CONFINED TO watching the Dublin Marathon, but with the added interest of someone who nearly entered, I was struck by the high number of runners this year who were openly using performance- enhancing chemicals.
I believe the main substance involved is called xylene, or possibly methylbenzene. At any rate, it’s a key component of indelible markers. And even a casual observer could see that many participants had used such markers to write their names in sweat-resistant lettering across their singlets: thereby ensuring that complete strangers in the crowd would identify them and cheer them on like friends.
It’s possible that a few of these, such as the man who high-fived me and other spectators as he passed the 10-mile mark, had also been inhaling the markers. But most of them were happy to settle for the motivating effect of hearing their names called out repeatedly along the route.
A few even supplied short lines of script for spectators, eg: “Go Johnny” or (an actual example) “Run, fat man, run!” This is perhaps not such a good idea. If you hear the same line a hundred times along the route, after all, the effects are bound to wear off eventually.
Whereas the beauty of supplying spectators with your name and then allowing them to improvise makes it harder to tell the complete strangers from the people who know you, thus maximising the benefit of their support.
It wasn’t just because of my near-entry that I went out to watch the race this year. The experience of struggling though a half-marathon recently gave me a new appreciation of the role played by road-race spectators. It doesn’t matter that you know they’re lying when they say things like: “You’re looking great – keep it up”. It still feels good; all the more so when you’re in pain.
So although I postponed my marathon-running debut till another time, Monday marked my debut as a full-blown marathon supporter: one of those people who clap all the participants and shout things like “That’s great running, Raheny Shamrocks!” or “Well done, Paddy – keep it up and you’ll break six hours.” Even at this, I found, you have to pace yourself. In fact, I made the common rookie mistake of clapping too strenuously when the men’s race leaders – a group of Kenyans, Ethiopians, and Russians – shot past like a fleet of deer; and then, again a few minutes later, when the elite Irish runners followed, like deer-hunters.
Not only do these people need the encouragement less. But if you go off too hard as a race supporter, you soon have sore hands and tired arms. And by the time the most deserving runners arrive, you’ve probably hit the dreaded wall, where you just can’t bring yourself to applaud another damned athlete.
As it was, despite positioning myself at the 10-mile mark, when the time between the front and back of the race is not yet measured in hours, I had to take several breathers.
There’s something oddly moving about the relationship between marathon-runners and spectators. Self-inflicted as it was, the sight of so much human suffering – even at the 10-mile mark, there were runners for whom you feared the later stages – is a kind of Beckettian drama. You know that many competitors are having an internal dialogue of the “I can’t go on. I’ll go on” variety; or if they’re not having it yet, they will be soon.
That strangers come out to cheer them on – or having come out to support a friend or family member, extend their support to the rest of the field – is deeply impressive. In my case, I was conscious of at least partly faking such generosity of spirit; and maybe so was everyone else. But some people have a natural flair for this sort of thing. Even when they were reading the names off singlets, they sounded like genuine friends.
And then there are occasional moments that make you well up. Like when the on-duty garda beside me, who until then had been watching passively, spotted one of the wheelchair competitors – a real friend clearly – and suddenly abandoned all reserve: hunkering down by the side of the road and clenching both fists as urged his man on.
Amid all the obvious pain in a marathon, however, there are always people for whom merely running 26 miles is not enough. The man who completed Monday’s race in full army fatigues, for example. And Batman. The latter competitor not only wore a full bat costume. From where I was standing, he also appeared to be carrying a bit of a belly; and it didn’t look like of those light prosthetic ones either.
Why anyone would add to the hardship of the task in this manner is a mystery. And yet, the runner under the costume probably enjoyed more personalised encouragement – after a fashion – than anyone else in the race. So between that and being constantly reminded of his superhuman powers, he may well have had method in his batness.
- fmcnally@irishtimes.com