Marathon De Paris - 30e Edition

[Sweder]

The early route took us through the Place de Bastille, home to the the Colonne de Juillet, a sort of French Nelson’s Column. I pointed this out to Rog, and the fact that the figure atop the column appeared to strike a rather effeminate pose, one arm thrown out in a most unfortunate parody of Graham Norton.
‘Hello Sailor!’
The monument and square mark the site of the infamous prison, stormed by the Mob in 1789 at the start of the French Revolution. Happily today’s gathering appeared to be in more convivial mood, waving banners and flags, shouting ‘Allez!’ and ‘Bravo’ to all and sundry.

As we approached 10k I was amazed to hear another familiar voice.
‘Sorry chaps. Took a bit longer to catch you than I thought’.
I turned to my right - there was Chris.
‘Bloody hell I thought you were long gone mate’.
‘Would’ve been but I had to stop to lay a cable’.
A delightful euphemism and not one I’d encountered before.

The roadside clock showed exactly 1 hour. Given the shuffling start, the congested early miles and our respective pit stops I was pretty pleased.
‘Girls should be around here somewhere’. Chris scanned the line of spectators to our right. This can be a distracting, futile exercise, trying to pick out individuals in an everlasting blur of faces.
‘Haven’t seen ‘em yet’ I puffed, working hard to match Chris’s rapid pace.
He continued to push hard for a further few hundred metres. I realised I’d not be able to keep this up for long without putting my race in serious jeopardy.
‘Off you go old son – we’ll see you at the finish!’
‘Right-O – ‘ave a good’n.’ With the briefest of Shearers the red and black hoops disappeared into the throng once more.

Moments later Rog tapped my shoulder.
‘Hey – we’ve caught the 3:45 lot!’
Sure enough several purple balloons floated 10 feet or so above the bobbing rainbow river a mere furlong ahead.
‘Bloody hell! Either we’re flying or they’re well off the pace!’
Of course it had to be the latter. We’d crossed 10K in just under an hour; an even pace would take us home in close to 4.
‘These boys will have to step on it to get home in 3:45.’
‘Yeah, but let’s stay with ‘em as long as we can’.
I couldn’t argue with that; it seemed to make sense, but we’d have to see.

Moments later I spied a familiar logo on the back of a shirt.
I nudged Rog and he grinned as he recognised the name.
‘Come on Maidstone!’
‘Come on you Harriers!’
The two lads looked round.
‘Alright lads?!’
‘Good here, innit?’
More gentle banter as we chugged through kilometres 11, 12 and 13.
Another feed station approached and I steeled myself for the inevitable argy-bargy. This time I gave as good as I got as I swiped a fresh water bottle without serious mishap. More monuments, less familiar perhaps but no less impressive, passed as we made our way through the east of the city along the Avenue Daumesnil, taking us into a greener part of town. I tried to earwig on a conversation between two locals, figuring they were discussing wine – at least, I heard a few familiar names, including Chateau Margeaux, one of my favourite tipples from the Bordauex region. If I got it right they were talking about 2005 being a pretty good vintage. I made a note to check this out later, and if true, to purchase a few cases on my next visit to the region.

I sucked down gels at 9 and 12 miles. The 20K marker passed and still we were in close proximity to the 3:45 pacers. I could see the half way mark ahead, and I took stock. I felt pretty good. My knees had yet to start complaining, my feet were more than happy in the new boots, I detected no discernable chaffing from the vest or new shorts and my nipple guards remained stoically in situ.

The nipple thing is no laughing matter.
In 2003 I’d accompanied SP on a particularly gruelling training run from Newhaven to Worthing. For reasons best known to ourselves we spent 3 hours battling into a headwind, finally reaching the westerly seaside town exhausted and desperate for sustenance. As we approached Mrs SP, on hand with transport to get us home, she gasped, staring horrified at my sodden white T-shirt. Two red streaks ran from either side of my chest; I’d scrubbed the tips off both nipples. As soon as we stopped running I felt the excruciating agony that comes from having salty sweat pressed into raw, bleeding flesh. Seizing two 99’s I planted the soft ice cream firmly onto each glowing teat. You could almost hear the comic ‘Hiiiiiisssss’ as the red-hot stumps cooled.
Plastic nipple guards might look silly, but I’ll never run without them again.

