Marathon De Paris - 30e Edition

[Sweder]

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

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.

[Seafront Plodder]

You trying to build up a but of tension Sweder? :p

No 'buts' here, you impatient imp.
Keep yer wig on . . .

[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

[Sweder]

Successful marathon running, despite the months of preparation, training, reading, carb-loading and mutual reassurance from fellow plodders still requires certain key components to come together on the day. Like the weather. We train in all conditions, read the forecasts, plan our strategies, calculate hydration, calorific intake . . . but if, as in 2003 and 2005 in London, the Gods decide to fool us all and deliver a blistering hot day, all that planning can be for nought. We must adapt, re-focus, adjust our strategy. And it’s how you feel on the day. A week ago I felt strong, mentally and physically ready. I had no doubts about my race plan, I’d even worked out where and when to take my gels, how I’d handle the water situation, everything. As with golf, you can wake up on the day and within an hour or so you just know it’s not going to be your day. It’s something to do with biorhythms or star alignment or bloody Gypsy Rose’s tea-leaves or who-the-hell-knows-what, but it happens and unless you’ve really got your shit together there’s not much you can do about it. Accept your fate, trust in yourself to pull through and get on with it.

I continued to dodge this avalanche of mind-junk and retreated to my room. Let’s just focus on a hearty, healthy breakfast and enjoying the day chilling out. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Later that day, loafing on a bench in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, my less-troubled mind mulling over memories of Parisien pleasures past, a familiar voice, full of energy and bounce, rang out across the crowded piazza. It was Rog, accompanied by the girls, looking a good deal less pale than when I’'d left him outside the pub last night. He’d slept like a baby, suffered no adverse reaction to our gastronomic adventures (including the Mother of all onion soups and a couple of pints of Beamish) and felt 'like a new man'.

My face must have betrayed my emotions.
‘'What, you think I’'d bail out on you now? Not a chance! Come on, let’s go and get some grub.'’
A wave of shame washed over me, followed by a welcome sense of relief. It's game on once more for the Dynamic Duo!

Chris, Tina and Jane queued for the Tower tour. Cam joined Kader, Rog and I to search for a well positioned corner café for an hour or two of lazy grazing and shameless people-watching.
Things were definitely looking up.

[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.

[Sweder]

One more nervy ride in the Bond Villain elevator and out into the narrow streets. The crisp morning air pinched my cheek as I strode up Rue d’Artois towards the ‘other’ hotel Elysee, home to Team Kader.

Friday night had seen a fairly boisterous session in The Bowler with Beamish of Red and Black persuasion downed by one and all with great enthusiasm. Saturday was chill-out day. Lazy pottering in the sublime street markets, a stroll along the Champs Elysee, the occasional pit stop for Pain au Chocolat and coffee, the visit to the Eiffel Tower. For a few hours we managed to forget about our quest and embrace much that is good about this marvellous city; the breath-taking architecture, the atmosphere, the effortless elegance of the ladies, the cool detachment of the well-heeled Metrosexuals. A splendid meal of beef noodles and large amounts of L’eau in a convivial eatery just off the main drag had sent us off to bed full and ready for sleep. I’d resolved my climate control issue, leaving my windows open all evening, returning to a wonderfully cool chambre which I could now seal off from the noisy nightcrawlers without fear of spontaneous combustion.

Now in the gathering daylight those creatures of the night mingled with the early risers. Vendors loaded their street-side stalls with all manner of tempting fare; fruit stalls laden with pregnant apples and indecently large bananas vied for attention with those of fishmongers and bakers. A seafood stall groaned under the weight of live lobsters, monstrous Albacore, mountains of langoustines and prawns. Across the cobbled street the wonderfully-monikered Maison du Pain – not a hotbed of kinky discipline but a beautifully turned-out bakery – issued exceptional olfactory invitations. I made a bee-line for the Team hotel and the all-important pre-race breakfast.

