I used to be a runner. Then I became… a sitter. A comfort eater. A man whose jeans slowly evolved into “loungewear” because the button refused to participate.
My last race was the Loch Ness Marathon in 2022 and I don't mean that in a nostalgic, misty-eyed way. I mean I was in actual agony running past oblivious sheep. After that, a cocktail of immune issues, mysterious health gremlins, and general life chaos parked me firmly on the sidelines. Fast forward to May this year and the scales gave me a number that should've come with a siren. Nearly 17 stone. Grand for a nightcub bouncer. Not ideal for a man who once had a parkrun PB.
So I started walking. And walking. And walking. Like Forrest Gump if he was fuelled by spite and Aldi protein yoghurts. I was hitting 20,000 steps a day, not out of motivation but out of sheer panic. Eventually I added in bits of running. Just enough to feel slightly smug but not enough to trigger shin splints or a moral crisis.
Which brings us to the Féile an Phobail 5K. My big comeback race. A lovely wee community event in West Belfast, part of the wider Féile festival. Perfect: local, no pressure, no elite start line full of lads who look like they’ve been grown in a lab using Ronnie Delany's DNA. Just me, my panic, and a bib.
Or so I thought.
The Bib of Doom
It arrived in the post. Great start. Until I noticed it said “10K” on it. Despite the fact I’d 100% signed up for the 5K. Cue a meltdown. Had I misclicked? Was I about to be forced into a double-loop nightmare by mistake? I took to online forums like a madman, “Anyone else got the wrong bib?!” Turns out they just sent the same number to everyone. Good stuff. Mild cardiac episode averted.
The Night Before
Now, in a perfect world, I’d have been tucked up in bed at 9pm the night before, sipping herbal tea, visualising negative splits. Instead, I was out for my partner’s mate’s birthday, then home to hammer out a last-minute preview for Day Two Irish T&F Nationals. Got to bed at 1:30am. Slept like a brick until 7am. Woke up in a full panic. Standard race prep.
Quick coffee. Bum bag loaded (yes, I wore one, no I’m not ashamed). fluorescent yellow top tied round the waist like a divorced dad on a stag weekend. Hat on backwards because, obviously, I’m still cool. Glider bus towards West Belfast. We’re off.
Chaos on the Falls Road
Now here’s the twist: nobody told me the Falls Road was shut. Probably for the festival. Possibly for the race. Possibly just for craic. Either way, the glider dumped us miles early. I was left standing there like a man trying to get to a gig that had moved venues.
So I did what any committed runner would do. I legged it. Nearly two miles. Down the Falls Road. Into Andytown. Past confused pensioners and stewards who were still setting up. I arrived at the Fair Deal Garden Centre, panting like a dog left in a hot car. Absolutely goosed. Race hadn’t even started.
Worse still, I needed a piss. Desperately. Had needed one since the glider. No time. No toilets. Just pain and focus. Mind over bladder.
The Race
We set off around 9:20am. Up the Andersonstown Road. Turnaround point. Back towards the start except we finished in the grounds of a school. There was hills. Undulations. West Belfast isn’t “rolling” terrain, it’s a cardio ambush. Whoever designed that course either hates runners or wanted us to repent for our sins.
But you know what? It was glorious. No headphones allowed (because it’s 2025 and apparently music turns runners into legal liabilities), but I didn’t care. The support was magic. Some legend shouted “Great running Philip!” at me and I nearly burst into tears. That’s the sort of thing you remember. Not your finish time. Not the chafing. That.
And speaking of finish times, 31:29. Sub-10:30 pace. Nearly three minutes faster per mile than my training runs. Turns out fear, adrenaline, and a full bladder are great motivators.
The Finish and the Great Homeward Trek
The finish line was outside some school whose name I’m going to make up until I check, let’s say St. Agony’s Integrated School. We got medals. Bananas. A technical tee. All for under £22. Honestly better value than most marathons I’ve done. And way less trauma.
Post-race, I was buzzing. Sweaty. Triumphant. Slightly feral. Oh and my bladder finally got a happy ending.
Then came the second twist.
I asked a very helpful policeman how to get home. He said I could catch the Glider “just up the road.” Bless him. There were no Gliders. There were road closures. There were other buses somewhere, apparently the 10 plus a letter. I just couldn't find them. So it was just me, my bum bag, my backwards hat, and a 90-minute walk into the city centre.
By the time I got home, I’d clocked over 20,000 steps, before noon. I collapsed onto the sofa and briefly lost the will to live. My legs were gone. And I was grinning like a lunatic.
Would I Do It Again?
Absolutely. Féile an Phobail 5K was everything I needed: friendly, fun, mildly traumatic, and a brilliant reminder that I can still do this. No matter how far you fall off the wagon, there’s always a road back, even if that road is partly closed and your bus ditches you halfway there.
See you at the next one. I’ll be the lad with the hat, the limp, and the bum bag full of dreams.