Marathon De Paris - 30e Edition

[Sweder]

The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on
He took a face from the ancient gallery
And he walked on down the hall

It seems appropriate that these words should be in my head as I laced up my running shoes. Saturday night in Paris drifts lazily into Sunday morning, the sun already warming the bleached dome of the Sacré-Coeur. Early shadows caress the Père Lachaise cemetery in Monmartre, residence of artists, poets and dreamers, and of course Jim Morrison.

The End? Very much the beginning of the end, the end of months of rationalised training plans, my ‘less is more’ strategy (Mr Morrison would have heartily approved). The mercurial voice in my head made way once more for the inevitable chittering doubts. What if this strategy, this cobbled together plan to preserve my wasted knees and too-tight hamstrings, should turn out to be cobblers? The answer lies a few hours and 26.2 miles away.

My battledress had been carefully laid out the night before. Race number pinned to my running vest – the FLM 2004 Team JDRF one with ‘Sweder’ across the chest – a newspaper doubling as a tailor’s dummy to avoid hopeless tangles with the safety pins. New Addidas ClimaCool shorts, purchased on Saturday at the Expo, socks (calf length, to be self-consciously rolled down to ankle height) and the one part of my kit that caused some serious head-scratching; the shoes. I’d purchased a replacement pair of Addistars just before the Houston Rodeo 10k back in February, running the race in them the following day. Since then I’ve run exactly zero road miles (more cartilage protection). There I sat with a pair of very comfy, shiny new runners, precisely 10k on the clock, next to the Old Faithfuls boasting at least 400 trouble-free miles on them (including last years FLM).

It’s normal to find something to worry about in the pre-race limbo.
I think in many ways I’d contrived this conundrum, something specific to focus on, consigning more pressing matters such as PBs and training schedule doubts to cold storage. After all, I knew damned well I was going to run in the new boots all along; they’re carbon copies (a bit of external styling aside) of the previous runners and every bit as comfy. The perceived wisdom in the running community is you absolutely positively cannot run a marathon in new shoes.
I’ve broken many ‘Running Laws’ recently; this would be one more.

Decision made, chip firmly strapped to my (lucky) left boot, I took up my trusty weapons belt and checked the contents. Gels (seven Pineapple flavour Squeezies plus one each of the Hammers; Espresso and Apple-Cinnamon), anti-inflammatories (insurance for the crap knees, ear-marked for half way and 35K), 25 Euros (notes only) and my ‘phone. I’d decided to rely on water from the stations and to run with bottle in hand, sipping at regular intervals. The early morning skies suggested a dry and in all probability a warm one; good hydration would be essential. Finally, and a new departure for me, the shades. If nothing else they’d hide the inevitable wrinkles and the heavy eyelids for the photo finish.