I met Jonathan
Beverly through an email running list on the Internet. He's an
American who was based in Brussels, Belgium at the time and writing for US running
magazines. We met early in 1999 for lunch in a pub in Irishtown
when his wife was over in Ireland on business. I told him about
the mountain running scene in Ireland - he'd never run a mountain
race before - and he resolved to make a second trip in 1999 to
do a couple of our races. He's since become editor of the US
magazine "Running Times". Now read on - Douglas Barry
An Extract from the Travel Diary of American Runner Jonathan Beverly Bray Head:
Hiding from the pouring rain under the awning
of a shop front on the Bray promenade at 7:30 p.m. Wednesday night
with 80 other fools dressed only in shorts, t-shirts and mud-splattered
shoes, one of my companions said, "This is mad." We
all agreed, then headed out into the rain to line up at the base
of the road heading up the Head. Standing on the top of a wall
hanging onto a light pole to keep from being blown off in the
wind, Douglas described the course including reference to the electric fence we
had to cross which may or may not be on (a comforting thought
in the rain).
He ran back to the car parked at the finish
and a volunteer took his place and started us by waving his hat.
The field sorted itself out on the ascent up the road around
the end of the lower hill. A few minutes later we exited the
road for a series of concrete steps, then entered the trail.
While warming up, I had fallen in with a runner named "Paul"
who had taken me nearly to the top of the first hill, so I was
prepared for the trail and the steep, muddy and root-strewn face
of the hillside that we soon encountered. The trail actually
circles to the right, but mountain running rules do not prohibit
"short-cuts," although whether or not they save time
is a matter of debate. Regardless, the whole field was moving
straight up the hill, spreading out between the trees in attempts
to find the best route and to pass slowing runners.
At the top of the sloping face we left the
trees, the incline levelled some and we picked our way across
a rocky slope with gorse bushes slashing at our ankles and calves.
We were in the cloud now with visibility no more than 20 feet.
I was working harder than anticipated at this point, and enjoying
the ability to run a bit rather than stumble uphill, so when the
runner in front of me turned left for another short-cut up what
looked like a sheer rock face, I kept going on the trail, then
wondered if I'd made a mistake when I was suddenly alone in the
mist. But I caught sight of the red and white ribbon tied to
a brush marking the route and soon could see the white shirt of
another runner moving up hill in front of me. Around the corner
we climbed hard again, then crested the summit where a volunteer
encouraged us and sent us on down the back side. The runners who
had taken the short cut emerged from the mist through the rocks
to the left and fell in just where they had left.
Starting down my legs were trashed - wooden
pegs with rocks attached to the bottom - and I was glad that the
trail was a forgiving narrow road way that let them recover enough
to again feel the contours and respond. We followed this road
along the face of the hill, splashing through puddles and catching
glimpses of the surf against the rocky cliff hundreds of feet
below. A 4 foot wooden gate blocked the route and I followed
the example of the runners before me and vaulted it with only
a little stumble on the far side. A mile or so later we turned
up the hill to the right to ascend to the true summit.
Here we began the true mountain running over
spongy grasses and rocky scree. I followed the runner ahead of
me on another shortcut over a small ridge which also did not gain
us any ground as we joined the flow coming around the end at the
same spot as we left it. Just below the final ascent another
volunteer (all of them standing in the rain this whole time) directed
us over the electric fence which thankfully was not on. Rounding
the corner we made way for the leaders on their way down - Paul
Nolan whom I'd met and Noel Berkeley, who I later found out is
the Irish national 10,000 meter champion. Up the rocky mound
to the summit the wind picked up and the rain felt like hail,
so after circling the small stone pillar there, we descended straightaway,
with nothing to see but more mist anyway. I had traded places
with a runner the last half mile - gaining on the ascents and losing on the descents,
and now he pulled away going down.
I did my best to relax on the slippery, rocky
descent but didn't push it. When we hit the road I could here
footsteps close behind me and I opened up my stride. I hadn't
noticed how much we had climbed on this stretch, but now we were
flying down a long gradual decline with the wind in our face,
throwing up mud and water with each long stride. I found myself
grinning a wide, opened mouth grin like Eric Liddell in Chariots
of Fire (or at least the actor who played him) and thoroughly
enjoying myself. I missed a right turn and splashed into an ankle
deep puddle - the runner behind me called me back and I splashed
back across and continued ahead of him.
