Marathon De Paris - 30e Edition

[Sweder]

The body heat of runners pressing me from all sides felt pretty good, the comforting warmth of humanity sharing something remarkable. Warmth for the spirit as well as the exposed limbs. I discarded my Jogging magazine plastic jerkin, pleased with my effort to propel the screwed up bundle way beyond the start pens and into the watching crowd. A cool breeze wafted up the Champs Elysee, sliding around the supports of the start line, under the banner proclaiming that this is the 30th anniversary of the Marathon de Paris and through the massed ranks of 30,000 nervous, excited, expectant athletes. Each harboured hopes and dreams for this day; each with their thoughts; to run well, to enjoy the day; to beat their best time; to beat their best mate; to beat their boss; to wave to loved ones along the way; to finish; to survive.

As I gazed in wonder at the waves of bobbing heads in front of me and those slightly further ahead spreading out as they started their adventure, my thoughts turned to my own ambitions. Yesterday morning in the crisp, cool calm of our lope around the finish I’d accepted my desire to break four hours. Now, here I stand, on the brink. Had my goals changed? Next to me Rog and Chris bounced eagerly on their toes, peering ahead. Rog had made a recovery to rival Lazarus. He looked full of fire, eyes sparkling and ready for the fight. Our game plan, to run together for as long as possible, was certainly back on track. Chris would run with us until he felt the need to push on. I felt good about this; we’d trained together, albeit with Rog and I trailing in Chris’s wake, for the best part of three months. Starting together seemed like a fitting tribute to those Sunday sessions.

The masses directly in front started to move with more purpose. My shuffling gate became a brisk walk, then a light jog. The start line approached ever more swiftly and we were in the electronic maelstrom that is the chips firing up, across the start line and onto the cobbled street, running free. Debris littered the first kilometre; killer plastic man-traps danced crazily in the swirling wind, seeking a wayward foot or unsuspecting ankle. Crushed water bottles lay strewn about like mini-landmines, the remnants of their contents adding yet further peril to the slippery cobble stones. As the runners poured down the Champs towards the Place de la Concorde people started peeling off to the left. Like alien fighters leaving the main attack force they veered away into the tree-lined streets, targeting bushes, lamp posts, garden fences; anything that would make them feel better about peeing in public. The dreaded pre-run over-hydration had struck again, and I was not immune. My bladder whined like a small child, insistent, desperate to join the others taking blessed relief. I didn’t want to split our triumvirate and was wrestling with the dilemma when Rog made an announcement.

‘Sorry lads, I’ve gotta go. I’ll catch you up.' And with that he was gone, decelerating and shifting hard left, swallowed by the masses. Ten seconds later I realised this was the only sensible course of action.

‘Me too’. A sheepish grin at Chris as I took my leave, skipping madly through the human threshing machine.
‘See you later boys.’ I caught a glimpse of Chris’s Brighton & Hove AC vest, red with black hoops, and he was gone. Shuffle, skip, lunge, a leap up an impressively high curb stone, onto the sandy soil and around a couple of park benches. I picked out a mottled tree adjacent to a small park railing, screeched to a halt and peed for all I was worth. Damn. Find the others again? I’ve got two hopes; Bob Hope and none at all, and Bob’s dead. A slightly premature shake-off and I was headed along the pavement, taking advantage of the space to make ground on the pack. After a hundred metres I plunged back into the human torrent, breathing heavily. OK, slow things down, get a rhythm, lets get back to a nice easy pace for the first few miles . . .

‘Hey! Who’d of believed that! Found you in 30,000 people on the hoof!’
Rog, grinning madly, appeared at my left shoulder. Blimey, that is pretty wild.
We settled into our steady Sunday morning pace. After a minute or two we’d both recovered from our unscheduled stops enough to chat.
‘This is amazing’
‘Yep – we’re running the Paris Marathon. Feels great eh?’
‘Still a bit nippy’ Rog still wore his ancient throwaway sweatshirt.
‘Hmm, I’m plenty warm enough’.
I was; the first beads of sweat had popped up on my brow, probably from the mad dash required for my sortie. My shades started to mist up, so I fiddled with the headband to try and create a bit of airflow. It seemed to work. The circuit turned right into the Rue Rivoli and I spied the first Union Jack.
‘Come on the Brits! Allez les Roast Beefs!’ I yelled, waving madly at the startled group of spectators under the flag. The confusion on their faces turned to smiles and they returned the salute.

The sun continued to peek out over the rooftops, casting heavy shadows across the left side of the road, the right bathed in bright sunlight. We took the latter course, basking in the warmth as we ran. The blue line, indicator of the precise 26.2 mile course, snaked and weaved, at times under our feet, at others veering sharply to the other side of the road. We ignored these meanderings, holding our place in the pack. The Reebok-sponsored Mile 2 marker came and went, and I enjoyed my first taste of Parisian marathon 'etiquette'. As Rog regaled me with one of many crap jokes ( ‘Doctor, Doctor, I’ve got a sticky bun wedged up my arse.’ Doctor: ‘Hang on, I’ve got some cream for that’ ) I felt a hand press firmly into the small of my back.

‘What the fuck?!’ I turned my head. A tall chap was right behind us, obviously looking to push through.
‘Here mate, you can’t win the bloody race now, but you can certainly lose it!’
‘Pardon – J’excuse’ he offered. I’m pretty sure he shrugged. And then he pushed through anyway, causing both Rog and I to stagger off line and bump into others around us.
‘Sorry – er – pardon’ I muttered. This appeared to be acceptable, and the exercise repeated many times over the next few hours. I got used to it, reacting to the first touch on the back by moving slightly to one side. It seemed the thing to do when the alternative was to fight half the runners in Paris or eat street.

The next mini-adventure arrived with the first water station. Here the French have definitely improved upon the English model in at least one respect. After the first 20 or so water tables a veritable feast of fruit appeared; banana halves, orange quarters, dates and dried fruits. However the bumptious Parisian runners take no account of their fellow athletes when moving across to take refreshment, and certainly no prisoners. Elbows fly, feet kick and hack, knees bump and hands shove. I’ve never been to Pamplona but I image this to be very much like a Paris marathon water station, with a soupcon more wild-eyed fear as the bulls rampage through the narrow streets. I feared for my safety as I fought my corner, grabbing a bottle of Evian and a chunk of dripping orange. I jammed the fruit into my mouth, breath rasping through my nostrils as I gulped down the delicious juice, the harsh sting of orange burning the back of my throat. I turned to Rog, offering him the classic schoolboy Doctor Who Monster face, the orange peel forming a maniacal gum shield grin.

Spitting out the flesh and rind, adding to the lethal debris on the soaking roadway, I gulped some water and settled once more into a steady gate. My hydration strategy revolved around taking regular sips of water between stations. I wondered at the wisdom of this now; repeating that chaotic scrum every 5k could prove hazardous, even terminal. I had no plans to end my race weeping on the curb, but I’d not brought a water bottle . . .
C’est la vie.

My gel strategy required the first to be taken at around 6 miles. I’d crammed most of the packets into the zipped pouch on my water belt, the last few trapped between the belt and my ample midriff. I tugged one free and tore the top off with my teeth. I sucked the sticky pineapple-flavoured gunk out of the sachet, flinging the packet to one side. Gels aren’t the nicest things to put in ones mouth at the best of times; when running in (increasingly) warm conditions they are positively disgusting. I flushed the goo down with water, gurning like Les Dawson as the unwanted image of a large man slurping monstrous oysters flashed into my head.

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