A full compliment awaited. Roger, looking like a man reborn after yet another restful night; Chris, shuttling to and from the microwave with bowls of exploding porridge; Kader, once again resplendent in his Arsenal tracksuit; and the girls, bleary-eyed, hugging coffee mugs and surely wondering what on earth they were doing up so early. The banter was sharp and a little too flippant, betraying an underlying tension. Weather prospects were mulled over, starting schedules checked, potential spots on the route where the cheerleaders could be expected considered and the meeting point – B for Bastard - reaffirmed.

Kader, a professional sports physio, had treated Rog and Chris to some heavy duty stretching the previous evening. Now, evidently, it was my turn. We nipped up to the room he shared with Chris. Kader invited me to lay flat on my back as Chris attempted to fit Velcro straps (to hold sports gels) to his shorts. I assumed the position, requesting assurance that what was to follow would only help my cause, not render me incapable of movement.

‘Relax big boy. Give me your left leg, now, flex your right knee.’
Holy Mary Mother of God! My leg straightened and with the weight of a trim but solid Algerian behind it began to move backwards over my head. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a sort of breathless, wheezing guffaw.
‘Yeah, ‘s good, eh?’
Paaaaah-waa cooouuur . . .
‘OK, now relax, let your spine relax to the floor . . . ‘
Somehow I relaxed. Dumb move – this only allowed Kader to push further.
I banged my arms on the floor.
‘Ok, Ok – I submit. You win!’
Kadier laughed. Chris laughed, although he’d still not managed to sort out his Velcro strips. The pressure eased and I regained feeling in my left leg.
‘Now, the other one.’
I still can’t believe it but I actually offered my right leg. Of course the same treatment followed, as did some groin stretches and, the piece de resistance, with me onto my front, the foot in the spine/ two hand grab/ pull and stretch.
‘You should’ve heard Rog’s spine last night’ offered Chris, ignoring my pathetic whimpers as the long lost brother of the Evil Rebecca administered six levels of ever-loving pain.
‘Went off like a machine gun.’
Super.

The torture ended, and to be fair I felt pretty good. But then I’m sure medieval suspects felt the same when the thumb screw locked up or the brazier finally ran out of fuel.

Rog appeared in the doorway.
‘Had the treatment? Great, eh? This blokes good’.
Grunt.

A quick visit to the girls’ room before we head off for the start. Tina offered to put some sounds on ‘to get us in the mood’. I chose Breathe by the Prodigy, and before long it was all foot-tapping and head-nodding. Time to go.

And herein starts the tale of chaos and mob rule that is the Paris Marathon.
We joined the throng of plastic bin-bag clad runners headed up MacMahon towards the Arch. Jogging magazine had sponsored throw-away weatherproofs, distributed at the Expo, and most people put them to good use. As we reached the road around the Arch the numbers grew dramatically. I stepped onto the street to move towards the Champs Elysee and heard a car engine. Incredibly the mass intersection, a mere few hundred yards from the starting pens, was open to traffic. Cars and vans weaved their way through hundreds of milling competitors, the perplexed drivers greeted with Gallic shrugs and, in our case, some good old Anglo Saxon invective.

An opportunist telephone search company had produced a shed load of liveried headbands and T shirts. These were dished out by uniformed lovelies at the head of the Champs, and I grabbed a sweatband. Not the most fetching accessory I’ve ever picked out but certainly effective. Jane had bagged a T-shirt in the rapidly developing melee, only to find it was several sizes too small. Jane is blessed with ample womanly attributes, as Rog swiftly observed.
‘You want to get another one of those for the other breast’.

