I first dreamed of running for Ireland as a hurdler in high school. The idea occurred to me again as an All-American half-miler at Georgetown University eight years ago. But it wasn’t until the fall of 1997, when I was settled in Maine, that I was able to return to racing and go after it. This summer, after taking a leave of absence from my job at the Bangor Daily News, the dream became real.

However, it wasn’t as simple as taking my Irish citizenship, going to run for Irish coach Jim Kilty in Dublin, and being named to the Irish National Team. I had to earn my spot. I also had to find my way. Yet it was the fear and unknown that made my odyssey unforgettable – and Ireland so dear.

I went to experience Ireland. I also wanted to be running well. Trying to adjust to it all too quickly, I strained a ligament in my right leg after my first meet and lost training time. When I recovered, I went to a high-caliber race outside of London on Kilty’s suggestion, but at that point, doubt and desire had become intertwined. I needed the patience my coach in Maine, Chuck Whitney, had helped me find in my second life on the track. I craved the feel of running fast. So it was I found myself in a hotel room looking for insight in a cheap travel book.

It was the title that caught my eye, a tale of a venture I’d like to undertake myself: “Round Ireland with a Fridge.” I bought it on a whim, but found author Tony Hawks’ mission and the premise of my own trip were much the same. Driven by a bet to hitchhike around the country with a refrigerator, Hawks became attached to his companion and the Irish who embraced him. The same could be said of me and my running.

I had traveled through Ireland before and visited my family there in the past. But this summer, running brought me to my relatives as someone they could understand, a hard worker after a dream, and running bonded me to their country.

What I related to best in Hawks’ book was the way he summed up his quest, saying: “I liked the idea of doing all you could to reduce the chances of you, as an old person, saying `if only.’ ”

I left London dissatisfied with my race time (2:09), but having found a fresh perspective. Turning my heart to the Irish, I let their optimism guide me. Because I had also come to Ireland to learn about the people.

Understanding Eire

I have always been intrigued by Irish mythology. It reveals the character of the people, their resolve and humor. My own name is from an Irish myth, the story of a rebel princess. So it should come as no surprise that my summer in Eire was spent unearthing the myths of Irish culture.

The misconception I was happiest to see cleared up was how and where the Irish language, Gaelic, is spoken. Throughout the country, Gaelic appears on road signs and is used in everyday expressions. In my grandmother’s hometown in Donegal, the native language is spoken daily. I found the same in the remote villages of the southwest coast I visited last summer. What surprised me this year was to find people speaking Gaelic in Dublin.

The first time I heard Kilty, a native Dub, speaking Gaelic on his mobile phone, I was confused. Then I heard him use phrases just as naturally at practice. Before the last interval of my last workout, he called to me in Gaelic, then translated, one Irish Catholic to another: “In the name of God and for Ireland.”

There are national TV and radio stations broadcasting in Gaelic. Living with an Irish brother and sister, I often walked into the sitting room to hear Gaelic on TV. My housemate, Ed, always apologized, but I loved it. During one Irish football match, I got him to translate. Now I know “doo-doo” is 2-2.

Learning the truth about the changing face of Ireland, however, saddened me. Ireland has long been viewed as a poor country. Until recently it was. But today, wealth is spreading fast. As someone whose grandparents were forced to leave Ireland to find work, I’m elated to see young people making a living and enjoying it in their country. My grandparents were proud of the life they made in America, but homesick, too. In this regard, the booming economy is a blessing.

What is frightening is the pace at which the culture is changing. What took generations to evolve in America has developed in the last few years in Ireland. People who once owned little now have trendy cars, mobile phones, money to travel. More and more of the upper middle class is able to own summer homes. This doesn’t just mean money is moving, it means land in peaceful areas is being developed; in my mind, destroyed. I fear the mythical land I fell in love with is slipping away.

Of course, the spirit of the people will never change. While the new bourgeoisie in Ireland may be willing to sell the country’s soul, the day laborer will never give up the “craic.” This national resource, a common term for good fun, defines social time in Ireland. It was the spirit of Irish cheer that taught me about the power of possibility.

While an American running in another country is not unusual, my purpose in running for Ireland by virtue of the citizenship I got through my grandfather, James Boyle, was. All that felt strange for me was my assimilation to new training techniques.

Fortunately, the week I returned from my injury, I ran 2:08.1, placing fourth in the 800 meters at the Antrim International Games. This performance earned me a spot on the Irish National Team chosen to compete in Riga, Latvia. Delighted as I was, my best performance came later, at the Irish National Championships, where I finished second in the 800. This was a more perfect setting for a season-best time.

The nationals were reminiscent of the gritty track stories from the 1960s and ’70s about athletes who amazed and entertained during an era that seemed to predate steroids. Of course, drugs existed in track and field then, but not like now, when use is so prevalent, runners in Ireland even questioned my Gatorade mix. I offered many a taste. None would try. Such is the air of uncertainty in the world of athletics today.

Yet I believe the playing field was even for the woman in my race who won in 2:05.69 and the Olympian who finished third in 2:08.17, behind my runner-up time of 2:07.65. The thrill of being in the thick of this race at Ireland’s biggest meet had an Old World feel. It also held deeper meaning, because I was one among the lads. As the Donegal radio station, The Highlander, described in its broadcast: “Deirdre Fleming with the Glenties connection.”

