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BEFORE Joe Walsh joined the Eagles in the late 70's as their talismanic guitarist, he was best known for his solo hit, "Rocky Mountain Way".
For some reason this phrase was in my head at 1.15 pm last Saturday. I was in the middle of the Mournes, I had been running and trudging uphill and down dale for 1 hour, it was 20 degrees centigrade, I was surrounded by others who were in the same state of dishevelment – and sweat – as me and I was being confronted by a Rocky Mountain Way.
And the bad news? I had approximately another 5 hours of toil, trouble and tears ahead of me... I was number 68 in the inaugural Mourne Way Marathon and I was in hog heaven.
When you contemplate doing a marathon the theory is that you enter 6 months before hand, follow a training plan religiously and relentlessly taper for the last two weeks and approach the start line in some foreign city with a mixture of anxiety and fear. For the Mourne Marathon, I had only entered two weeks previously after a chance phone call with my good buddy, Mark Kinkaid of Warrenpoint.
I hadn't run any more than 5 miles since the London Marathon due to a crippling calf injury (one week it was in the left calf, the next week it was in the right – I have no idea what will happen if both calves go simultaneously). Instead of a two week taper, I had to suddenly up my mileage. I had to break in a new pair of trail shoes in record time and I was woefully underprepared but I really wasn't worried.
The beauty of being a triathlete is that your engine is always ticking over, it is never idle. I had the strength of my 100 mile bike ride a few weeks previously and also of Adrian Devine's beasting swim sets every Tuesday and these stand you in good stead. So instead of a taper for the week before the Marathon I hit the gym on Monday for 300 exercises.

Swimming in preparation

On Tuesday I had a sea swim and I tried to run on the beach. On Wednesday I thrashed my way round the bridges on two wheels and nearly got knocked off by an old codger in a red Fiat on a round-a-bout, - the closest call I have had for years. Thursday saw a Limavady, Castlerock, Coleraine Mountain Road bike loop in 1 hr 51 mins. and Friday saw a 2K pool swim, and after receiving excellent physiotherapy from my good friend Gregory Kearney I had a late drive to the Kinkaid household in Warrenpoint when I suddenly realised I had to do a marathon in the morning - and not just any old marathon – this was a true Rocky Mountain Way Marathon.
Of all of the nagging doubts which assail an athlete when he or she stands on the start line, there is the perennial one – how is the injury going to behave? I had been troubled with my calf and on the previous Saturday I decided to do a two hour run with Roxy in the Springwell Forest. For the first 1 hr. 23 mins. everything was sweetness and light and all was well with the world. Then that old familiar knife seemed to stick itself all the way up and down my right calf and I was reduced to a hobble then a limp then a crawl, then a walk.... this wasn't good. I don't mind discomfort, I can put up with pain but I don't like an injury that can prevent me from reaching Nirvana i.e. the finish line.
On Tuesday after two days of not running I decided to test it again on the soft surface of Benone beach, but again the knife struck, this wasn't good. I was concerned about being a liability to my mate, big Mark in the middle of the Mournes miles away from civilisation – and rescue....

Magic socks

Then Sharon hit upon the brilliant idea of trying compression socks. For years I have been scoffing the idea of wearing these elongated lower limb encasing monstrosities, but having limped for 24 of the 26 miles of the London Marathon and then having talked to another old bloke on the finish line who swore by them, I decided to give it a go – what else had I to lose except my pride?!
And so, dear reader, I decided in the words of the late great Ramones "to swallow my pride" and try a pair of Paula Radcliffe's finest. The socks were helpfully marked with a "left" and a "right" (and you thought it was only Wayne Rooney who needed help to get the correct socks on in the morning!) so I sat down on Wednesday night to try them on.
I expected them to be tight, but boy these guys had a grip like the Boston strangler! After 5 minutes of effort and sweat breaking on my brow I had the socks unrolled to my ankle and after only another twenty minutes I had them unfurled in all their true glory. At least if I was going to wear them in public I could do so somewhere where no one knew me.
Three days later I walked into the registration tent in Newcastle County Down where three people from Coleraine instantly recognised me! So much for my cunning plans.
They didn't seem to mind the socks and they were looking forward to their respective tasks that day – Peter Ferris was going to do this wee marathon run as a warm up for next week's task - 7 marathons in seven days! Hannah Shiels was with a TV crew filming the Powerade Team tackling their latest challenge and Ivan Parke from Pegasus AC was assisting the race organisation.
I looked at the main race organiser Ivan Cummings from Dublin and he looked really stressed, I had an inkling of what he was going through. He and his mates were responsible for the safety of about 300 people doing the marathon, the half marathon and the 10K over some dangerous and challenging terrain. I know as much as anybody that your race organisation is only as good as the weakest link in the organisational chain.
The week before there had been adverse comments in the media about a hill race in Snowdonia which had to be cancelled and one runner was lost for several hours. Gosh! That really did deserve to be top of the rolling news agenda for 24 hours – guys get a grip, get out there and do something difficult and challenging yourself. The rewards are far greater than the risks involved. All I had to do today was to go and enjoy myself in some of Ireland's finest scenery where I had the company of my best mate and I was worried about one little calf injury! Pete, wake up and smell the coffee will ya?