A quick pose at the foot of the Arch and it was time to access the start pens. I recently claimed that until yesterday I’d harboured no great ambition for a time in this race. Back in November I’d evidently held a different view, requesting a starting position with the 3:45 group as confirmed by the purple stripe on my number. Chris was a 3:30 (blue stripe) and Rog a 4:00 (green stripe). We’d agreed to start together, albeit that Chris was expected to leave us after a couple of miles. The plan was to help each other start slowly just as we would on any other Sunday jaunt. Judging by the disregard shown by the authorities for human life I expected the various start colours to present no real problem. I hadn’t reckoned on the Start Nazis.

Our first attempt (on the Blue/ 3:30 pen) saw Chris and I slip easily past the guards only for Rog to be sternly rebuked. The guards were wise to the ploy of donning the plastic bags in the hope that they’d not check the colours; large queues of irate French folk were rapidly accruing at the entrance to the pens. Our second attempt, again on the Blue pen, saw Chris and Roger safely through. Sadly this time I was singled out and sheepishly revealed my number.

‘Mes Amis, mes Amis!’ I gesticulated wildly in my best animated French. The icy stare told me my efforts were both pathetic and futile. I settled for a spot right on the temporary dividing barrier – no measly string here; these guys have been dealing with revolting students for weeks. A concertina-style metal contraption – apparently recently stripped of razor wire – held the prols back from the elite. My fellow Brits lingered close by. The first twinge of a slightly too-full bladder drew my attention away from the TV helicopters hovering overhead. I scanned the scene and spotted a port-a-loo parked next to our entry gate. Sadly this had also been picked out by a couple of thousand cross-legged locals, a crowd of hopping, crotch-clutching runners already forming a queue-come-crush behind the plastic Tardis.
Bollocks! Schoolboy error, over-hydrating on the day. I was mad at myself, but resolved to start the race and see how things went. With a good deal of fuss and no small amount of good natured shoving the barriers were folded and withdrawn. Reunited with my companions I burst into a lusty Chorus of ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’, supported manfully by Chris and Rog. The contemptuous sneers, a local speciality, reminded us that it was here that our once mighty Rugby team had yielded not a month before. Various Tannoy announcements came and went, occasionally followed by a muted cheer. I’m fairly sure that one of these heralded the start of the ‘Handisport’ race – wheelchairs to you and me. Further shuffling followed and I bounced nervously as I surveyed the flags and balconies of this famous broadway.

‘Good luck’. Hand shakes all round for Team England, a look into the eyes.
‘Start easy, lets stay together for the first few miles.’
More shuffling, another announcement and suddenly the count-down, echoed by more than 30,000 voices.

‘Cinque, Quatre, Tois, Deux –' an almighty cheer resonates around the watching buildings, slow but steady movement towards the start line, plastic shrouds flying from the centre of the pack to bounce off the heads of those wedged in at the sides. Ici nous allons . . .

Game on.

[marathondan]

Wow, 4000 words already and the race has only just started. Seems this will be a record-breaking run in all respects.

Keep scribbling, good sir.

[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.

[SIZE="1"]continued[/SIZE]

[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.'

[Sweder]

30 kilometres. The purple balloons remained in sight, getting smaller, moving away. Avenue New York bore us towards the Eiffel Tower, the greatest Meccano structure in the world rising majestically above the river to our left. 30K - we’re getting to the meat of it now. I felt strong, though I didn’t need any more knackering overtaking manoeuvres.

18 miles in 2:48.
‘Good pace’
The Maidstone boys hailed us once more; we exchanged Shearers.
Another water station, more jostling, another gel to take; but not just any gel. Oh no, I was about to play my Joker. 30K’s a big one for me, I’ve been here before. This is where you get asked the big, tough questions that define a marathon, set it apart.

Have you got what it takes, little man?
Can you get through the pain, the enveloping hopelessness as you strive harder, move slower, your legs turn to jelly and your muscles fill with lactic acid?

