Making the most out of Mother’s Day

It’s the week before the National Indoors and the headaches are back, I could scrape the skin off myself and I’m a little dizzy – all the same signs as last year, so I’m guessing its low salt levels again. Yes, I did all the right things, but when winter comes the thinking is that I won’t be sweating much so I ditch the salt. Big mistake – and don’t I know about it now! Anyway, back to the doctor, he understands, he knows the craic, the running, the history and all.

My bloods are always sound so if I was to go to Doctor Google they’d probably tell me I’ve a virus, a cold or it’s sinus. But never really being sick, know it’s not. It’s low salt. I’m told it’s not significantly low but it’s back to putting salt in water. It’ll take a few days to settle.

Running indoors in the heat, fast and no air is all draining so I’m told to stick to the short, fast stuff; it’s over quick, the longer could go wrong. So, it’s two relays and a 400m. The 3000 metres will be there again.

The days go by, the headaches ease, training is lighter, the skin still roasted. The dizziness occurs as soon as I drink just plain water. I’m a bit bothered but don’t say a word. Mother’s Day arrives, the day of the races, and I have a guilt about going but spend the morning with all, attending a young lad’s match first before rushing to Athlone.

The mixed relay is up first. I am a tad nervous, not so much for the race but for what the body is able for. There’s a great buzz in the arena as always, a smell of Wintergreen, bottles of Lucozade and foam rollers dotted along the wall. We head down to the track, we line up, I’m the last runner, it’s over of a shot, we win gold, but one medal above all stands out for me – the president’s medal.

Bríd Golden, President of Athletics Ireland, begins to explain the history of her Chain of Office, of the National Athletics and Cycling Association of Ireland founded in 1922. It’s gold, bright, huge, heavy, with the provinces represented in a big circle at the bottom. It symbolises the continuous lineage of Irish athletics governance from the creation of the state. I think of all my relations down through the decades who competed in these eras; my dad spoke of running barefoot in a field in Hollymount, my cousin trained for marathons in sandshoes and carried nothing, my aunts cycled miles to school. Today we race in a state-of-the-art arena, in pumping heat, with lots of support and respect. No more complaining from me!

We are presented with our medals, pictures are taken, but the guilt returns. But why? I remember a time when you went for a run so early so the neighbours wouldn’t see. Not that long ago women weren’t event allowed enter races. So the guilt quickly passes. I will be home before dark.

It’s time to refuel and re-salt. The races are ahead of time and individual is up next. I’m put into lane five. Having never ran the 400m as a master before, I am in a heap. The slant of the track, the body starting at an angle, from a standing start, not enough training done to go out of the blocks… it’s a different form of running.

My start is slow, my hips are tight but quickly loosen up and again, it’s over of a shot. A silver medal with which I’m delighted. Now I can feel the skin, it’s on fire. I meet the teammates, catch up again, head outside for some air. It's raining, which is lovely. I see some families here to support their mams, their partners, sisters and friends. Back home is a hive of activity between matches and lambs but I haven’t seen the phone in a while. That’s the wonderful thing about a day of racing – you are phoneless, completely separated from a normal day’s life, from the news, from what’s going on. Here, it’s the sound of fast footsteps and voices while all you see is circles, laps and stars.

There’s one event left and then it’s the long road home. Water with salt again (it’s beginning to taste awful now, but its needed) and back into the heat.

The female relay is up next. The team has run lots of events. It’s a matter of getting around, survival, thinking of the rules – and the baton, of course. A quick practice and we’re off. Lined up in order, it’s go time. I’m the third runner, which means different thinking to earlier. The concoction is working at last, I’m feeling okay. Running is balancing it all out.

My teammate powering down the home straight, I’m on the toes, receive the baton and run. The first bend’s over, the shoulders relax, the body straightens, down the home straight, pass the stick safely and jump aside. Our final teammate is off and before you know it, it’s over, we’ve won team silver. Hands behind my ears, my forehead is on fire, my vest feels like a jacket. I look around and see the smiles, hugs, excitement, chats, cheers and laughter. After medals and photos we’re away, no time to change, cool down or talk, just get home for the final of Dancing With The Stars.

I begin my journey on the long motorway home and am feeling good, like myself again. The window is down, the body has cooled, the head is clear, the skin is normal. It all worked out.

Sometimes when it’s all up against you, the challenge is tougher, the mind wants to do one thing but the body another; maybe it brings out a stronger determination. When people are depending on you it makes you do what you are told. Salt in water is rotten, mixed with juice it’s tolerable. Feeling good is powerful, feeling bad is draining.

The indoors wasn’t so bad after all but the president’s chain on Mother’s Day reminds me of a challenge which will always exist. It’s how we manage to overcome it that makes us stronger. Tomorrow will draw me outdoors, where the back roads hide you from the traffic, the grass brings you nearer to the barefoot feeling and the long miles don’t need any fuel, only salt.