“ In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, A group of star-cross’d runners take the line….”
My name is Grantus Jacobus Minimus Abilitus. Chancer of Triathlon. Husband of an understanding wife. Father of an obnoxious son. And I will have my medal, in this race or the next.
Sorry but standing next to the Verona “Colosseum” will bring that out of you.
Eleven Pulsers decided a long time ago to sign up for the Verona Marathon as it was “on sale” on a Black Friday Discount Special. There really is no such thing as a cheap entry. Everything has a price, and we were all about to find out what ours was. The Pulsers who made the trip were Richie Mills, Judith Boylan, Emma Game, Deirdre Meegan, Ciaran Philips, Aga Samsel, Carmel Moran, Kevin Culligan and myself, TDG. And plus ones…
With a mix of Full and Half Marathoners (and a Family Fun Runner…don’t ask), we came to conquer Italy. Or be conquered.
Pre-race prep and ALL the carbs (liquid carbs count too)
We were in Verona, an ancient city famous for its style, culture, architecture and cuisine. And oh the cuisine. I ate my body weight in pasta, pizza and Peroni’s. I also ate several other people’s body weight as well. Why just carb load, when you can Carbonara load!!
I was looking forward to this race for some time but alas. As with the love betwixt Romeo and Juliet, my training found its own tragic death four weeks before the marathon. Betrayed by an IT band who decided it had enough, and plunged a dagger into my heart.. well my leg actually. And a metaphorical dagger. Not a real one. So I rocked up anyway, not expecting much out of my race. A finish would be a win for me. Hell! Just being here in Verona with the Pulse crew was justification enough.
On a side note, if ever there is ever a Pulse group event abroad…sign up! Great craic is had and the word “racing” is used very loosely. Even a few “liquid carbs” were consumed the day before the race. We were there with different goals but we all there for the fun the banter. And the Medals. Never forget the medals. Both Emma and Dee had done the Dublin Marathon a few shorts weeks before and were back for more. Some people just love misery. And medals. And post-race beers.
But alas I do stray. As Romeo says “What’s in a Finish? That which we call a race” “By any other word would still feel as sweeeeet”.
Race Day
Having come to that decision that this was going to be the longest Verona walking tour in history, I settled in for long day in “the office”. Officially known as the Verona Run, the race day was a mix of Full and Half Marathoners. A relatively flat course with wide long streets meant a good pace could be had. So with much gusto, we all wished each other well and started together under grey yet still dry Italian skies.
The first half of the race has both distances running as one big group through and around the outskirts of the city with quite a few loops where the run folded back on itself. A great way to play Spot the Pulser. Always fun to see the red and black of a fellow, yet faster, Pulser coming the opposite way. Trying to throw a mid-run passing high five, without breaking a finger or taking out an eye.
Unlike Dublin where we had DJs thumping out soul lifting-tunes… instead we got several little “bands” dotted along the course screaming, literally, out a mix of Italian Death Metal, Interpretive Punk Opera and cats through a bandsaw. We ran faster. There was a great little atmosphere in the combined group, all running in joyful little clumps smiling and chatting. The run felt light and comfortable quick considering my “limited” training. This was looking okay…. until the 21k point where there was a sign that split the groups, marking the end of the Half Marathon. Simple. Right arrow for celebration, wine, song and rest. Left arrow for another 21 kilometres of poor life choices, self-loathing and misery.
At this point, 75% of the starting field, and all the smart people, went right. I went left.
With the field well and truly thinned out like the hair lines on the outbound flight heading to Turkey, this was going to be a quiet, solemn afternoon. Following the river, we quickly left the beautiful architecture and grandeur of Verona and headed into the outer “ rural suburbs” and away from the city. And then the rain came. Lots of it. Like a lot a lot. As yet another Shakespeare tragedy unfolded, “The Tempest” was unleashed. The only dry part of my body was my mouth and this rain would not leave Verona for another 24 hours. My soul left my body immediately. But I kept moving forward. Along endless miles of grey flat rural roads lined by ancient trees, sheathed in their golden autumnal cloaks, century old homes and endless lines of vineyards. Mist covered rivers snaked down from the distant dark brooding mountains, draped in low grey clouds. Majestically standing guard over villages lost in time. Neither old nor new. Yep. I needed a gel! One such little village even had the church bells ringing as we passed by. Ask not for the who bells toll. For it tolls for thee. I wasn’t exactly buzzing along but I also wasn’t in too bad a shape. I was in for a sub five hour which for me was as good as I could have hoped for.