Irish omens

In the end, my time in Ireland was soaked in meaning because it was a lesson of family. I came to know my relatives as people, and said goodbye to them as friends. I went with them on hikes, to watch plays and football matches, to sit with them in parks and pubs. So like the Irish, they shared support in small ways and filled me with hope.

When Kilty met me the day before I left to tell me that after my injury I had “salvaged a good season,” he talked of my next trip to Ireland when I would “come home.” My relatives make the same reference. And that’s how it feels.

When Aunt Kathleen told us how my grandmother wanted to visit Ireland one last time, my cousin Evelyn said: “She sent you instead.”

It’s not hard to believe when omens were everywhere.

When I took the bus up to Donegal for a long-awaited trip outside the city, I stepped off the bus in Glencolumbkille and was greeted by the owner of Biddy’s Pub, James Patrick, who was just then walking outside his bar.

“You’ve come back to visit us,” he said flatly.

I was incredulous. I had met him just once, one night at his pub last year. What’s more, he had no idea who I had come to visit. I brushed off his comment as a generic welcome, but my cousins said that wasn’t the case. Patrick remembered me.

Somehow, in this town the size of Lubec, Patrick remembering me was not strange. It was merely a part of the mystery in the rugged hills, the ancient towers, the vast ocean. It was, after all, no more remarkable than the coincidence that greeted me when I returned to Dublin.

Five hours after leaving the Glen, I stepped off the bus, walked to a newsagent and baeside me, herself about to cross the street for the next bus to Donegal. People told me Dublin was like a small town. Here was my proof. Although then, it was more.

Bridge was the first cousin to meet me in Dublin this summer. It was also Bridge who put me on a city bus after my last night in Dublin, telling me with conviction, “I won’t say goodbye, but **slan leat go foill.** Only farewell for now.”

So the omens came full circle.

I liked the idea that symmetry made up that final toast in Dublin, to be able to think back to that evening filled with slow, celebratory pints, talk of Donegal football and future dreams, and see how it all resembled the patterns in a Celtic design.

The end is only the beginning.

Leaving Dublin Airport a customs officer suggested as much. He reviewed my paperwork, stamped my passport, and waved me through. And as I gathered my odd collection of brown bread, broken laptop, Irish track gear, camera bag, and fly rod, the man watched me with amusement. Then he says: “I like your necklace.”

It’s a silver Celtic earring I bought in Dublin years ago. The other in the set is with my grandfather, up in Heaven or six feet under, depending on your beliefs. Either way, Pop’s got it.

Before each race, I put the earring behind me to keep it from bouncing in my face, but also so, in a sense, a part of Pop is at my back, pushing me onward. Pop was a great champion of my running. He was also a great champion of life. My grandfather left his home in Glenties, Donegal, as a teen-ager to find work abroad. He lived to be 95 yet never lost his love of learning or laughter, his Irish way of talking or teaching.

I looked up and smiled when the officer asked me if I got the charm in Ireland.

“Many years ago,” I said.

Many years before my training began.

When I put the earring in Pop’s hand, I hoped the one I put around my neck would serve as a talisman and lead me to Ireland to run. At the time, I hadn’t raced in six years. Two years later there I was in Dublin Airport, a summer’s mission completed by having run for the Irish National Team.

Sometime later, in the silence before a flight, it hit me that I was leaving Ireland. I stared in front of me and thought of the last person in Eire to “chat me up,” as the Irish say. And I couldn’t help wondering if in some way it wasn’t my Pop reaching out to me, telling me I had done well. I looked up at the Irish flag across from me and, at least for that moment, I was certain it was.

Looking back, I hadn’t run as fast as I hoped, but I accomplished what I set out to do. And in the spirit of my grandfather, I didn’t give up.

In three months I ran in meets from Aahrus, Denmark, to Antrim, Northern Ireland, to Limerick, to Cork, to England, to Antrim again. While Latvia was the most exotic venue, the two meets just outside Dublin were the most successful. The next in Tullamore was a huge disappointment. Only to be outdone by my last in Belfast. Sure I won. But as the only woman competitor.

After, as I made my way through the looming, late-evening mountains to see my cousins in Glenties, four days remained before my flight home. At that time, I could find no reason for having spent my last weekend traveling to a seemingly wasted race. Yet, as I drove to Pop’s hometown, it occurred to me that this race, an uninspired 2:09 run, was the proper finale.

A year ago I never thought I’d be racing in Ireland, running in Europe for Ireland. Training alone, fighting injuries, I wondered why I even bothered. For two years, I chased an elusive dream that lay buried for years with no idea what it would look like. Well, I found out in the light of a sunny summer in Ireland. It looks beautiful.

My point is that it was right that I spent my last week in Ireland slightly at odds with myself. I was not tooling around, enjoying the craic as I intended when I landed in Dublin in May, but finding my way alone in an alien place, gaining comfort in e-mail letters from my coach in Maine and family far away, pressing onward.

Such an ending was more in line with my journey, because if there is any message to be shared, it is to not give up on a dream. There may not always be success, but sometimes the experience is reason enough to try. If nothing else, I can guarantee, you will reduce the chances of you, as an old person, saying “if only.”