First lady for the Lanzarote trail race

This morning I look out a different bedroom window. I’ve left the back window view of drizzle over the Reek, the front window view of sunshine rising over Knockma behind me.

Today my eyes are captured by bright blue skies, an emerging vibrant red sun, an ocean of turquoise blue and green sea, miles of sparkling brown clear sand, high volcanic mountains powering above in the background and that’s where I’m heading this morning.

A popular trail event in the old town of Lanzarote attracts locals and tourists from all over, as this is a unique event. One gets to run on tracks and trails, over volcanic ash, through a barren landscape, along an exposed coastline to Puerto Calero where the views are spectacular. The weather will challenge the toughest and the competition is fierce.

I have an excitement about me this morning; running on this type of landscape is easier, compared to the familiar boggy, marshy mountain landscape of the West of Ireland. Out here my legs bounce around the volcanoes, hopping over pebbled hot ash, like the wild hares down Brownes Island back home. Except this is a very different island; an island of sun, sea, warmth, a chilled out way of life where one can just live in the moment and enjoy the company of family, friends and heaps of time.

On racing out here my mind is so occupied on my footing, on my every step, on the views and on catching the gallopers ahead, the mind has no time for thinking, one forgets the past for a few minutes, and the race is on.

I’m like the kids heading off on a school tour. I sit anxiously outside the hotel waiting for the bus to arrive, rucksack on my back, sunglasses, Mayo AC vest and water because I will need gallons of it today.

At 8am it’s already 25 degrees and the sun isn’t fully out yet. The palm trees flow back and over powered by a gale force wind. I imagine it will cool us but on an exposed coast, will provide some fun, for a small lass like myself to stay afoot.

On arrival at the old town, my number awaits. The chat in Spanish, I nod and smile because apart from my daughters few words from a summer school, for once, I’m stuck for words. I think of all the people in our country who are so disadvantaged by not having the language and admire their determination to learn.

A summer buzz, the party already is on. The boats lined up for sailing, the revving of jet skies, the coffee shops setting out the tables. I sit on a stone and I put on my number. It’s weird I feel a loneliness. I haven’t been on my own much recently, no running buddies, my family sleep soundly but of course the Green and Red saves me. Out of nowhere, an Irish gent appears.

“You were at the Worlds.” We begin to chat about Maderia, the achievements and the World Mountain Running Championships. We attract more attention. English, Spanish and of course more Irish land over.

No one knows what to expect, but I know that no matter what’s ahead I’m doing this. It’s a glorious day; no rain, cold or mist like I’ve had all year. I’m now surrounded by people, some I’ve met before but most of all I feel good, my head is in a good place.

I’m off for a warm up, not that I’m cold but the legs need to move. Some think I’m mad but in a different climate one must get used to running in it. I head off up the hill, it’s baking hot, moving into the shade, passing the Irish shamrock. I get a cheer, I am already sweating but I’ve an energy to use today, I have a bounce in my step. On turning back, I hear the music, the amusements are up for the children, the tent is up for the pasta party and I’m up for a race.

I re-join the gang, lots of chats about running in the heat, about routes and about the after party. We head for the start, a race briefing, our new Spanish friend translates. We’re told its 6km, it is rough terrain, to take care on the steps and there’s medics on route.

I line up at the front, surrounded by young Spanish male athletes that look like they have ran the route just as a warm up. It doesn’t bother me, I am rearing to go.

The countdown is in Spanish of course but I know its moving down not up; tres, dos, uno, we’re off. The crowd are amazing, the colour delightful, the buzz would ignite you. We begin the climb on the road. I lean in handy, a gradual, strong climb up for me, the heat blaring down our backs. On reaching the top I take off on the downhill, I pass loads out that are out of breathe from the climb, I see the trail, I can’t wait.

I push on, my feet jump from the road to trek, stones, pebbles, ash, my toes bounce over. I look up, this is amazing; I am racing with athletes over an exposed open volcano; a sandy, ash barren landscape, not a plant, person or perch to be found, only us like camels with water on our backs.

I pass an Irish guy, he pushes me on, we friendly race against each other for a bit. He is finding the heat tough so I trek on, tip toeing down a rough, uneven path, protecting my ankles by running light on my toes, a sharp corner I barely touch the sand to avoid slipping, a dirty steep climb ahead.

I use my arms to push up strong against the wind, not like a South Mayo breeze, instead a strong, refreshing, so hard to push against hazard, that makes running up Knockma on a breezy day seem easy.

I pick off the few ahead, out along a coastal cliff, a rocky climb; the stone reminds me of home. My Dad often said ‘your stone mad’ and today I definitely am. On reaching the top I see the other end of the island with white buildings, mountains and cruise ships.

We race along the coast, the wind blowing across my body; luckily blowing me in the way trying to push me off the trail. I run hard against it, to stay on track. I can see the steps ahead, I dig deep, no one on my shoulder, I am in a strange zone; absolutely roasted, running hard, climbing fast but nothing seems hard.

We reach the steps, I leap up using from left to right and just keep jumping. Some stop, this gives me an advantage, I know the steps will soon end and it will feel easy. We climb and face a steep downhill, I don’t look down, my feet move quick, onto a timber boardwalk bridge, swaying with the wind, I run on the balls of my feet.

The Spanish cheer loudly, I guess they’re saying ‘first lady’. With half a mile to go I hear a roar, go on Paula, “I see you in the Western”. I have no idea who it is but I roar back. I hear the music, I pass two more Spanish lads I started with. I know I’m near the front, I race against myself, down more steps, through the crowd, the finish line hidden amongst amusements.

Irlanda uno, I give a big Irish cheer, I’m delighted; first female, 10th overall. I beat the young Spanish lads, but most of all I feel good. I smile, my new found friends arrive in, we gather; the awards ceremony outdoors on the marina, surrounded by sun, sand and sangaria. The ‘Western guy’ takes some photos and joins the party.

I sit on the stone from earlier, looking up to the sky, a different sky than a few weeks ago in Dunlin but the same thoughts, the same sightings enter the brain; its how we deal with them, it’s how we use them, today the mind was trained.

I head off walking back to the hotel, my race number still on, my shoes filled with sand, track dust on the legs, Mayo vest soaked from sweat, the trophy is in my hand; this today is for all I love both past and present. As the saying goes;

“When times are hard may hardness never turn your heart to stone. May you always remember when the shadows fall you do not walk alone. May the road rise up to meet you.”