What’s Better For Mankind? Running A Half Marathon Or Not Pissing Yourself On A Bus?

Today was the day of the Waterside Half Marathon in Derry and after a night of galavanting around the town getting wankered on pizza and Belgian beer, I took to the road once more for 8th half marathon and 10th race overall.

After chatting to Mark at the start of the race, I settled quickly into the way of things and the first 7 miles went by easily.

That’s when the rain came.

My next memory was at the 10 miles when steward guy asking me ‘what the hell happened to you?’. He was referring to the fact I was soaked from head to toe in rain, sweat and fuck knows what else.

I wanted to play the smart arse and tell him that I’d been splashing around in the Foyle to give the rest of the runners a chance.

But the rain had taken away my sense of humour.

My worst moment was at the 12.5 mile point when some idiot driver took umbrage at me and my running.

He repeatedly sounded his horn in an an attempt to get me to hurry the fuck up.  It was if he felt that by tooting his horn he’d inspire the hapless looking fellow in front of him to haul 15 stone of Cheestrings and Leffe around the Waterside at breakneck speed.

No dice, Jim.

I felt like dropping my bags, parking my ass on his wind shield and shitting the rest of the badness out of me.

But I did not, as I had a race to finish.

I coasted on down and finished in 2:09:43 which is 3 seconds faster than last Sunday. I wasn’t aiming for a personal best. I just wanted to get around in one piece and not feel like I was running on fumes like last Sunday.

Job done.

Post race was eventful too. I had to get washed in a toilet. Not in the actual bowl. That is not the Northern Irish way. No, I had some baby wipes with me and performed what is known as the whores shower or a tramps bath.

It would’ve actually been OK if it wasn’t for the influx of people trying to get into the toilet to freshen up. At this point both of my legs were cramping and was having to stomp to stop the pain from spreading up my leg.

This did not stop me moaning in pain.

I heard laughter from outside which stoked a wild flash of paranoia.

“What if they think I’m wanking?”

I stopped moaning and got outside quickly and gave 2 guys and a girl the best “I have not been wanking” face that I have ever put on.

I spent the rest of the day getting hopelessly lost around the Foyle Bridge, drinking in town with a friend and trying not to piss myself on the bus back to Belfast.

You see there are no toilets on the Ulsterbus Goldliner service. If you’re caught short, you can either disembark in Dungiven and fall to the timber wolves of the Sperrins, or piss yourself in front of a paying audience.

I was not ready for either outcome. I knuckled down for those 90 minutes and I’m glad to say I had the best piss of my life at the end of the journey.

There are a lot of parallels to be drawn between running a half marathon and not pissing yourself on the 212 Goldliner Express from Londonderry to Belfast.

Actually.

Coming to think of it.

There aren’t any.

Here’s a rubber duck I found in the bathroom of my hotel.