Back en Paris the halfway clock read 2:00:18.
Last year in London, in slightly warmer conditions, I’d hit this point of the race in precisely 2 hours. The main difference today was I felt fresh and strong, full of running; sub 4 was still very much on. Time to pop an Ibuprofen. I wrestled with my bat-belt, opening the zipper on my gel/ drugs compartment with some difficulty.
‘Bit of preventative’ I explained, popping a 400 mg tablet with a dash of Evian. I relaxed, happy that I’d got the anti-inflammatory in my system before my treacherous joints started screaming.

‘2 hours – that’s OK, right?’
‘Excellent. We’re right on target old boy, just need to keep it steady. Those 3:45 boys’ll need to get cracking; they’ll have to run the second half in 1:45’.
I doubt they heard (or understood), but the purple balloons started to pull away almost immediately. This had a disconcerting effect on Rog. He started weaving through the field, putting on strong bursts to make up ground.
‘Hold on there big fella’ I counselled.
‘No need to burn out just yet’.
‘I know but we may as well keep them in sight as long as we can’.

We continued for another couple of klicks, Rog darting through gaps, me following on, catching him up, bringing the pace down to our normal Sunday stride. All the while the blue racing line continued to snake along. No longer worried about spotting the groupies we’d started sticking to the line a little more. Now, around 25 kilometres as we approached the Isle de la Cite, the fabulous gothic hulk of Notre Dame peeking through the surrounding buildings, the crowds began to swell. I’d noticed for some while that the course was all but devoid of barriers. In London vast sections of the track are dressed with temporary steel railings, helping to separate runners and spectators. Not here. I glanced up as the road in front cleared of runners. I gasped in disbelief as I realised what I was looking at – and running towards. The crowd was parked bang on the racing line.
‘Bloody hell – you crazy frogs! Get off the bloody line!’
Pointless, of course, to yell at these people, all cheering wildly, waving flags, calling to loved ones, swept up in the magic of this Big City event. I felt like Victor Meldrew, raging against the machine.
‘I don’t bloody believe it, Rog. The crazy bastards are all over the road!’
‘Yeah, great in it!’ he beamed.

And I suppose, in an anarchic, stuff-the-state, hang-the-rules kind of way it was. On the other hand, I didn’t fancy stuffing myself into a baby stroller any time soon. I moved towards the centre of the narrowing stream of runners and sucked down another Squeezygel.

Ah, the Isle de la Cité.
I love this part of Paris. Notre Dame has a mystique, a magic, all its own.
Tales of the Hunchback certainly add to the charismatic visage of the mighty cathedral. Last year I took time to visit the vast halls of the building, marvelling at the ornate sculptures, the fabulous paintings and the vast organ at its heart, the pipes reaching up to caress the heavens. Now the gargoyles and assorted beasties watched us from the ramparts, indifferent to the swathe of sweating, panting humanity streaming by.

Running alongside the Seine on the Voie Georges Pompeidou we caught and passed a number of Rickshaw-style vehicles. They were basically wheelchairs but each had a runner behind, pushing with his/ her stomach against a ribbon slung between the handles, and another in front harnessed to the buggy like a two-legged dray. The occupants of the chairs were all in some way handicapped, some quite severely. I felt moved, more so as I reached the first such group and observed my fellow runners patting the carriers on the shoulders and muttering ‘bravo’ and ‘bon chance.’ I followed suit, feeling at once elated and very emotional at this wonderful human endeavour.

Rog had abandoned his spurt strategy and we kept our speed constant as the next hurdles loomed. The Jardin des Tuileries and Place de la Concorde were just ahead on the right. Stone me, we were here not a couple of hours ago! If only I’d realised I could have . . . Ssssh! Focus, run, relax. We entered the first of several underpasses, the Tunnel des Tuileries. I sensed relief amongst the assembly as the road dropped out of the strong sunlight into blissfully cool shade. I pushed my bins back onto my head, blinking in the dark. Up ahead a low rumbling sound began, growing rapidly louder until it reached us; an audio Mexican Wave! I joined in, letting out a primeval roar as the sound washed over us to greet the thousands behind.
‘Bloody brilliant!’
‘Ha ha! Excellent!’
Another acoustic tsunami started up and we joined in once more.
It beat the hell out of ‘Oggie Oggie Oggie.'