When we started back up to the first summit
he suddenly disappeared and I was alone over the rocks and down
the muddy trail through the trees. Here I descended bouncing back
and forth from step to step, expected anytime for someone to come
flying past, but slowly getting used the rhythm and picking up
pace so when I did finally hear footsteps I was far enough down
to try to pick up the pace and hold him off. I did until we got
down to the road, when he opened a huge stride and went around
me. But I matched him and we flew around the corner side by side
until the final 100 meters when he found one more gear and I decided
not to do that to my legs today and let him go.
Several runners jumped into the ocean in their
clothes after, but I couldn't shake the fear of the cold Atlantic
that I'm familiar with from Maine and opted to go back to my guest
house just up the hill and quickly shower and change before heading
to the pub for warm drinks and conversation with a large group
of the runners until late that evening. The next day I met Douglas
at his house in the middle of a construction zone (I hope they've
finished for your sake, Douglas) and we talked about the history
of the IMRA before I packed my little red rental Ford Fiesta and
headed west. I thoroughly enjoyed driving in Ireland, the additional
challenges of driving on the left side, a stick shift and the
narrow winding roads making it a gratifying accomplishment in
itself as well as transportation.
Carrauntoohil (roughly pronounced Car-un-Tool):
Bray Head was just a warm up for the real reason
of my trip: the ascent of Carrauntoohil, Ireland's highest mountain
in County Kerry. I wasn't quite prepared for the beauty of this
region and quickly fell in love with the mixture of wild mountains
and pastoral lowlands surrounded by beaches and rocky coastline.
Friday morning I found the start on the side of a narrow road
on the west side of the mountains and climbed about halfway up,
taking pictures and scouting the difficulties of the route, which
included weather (I got rained on 4 times during my hike on an
otherwise sunny day and wind buffeted me the whole time I was
above the first ridge), the incline (steeper than anything I've
run before), and terrain (rocks and scree above 1500 feet, bogs
below, which I discovered by having one foot disappear well up
my calf in a split second of sucking sound). But mostly I found
myself standing on the ridge looking over incredible scenery with
the wind in my face and the feeling that I'd come home.
That afternoon John Lenihan, a former world
champion and 11 time winner of the race, met me in Castleisland
and led me to his dairy farm up increasingly narrow roads until
we climbed his rutted, rocky driveway barely wide enough for one
car and nearly as steep as the Carrauntoohil ascent. We talked
for about an hour over tea, then he showed me a video he had made
for Irish school children which included scenes on top of Carrauntoohil
as well as other rough off-road running in the area. I was surprised
at how much the terrain and technique on the lower, boggy hills
reminded me of the runs I do in the valleys and sand-hills of
Western Nebraska where my wife's family lives - heading across
country with no heed for trails, jumping small overhangs, fording
streams and picking a path through waist high brush (gorse and
heather here, sagebrush and cactii in Nebraska). Farther up it
looked more like the rocky trails of Maine, but steeper and sharper
than my experience.
Saturday was spent touring Muckross gardens
and Dingle Peninsula with my wife - scenery which caused me to
evaluate my oft-repeated assertion that my home state is the prettiest
place on earth. If you ever have the chance - go. We were blessed
with sunshine most of the day, which made the green of the fields
luminescent and reflected off the ocean and lakes. At Slea Head
we watched a storm move in, swallow the Blaskets and the rocky
cliffs, pour on us, and move on past, leaving a rainbow leading us
back west.
Race day was overcast when I got up, but when
I left the hotel I could see the tops of the mountains and some
sun was coming through.I arrived about an hour in advance and
drove past the 3 or 4 cars parked at the trail head to drop Tracy
off at the base of the lake around the corner where she planned
to walk the 3 km dirt road behind it then back to the start.
Vivian O'Gorman was handling registration out of the back of his
car, and asked me if this was my first time - when I told him
I had run Bray Head on Wednesday he smiled a knowing smile and
said, "You'll be fine then." I paid my 4 quid and got
my same number (they collect them after each race and runners
use the same number throughout the season).
The first runner I met was Francis Cosgrave,
who had come in second the last four years. He told me he had
been injured in a race in Tasmania, and had just started training
again but he felt pretty good. Lenihan showed up soon after and
the two warmed up together. Not all of the runners were of international
caliber: I met several, such as Eddy, who had started running
the shorter Wed. night runs and now were looking to tackle some
of the bigger mountains. "I'm a bit concerned about this,"
Eddy admitted, "But figure I can walk it if I have to. I
just want to make it up and back down. I'll be happy with 2 and
1/2 hours" (Incidentally, he made his goal, finishing in
2:20:43). I met two Scotsmen who found out while talking that
both had the goal of running the highest peaks in the 5 nations
- all of them have an organized race up them. Two other runners
had American accents - one a Canadian from Vancouver who now lives
in Ireland and was wearing a warm up suit covered in Eco Challenge
logos, the other an Iowan who was bicycling around Kerry with
his wife (girlfriend?) and happened across the IMRA Mountain Race
registration sign this morning and decided to give it a go.
