The Achill Half is one of my favourite races and this year I decided to take my motorcycle along for the ride. As children my siblings and I spent our long summer holidays in a remote coastal village called Claggan, I use the term village in the broadest sense of the word – there were no shops, pubs, no church or even a telephone or mail box nearby. It was, and still is, a collection of farm houses generously spaced apart so that you could easily imagine you were the only person around for a thousand miles, and imagination was something that ran wild during those long summer holidays. It seemed to us that we had the most amazing playground; we had mountains, fields, forests and the sea as out toys with cows, donkeys, horses and dogs to keep up company. And freedom… we were free to explore and make that place our own, a rare thing for today’s munchkins!
The journey down was a thrill; in Ireland the further west you travel the better the roads get for motorcycles, it’s usually quite a different story for cars. My route took me from Kildare, north to Meath and then west to West Meath, Longford and into Roscommon where the roads literally take a twist. Travelling through Roscommon you would be forgiven if you thought it the longest county in Ireland; the roads seems to twist and turn so much that by the time you reach the Mayo border it feels like you have travelled in circles for the last hour.
Mayo is a special place for me and entering the county on my motorcycle was a special thrill. I rode through Castlebar in the hope of finding a café for a cappuccino, I settled for a mug of tea and a wedge of fruit cake… back to basics and not a bad thing either. Leaving Castlebar to take the Achill road and headed for Newport, onto Mulranny and Achill. Once I reached the island I had cross the new bridge and ride to Keel, a small seaside village where the race started and finished, and where I had to pick up my race number and timing chip.
With my race pack secured to the bike I headed back to Mulranny where I could pick up the Ballycroy road which brought me under the old bridge that once brought railway to Achill. The road to Ballycroy hugs the coast like no other road I know, and the road is often shared by wandering flocks of sheep do attention at all times is strongly advised. After a few miles I left the main road to take the Claggan road, a road I had travelled a thousand times peering over the shoulders of my Grandparents as we drove along the rocky, uneven roads that would not see asphalt until well into my teenage years… this was a place that time had forgotten and we were grateful for it.
I was staying with my eldest brother who lived in, and was constantly renovating, the house my mother grew up in. The house occupies one corner of a quite cross roads and sits in the corner of one of our fields called The Meadow. Directly and diagonally opposite is the ruin of the house my Grandfather and Great-Grandfather grew up in, that house is right on the edge of a long field called The Stripe that runs all the way to the sea. In another corner sits another one of our fields called The Pound.
We had a pleasant evening and, as usual the night before a race, I had a monster bowl of pasta and a sneaky beer, or two. The next morning I was up early for breakfast. Dressed and ready to get my bike gear on my brother suggests that he drive me out to the race. They say the best stories come from bad decisions, my brother has the some of the best stories and had a feeling there was one right around the corner.
He had travelled that road a thousand times before and was certain it was a mere 20 minute drive, so with 30 minutes before the start we set off. 20 minutes later were driving furiously with our destination nowhere in sight. 25 minutes passed and we were still miles away. The minutes ticked by. 30 minutes and we were getting close. My only hope was a late start which, from experience, was always the case in pretty much every race I had run in Ireland. As we rounded the hill that marked the long decent into Keel I could see that this race was the exception to that rule, we could see police outriders and fast runners making their way towards us. We drove as close as we could to the village and then went off-road and drove as far a we could over the plains that led to the sea and start line. I was still a good half a mile away from the start line when I had to abandon the car and run along the beach to catch up while trying to pin my number to my shirt… a dangerous task at the best of times!
When I got to the start line there were no runners to be seen, but the starting area was packed with spectators who assumed all the runners had left a long time ago. I started to utter the first of many apologies as I fought through the crowd. When I eventually crossed the line my timing chip prompted a loud BEEP from the timing equipment and everyone turned in my direction… and a gap appeared in front of me and I was away!
It took me the best part of a mile to catch up with the slowest walkers, another mile to find the slowest runners. I spend what seemed like the first 5 miles running past people before I started to meet runners closer to my pace. Once I found my pace I started to settle down and enjoy the race. It wasn’t long before I hit the monster hill at mile 9, and no sooner hit I started to climb it but I was over it. 10 miles, then 11 and soon I could see the waves crashing onto Keel beach and I was nearly home.
Not a record breaker but still got in under the 2hr barrier… 01:59:29 (09:07 min/mi). I was very tired and after a little stretching and some food I headed straight for the sea… the best thing for tired legs!
Here’s the map of the route and my race: http://connect.garmin.com/activity/39446997