Marathon De Paris - 30e Edition

[Sweder]

Incoherent ramblings on the 30th Paris Marathon will appear here.
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Arrival

Big cities seem to generate a strange kind of body heat, never more so than in the dark shadows of the night. Away from arterial routes capilliaries flood the greedy heart of the city with the invasive pulse of Willy Nelson's Nightlife. Vehicles tear-arse up the narrowest of avenues, horn-honking drivers shaking clenched fists at the unsteady nightclub flotsam peppering the cobbled streets. 26 hours before the official start of my quest, the City of Love delivers a nocturnal cacophony to my sweltering boudoir.

It's 5am and I lie awake to ponder that in life you often get what you pay for, and, in my case, what you deserve. I've been so laid back about this trip it's a wonder I'm here at all, much less enjoying the safety and (relative) comfort of a room a mere casual fling of Asterix's axe from the Champs Elysee. L'Hotel Elysee, one of ten hostilries boasting, in full or in part, the name of that fabled boulevard, nestles cozily at 100 Rue de Boitiel. It's cheap, cheerful and delightfully Old Parisien, blessed with a magnificent carpet-walled verticle torpedo (room for one only) masquerading as an elevator. One enters via a solid cast-iron swing door and automatic folding glass partition. It's all a bit James Bond; I expect the floor to drop out just as I approach the top floor. I plant my size thirteens at the edges to be safe. The building is devoid of climate control. My room, perched high above the busy street, boasts efficient double glazing. Great for noise reduction, hopeless for circulating cool, breathable air.

It's no use. I'm scheduled to rendezvous with another two Muskateers at 07:30 under the Arch de Triumph, yet another in a long list of arrangements hastily agreed in the late, dark shadows, in a pub. My two eager companions are Kader, our volatile French-Algerian leader, and fellow Sunday hillrunner and former 3 hours 10 marathoner, Moyleman. There's no time for more zeds so it's up and at 'em at this witching hour. I scribble some notes on the journey and our early experiences en Paris, but the fine balance between silence and sauna has tipped once more. Time to hit the shower and to see what this Saturday morning has to offer.