The weather was near perfect: the first summits
fully visible and the cloud cover that remained appearing to be
happy staying far above the peaks. We talked about the route,
our experience, strategies and fears, but eventually we had to
line up and actually do this thing. 37 of us jumped the gate
and walked up to the first corner, looking up at the rocky peak
above, then someone said go.
I suspected I had crossed some line between
civilized society and feral man when, after losing my shoe for
the second time, I simply pulled it out of the muck and charged
on down the hill, galloping along with one shoe on and one off,
arms akimbo, eyes teared from the wind, snot covering my face
and a huge smile on my lips. I knewI had crossed the line when
surveying the terrain ahead it occurred to me that I could make
up the time I would lose getting my shoe back on, if instead of following the runner
in front of me down to the end of the ridge and across the base
of the valley, I simply headed straight across - and rather than
dismissing it as a foolish idea I found my legs altering course
and plunging me off the near vertical edge of the ridge toward
the bog below. But I'm getting way ahead of myself...
The race up Carrauntoohil starts on a road,
which would lead you to believe it would be gentle. But this is
no normal road - roughly paved with concrete, it heads straight
up the hill. The first half mile it climbs nearly a thousand
feet. I started gently, I thought, but was only a few meters
back of the leaders for the first few minutes. Within a few hundreds
yards the field sorted out: Lenihan and Cosgrave were side by
side, 4 or 5 experienced Irish runners formed the second pack,
then a few stragglers which included me, pushing our way slowly
up the incline with tiny steps off the end of our toes.
I could still see the leaders when they turned
the corner at the top - and Lenihan and already opened up what
looked like a 10 meter lead with Cosgrave falling to 3rd. I eventually
reached that point, where the road turns 90 degrees to the right
and follows the contour along the hillside, still ascending at
a rate that would be considered a good hill in a road race but
feeling like level ground after the climb. Lenihan had warned
me that I would feel as "knackered" after that first
ascent as I would at the summit, and I hoped he was right because
I was sure I wouldn't reach the summit if I felt worse. But the
moderate incline let me stride out and recover, and after passing
a few runners, I fell in behind a middle aged man wearing only
shorts and shoes and carrying his shirt in his hand.
The road rounded the end of a high rocky peak
and then curved up to the left, crossing a concrete bridge before
a steep climb to the mouth of Coomlaughra, a open ended, cup shaped
valley holding three lakes and surrounded by peaks -- the summit
of Carrauntoohil straight ahead of us. To get there, however,
we would have to circle the lip of the cup up the ridge to the
right, over the three summits of Mt. Caher and along the narrow
ridge line between the mountains outlined against the sky in front
of us. I followed the bareback runner through the bog at the mouth
of the valley, all the while trying unsuccessfully to see Lenihan
farther up the ridge. It discouraged me to think he was already
out of sight.
I had looked forward to getting off the road
and onto the grassy slope, but as we climbed onto the ridge I
was surprised how difficult the running was - not only were we
ascending rapidly, but the terrain afforded only two options:
either lifting my feet high to mount the grassy tufts or stepping
along the wet and winding "trail" and extracting each
stride from the boggy surface. Both took effort and I found myself
alternating strategies as I fatigued, never establishing a comfortable
rhythm. Farther up, although still difficult underfoot, the contour
levelled some and I bounced along in a rough trot. Looking ahead
I realized the ridge was much longer than I anticipated and I
had been looking too high for Lenihan. Now he was clearly visible,
already reaching the bottom of the open face of Caher, the other
runners spread out in a jagged line down the ridge behind him.
The face of the mountain looked steep and huge as his tiny figure
began ascending it.
I had passed the bareback runner and was now
following a younger runner in green pants. I watched as he began
alternating running with what I called "mountain walk"
a forward lean from the waist with knees lifting below the chest.
He would occasionally place his hands on his knees to assist
the stride or put them behind his back like a speed skater.
