Having boarded our buses in Westport at 05:00hrs we were ferried through the darkness towards our starting point on the golden sands of Glasuillean Beach.  The bus trundled along the serpent like byroads as dawn broke and the rugged edges of the local mountains appeared, silhouetted by the wakening skyline.  The might of the task ahead was represented by the looming mountain peaks which bore over us akin to admonishing Gaestapo officers.  The landscapes savage beauty impressed upon us the eerie feeling described by war veterans, that descends upon warriors in the calm before a bloody battle. Disembarking the buses we were pleasantly surprised to find the temperature was amicable.  Sadly this was a tactic of Mother Nature which lulled us into a false sense of complacency.  At 06:30hrs we stood at the ready on the start line with the Atlantic Ocean egging us on.  Some stood resolutely, gritting their teeth and and steeling themselves mentally for the battles that lay in wait.  Others chattered nervously and made jokes at which some laughed out of politeness.   The gun shattered the rural silence and those who had felt like caged animals, pumped up on caffeine and energy drinks charged to the front. 

Stage One consisted of a 14k run which incorporated some road and off road running.  Salrock Hill pickpocketed our early enthusiasm within half a mile of the start before we raced down towards Mallinalack Hill at the edge of Killary Bay.  We then ventured onto the Famine Trail and ran along the treacherous cliff edge of Killary Harbour where many an early casualty suffered cuts shins and knees as a result of misfortunate foot placing.  Jagged rocks and deep puddles began to take their toll.  The long trek towards the kayaks further up the Fjord incorporated a climb through the foothills of Leitir Eireann Mt, and  a mile or so of easy running on the N59 was enjoyable before we turned back down the hill on rough track towards the calm waters of Killary Harbour.  Hopping into waiting kayaks our shoulders burned for relief as the voyage across the Fjord sapped the strength from heavy arms.
 
On hauling a weary soul out of the kayak you were confronted with a sharp climb up an embankment before wrestling with the undulating contours of a wet, mucky bog.  Littered with vigor robbing bogholes and quagmires, the terrain resembled the moors depicted in Arthur C. Doyle's, The Hound Of Baskervilles.  With mudcaked shoes and shins each forward step transformed into an exercise in weightlifting.  We fought through this battleground suffering tumbles, falls and lost shoes.  Thankfully, a little respite was found at the end in the form of the 22 mile cycle!!!!!

On arrival at Delphi we commenced the third stage by jumping on our steady steeds and charging out onto the tarmacadam roads.  Early inclines were easily conquered and the confidence grew.  A turn right towards Drummin, and then a bombshell hit it's target right on the money.  An inhumane climb up to the top of the Tawnyard Forest Hill snaked out before us.  A constant mile and a half of psychological torture ensued as crest after crest disappeared and the end seemed like it would never arrive and when our reward did it was tainted with cruelty.  That cruelty manifested itself in the guise of a nerve jangling downhill pursuit.  Treacherous hairpins made the downhill section suicidal, not to mention the local sheep grazing lazily at the roads edge with complete disinterest until one decided to challenge you to a game of chicken.  Finally after miles of spinning we approached the Holy Mountain.  A sharp stone laden 6k bog road, knocked the fillings from our teeth and many a warrior fell foul to the dreaded puncture on this intricate segment of the race. 

At the foot of Croagh Patrick our lead heavy legs refused to believe an ascent of the mountain was planned.  The Holy Mountain with it's crown shrouded in mist had an impregnable aura about it.  The laborious effort to master the gradient embodied the personification of human spirit.  Accustomed to pilgrims we prayed and blasphemed on the slopes, in equal measure, as God was our only hope and our celestial punisher.  Amazingly the summit was vanquished and all experienced an Edmund Hillary moment before tackling the descent.  Assured footing was impossible as shale and loose rocks taxed our fortitude.  On reaching the bottom, and having suffered the physical penance of cuts and bruises, we all deserved to be washed of our earthly sin.  And so the final battle in our war needed to be waged.  The 8 mile cycle to the finish at Westport Quay was punctuated by a section of off road on the Western Way.  This section proved to be the graveyard for many a soldier's bike.  The only method of save navigation was to dismount and carry the bike on your shoulder.  On rejoining the tarmacadam surface a hazardous section of roadway needed piloting as we swept downhill towards Westport.  Finally redemption, or so we thought.  The final dash to the finish line was poisoned by the fact that we had to run the final 800 metres.  Attenuated bodies and souls crossed the finish line battered and bruised.    Gaelforce West was a combat zone where one truly examined the inner determination and drive of oneself.  For no matter how fit one was, from the winner who crossed the line in 3:36:51 to the final warrior who reached the sanctuary of the finish line in 11:03:14, all who fought the fight and lived to tell the tale were utterly exhausted and paradoxically exhilarated.
Among the AGS members who completed Gaelforce were in no particular order were : Gerry Bourke, Brendan Flynn, Brendan Tighe, Ronan Hartnett, Dave Harrington, Pat Feerick, Anthony Malone, Gerry Whelan, Neil Keogan, Tom Smithers, Colm Finnerty, Paul Carroll, Dave Swan, Donal Gleeson, Mick Foy, Shane McNamara, Brian O'Connor, Mark Gavin, Colm Coyne, Jason Miley, Mick Harkin, Niall Kavanagh, Tony Miniter, Sean Troy, Karl McKenna, and Kathleen Cheshire.