I’ve been to this place and I’ve answered those questions with sweat, grit and tears. Today I intended to get a little help from Mr Hammer. I reached for the pouch once more, groping for the bulkier package. Ah – Espresso! Perfect.
‘Time for a coffee!’
‘Eh, what?’
‘Espresso!’
I tore off the top with my teeth, squeezing the jelly into my mouth as I ran, sucking hard to get every last drop.
‘Mmm! Tastes great!’
It didn't. All gels taste like crap.
A few gulps of water to disperse the rocket fuel and just sit back and wait for the boosters to kick in. Or not. The trouble with gels is that for the most part, and certainly at this stage of a race, they don’t so much lift you as simply keep you going.

Through the last of the riverside tunnels and the crowds grew once more.
Flags hung from bridges, people shrieked and yelled as we thundered by. At 34k two things happened in quick succession; Rog nipped off for another pee, and I got assaulted by a mad French girl. Well, it wasn’t so much me she attacked, rather her husband/ boyfriend in front of me. I could see this pretty young thing leaning forward from the crowd. Her eyes lit up as her hearts’ desire appeared (just ahead of me) and she launched into the road, coat tails flapping, jauntily angled beret in danger of flying off.
‘Oh mon chéri ! Je t'aime! Je suis si fier de vous! Je t’aime! Je t’aime!’
For the love of Mike get out the way you silly cow!
The love-struck loon continued to run alongside her rapidly reddening feller, shouting declarations of love and pride, hanging from his reddening neck like a beautiful millstone.
How very French.

Once again Radar Rog rejoined.
‘Your wing-man’s back!’
‘Well done old man – thought I’d lost you for sure that time.’
We left the city streets to enter open parkland. Sparse trees lined the path, spectator numbers thinning once more. The park with the gay men, I thought. I wonder where they're hiding?

London has incredible musical support all along the route. Rock bands, Reggae, Two-Tone, Hip-Hop, Steel Bands, Classical, African Drums . . . all musical life is there. Here in Paris we’d been serenaded sporadically with traditional brass, the occasional rock band and one memorable Ska tribute which I’d greeted with my best Rude Boy efforts. That was many miles and some hours ago. Now, as we approached an old railroad caboose parked on the verge, a Jazz ensemble draped over the rear steps of the carriage ended their set. As we drew alongside I yelled ‘Strike up the band!’. The old fellow in front gave me an old-fashioned look, laid down his clarinet and picked up a beaker, no doubt full of something alcoholic. Heartless swine.

35ks gone and the razor-sharp teeth of the race are starting to bite.
Time for another Ibuprofen. Once more I went to the zipped pouch, but with less happy results.
‘Bollocks!'
'What's up?'
'I’ve dropped my Gary Abbletts!’
‘You what?’
‘My pills, for my knees – must’ve dropped them at the last drinks point. Bugger!’
‘Want some paracetamol?’
‘Nah - I’ll just take some when I get back to the digs’.

Head down, keep going.
The purple balloons had disappeared. With no further roadside clocks and no watch I had no idea where we were pacewise. I felt mild panic start to rise in my chest.
Watch your pace. You've worked hard, don't blow it now!

I dismissed the gremlins, tried to relax.
‘Where’d you reckon Chris is now?’
I thought about this for a moment.
'He’s either finished or he’s in trouble.’
I figured at the pace he’d left us at 10k one or the other was certain.
36k, another fracas-filled water station. This one included a special table at the end bearing a selection of cakes and something that looked suspiciously like brandy in plastic cups.

‘I’ve got to push it a bit Mate’ I growled as we regained our running rhythm.
No answer from Rog. I took his silence as approval for me to break away; in any event, I would try.
Here we go - le crunch time. Go to the well, hope there's something left.
I swallowed hard, took a deep breath and pushed.

To my amazement – and deep joy – my legs responded. I started to catch and pass runner after runner, each passing few yards boosting my confidence. I couldn’t believe it – I didn't dare hope to be able to push at this stage. My breathing changed, from the hypnotic four-time beat of the past few hours to a more urgent tempo. Keep this going, I told myself. No point leaving anything out here – give it all. If you don’t make it look yourself in the mirror and say ‘I gave it my best shot’.