I tried both and felt the different muscles they used, still preferring
the upright running position with short toe-offs "bounding"
me up the hill. The wind was blowing hard off our left shoulder
- straight off the Atlantic - and I worried several times about
losing the cap I was wearing. I began taking pictures with my
pocket camera I had tucked in my shorts - some in front of me
of the runners going up the ridge and the mountain face and some
behind with the views out over the valley all the way to Dingle
Bay and the peninsula beyond.
As we approached the face of Caher the incline
increased and my calves started screaming at me that they were
never going to make it to the top if they didn't have relief.
A tendon on the inside of my left ankle also started popping,
feeling like a branch was hitting my ankle with each stride.
I discovered that using the "mountain walk" with a flat
footed plant alleviated both, and I actually gained on green pants,
but after a few minutes of that, my hamstrings and lower back
told me they were now taking the strain, so I rested them with
a few minutes of toe running. And so it went, leaving the boggy
ground for grassy and rocky scree, that giving way to pure rocks
as we climbed higher. Strangely, the wind subsided on the lower
slope (perhaps we were in the shadow of the other side of the
cup?), leaving it quiet except for our labored breaths, but blew
stronger as we climbed higher onto Caher.
Slowly the face we were climbing narrowed,
and soon the summit of Carrauntoohil was visible to our left,
with the dark ridge leading across to it over the long steep drop
to the lakes below. I passed Green Pants somewhere along here
and gained some on Orange Shorts, my full energy now focussed
fully on the point above. I was walking much more than running,
only taking a few running strides now and then to straighten up
and rest my hams. I was very glad when I caught sight of the rock
cairn marking the first summit and even happier when I reached
it and the volunteer there with water. I squirted some in my mouth,
then asked if he could watch over my hat while I crossed the ridge.
He gladly accepted and placed it under a rock for safe keeping.
The descent of the far side of Caher began
an entirely new phase of the race. Here the rocks were piled
haphazardly on top of each other and "running" down
it consisted of small leaps back and forth between footplants.
The ridge fell away vertically to the left and was steeper than
I'd want to tumble down to the right, with another lake visible
down in the wide valley behind the mountains. I picked my way
along, aware that my right shoe wasn't as tight as I'd like it,
but unwilling to stop and try to retie the double knots. I was
happy to see Orange Shorts reach the bottom of this gap, where
the rocks gave way again to a wide scree ridge and another open
face up the true summit of Caher. I ran across the ridge and most
of the way up this summit, taking more pictures on the ascent.
Past the next summit the trail ran along crevices
in the sharp stone ridge, now steep on both sides. I marvelled
on the spectacular views but didn't dare to stop for a picture
since the running was quite fast although we balanced precariously
on the narrow path. Several times the crevice I was following
petered out and I had to jump to a new one, once coming to a dead
end about 5 feet above the next surface. I dropped down using
both hands and kept running. I could hear a runner gaining behind
me, but he didn't seem anxious to pass.
Along this section I looked up to see Lenihan
flying toward me, his long hair streaming around his head and
a look of relaxed concentration on his face. I pulled above the
trail and snapped a picture of him as he flew effortlessly by.
The runner behind me caught me then, a young guy wearing black
tights and white t-shirt, and I told him to go on ahead but he
said no - you're doing fine leading. Supposedly there is a third
summit of Caher here, but I only recall working through the rocks
(I think could reproduce a complete mental video of the terrain
underfoot) - running as hard as this terrain allowed, until becoming
aware that we were on the side of Carrauntoohil with the summit
cross in sight above us. Cosgrave passed going down through the
rocks very quickly - a skill he is noted for, then the other three
head of me. I was in 6th place at this point, to my amazement.
A large group of hikers was on the path up
to the Carrauntoohil summit and they gave way to us, offering
quiet but much appreciated encouragement. Given such an audience,
I had to keep running up it, only dropping into my mountain walk
twice that I can recall. White Shirt came even with me and we
worked together up the final slope. Then we were there on the
top - the world open on all sides and a tremendous surge of adrenaline
coursing through my veins as I
realized I had made it. I took a shot of him
circling the cross at the summit and he took the camera and shot
me beside it, to the amusement of the hikers there. Then we started
down.
I knew there was still work to be done going
back over Caher, but also knew I would make it at this point,
and the adrenaline rush from the summit pushed me along faster
than I thought possible on the loose scree slope of Carrauntoohil
and through the tricky footplants of the rocky ridge. At one point
I rounded a corner at high speed an encountered 3-4 hikers and
without thought took a high route right along the lip of the 1700
foot drop into the cup, only getting frightened when my path was
blocked by a rocky outcropping and I had to climb back over to
the normal trail. I stumbled once when jumping down to another
crevice to avoid runners coming up and tottered for two steps
out over the left hand slope before regaining balance and speed.
