Another lay flat on the tarmac, arms and legs spreadeagled, as if lying on a giant operating table. In the distance a man wrapped in gold foil was breathing through an oxygen mask. As for me, I was fine: I just wanted my legs amputated to dull the pain.
They call it the “friendly marathon”, which conjures up amiable images of fun runs and repartee. But the scene at finish line felt like something out of a First World War battlefield. Over in the warm-down tent, a chirpy physiotherapist was hopping up and down on stage, demonstrating a series of calf and hamstring stretches for a sorry-looking bunch of marathoners.
Even above the thumping techno music, you could hear the odd groan and scream of people trying to stretch their un-co-operative limbs. I followed the instructions, raising one leg in the air, which set off a muscle spasm, before unceremoniously toppling over.
It had all started so well.
Thousands of us gathered from early in the morning in the city centre as the sun crept out from behind the clouds.
I was feeling bloated from a week of binging on spaghetti, penne, fusilli and whatever other carb-heavy food I could lay my hands on.
But I was also feeling excited, my legs jiggling with anticipation after six months of hard-slog training.
The city, free of traffic just for one day, looked beautiful as we took off through the Georgian streetscapes, up O’Connell Street and towards the Phoenix Park.
“I’m feeling good!” I chirped at a veteran, who’s done some 30 Dublin marathon.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get over it”, he answered.
I overtook a man sweating under a Batman costume, strode past another in full army fatigues (with backpack), although the guy in the yellow fairy costume took some beating. I was feeling confident now.
On the streets, there was a jubilee atmosphere. Families gathered outside their homes, offering bottles of water and jelly babies.
Mothers, fathers and children waved home-made banners. One amateur DJ had hooked up some speakers in his front garden and offered a live commentary. It was one of those rarest days where you see real civic pride on the streets of the capital.
The warm and fuzzy feeling didn’t last long. By the Dropping Well pub near mile 19, people were dropping like flies. At the top of a hill near mile 20, I began to feel the strength sapping away from my legs.
Cramp began to course through my chest.
As we headed into the city-centre, I rounded Trinity College in a daze, not even noticing my girlfriend who later told me she’d been roaring my name and waving frantically. The end couldn’t come quick enough.
I raised my hands, as if I was
John Treacy, and flopped over the finish line, struggling to stay on my feet. I felt a mixture of jubilation, exhaustion and pure, undiluted, relief.
Satisfyingly, I knocked 20 mins off my maiden, and only previous, marathon time, finishing in 3 hours 35 minutes.
“Never again,” I panted at the guy beside me.
“Yeah, never again,” he said. “Until next year, that is.”