Marathon De Paris - 30e Edition

[Sweder]

I remember Paris back in ‘49
The Champs Elysee
A bottle of old Beaujolais wine
And I recall when you were mine
In those Parisian days

Gary Moore/ Phil Lynott – Parisian Walkways

24 Hours to go . . . a light jog and logistical planning

Following the night of heat and sound I plodded up the Champs Elysee just after 7 am, dodging the occasional garbage truck and the darting mini-vans laden with newspapers and fresh bread, drivers wild-eyed in their smoke-filled cabs. The morning sunrays started their slow creep up the legs of the triumphant Arch, sculpted figures coming to life from the feet up.

Bands of runners swooped along the connecting avenues, tight groups of four or five chatting excitedly in leggings and windproofs, spinning the legs before a day of rest and face-stuffing. Tracks lead away from the Arch like the spokes of a wagon wheel. I crossed Friedland and Avenue Hoche, resting on the sandy patch of ground near the Metro exit before MacMahon. The morning breeze still had a little bite to it so I busied myself by stretching out against a handily placed park bench, hailing the occasional group as they loped by. At last I spotted Kader’s bright blue baseball cap. We were well met, we four; Kader, plodding gingerly on his recently modified knee; Chris, looking fit, full of vigour, and Cam, a four times marathon finisher not running the race but keen to join us this morning. Rog had not emerged, which was no real surprise after a tough week taking care of his children and picking up a potentially disastrous stomach bug in the process.

We set off around the wagon wheel, back to Avenue Foch ('Avenue of the F*cked' suggested Chris with a grin), home to the finish line, de-chipping zone, refreshment area and repatriation tents. The street climbed from the Bois de Boulonge flanked by silent marquees. Refuse wagons worked slowly along the gutters, the dark shapes of workmen following behind to scoop up pallets and discarded shrinkwrap. As we moved easily down the slope towards the finish we could see people laying out trays of bananas and water bottles on tables within the tents.

‘A bit early for all that’ I quipped.
‘That’ll be for today’s breakfast run’ offered Kader.
Part of the build up to the main event, the Unesco race, a 5K fun run from the Parvis de l’Unesco at the Place Fontenoy, would get first use of the finish line. The race, open to all registered marathoners free of charge, would start in under an hour.

Kader took us along to the intersection with the entrance to the Bois, a sprawling tree-lined park-scape.
‘This is the second park you’ll run through tomorrow. Feels like it never ends, but when you see the roundabout with all the trees you’ll know the finish is only just round the corner. This park is full of gays, so make sure you run fast!’
Kader had a been in his bonnet about this – he’d referred to ‘the park with the gay men’ several times. A story to be unearthed on another occasion, perhaps.

We pulled up at the start of the finishing straight, stretching carefully whilst our mentor previewed the race. The sun peeped over the shoulder of the adjacent buildings, throwing the famous Arch into sharp relief. I paused to snap a photo on my phone, Kader, Cam and Chris loping easily along the left edge of the broad street towards the marquees. I savoured the calm of the moment; the eerie half-light and long shadows, the overwhelming silence at the heart of the French capital. How will I feel when I join this course tomorrow? Elated? Shattered? Excited? I glanced up at the arm above the finish line. I’d be able to spot the clock as I rounded the final bend. And then it hit me, like a marksman's arrow out if the shadows – I really wanted that sub-4 finish

Up until now I’d managed to duck serious thoughts of a time. This race was about a qualifying marathon to give me an option on the Two Oceans next year. I’d taken training seriously but with the emphasis on self-preservation; less is more, yada yada yada. I’d talked about times with one or two people, convincing myself (if no-one else) that something in the low four hours (and finishing strongly) would be just dandy.

Now, chugging along the final straight, I had to accept what I should have known all along; I wanted a PB. I visualised the moment, running the roundabout, out of the last bend, a glance up . . . would the number start with a four or a three? I shook my head, aghast at this last-minute treachery. I’d convinced myself to run the race like a training run; no pressure, no concerns for time, run at your natural pace, see how you get on . . . but now, staring down the barrel, my competitive spirit chuckled, a deep rumble rising from my gut.

I caught up with the others as we reached the repatriation zones. Unlike London these are situated on the same stretch of road as the finish area. Remembering the bun-fight that is locating your loved ones after the FLM this seemed like a really dumb move.

‘See that?’ Kader. ‘B – B is where we’ll meet tomorrow’.
‘B for Bastard’ I confirmed. ‘B for Bloody knackered’ offered Chris.
‘OK, it’s enough. Lets get back, have breakfast and we’ll meet later for a nice stroll along the riverbank’.

I loped off toward the Champs as the others broke along MacMahon.
Alone, my thoughts turned once more to the finish and my race plan. I’d carefully plotted my strategy. Rog and I had talked for weeks about how well matched we are for pace. It had always been our intention to run together, all the way to the line if possible. We’d tackled several long hill runs in this way with great success. I’d marvelled at how we seemed to dove-tail, one pushing as the other wilted, no words exchanged, an understanding born from a shared love for running in the Sussex hills. Now, as the wilful sprite of ambition scampered gleefully, uncomfortable thoughts gathered like thunderheads in a clear spring sky.

What if Rog is still suffering? What if the last few days of illness and lack of sleep leave him weak, unable to keep his usual pace? Can I leave him? Should I push on in search of glory or run a mates’ race? Should I try to stay with Chris for as long as I can, adopt SP’s strategy of starting above my class and hang on in the hope that it drags me through to a PB?
These questions buzzed like angry bees. Why now? My head felt stuffed with unwanted thoughts.

And then the penny dropped. Or the Euro - whatever, but this is the first marathon in four years that I’ve had any (let alone this much) time to think about the race. Usually I’m bustling about, preparing for the pasta party, writing speeches, talking to Adele, sorting out passes for the grandstand . . . time. I have so much time! Best use it wisely; ‘focusing on relaxing’, whatever that means.
Trust yourself to know what to do on the day.
I chuckled at this, almost adding 'Luke' at the end .
Chris and I had shared a joke at the expense of Sam Lambourne the day before. I'd observed that, whilst blessed with a voice of pure gravel, Sam's weather-beaten visage bore an uncanny resemblance to Yoda.
Take it easy at the start you will; strength in finishing you must have.
Only then a true marathon runner will you be.
My impersonation sounded more like Fozzie Bear with a heavy cold than the green Jedi Master, but it gave us a good giggle.

continued