So I’m standing with Honor at the junction of Foster Avenue and the N11 and we’re watching people pass us by with agony, I don’t know, etched all over their faces? Yeah, no, JP is running the Dublin City Marathon and I’ve turned up to cheer him on, as well as – obviously – the rest of the field.
I’m shouting encouragement at everyone. I’m like, “You’re doing great! You’re smashing it out of the ballpork! You’re all winners, as far as I’m concerned!”
Honor – it shames me to say it – is also shouting at people. She’s going, “Are you out of your focking minds? Do you know how much damage you’re doing to your bodies? You know you’re all going to end up with orthritis and osteoporosis?”
The two- or three-hundred people who’ve also turned up to cheer on either loved ones or total strangers are giving me daggers – like I’ve any control over my daughter and the things she does.
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
I’m there, “Honor, maybe stop hurling abuse at the runners?”
But she goes, “I’m giving them sound medical advice, Dad. I don’t understand why anyone would put their body through that.”
“Because it’s an achievement, Honor.”
“What, having the knees of a 90-year-old at the age of 37?”
“No, I mean being able to say that you finished a marathon. There’s only, like, a select group of us who can say that.”
She gets straight on to her phone, of course.
“One million people per year,” she goes. “That’s according to Google.”
I’m there, “Well, one million people per year then. That’s a pretty select group. And JP is going to hopefully be one of them.”
She goes, “Will I look up the number of people who are suffering with debilitating joint pain?”
I’m like, “Er, no, Honor,” because a lot of people in the crowd are already staring at the girl like she’s a cold sore on debs night. Instead, I go back to shouting encouragement at the runners. I’m going, “Remember, pain is temporary – quitting is forever!”
I look at my phone and I check where JP is on the tracker. He’s just turned off Roebuck Road on to Foster Avenue.
“Pain is your body’s way of telling you to stop!” Honor is telling every bunch of runners that passes us. “Give up now! It’ll feel amazing!”
I turn around to her and I make the mistake of going, “You’re only saying that because you don’t know what it feels like to actually achieve something in sport?”
She’s there, “Nor do you.”
I’m like, “Er, I won a Leinster Schools Senior Cup, Honor. And I can tell you for a fact that they don’t give out a million of those every year. And I finished this marathon.”
She goes, “When was this anyway?”
I’m there, “It was back in the day. There’s a photograph of me crossing the line on the bookcase in the livingroom.”
“The one of you finishing just behind a man dressed as a toothbrush?”
I straight away know what her game is here. She’s going to try to run it faster than me, thereby undermining my achievement
“Look, don’t get me wrong, Honor. I’m very proud of you and everything you’ve achieved in life. You won the election to become Head Girl of Mount Anville. And you’ve – how did you put it? – consolidated your power base by limiting the number of places available on the school ski trip then wait-listing anyone who didn’t make it to keep them in line. And – again, your words – you’ve suppressed dissent by closing down the school magazine. But I’ll always have my Leinster Schools Senior Cup winner’s medal – obviously, not literally, because they took it off me for doping – and I’ll always have my medal for finishing the Dublin City Marathon.”
She goes quiet then. It’s, like, a major burn for the girl. Then, suddenly out of left field, she goes, “I’m going to run it next year.”
I’m there, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m going to run it just to prove you wrong.”
“Er, I just said I was proud of you?”
She goes, “What time did you finish in?”
I’m suddenly there, “Er, I’m racking my brains here to try to remember. It was definitely in the top percentage.”
She’s like, “But what time did you finish in?”
I straight away know what her game is here. She’s going to try to run it faster than me, thereby undermining my achievement.
I’m there, “I’m pretty sure it was, like, three hours and 20 minutes – somewhere in and around that ballpork.”
She calls up a number on her phone, then dials it. It turns out that it’s the number for home.
She goes, “Mom, can you do me a favour? Can you go into the living room? Okay, you know that photograph of Dad crossing the line in the marathon? The one where the toothbrush beat him in the final sprint – yeah, that one.”
I’m like, “This is very childish, Honor.”
She’s there, “What time does it say on the clock above his head?”
I’m like, “Why are you so hung up on my time?”
She goes, “Four hours and 20 minutes! Okay, thanks, Mom,” and then she hangs up. “Oh my God, you’re such a focking liar!”
I’m there, “Finishing the thing is the real achievement, Honor.”
Even as a highly skilled liar, I can’t look the girl in the eye. I check the tracker and I realise that I’ve somehow managed to miss JP
“Yeah, you’re only saying that because you know if I can run it faster than you, it will totally undermine what you did.”
“The thought never entered my head.”
“I’m actually going to stort training tomorrow.”
“The one thing I would say about running on the roads, Honor, is that you can end up with, like, serious, serious joint problems?”
“Oh my God, you’re pathetic.”
“Orthritis, osteoporosis – and that’s only the stort of it. I actually think I damaged my lumbar vertebrae just trying to finish the thing. Was it worth it? Looking back now, I would have to say no.”
“You’re scared that I’m going to beat your time, aren’t you?”
“No, I’d be honestly delighted for you.”
Even as a highly skilled liar, I can’t look the girl in the eye. I check the tracker and I realise that I’ve somehow managed to miss JP. He’s passing the UCD flyover.
Honor goes, “Oh my God, look at you! You’re absolutely raging!”
I’m there, “No, I’m not, because when push comes to shove, I don’t think you’ll go through with it.”
She’s like, “We’ll see.”
But if I know my daughter like I think I do, she definitely, definitely will.
