The Widow Murphy’s Blouse Marathon
By Mick Foy
I’m Michael, my friends call me Mick or ‘The Hammer’ due to my Hammer style race celebration. I am going to tell you my marathon journey which commenced a few weeks ago. I will tell you through the use of over 50 movie titles which are sporadically placed within my story. The story of love, ancient apparel, espionage and fraudulent friendships. The story of my marathon.
This marathon was my 9th Dublin marathon in a row as I embark on the incredible journey towards my 10th Dublin in 2016 which has been a target of mine from 2007. There has been a few glitches along the way and I could have had titanic disappointments due to injury and issues but I made it each time. Last week I developed a severe hamstring injury and it was not looking good but nothing was going to stop me from getting to that start and finish line.
I had completed Berlin 4 weeks prior but health issues had resulted in me being on the start line in poor shape but I got through it with the help of perseverance and a beer along the route. Post Berlin two goodfallas, my friends Alan & Greg who had nothing but my interests at hand decided during our numerous e-mail interactions that they will motivate me to help get what I could and should in Dublin. I love these two very much. Most friends would dangle a carrot of maybe- a weekend away or some pink champagne but these dirty rotten scoundrels were better than this. They decided that if I did not break 3:30 I would have to wear a top of their choice in Brady’s on Monday night. In my naivety I was expecting that the lads would hit town, throw a few quid together and buy me something elegant and sophisticated in Brown Thomas. Alas- I was wrong.
A trip to a charity shop was made and €4 was extracted from their pockets and what was purchased which they titled ‘The widow Murphy’s blouse’. Although I half expected it, I really did not expect that the widow Murphy had left it in her attic for close on 80 years judging by its smell. Some may say they were being nasty but I knew different. This was out of love for me and my target. Although you may perceive this as extreme measures, it was motivation all the same and although last Wednesday I was clinically advised I should not run a 5k never mind a marathon – I was not going to miss out and I would do all I could to avoid Mrs Murphy.
I sprayed, rubbed, wrapped my hamstring and set on my quest with my club mates David and Antoinette. We are regularly described as Erratic Three or the three stooges but today there would be discipline. Alan was worried as often our running strategy has no sense or sensibility and he sensed disaster and a marathon trainwreck. It was cold but I prefer to be frozen although some like it hot with sunshine. To avoid the attic stenched silk meeting my tightly woven broad shoulders and muscled rounded chest, discipline was certainly required to avoid this sexy beast being humiliated. I sat behind the 3:30 pacers and maintained my rhythm and focus whilst remaining steady for more miles that I had anticipated. I had no great expectations but I would do all I could. I reached half way and I was on course but was working for it. I fuelled as planned, drank when I should and managed to do what I did not in Berlin and avoided the alcohol stops.
The sights and cheers from my numerous club mates including the Father of the bride – Eddie Reid was quite overwhelming and helped me sustain my pace. Mrs Murphy’s blouse which was seen being waved by the lads along with a sign very motivationally encouraging me to ‘Avoid the Blouse, stay with the crowds’. If I was to miss out, I got one bit of satisfaction and retribution in spraying my water in both the belly of the Blouse and the face of Alan as I ran by him in the park. This truly was worth going thirsty for and was poetic justice for his antics as I waved at his soaked face and uttered the words -P.S. I love you.
Heartbreak hill was approaching. I knew the hills had eyes as this is normally where Coach Tony normally stood. Fatigue was setting in but I got up and over and as usual the mental thoughts were worse than the physical effort- but I was tired. I maintained not having to wear the blouse pace a while longer. I had 2 miles to go and I could visualise my two motivators anxiously gazing at their trackers which at this stage indicated that the blouse would be retired. I’m sure they were genuinely rooting for me to sustain my pace smile emoticon
I had seen on facebook that Ray would be around here with Jaffa cakes but he soon become the man who wasn’t there as unknown to me, he had made a late decision to run himself. At least I had Antoinette. We would help each other. I asked her would she help wear the blouse but following these words, she was gone in 60 seconds. I watched as the lady vanishes. I was now alone.
The hamstring which I had ignored was screaming. It had been roaring for miles now. Even above the cheering crowds I could hear it ‘Forget the blouse, think of your hammy’. Despite the screams I used common sense to tell myself that God created Hospitals, surgeons and wheelchairs for situations like this. The Hamstring could be eventually repaired but the psychological torment from Mrs Murphy could not. I had to keep moving and I tried. I used the image of the lads smiling faces as they seen the numbers 3:30 come up on the finish line but Mick out of sight. I used the expense which would be bestowed on me by having to pay for counselling for my 4 kids when they witness me bloused. I thought of my son. I am his hero, he looks up and aspires to be me and now he sees Daddy as the man who wears Granny clothes to the pub with the lads. The psychological damage could resonate and change this beautiful boy into a problem child. It was now my turn to talk back to the Hamstring as I roared at him to hold it together, just two more miles. I explained to the Hamstring that although it would not have to wear The Blouse, it would be part of the legs that would carry the body that wore the blouse.
It was now I smelled a rat, no the blouse was not near me. The scent of a conspiracy theory was filling my thoughts. Had the lads bribed the hamstring? My muscles were always vulnerable. Had the lads offered the hamstring an incentive to keep me going for 24 miles and give me blouse free false hope? I then heard a whisper from my achilles, he consolidated that this was the case. This whistle-blower confirmed my worst nightmare. It was an inside job. The apostle committed betrayal but without any last kiss. I pushed with all my might to keep it going but for every newton of force that I edged my body forward, the hamstring seemed to bring me 39 steps back. The 3:30 pacers were drifting like a ship leaving the port and how I would have loved Free Willy to come, take me on his back and swim me to my ship. Willy never came!! I was literally drowning by numbers.
The Blouse stench was becoming more real now and as I placed one foot in front of the other my thoughts now drifted to what accessories I would require to help carry off the look. It was low on the neck so a chain of some kind. I contemplated Newbridge Silver but I was leaning towards colour to complement The Blouse. The bag was easier. I had access to several Kipling bags with a clutch design being my preference so that would not be a problem. My legs were now telling me that The Widow Murphy’s blouse was going to get one last outing and it would be a matter of hours. The pacers were now far and away and my outfit was well and truly set. My left foot was carrying my full leg and at these stage both feet were anything but happy.
I kept going and dug in to keep momentum and got to the 25th mile. I was now 2 min’s behind my Blouse avoidance time and I was not moving fast but I was furious. I was now thinking that my friends were not motivating me but had cruel intentions to see me suffer as the task became mission impossible. I was now like a raging bull.
However, the last mile was euphoric and I took it all in. Judas (my Hamstring) and the informer (my achillies) kept moving but it was slow. To operation avoid the blouse, it was goodnight and good luck. The finish line was in sight. There would be no cliff-hanger. I would have killed for the speed of Sarah Tracey but all I had was the legs of Dick Tracey. The blouse was waved by my friends who came with few benefits, but this was my 9th Dublin marathon – my second marathon in a month and 10 minutes to the second quicker than Berlin. I had to deal with fatigue and internal espionage but still managed a 3:34 marathon finishing with great pride as I continue to be the marathon man.
2016 will be the year of The Hammer. I may not make Rio but will be back to Dublin and those 3:30 balloons will watch as me and a reformed Judas disappear in the distance and the only scent will be of the sweet smell of success.
A brilliant marathon with incredible support from those I know and those I don’t. It displayed the cohesive nature of this club and highlighted who my friends are and who makes me wear Granny’s Blouses. We had many ordinary people doing extraordinary things on Monday proving that in being able to run, it truly is – a wonderful life
The Hammer!!!
Mick Foy
