Gef’s Parish Walk

I’ve never once walked to a point where it became a strenuous activity, because at the point of strenuousness I’d stop walking and wait for someone in a vehicle to collect me. Yet, recently I found myself walking 67 miles, rubbing Vaseline on my nipples and trying to figure out how to p*ss without stopping. This was just on my way home from a night out because I couldn’t afford a taxi back to Maughold, but I hear people had similar experiences on the Parish Walk.

It’s the stuff of Tolkien’s dreams. A whole load of walking, walking, and more walking, and last weekend more than a thousand people chose slow torture for their Saturday and took on the infamous amble. I’m a sucker for The Lord of the Rings, so I decided to channel my inner Frodo and try it.

In preparation for the Walk itself, I bought a neon visor (pink) and set up a JustGiving account to raise money for impetigo to show everyone that not only am I an athlete but also a really great person. Training wise, I walk everyday so I’ve essentially been training for this since I was 7 (I was a late bloomer learning how to walk).

The NSC (0 miles)

It’s hot. But everyone’s in good spirits. High on the atmosphere and cheering crowds, I feel a rush of excitement to get going and elbow some elderly people out the way to get closer to the front. A gunshot goes off and we’re away. (It’s only later we realised that wasn’t a race starter gun)

Braddan (1.5 miles)

There are so many people that it takes 13 of the 24 hours just get around the track and out of the NSC. I end up strolling next to a chap called Cian who’s walking to raise money for cystitis. We become Parish Walk friends.

Marown (4 miles)

An absolute breeze. I can walk 4 miles lying down in my sleep.

Santon (11 miles)

Turns out Cian isn’t raising money for cystitis. He has it. And is telling me about it in great detail.

Orrisdale

Some slight relief as the lovely lot at Orrisdale Farm hand out hot dogs, meaning Cian has to shut up to eat. Though he puts in a good effort to try and do both at the same time, spraying bits of damp bread into my face. My dislike of him sparks into hatred. I wave at the piglets as we leave the farm feeling re-energised after eating what was likely one of their parents.

Malew (15 miles)

The last 4 miles have been spent trying to figure out how to get away from my new friend-turned-enemy Cian but it’s difficult when we’re both walking at the same pace in the same direction.

Arbory (17 miles)

Cian tells me he’s an avid Tupperware fan. I didn’t know there was such a thing. He brought samples with him and proceeds to try and rope me into a Tupperware selling pyramid scheme. Kill me.

Rushen (19 miles)

Cian stops for the loo and what is most definitely a painful passing of something. Good. This is my one and only opportunity to make a break for it. I tap into speed walking mode and charge ahead, overtaking someone dressed as a toe who’s raising money for athlete’s foot. Loser.

THE SLOC (aka The SLOG)

I don’t know what’s more painful. This part of the course or listening to Cian try to convince me the Earth is flat. Walking uphill, my calves and quads feel like they are simultaneously being bathed in the fires of Hell and eaten by starving ants. I make it to the top and almost cry with happiness. But, like my enthusiasm at making Cian a friend and no doubt all of his sexual encounters, this is premature. Everyone talks about walking up the Sloc. They don’t mention the decline. Possibly because they Tippex it out of their memory to avoid PTSD. The walk uphill has left my tendons tighter than Elon Musk’s willingness to donate to charity. I feel them desperately trying to stretch back to their full length on each heavy downward step. My shoelaces are cutting off the circulation to the rest of my body and I start to loose control of my legs, each of which feels the weight of The Calf of Mann. Instead of fighting, I accept my fate and allow gravity to do its work. Letting my legs run out of control to a point of resembling Road Runner from Looney Toons, I close my eyes and hope for a swift death by holiday coach tour bus. Alas, none turn up. It did mean I blasted into Peel at a pace that made me look a lot more impressive than I actually am.

Patrick (30.5 miles)

The Peel-stinters (quitters) have stopped and are celebrating. I power past, waving to the crowds, feeling superior.

Peel, St German’s (32.5 miles)

Without Cian chewing my ear off about Tupperware sets and UTIs, my distraction from the physical pain is gone and I feel every single dull, agonising step. Blisters have made a home under my heels and on the tops of my toes that are so big I’m essentially walking on my own personal moonboots. I pop some paracetamol and sell a couple to an older chap I pass, who’s already walking like he’s shat himself.

