Gemma and her colleague Paola following the race.

One good turn deserves another

In this week's The Good Life column, Gemma inadvertently finds herself back among the Irish community in Brussels...

I entered a 5k race for the first time in around a year last week. My Italian colleague posted the link to register into our office group chat. Feeling bad that the only reactions involved people joking about their inability to run, I said that I would course sign up to do it. I haven’t trained in ages, only going for an odd light jog to clear my head. I read the description of the event, which was called ‘Run in the Dark.’ It reminded me a little bit of our own ‘Darkness into Light’ and a line on their website which read “you are joining a global community running, for those who dream to walk” really stood out to me.

As I scrolled through the website I noticed that there were events taking place all over the world, with many in Ireland. Before I got a chance to investigate further, I realised I had work to do and never thought it again until I reached the starting point for the race.

Several people gathered, myself and my colleague were given reflective armbands by a girl named Aisling. Interesting, I thought. Sean, who had the accent of somebody who has been living away from Ireland for quite some time, showed us where to register. As I scanned the list for my name, I saw quite a few McMahons on there. I also noticed the O’Neills logo on a man wearing a Kerry jumper. I excitedly explained to my colleague all of these things that I was noticing. A few minutes later Sean silenced the crowd and explained why the fundraiser was taking place.

While he and his friend Mark were in university, Mark came down with a condition that caused him to lose his sight. However he didn’t let this stop him and competed in ultra-endurance races everywhere from deserts to polar ice caps. In 2010, a fall from a second story window left him paralysed. So last Tuesday night, as darkness enveloped around us, we ran to raise funds to cure paralysis.

This atmosphere was unique. Previously when doing races like this, music blared while we danced our way through warm ups, while people tried to get participants psyched up to race. This time was different, we stood together in a circle as we heard Mark Pollock’s extraordinary story – a Belfast man who turned an unfortunate series of events into a motivational story for others. There was no big table for registrations, no fancy running bibs or numbers - just a group of people running together. We lit the way with lamps on our phones, while Sean stayed at the starting point to mind our things.

The race itself flew by. There was no pressure on pace or time, organisers pointed lamps in the direction we should run towards while shouting encouragement. Before we knew it, the race was over. Protein bars and medals were handed out to each participant, as well as a promise of a drink afterwards in the local pub.

We entered ‘Coin du Diable’ or ‘Devils Corner’ a small bar located beside Berlaymont. I instantly recognised a man named John who drinks in the pub where I work. He introduced me to his friend Michael who was also from Ireland. We explained our red faces and the medals around our neck, which were met with many congratulations. We chit chatted for a while before saying our goodbyes. We sat down for some beers and fries (chips as we know them). A cherry beer and Vedette IPA arrived to our table, with the bartender informing us that they had been paid for. Of course, I don’t know why I was surprised. The people we were chatting to on the way in had paid for our drinks. We agreed we would only stay for one, with busy days ahead the following day. Here, one means one. At home, it can often be a different story.

As we got up to leave, we met our fellow joggers on the way out. We were offered a drink several times, which we politely declined. Paola had to be in the office at 8.30 the next morning and neither of us wanted to walk home alone. I tried to pay for our fries, they were paid for by the organiser of the race. Although very grateful for both gestures, I was not surprised in the slightest. This was the Irish community at its finest. Although what we did may seem very small to us, we were helping someone, somewhere. To the Irish, one good turn deserves another.

To be honest, I didn’t want to leave the warmth of my house to do the fundraiser. It was a cold November evening and I had scones to prepare for our office Fika (a Swedish tradition where we bring something from our home country) the next day. In the end, I am so glad I did. It felt amazing to be among the Irish community again, even if it did mean I had to stay up all hours baking!

* Gemma Good is from Killeshandra and a third year journalism student in University of Limerick

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