The first column I ever wrote for this magazine - in 2002 - was given the deeply appropriate headline Running to Standstill. In my debut outing as a columnist, I shared with readers the details of my training - I use the word extremely loosely - schedule for the women's mini-marathon.
Back then the schedule consisted of going for approximately three walks before the big day and diverting to Borza's chipper in Sandymount for post-training sustenance. Athletes need their carbs, I reasoned, and I made sure I got more than my fair share.
Some background on my athletic record; I walked the mini-marathon that year. It felt like I had run a marathon. I have done nothing like it since.
Now, almost three years later, I have made a decision to attempt jogging the 10k race. Even typing that last sentence made me laugh. I haven't so much as run for a Luas in the past 10 years. Up until very recently I didn't know if I still could.
I decided to find out on Sandymount Strand, around the corner from where I grew up. I thought I'd feel at home there, looking out at the ESB towers and the rockpools where I used to play. My personal trainer - who also happens to be my annoyingly fit boyfriend - suggested we start with a brisk walk along the seaside path but by the time we reached Sandymount Tower my lower back was aching so much I had to pause for a pitstop.
I was about to give up on the project altogether, on health grounds you understand, when on our way back to the car I thought I would see if I could jog the distance between the lamp posts. Success! Of sorts. I walked between two lamp posts and then jogged between two lamp posts and when I got home I needed a long lie down.
On rising the next day, I realised that if I was to do this properly I would need the right equipment. An army never marched on one pair of pink backless runners bought on impulse at the airport because they were half-price and looked cute on the shelf, as the saying goes.
The runners I purchased the other day in a proper sports shop feature some class of hydraulic lift in the heel which I assumed practically did the running for you, making them well worth the nearly €150 they cost. But they don't, in fact, do the running for you. Apparently, I have to do that.
The next important issue to which I turned my attention was the matter of appropriate running attire. The last time out I wore a voluminous yellow Brazil football jersey which I can't seem to lay my hands on anymore. Having surveyed the skin tight selection of Lycra on offer at the sports shop and having ruled out going down the short shorts route, I was left with my own sorry collection of tracksuit bottoms and a bright pink Go Dublin! T-shirt. (The latter is available in selected sports shops in the run-up to the race.)
Having donned the tracksuit I made the huge mistake of asking my personal trainer/boyfriend whether the bottoms were as unflattering to my bottom as I imagined them to be. Note to all personal trainer/boyfriends: Do not answer this question with a phrase such as "well, at least you are doing something about it now". Obviously, I fired him.
After hiding under the duvet for an hour in recovery position, I ventured alone down to Fairview Park in my bouncy runners and my unflattering bottoms and did a warm-up walk. Then, using the stopwatch on my mobile phone, I measured just how long I was capable of sustaining a slow jog. That would be 30 seconds then. A disappointment, sure, but not really a surprise. The surprise came later when I improved that time by another 30 seconds. I wasn't quite in the grips of what they call the running high but I was definitely out of the duvet slump which had preceded the walk in the park.
After he grovelled sufficiently, I re-hired my trainer and the next day we went down to the Grand Canal Basin, where we got a glimpse of what the Docklands will be like when they are finished. On our warm-up walk by the water, the urban waterside scene reminded me of one of my favourite parts of Manhattan, along the Hudson where joggers, walkers and Rollerbladers make the place come alive.
The roads and paths around the Basin are now beautifully paved, in readiness for all the apartment dwellers, restaurant owners and members of U2 who will shortly be hanging out there. One of the paths doubles as an excellent running track. And that's where I discovered I'm now a two-minute jogger. By the time you read this I am hoping to be able to go five minutes. Whether I walk or run the mini-marathon is immaterial. I actually think I will be having fun.
And I'm looking forward to watching this part of my city evolve as I return for what I hope will be daily jogs. The air tastes different in a place that is waiting patiently to happen. In physical fitness terms, I'm waiting to happen myself. Paula Radcliffe be very afraid.
