The Date Half Marathon - Part 1

Tomorrow is the start of the running season for me with the spring half marathon in Date, the next town over. There are a record 4,000 entrants lined up for this year, consisting of I, of the race of men, and approximately 3,999 hobbits. The word out of the wizard's circle is that the hobbits have banded with the dwarves from the mines of Mt. Yotei to ambush me somewhere around the 11km mark. Apparently the halflings have long memories are still incensed about some comments I made in my blog about last year's event.
But I fear them not, for I am a true descendent of the MacFhionnbhairs, legendary celtic warriors of old. The 'Great Comb Overs' as we are also known, recognizable by our gleaming crowns and banner like hair that unfurls and flaps majestically in the brisk spring breeze blowing the blood stirring scent of the Atlantic all the way from Ballyheigue.
Tracing our venerable lineage back to the original guardians of North Kerry hurling, we MacFhionnbhairs have over the course of history vanquished the vikings, drove the darkness from the west and introduced advanced market gardening techniques to the Causeway hinterland.
We are not to be trifled with.
So I fear no ambush; I shall meet the hobbits and dwarves at the 11km mark and they shall know the clash of my iron clad hurley, and quail beneath the fierce fury of the MacFhionnbhairs. And henceforth their sons, and their sons after them, shall cower with stumpy fear at the very mention of the 'Battle of the 11km mark"!
Unfortunately, for matters athletic the prognosis is not so good. This particular MacFhionnbhair has grown, ahem, somewhat 'swarthy' over the long winter and seems to have over-girded both loins and his waist.
In response to the bitter cold we endured this year, my body has necessarily, and I'd like to stress that 'necessarily', evolved a layer of protective fat around the greater abdominal region. There's a lot of important organs down there around the abdominal region that need protecting from the cold.
So...
So, I just want to preempt some of the frenzied media chatter that has built up over the past week about my participation in tomorrow's half marathon, qualifying times, and the London Olympics.
Honestly people, like the Irish rugby team last autumn, your just setting yourselves up for a return visit to the Heartbreak Hotel. And yis only have yourselves and de meeja to blame.
No, tomorrow will be a training run as (a) there are 4,000 of us and for the first 10km or so, we all have to run along a 3 metre wide cycle lane like so many sweaty sardines; (b) the temperature is forecast to be sunny with a high of 12 degrees and I have been basically training in snow and subzero temperatures for the past month, so I am most likely to succumb to heat exhaustion; and (c) I have to clatter through all those runty feckers out at the 11km mark.
All this is not to say that I have given up on being on the marathon starting line (and subsequently the victor's podium) in London in early August, but I am leaving the qualifying for that to the Yakumo Healthy Milk Run in early June.
Then you will see greatness. Tomorrow you will just see grim-faced endurance and slaughtered hobbits.

Me, coming up to the 11km mark. Note comb-over.