Dingle Marathon one of wonderful sights, spirit, and a few too many hills

Some nine miles into the Dingle Marathon and I wanted to stop running.

I wanted to stop again around mile 10, and mile 11 and mile 12.

This was the first marathon I just wanted to come to a complete stop, refuse to take another step, and stay right where I was.

The scenery on the Dingle Peninsula in the southern end of Ireland was that spectacular. That amazing. That breathtaking. That inspiring.

It was, I thought at the time and later told my wife, the most beautiful sight of my life. The Atlantic Ocean to the left and a cliff to the right. Waves crashing against the rocks far below. The views stretched on and on to South Kerry and the Blasket Islands.

Unbelievable.

It got even better when we reached Slea Head Drive and I passed by the stone crucifixion scene, Jesus Christ on the white cross, statues at his feet, and I silently said a quick prayer.

Of all the races I have run, Boston, Seattle, Idaho, Montana, Kauai, Honolulu, the beauty, the spirit, all around me on Ireland, was unparalleled.

One part of me wanted to forget my race with the clock and soak in this land and ocean and people. But the other part, the runner in me, felt fantastic. My steps were light. My breathing, easy. My legs, steady. My heart, strong.

I ran on. I never stopped. This was my day.

I finished in 3 hours, 39 minutes and 10 seconds. My best marathon in years, and on a course with hills of all shapes and sizes and lengths.

At the finish line, back in this magical little town of Dingle, I found my wife. We walked and looked around at the finishers, the spectators, the bay, the boats, the streets lined with shops and pubs and one thing was clear to me: Those moments, those scenes, those places, those people, would be with me forever. For that, I was grateful. They were just as much a part of Dingle Marathon as the race itself.

And as we walked, I heard two words repeated often by passersby that day and even now, when I think of those two words, I smile: “Well done.”

•••

We are minutes from the starting gun on a sun-splashed Saturday morning, somewhere around 60 degrees. The crowd of some 2,000 runners — 1,400 in the half, 600 in the full — is packed into the narrow street in downtown Dingle. I ask permission of other runners, then squeeze through a gate opening near the front.

In a nod to the luck of the Irish, I’m wearing green compression socks and a green hat, a tribute to my late uncle Frank Urick that says “Duffy’s Horseshoeing, Belt, Montana.”

I ask another runner if he has any advice for me. He does. Around mile 21, he says, is the start of a long uphill. It goes on more than mile, and near the top, there is a sharp right turn where it gets even steeper, but only for another 50 meters or so.

You have to be tough there, he says. Grind it out. Be strong. Keep pushing. At the top, you’re rewarded with a long downhill.

A man listening turns to me and says, “What he’s trying to tell you is, it’s a darn hilly course.”

That advice would prove both accurate and helpful.

At the gun, I shuffle away with the mob. Some 20 seconds later as I pass the starting line, I hear my wife’s voice, “Go Billy,” and I raise my left hand and wave.

•••

The early miles are easy. I’m surprised and pleased at the splits of just over eight minutes a mile, especially since hills are already involved.

As we run, I try strike up conversations with my colleagues as I enjoy chatting early in marathons. Only, they’re not having it. I receive little response to my comments:

“What a great day.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Wow. Beautiful out here.”

These folks are not here to talk. They are here to run. Running in Ireland, like life there, is straightforward. No messing around. No nonsense. Finish what you start.

I refrain from further banter.

•••

At the half-way point, in the village of Dunquin, the half marathoners turn left for a nice downhill sprint to the finish, where a visit to Kruger’s Pub surely awaits, followed by a bus ride back to Dingle.

Marathoners, however, push on and are rewarded with a punishing mile-long climb against a headwind that almost makes me wish I had stopped with the half marathoners.

But soon, we crest the hill and are running through a most amazing street, an enchanting town. Wow. I love this place. I don’t know where we are, so I ask, “Excuse me. Could you tell me what town we are in?”

A woman answers:

“Ballyferriter” she says with her Irish brogue.

“Thank you,” I shout.

This may be the coolest little town I’ve ever seen. Got to come back, I think.

•••

At mile 19, needing a boost, I take off my shirt. Time to run Hawaii-style. I would see only one other runner sans shirt. But it works. I feel better.

•••

The spectators carry us.

“Morning,” I say with a wave to a group of boys and girls sitting on a stone wall.

Their cheers, smiles and laughter are delightful.

I pass a young boy and girl watching near the road, a glass of water on the stone wall they stand behind.

“Thank you for being out there,” I say.

A few paces down the road, I hear the girl’s small voice: “You’re welcome.”

Farther along, a man is sitting outside his door, playing drums. I raised my right fist and pump it triumphantly.

Around mile 22, in the midst of the final, long uphill battle, an AC/DC song blares from speakers and a man shouts to runners, “Keep going. Don’t give up. You’re almost through the hills. Just a little farther.”

I believe him.

•••

Finally, at mile 23, I am rewarded with that promised downhill. I know I can break 3:40 if I can crank it up, so I run harder, pounding the descent. I wonder if my legs will buckle, but they don’t. My next mile, 7:41, would be my fastest of the day. As I maintain a steady pace over the last two miles, I pass a sign near the road: “Heroes this way” with an arrow pointing ahead. Yes, that way. Heroes. I like it.

Around one more turn and we are back in Dingle. The crowd’s roar brings us home along the waterfront.

The announcer calls my name. It is finished.

While most marathons leave me drained, I feel good. It has been a fine race.

•••

That evening, my wife and I go for sunset walk along Dingle Bay before visiting John Benny’s pub for a pint of Guinness and music. It is beautiful. Stunning, really. We are surrounded by calm, blue waters and green mountains and fields divided by stone walls. Somewhere out in the mouth of the bay is Fungie the Dolphin. We chat with a man who congratulates me on running the full 26.2 miles. It’s a difficult course, he says. This race, he adds, is wonderful for the town. Brings in good people who have a good time.

“Well done,” he says.

When we return to town, I’m wearing my green Dingle Full Marathon finisher’s jacket. People notice. Young and old, they nod approvingly as they pass by and several times I again hear those two words:

“Well done.”

That’s all. That is what they say in Ireland. Not “Good job.” Not “Way to go.” Well done. Nothing more is needed. No drawn out praise or compliments. Two simple words.

I don’t know that two words have ever meant so much.