Warrior's Code - A run up Grainne's Gap in the tights

‘Climb mountains not so the world can see you, but so you can see the world ’ (1980s Athena poster) ONLY a man with a wife and wains can know the unbridled joy of coming home to an empty house. After a hard day’s bluffing in the office this is nirvana to the man in his 40s - an all too infrequent and brief oasis of ‘me time’. That’s exactly what happened the Warrior’s Code one night last week. But rather than sit his fat arse on the sofa like any other other sane man and catch up with Match of the Day or the Sunday Game that he had taped (Sky+ed for those under 30) from the weekend, our hero chose another option. This guy chose the path less travelled. With an all too rare sighting of the sun in the skies, the Warrior’s Code decided to break out the old running tights and go for a run. And while the home comforts certainly have their appeals, a Glack man can never resist the call of the wild. Now the People’s Republic of Muff, where the Warrior’s Code currently resides because of tax implications and cowering from the Child Support Agency, has a number of things going for it. The Squealin Pig pub is probably the greatest watering hole in the Free State. Drinking stout in the Pig is as close as you’ll ever get to supping nectar with the gods themselves. Contrary to urban myth, while Muff does not have a Diving Club (stop sniggering at the back), it does boast a rugged set of hills with breathtaking views of Lough Foyle and beyond. And of all the hills, the famed Grainne’s Gap is the Kilamanjaro of Inishowen. This would be my particularly arduous route that evening. The road to the top of Grainne’s Gap snakes one way and the next before it crushendos with a critical, lung-bursting, leg-zapping climb at the end, so steep that you’ll only get up her in first gear in a car. No woman has ever driven up it, nor ever will. So, with an Ipod playlist boasting the Best of Phil Collins and the Rocky Soundtrack, I drank eight raw eggs and set off to conquer the mighty mountain. The Male Menopause A strange thing happened the Warrior’s Code a couple of years ago. It might be pushing it to call it a mid-life crisis or a mental breakdown, but what is for sure is that I turned 40. It probably first dawned on me that I would probably never play for Man Utd, never run out in Croke Park with a Derry shirt on me or represent Ireland at Lansdowne Road. The once great warrior’s powers had weakened significantly. The years had not been kind. I felt ancient. Past it. I was even too old to play for my beloved City Colts in the Saturday Morning League. Done. But after a little time moping around the house like a huffy teenager I decided to rage against the dying of the light and in a moment of clarity/insanity (delete where appropriate) I signed out of my ‘high risk’ ward in Gransha and entered the inaugural Walled City Marathon. There are only a few times in my life where I have genuinely felt proud of myself, but the day I crossed the finish line to complete my first (and last) marathon was certainly a great moment. ‘Just don’t embarrass me’ were always Mrs Doherty’s parting words to her sons as they left the house either to play sport or go courting, and on that day I did not let her down. But that glorious moment outside the Guildhall quickly faded, and my abiding memories of the whole marathon experience, of the training sessions and long miles - is pain. Never ending pain. Hurtful, spiteful, sickening pain. So much so that when I crossed the line I decided that running was not for me. That was three years ago and that promise had yet to be be broken. But here I was back on the roads again. And not just running a few miles down the road, I was tackling the local behemoth of a hill. What an eejit. If you start at the Rock Bar (every good run should begin and end at a pub, for rehydration reasons) the summit to Grainne’s Gap is only about three miles. The first mile is reasonably flat and straight forward, but you can’t really enjoy the early phases of the run as the monster to come slowly reveals itself and you see the steep incline that ominously awaits. It faces you down like Mordor itself in Lord of the Rings. It’s the sort of climb you used to see the great Italian cyclist Marco Pantani thrive on, dancing on the pedals of the bike and leaving his competitors trailing in his wake. And what I wouldn’t give right there and then for some of Pantani’s drugs to fuel me to the top. Not a natural athlete, my pace will never enter any record books. Indeed, there was an awkward moment when two power walkers over-took me, but I could barely see them through the incessant sweat stinging my eyes. But, I had made my bed and I had to lie in it. There was a big hill on the horizon and it needed conquering. And while it seemed to laugh in my face, and cried ‘thou shalt not pass’, the Code pressed on regardless. There’s something about how the country air quickly cools on a fine spring evening. You feel it most on your exposed arms, and it reminds you of times gone by. Of playing football or rugby for the school, or togging out for the great Ballykelly United in my youth on cold autumnal days. Memories of times gone by, of glory days and youthful triumphs only temporarily dull the pain, however. The sharp air quickly fills up the lungs but as the gradient of the hill gradually and relentlessly increases, the pain is ratcheted up proportionately. It burns. It hurts like hell. What have I done? Dorts – why do you hate yourself so much? And yet ‘country ignorance’ drives our hero on. And AC/DC, volume 11. And with the very last drop of energy I drag my sorry ass to Everest’s summit. I collapse to my knees. Every fibre in my body is buckled and bucked. No mas. No more. Jelly legged and dazed, I struggle back to my feet. And as I turn around, it all somehow makes sense. The landscape, the view, the scenery. You can see for miles from the top of Grainne’s Gap, and it nourishes the soul, rapidly replenishes the empty energy supplies. It’s life affirming. All the pain of the run, the stresses of the day and the grind of modern day living all recede in that one moment. It really is good to be alive. This is my moment, as Martine McCutcheon is now singing on the sweat drenched Ipod. Rarely does the Warrior’s Code feel a moment of achievment as I said earlier, but as he stands at the top of Grainne’s Gap, king of all he surveys, our hero is happy. One last intake of that monumental view. One final deep intake of breath before the downward journey home. The rarified air at the top - collectively produced by Du Pont, Ballykelly shore (twinned with Chernobyl), Lisahally Power Station and Strathfoyle - fills the lungs and it’s an intoxicating, giddy mix. And probably cancerous. Nevertheless, Grainne’s Gap had been tamed. Well, it was either that or cut the grass...