Notes from the pit of exhaustion

It took every last drop of energy I had, but on Friday I completed my 1,400-mile run around Ireland

Breaking the finishing tape on Ha’Penny Bridge.

I did it, folks. With the final few embers, blowing on them hard to get one last shimmer of energy out of that almost dead fire in my body, I somehow did it. 

On Friday I completed my 1,400-mile (2,250km) run around Ireland.

It was all going so well until a few days before the end. I’d cruised from Belfast out to Lisburn along the canal path the previous Sunday, feeling strong and lean - fitter than I’ve felt in years.

Then, midway through Monday, Marietta rang me in surprise. “You’re nearly there already! You’re flying!” I was running 30 miles down to Newcastle, at the foot of the Mourne Mountains. It was mostly flattish roads and I was eating them up.

Tuesday was 24 miles through the Mournes. The sun was out and although the going was tough, both in terms of the elevation, and also the rough terrain underfoot, I had a wonderful day, stopping to take photos, drinking in the views. I arrived in Rostrevor, at the foot of Northern Ireland, in reasonable stead. It was a beautiful evening, the golden light basking everything in a picture-book glow.

The Mournes, Northern Ireland.

Later that evening, though, I started feeling shivery and weak. I’d felt like this before on other nights, particularly after a tough day like today, and I was always fine in the morning, so I climbed into bed early. A good sleep was all I needed. 

But that night I didn’t sleep at all. I was sweating so much that by morning my T-shirt was completely drenched. I felt weak all over, like I had the flu.

Luckily I was running with the mighty Eoin Mack that day, a guy from Limerick who had run with me on three previous days, back in Beara, and then again in Clare. He’d keep me going, I was sure.

And he did, though we cut the distance down near the end by sticking it out on the main road, braving the lorries and cars flashing us as we emerged out of the driving rain. Eoin seemed oblivious, chatting away happily. By the end, my hands were frozen, but we’d made it the 20 miles to Drogheda.

The plan for the next day, though - Thursday - was 30 miles, and the forecast was for even heavier rain and a strong northerly wind. Luckily Eoin was up for more.

The mighty Eoin Mack.

Again, that night, I didn’t sleep, despite being in a bed in my cousin’s house. All night I could feel my body leaking water. I could feel the droplets emerging through my skin and then dripping across my body. The sheets were wet, yet I had no choice but to lie there, soaked in it.

The weather forecast didn’t lie, and we woke to a storm. But the wind was sort of behind us, so I was still somehow optimistic when we set off. We then got shunted down onto a beach, the waves crashing, the bitter wind driving us south at a good rate. But then the sand turned to uneven rocks, then back to sand. Then we were running the edge of the cliff. It was wild and wonderful, but even with thermal gloves on my fingers felt like they might snap. And my body was slowly shutting down. That flu-like feeling of weakness was all-consuming. I just wanted to lie down. Added to this, I couldn’t eat anything. I felt sick, and every time I tried to eat, I started gagging and had to spit the food out. 

And so, for the first time on the entire run, I decided to finish a day early. When I first mentioned it to Eoin, he was fine about it. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “If it’s not fun, then just stop.”

He made it sound so simple. But wasn’t I being weak? Wasn’t I just moaning?

“Moaning in underrated,” he said. “It’s better than all that toxic positivity. That’s just denying reality.”

I know I was exhausted, but his words made me want to cry, both at the sentiment, but also at his kindness, to see that I really needed to stop, and to tell me it was OK. We made it to a town called Skerries, 17 miles in to the run, and settled into a warm coffee shop where I called Marietta and asked her to rescue me.

That night I was again feverish, and I woke up barely able to get out of bed. This was supposed to be the last day, the final 15 miles to Ha’Penny Bridge in Dublin, where the run first began back in July. I couldn’t miss this. I had to make it somehow. But I was annoyed I felt so terrible. It was supposed to be a day of celebration, a magical final day, a short run that I could ease through, taking in the magnitude of what we’d done these last 10 weeks, basking in it. But I couldn’t see how it was going to be any of those things now, with this malaise set in.

And then, by some miracle, with about an hour to go before the start of the run, it was like a cloud suddenly lifted. I stood up, walked around. I didn’t feel too bad. It was like my body had found one last pocked of secret energy and had decided that I really needed it.