On the rocky road

At 12.15pm precisely the cameras clicked, the whistle blew and off we trotted. Mark and I had done enough Ironmen and Marathons and Maracycles over the years to know that the race will not be won in the first hour but it could be lost. So we took it conservatively and we shared a bit of banter with the rest of our Comrades in Arms. They were from all over Ireland with quite a few locals from Newry, Kilkeel and Rostrevor who certainly didn't want any interloper arriving and taking away the Crown of the Mourne Marathon Champion. They were up for it.
Inside twenty minutes we were going up a slope that was so steep we were on our hands and knees, moving up, up, always up. Eventually we got to the top and after 30 minutes we were way above the forest and in the distance we could see Newcastle glinting in the sunlight like a tiny jewel. You couldn't dwell on the stunning vista however because the path was so rocky and every step was a potential ankle breaker. You had to concentrate or risk disaster.
We had settled in to our rhythm and I was comfortable. I started to consume jells and energy bars and bananas and oranges and water and anything else I could get my hands on. After 9 miles came the relief of the first check point. We registered our progress by inserting our computerised tiny devices which were on our wrists into the relevant timing machine (and in the process I managed to dislodge and lose my Tunisian bracelet which had been ever present on my arm since January – bo hoo...).
Mark by this stage had gone a bit quiet. When I inquired, he told me he was suffering from a bad stomach. He wasn't getting the benefit of the food and drink he had consumed and he confessed that all he wanted to do was have a good chunder. I felt deeply sorry for my mate who was going through hell. We still made it to half way in two hours 50 and shortly after that on a downhill section just after the Spelga Dam, Mark showed me the source of the Bann (the source of the Nile would have been even more exciting but hey I suppose I was in the wrong Continent).
There was then a long slow steep uphill section into a strong head wind and Mark really started to suffer. I had all the time in the world so I took my shirt off as I figured I might as well get a suntan as we were now reduced to a walk. There then followed a downhill grassy section which was just made for running but obviously we couldn't.

Compression socks

There was then an equally long climb up towards the last saddle of the day, at last Mark was able to throw up twice and he felt a lot better but he had absolutely no energy. Meanwhile my injury miraculously was not rearing its ugly head. The compression socks were holding everything in place extremely firmly. Nothing was able to move, let alone cramp. I wonder how you could sit in an aeroplane for 8 hours while feeling that both of your lower limbs were being held in a vice like concrete grip – my poor mother!
One bloke fell in a heap in a sheugh with terrible cramp and a Good Samaritan came to his rescue. I encouraged Mark to keep going to the top of the spur and then down the other side to the penultimate check point. At this stage he insisted that I go on. I looked at my stop watch – 4 hours 53 and I dearly wanted to break 6 hours. I girded my loins, thought of Ireland and decided to go for it. I had met a new friend – Cathal from Newry and he too wanted to break 6 hours. I told him to stick with me because miracles do happen – if you grit your teeth forget about the pain and focus on the finish line. We were going to do whatever it took to get there.
My last marathon had been a dispiriting experience. I had been forced to walk the last two miles up the Mall in London. This time in the natural beauty and tranquillity of the Mournes with only the birds and the bees for company, I wanted to test myself. There was the odd undulation and wee climb but mostly the Rocky trail was fairly even. Cathal blew up but told me to go on. Our team of three had now become a team of one.
At the penultimate check point at mile 23 I checked my watch 5hrs 23. I had three miles to go and 37 mins to do it. This should be possible Pete. Just trust the compression socks to do their stuff and I would take care of the business end of things.
I looked back at the race, at all the wonderful views we had all of the fords and streams we had crossed, all the craic encountered, all of the great people we had met, all of the challenges and all of the slogging we had done - and now we were to be rewarded with a great finish. I hadn't been competitive all day I had just been prepared to sit back and relax but as I had approached two groups of two I thought to myself, "those guys are toast!"

Lonely as a cloud

I gave my version of a sustained sprint to pass them a few hundred metres before the line. I had been inspired all day, I was floating as lonely as a cloud. I was pain free, foot lose – if calf tight and frolicking in the sunshine. How could I even contemplate ever doing a boring tarmac marathon again when you have all this freedom, all of this unshackled feast of mother nature's delights laid out before you like a fine carpet? It was with those thoughts that I crossed the finish line in 5 hrs 53. I had done the last 10 K in an hour. I was ready as ever, for a pose, a photo and a pint.
Only 27 mins later into Kilbroney Park in Rostrevor came Mark the brave soldier after his twin girls ran up the course to help him home. We got a great goodie bag each as the thunder cracks in the air threatened to dump a ton of rain on the those who hadn't finished yet. Unbelievably a bloke called Eoin Keith from Dublin had finished in 3 hrs 14 mins. Eoin holds the record for the greatest distance run by an Irishman in 24 hrs. Apparently you run on a track for 4 hrs. one way then turn round and run the other way for the next fours etc. etc. The Mourne Way Marathon was obviously just a bit of stroll in the Park for him! If it was possible I was as happy as Eoin had been – despite the fact that he was probably back in Dublin by the time I had finished.
Mark and I had planned our recovery plan assiduously. Instead of the whey protein and the recovery drinks, we decided on three anti-inflammatories washed down with a nice strong New Zealand Red and a few Miller at a barbeque where as the night wore on, our experts just got better and the tales got taller... In the goodie bag I found an ad for the next adventure, the first ever off road Causeway Coast Marathon from Portballintrae to Ballintoy Harbour and back in four months time. What else would you be doing on the 10th October anyway? I am already looking forward to it.
And the legacy of this particular marathon? I was left with bruised toes – but that's far better than bruised pride. Joe Walsh may have sang about the Rocky Mountain Way but I felt so calm and relaxed and satisfied on my way home on Sunday morning that I was contemplating another song by the Eagles - "Peaceful Easy Feeling" – you can stuff your running on the roads. It's time to head for the hills!