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Breandán Ó Néill
- Home until 14/08/07
- Me, Myself, and I
- Bring on college
- Favourite quotes from bebo
- 'Off the chain' TUBAG...
'was working with the oldies was afraid i'd catch the menopause' JENKO (Richie)
...'drop the lamh and give her a bit of a shandy' (in jake stephens accent) EOIN WALSH.....
'one may not believe in mileage but one sure as hell does milage' MAD LEN
***additions to follow***
- T-shirts/Hoodies/Shit like that
- Things I Fuckin' like
- Living in Spain, 5 iron half way down the fairway, Bleedin lovely burritos, sleeping in (everyday these days), roulette (the team - dan 'balls of steel' moore, ian 'always loses' barrett, Healy, Crowley, Joe Warne, Ferdia boy, eehhhhhh Scrivso??), bitta hurling in albert college park, Waterford, beaches in spain, nikki beach, onions, running up irishtown nature park in the summer (only easy runs though), BOSTON LEGAL / PRISON BREAK.
- College 08/09
- Manic Mondays, Toxic Tuesdays, Wired Wednesdays, ____________ Thursdays????
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It’s beginning to hurt. Two kilometres left. “This is it, now or never. Go with him. This is the move, damn it, stick with him.” My eyes narrow and focus on his left shoulder. His grey singlet ripples as he leads into the wind. A chunk of Dungarvan mud is nestled on his shoulder blade, flicked upwards from his spikes in the torrid conditions. He angrily puffs a stream of air from his mouth, emerging like white smoke in the icy November air. One kilometre left, and as we charge alone into the quietest part of the course, we hear nothing but each other’s footsteps.
Just us, two teenagers gasping for oxygen as they try to hang on for three more agonising minutes. I feel like agreeing a truce while we’re out here, 50-50, we’ll split the gold medal. Such thoughts don’t reside long in the mind. They are quickly replaced by more animal instincts. “You or him, Cathal. You choose. Are you going to let him beat you? This is your last junior year. Last chance. Take him out.” Eight hundred metres separate one of us from our first national cross-country title. We have returned to the noisiest part of the course, and as we swing a right-hand turn through the crowds, he lifts the pace again. Impossible. He lengthens his stride, pumps his arms backwards like pistons, and that grey singlet begins to move into the distance. “Let him go. You can’t match that. Too much pain. Not today.”
When an athlete gets injured, it’s akin to amputating a chair’s leg and expecting it to stand. The leg which supports them, defines them, disappears. They have no option but to accept their fall to the floor, try not to hit their head on landing. When that athlete’s chosen sport is one which requires obsession and insanity in equal doses, the fall is that much harder. Few know the loneliness of the injured long-distance runner.
I tore my hamstring in 2004. However, it wasn’t one of those tears you read about in papers. The ones where some player tears a hammy, goes to some treatment centre at minus 500 degrees, and then miraculously emerges the following weekend with an inspirational performance. No, this was a sinister, evil, chronic rip in the top of my right hamstring. Evil enough to require five physiotherapists and three doctors to diagnose. Evil enough to prevent me sitting in the same position for more then ten minutes. Evil enough to sentence me to the couch for six months.
Long-distance runners endure daily. We deny ourselves the comfort zone because we know the rush we get when the pain barrier is broken. That euphoric daze after a track session when your eyes cannot focus, your head pounds, and your muscles burn in a sea of lactic acid. All you want is to lie down and die. But you don’t. You run on, knowing that after this insane effort, the organism that is your body becomes stronger. So when I felt a niggle in my right buttock in 2004, I ran on.
There is a Cherokee saying: “Listen to the whispers, and you won’t have to hear the screams.” If only. Four months after I heard the whispers, I was screaming. It was on the treatment table at Gerard Hartmann’s clinic in Limerick city. He plunged his thumbs into my hamstring, pressing in further until I couldn’t take any more. I covered my face with my hands and asked him for a towel I could bite on as he tried to heal me. Back and forth, across the hamstring, minute after minute after minute. Worse than any race, worse than when I broke my collarbone. Tears rolled down my cheek, not out of some emotional decision to cry, but simply because I was writhing in agony. “Now you’re finding out, Cathal, what they go through,” he said. “Not nice, is it? Not nice at all.”
After this came four months of rest. It may sound appealing to the average armchair athlete, but to me the words resounded like a temporary death sentence. I did core exercises every day to strengthen the muscles supporting the hamstring. But nothing could s
1 Comment 328 weeks
....../ `---_LEGEND__-- ___ |]
.....), ---.(_(__) /
0 Comments 378 weeks
Tis goin very well. jus chillin rite now. chillin is the key to success. im tellin ye.
Mood in the camp is very positive, trainings goin well. The foots holding out aswell which had been my main concern over here. Ah well seen as im in such a mellow mood after my session and jus in from the sun my mind lacks adventure so thats all i have to say im afraid. sleep in 15 mins then easy hallf hour-. should be good. peace out
0 Comments 379 weeks
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