Kirk Michael (39 miles)

My support crew – Mum and Dad – drive past, chuck a Nutrigrain bar at my head and tell me about how Flo (their next door neighbour) has got conjunctivitis again. She just can’t catch a break can Flo.

Ballaugh (42 miles)

The last 3 miles have been spent trying to swallow the Nutrigrain bar. It’s so hot and the bar is so dry my glands are producing as much saliva as there are good Michael Bay films. None. I top up on liquids instead. The thought of crossing the finish line and downing a cold can of Diet Coke spurs me forward. I message Mum and Dad to have one ready for me at the end. If I make it.

Jurby (45 miles)

Drank too much. Now I’m stopping to wee every 20 minutes. I’m trying to come up with a system in which I can urinate on the move. It involves one of Cian’s Tupperware pieces he gave me earlier.

Bride (52.5 miles)

I need to do something about my shoelaces to make room for my feet, which have swollen to the size of two baby Killer Whales. I sit down to relace them and immediately realise I have made a grave error. As soon as my ass hits the tarmac I have never felt comfort like it and have zero desire to get back up.

Bride…still (52.5 miles)

I’m still sat here. Dreaming about that cold can of Diet Coke. Until I hear a voice on the wind. I turn to see Cian 400m behind me shouting about the different sizes of Tupperware he’s selling. It’s enough to make me get up and start walking again.

Andreas (55.5 miles)

Mum and Dad got bored of supporting me when I sat down and didn’t get back up and have left to go watch a repeat of The Repair Shop, buying a Tupperware set from Cian as they pass him. I realise I’m only half way and start questioning if this is really worth it. The whole thing is becoming less of a fun challenge and more of a tragic mistake. I really don’t care that much about impetigo.

Lezayre (61.5 miles)

The night draws in and with it the loneliness. The crowds have dispersed. I start walking through the parts of the island where tumbleweeds are the main inhabitants. The only company I’m left with is the sound of my thighs chafing. I apply some Vaseline and continue in silence. As the sky gets darker, so do my thoughts. Hello Darkness my Old Friend plays on repeat in my mind.

Maughold (67 miles)

I’d rather not talk about what happened here. I went to a dark place.

Lonan (78.5 miles)

The Welcome to Lonan sign is in sight. HAZZAR. From not knowing Lonan, naturally I assume that a welcome sign means the church is close by to said sign. Instead, it turns out the proximity of the welcome sign to Lonan Church itself is the same distance it would take me to walk to Sri Lanka. I expected to reach the church within 5 minutes. 2 hours later, I had still not discovered Lonan. Whoever put that sign up. I will find you. And I will personally make sure you never erect another sign again unless it’s one that says ‘SADIST’ and points at your house. I’ll put it up though. To make sure it’s less than 1 billion metres from where you live.

Onchan (83 miles)

The sun is rising and with it my spirits as I realise the end is near. I can practically hear that cold can of Diet Coke calling my name.

Finish (85 miles)

The finish line is in sight. My feet are now inflated enough to be hired out for small children’s birthday parties to bounce on. My hips are burning, not with desire, but with pure, white hot pain. My nipples and inner-thighs are so chafed they could be mistaken for a baboon’s backside. BUT I CAN SEE THE END. Mum and Dad are there waiting to give me my coveted Diet Coke. I feel just like Frodo from The Lord of the Rings at the end of his long, perilous journey to Mordor. And just like Frodo, mere feet from the end, I am pipped on the line by Cian who charges past and bites my finger off to get his Tupperware back. Turns out it wasn’t the Diet Coke calling my name in Onchan. It was him. Mum and Dad give me a hug and an update on Flo – she’s dead – then thrust a lukewarm can of Pepsi in my hand. It was at this point that I blacked out.

The Aftermath

The streets around the Island look like scenes from The Walking Dead as people try and do their ‘cool down mile’, business is booming for physios, and people’s digestion is strangely warped. I personally speak to you from a cell in Jurby. Before I blacked out I snapped and went on a violent rampage. Ended up putting 17 people in Noble’s Hospital, including my parents, and punched the finish line timer so hard it ended up flying through the air and denting the Manxman, which was moored in the dock not sailing. Shock. Cian’s not been seen since.

I would say raising £63 for impetigo made it all worth it but I’m still looking taking donations. In fact, can I interest you in a fairly-priced 24 piece Tupperware set?