And then I heard it. Faintly at first. Like a whisper on the wind.
Squeak…….
Squeak…..
Getting closer.
Squeak…….. Squeak….
Getting louder.
Squeak… Squeak….
And then!!
There he was! In front of me!!!
Squeak! squeak!
The Man with the Squeaky Shoes!!! Step after step. Squeak! squeak! Metre after metre. Squeak! squeak! Minute after minute. Squeak! squeak! Second after excruciating second. Squeak! squeak! I had to make it stop. Squeak! Squeak! I dug deep. Squeak! Squeak!. I pushed passed him. Squeak! squeak! He was behind me. The Squeak! squeak! eventually faded and sweet relief and silence washed over me. Until the next aid station.. Squeak! squeak! He found me. Squeak! squeak! Nooooo! Squeak! squeak! Forget the isotonic drink. I will drink my salty tears.
I slowly chewed up the miles, like swallowing a dry dog biscuit. Tough but doable. The road continued along a small canal and then the race took a sharp left between tow immense imposing black iron gates and into a large compound. Then a site before my eyes that felt surreal were it not for the pain. As far as the eye could see, the road, both sides of the road were lined by young military personnel in full uniform. This looked like a recruitment drive for Versace’s Own Army of Model. With stylish young specimens of humanity cheering you on from both sides of the road, you could not help it. Belly sucked in. Shoulders pulled back. Eyes strong. We all ran little a taller, and even a little faster, through that Avenue of Young Roman Gods and Goddesses. And if ever Ireland was to ever be invaded, please let it be by these Gucci Clad Camouflaged Italians.
Back to reality and the lonely road to ruin, the run eventually brought us back into Verona city, along the wide flowing River Adige and under the gaze of imposing Castel San Pietro on its lofty hill. Turn in to the wall city, my foot falls echoed along the narrow alleys as I zig zagged my way along wet cobbled city streets, slick with fresh rain, sweat and tears. The silence broken by the sound of a lonely Vespa scooter or the rare supporter braving the weather, shouting out Die! Die! Die! I thought this was a bit much until I find out later its actually “Vai, vai, vai!!” Italian for Go Go Go! I hope. One last turn. And there it was.
The Verona “Coliseum” rising imposingly before me. And like the returning Roman Legionnaires of old, I lifted my head. Puffed out my chest and pushed forward along those ancient cobbled streets of Verona and towards the inflated rubber Arch of Victor’y. And in my heart I could here Romeo utter those immortal words has he stalked ..spied…watched… Juliet on her famous balcony.
“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the Finish, and my Medal is the sun”.
I cross the line. Sub five hours!!! But unlike Dublin. There are no cheering crowds. There were no high fives as you run down the finishing chute. No post races pints at the pub. It was just me. By myself. Alone. Was I sad. No. I just completed the Verona Marathon! I was pretty sure I had tears of joy but I couldn’t tell with all this bleeding rain!!
Post-race celebrations at The Late Late Troy Show
That afternoon the Pulsers race celebrations were in full swing. Beers, banter and bravado flowed freely. To say celebration from our shy little table was loud may not do it justice. We were in Full Craic mode. The restaurant even turned on Ireland v Hungary match. And then it happened… the roar that stopped Verona!!!
The whole piazza stopped to look around to who was shot and murdered!?!?! Only to see a gang of Pulsers rise (yes…we did) to our (very sore) feet and screaming at the top of their lungs as The Late Late Troy Show finished off a perfect day of highs!
The next day was a “rest day”, so Kev and I decided see the sites we had missed on the Marathon. Who needs a recovery run when you can do 24,000+ steps enjoying the stunning city that is Verona. Will I be back. Si! Will I do the Verona Marathon again….probably not. Yet never say never.
But wait!! what’s that….?
Squeak! squeak!
No…..!
Squeak! squeak…..
Noooooo…..!
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