Roaming the mountains of Romania

Ah sure, when do you ever get the chance to go and race in Romania? That was my first thought when the European Off-Road Running Championships were mentioned. Then I heard Transylvania, and the childhood memories came rushing back: Dracula, dark forests and all the unknowns my imagination could create. Then came the stories of wild roaming dogs, wolves and big brown bears, followed by the warnings: do not veer off track, stay on course and wear bear spray. Now I was freaked. Home told me to go. Work told me to go. So, in the end, it was just me and my thoughts.

Back at school, that familiar September busyness had returned. You are buzzing when you are in it and planning when you are not. Everyone needs something, you are already tired, and suddenly Romania is only a week away. Then a friend rang and said, “When you are able to go, you go.” I have never believed in a wasted opportunity, so I was off. The last-minute planning began: a drive, a bus, two flights, car hire and a race number to collect before the deadline. We had been here before. We would figure it out.

The boxes were ticked, the bags packed and the people in my life organised. Travelling to Dublin in the middle of the night never gets easier, but there were no queues, plenty of time in Birmingham and clear sailing through Bucharest. We were on time for Rasnov, the town in Transylvania where it was all happening. Sunshine led us through green forests, the mountains gaining height as we gained road. By 7.45pm on Thursday, after a long chain of roads, airports and waiting around, we finally arrived. Race numbers collected, base found, and with a 7am start ahead, it was time for sleep.

Cock-a-doodle-doo. I did not know where I was. Romania was two hours ahead, but in Shrule it was still 4am. Up, cold shower, strong tea, bag packed and off we went. A short drive to the start, then a sharp turn and a sudden brake: four wild dogs roaming the road. First thought? Fear.

We arrived in a field in the middle of nowhere, and I already had a crick in my neck. Even the start line was on a hill. This was a vertical race: all uphill, no break, no levelling off and definitely no downhill. The lads were off first; I screamed them on and watched the green vests grow smaller until they disappeared into my unknown.

As the only Irish female in the event, I suddenly felt very alone. Then, in a strong German accent, I heard my name. It was Sonya, my competitive friend. Hugs, relief, and now someone to warm up with – but only inside the electric fences. The brown bears were out there somewhere.

It was roasting, about 30 degrees. Water and champagne were on the start line. I stuck with the water. The countries were called out one by one. “Irlanda!” I shouted, and the crowd laughed because I was the only one. That gave me real determination to run with pride.

Then the gun went. I ran to the first path, the incline rising quickly with every step. My plan was simple: get to the top as fast as I could, because I had no idea what was coming next.

Half a mile in, my legs were already burning. The mountain seemed to go on and on. I leaned into it, hands on legs, pushing upward as the terrain changed from grass to loose clay. Athletes ahead began to slip, so I pulled back and placed every toe carefully. If I straightened up, the steepness felt as if it might throw me back.

Then my right runner lost its grip. My hands saved me. I grabbed the grass, lost time and kept going. I passed two women, and their breathing made me stronger because I knew I was not working any harder than they were. The water stop had to be near. When you are completely emptied, the thought of water feels like heaven.

I slipped again. My German friend pushed me up, and that was it: back to full concentration. The heat was cruel, the legs were hurting and my head was starting to go. Could I do this? Yes. Then the ground changed back to grass, and somehow the incline did not seem as bad.

The water stop felt like a party, but all I wanted was the drink. Two cups: one downed, one over my head, and suddenly I had energy again. With half a mile to go, I knew I could do it. I kept my head down, focused on my arms and moved.

We reached what felt like the top, and then came the most amazing sight: a downhill. I went for it. Around the corner, though, came the shock: a steep uphill section of huge limestone rocks. Ahead, athletes were on hands and knees.

I placed my right leg carefully on stone, grabbed rock with my left arm and found a rhythm. I was nearly there, and this climb was not going to stop me. I could hear the crowd. I could hear my name. Then the line came into sight, and I went for it.

“Are we finished?” I asked. “Yes,” came the answer. The moment of that medal coming closer to my head will stay with me forever.

I needed to sit, but there was nowhere to sit. We were told to keep moving, around the top and back down those dangerous rocks. My German friend arrived, then the Italian, and we held onto each other for the dodgy descent. We were wired but wrecked, alive but anxious to get down. The ski lifts neared, then a bar, then people. The Irish lads were screaming, and I jogged with excitement towards them.

To sit at the top of Romania, surrounded by green mountains and athletes from all over Europe, was something I will never forget. I had run the hardest vertical race I think I have ever done, my body was strong, my mind was positive, and I felt ready for more. The bears may have been out there. The dogs may have been down below. But I knew I would complete another race on Sunday.

I am so thankful for everyone in my life who told me to go to Romania.

Day Two awaits...