real marathon.
You see, us innocent marathon spouse sufferers assumed they got out there and put on a pair of big spongy runners, ran for hours, passed the wailing wall, flopped home, got a big shiny medallion and sailed into their 40s - proud.
But, oh no. My German painter, Mr Super Marathon Man who politely blasted Marathon Man's minutes per miles into oblivion, sternly warned him all about the friction burns, blisters, bleeding nipples and clapped- out joints. This worried Finola and myself slightly into the realisation that this was actually quite serious so we had better get over MSSS and offer some real support.
So I googled "healthy high carbohydrate dinners" and decided to go to Marathon Man's half-marathon in the Phoenix Park and bring along the three children. Marathon Man had left out clearly identified maps of his location and timings for each mile.
So I studied them carefully simulating complete understanding and plonked ourselves at the eight-mile mark which, thanks to the lovely Adidas organisers, also acted as the Start and the Finish.
Yipeee! Then we waited and waited and waited and the moaning started: "Where is Daddy? He is sooo slow. Millions of other people have passed him out. Can he not go faster? Why is he not first or second or third even? I'm thirsty . . . "
MSSS started to creep back in again. "Feckin' Marathon Man dragging me out here on a Saturday morning", having to stand here and clap everyone else on because that really nice man on the PA is announcing that we have to and because "Johnny is 65 and it's his 456th Marathon and give him a nice clap now everyone".
"Gawd," I moaned, "do they not stop after one?" Then Marathon Man appeared waving and smiling and then he was gone.
So here we are today and we waited at the finish. Waited and waited and waited and watched while all the other MSSS sufferers cheered on their own little Marathon Men.
And then I got kind of excited, excited for Marathon Man as he had a target time in mind and as I watched the big clock at the finish I realised that he was actually going to make it and it was finally over.
I found myself cheering him on and watching in awe at some Marathon Men who unbelievably found the energy to sprint across the finish line and just pip their buddy in that happy half-camaraderie way that they do.
On the way home, as I blocked out the excited talk of the London or Boston marathon between Marathon Man and Limerick Lad, I looked back at all the other Marathon Men massaging their calves, eating their bananas and looking generally satisfied with themselves and thought: "I think I actually get this now," and more importantly I think I understand the reward.
Feck it, I might even do the damn thing myself next year. Well done, Marathon Men and well done all Marathon Suffering Spouses.
Now, who wants a Chinese and a bottle of wine?