Once during a long twisting stride I felt a twinge in my right
hamstring and considered how disastrous a cramp would be now,
causing me to back off a hair.
White Shirt was flying even faster, and by
the climb up the strewn rocks on the back of Caher he had maybe
50 yards on me, which gave me a great view for shots of him silhouette
against the sharp point of the mountain (I can't wait to see how
these turn out). Looking back I could see Green Pants not far
behind, with some others gaining as well. I ran hard up the rocks,
still tapping my adrenaline and knowing that I could gain some
on the ascents. At the top I retrieved my hat and started down
the final slope.
I tried to emulate the relaxed fall of White
Shirt in front of me - strides bouncing back and forth through
the rocks only to redirect and somewhat break the work of gravity.
As the rocks gave way to open scree I was flying. Nothing can
beat this feeling - the wind screaming against your face, unsurpassed
views spread before you, your feet instinctively finding the best
route and the satisfaction of knowing you're on the way home from
the summit. My pace continued unabated as I entered the heathery
bog on the lower ridge, but I found that my feet looked for the
most level landings - which also happened to be the wettest.
At this pace I was three strides down the hill
before I knew my shoe was gone, and pulled up to see it buried
to the heel counter in the peat bog. I released it with a sucking
sound and sat down to hurriedly get it back on. But my fingers
were cold, the laces were wet and double tied and I succeeded
only in pulling one lace through and somehow tighten the knot.
Then a woman hiking or spectating on the ridge below me said
excitedly, "They're gaining on you! Just pull it on and
go!" So I did. And promptly lost it again 100 yards down
the hill. Two runners were close behind me now, and I had lost
contact with White Shirt.
Pulling the shoe out again, I kept it in my
hand and resumed my flight down the slope, actually increasing
speed now that I could control my right footplants better, thinking
that I'd just carry my left one too if it came off. After a few
more minutes of pure joy, I began to think of what lay ahead and
realized I would have to stop and get it back on sometime as I
couldn't run the rocky/concrete road in my stocking feet. And
that is when I had the bright idea for the short cut. The bog
held no fear for me now, and we were going down the ridge, rather
that up its steep inner face.
Somewhat to my surprise, my feet led me to
the edge of the ridge and straight off it. I took less than 10
strides during the ~150 foot fall, one catching on the heather
and twisting back behind me which I fortunately just let go and
caught myself with the next. At the bottom, the bog wasn't much
worse than it was on the end of the valley, and I saw that my
strategy had worked - I was coming at an angle but approaching
the end of the lake parallel to White Shirt. When the bog fell
behind and thicker twigs and rocks began to hurt my foot, I sat
down, pulled on the shoe, and continued, trying to ignore the
flapping lace that I had pulled loose earlier.
Coming across the flat end of the valley toward
the road I became aware how tired I was. My shoulders were rigid
and tense, my legs rubbery. I willed myself to relax and welcomed
the relatively smooth surface of the road and its gradual descent
along the lower hill. I thought about our downhill running discussion
- was that a year ago? - and tried to run "out over my toes"
and kick myself in the behind. Climbing over the closed gate
halfway down I looked back and saw that I had what I thought was
an adequate lead, so kept flying but relaxed a bit, enjoying the
views of the green fields below, neatly divided by stone walls
and hedgerows and dotted with white sheep.
But when I turned for the final steep descent,
my legs could no longer support a fast pace at such an angle and
I stumbled slowly down, fearful of falling head over heels down
the concrete. To my amazement I heard footsteps 1/4 mile from
the finish and Eco-Challenge Man from Vancouver came by me - he
must have been 4-5 runners and a half mile back at the summit.
I tried briefly to go with him but again stumbled dangerously
and so held back until the road levelled some and I could run
home.
But being passed didn't dampen my thrill of
finishing and I'm afraid I was a little too enthusiastic in my
exuberance afterwards as my wife said - everyone here has been
really low key and you're pretty keyed up. Unfortunately I couldn't
join the group at the pub as we had a plane to catch back in Dublin,
so I towelled dry, pulled on jeans and started the long, but pretty
drive across the country, promising myself that I'll be back.
Thanks for reading if you got this far. I've
found that it helps me
appreciate the experience and move on to write
about it - and if you
enjoy it so much the better. Jonathan Beverly Back to Mountain Musings