Walkers started to appear and an old bug-bear returned to haunt me. The racing line is called that - the racing line – because it's intended for people who want to race, or, at least, run. So why oh why do the poor sods who’ve run out of gas try and walk it as if it’s a tightrope? I know, its churlish to have a go at people when they’re shot to bits, but it gets on my tits, nipple guards or no.

39k; I’m still pushing. I popped a last gel, kept my head down, oblivious to the growing numbers of supporters on the roadside. This bloody park goes on forever! Well, Kadir did warn us . . . even so, am I still in Paris or halfway to the coast? Getting tetchy now, reserves low, lactic acid really building up in the old thighs, arms heavy and aching.

I ran for what felt like another hour – it was barely 15 minutes – and there it was; the roundabout. Oh God, we’re here! The moment of truth, the moment I’d visualised yesterday morning. Just as then I pictured the finishing clock, a mere 400 meters away . . . what would it say? Would it start with a three or a four?
Can I break 4 hours?

The thought added an ounce of energy to my battered legs.
I ran as hard as I could – it felt flat out, but I suspect it was no quicker than at any time in the race – rounding clumps of stuttering runners on the outside of the traffic circle. There, on the corner, the same Union Jack I’d seen just before Mile 2. The holder, an old gentleman, wore a broad smile under a silver-grey moustache.

‘Come on England!’ I cried with a horrible forced croak.
Mr Flagbearer looked directly at me.
‘Go on son!’

At last, the final bend. I moved across the broad avenue into the centre of the throng. Runners sprinting, some hobbling, walkers left and right. Where’s the clock? Ah, there it is . . .

Three.
Three. Bloody hell, Three!

My heart filled in an instant; I thought it would burst.
My vision blurred, tears – bloody hell! – filled my eyes.
I put my head down and ran for my life.
I glanced up as the line approached. Everything around me faded, images blurred as in a Monet or a Renoir. There was just me; me and this clock showing 3:57-something . . .

Arms raised, punching the air with both fists, I crossed the line. Runners around me bent double, grasping their shattered knees, sucking air. Not me. I danced, I skipped over the mats, past the wildly screeching chip-readers, into the melee past the line, arms aloft.
‘Yes! Bloody yes!’
I really, really, really wanted this. Only now did I really understand how much, and again I felt close to tears.

It’s silly, really. Moments, fractions of moments, either side of an arbitrary line; four hours.
In the grand scheme of things it means less than bugger-all. To me, right there, right then, it meant everything.

I calmed down. My body demanded respite, lungs seeking slow, deep draughts of air. I looked up, seeing the volunteers with our medals just ahead. My thoughts turned to Rog. I’d left him back there, abandoned with 6k to go, not a twinge of regret. But then I knew he wouldn’t have it any other way. We’d covered 23 miles together, laughing, chatting, peeing, fighting for the road, scrapping for water. I’d left him but that was always the deal; run together as far as we could then give it a go.

And there was a friendly, smiling lady right in front of me. She looked at my battered, grinning face, placed her hands gently behind my head and laid my finishers’ medal on my sweat-drenched, heaving chest.
‘Bravo, Monsieur.’
‘Thanks love, God bless you.’

[ljs]

Epic tale, Sweder and a real booster for a first timer, who is getting nervous!!!

[El Gordo]

Bravo, Sweder. Fantastic, breathless race; Fantastic, breathless report. I feel I've just done it all over again. Crazily, I wan't too far off your pace for the first half of the race. The difference is that you were able to sustain the effort - perhaps even running a negative split second half, or near to it, while I went to pieces midway but just hung on to get what I wanted.

No doubt I'll come back to your report and want to discuss it further, but for the moment, just a hearty "Well done".

I've just got back from Zurich - half an hour ago. I made a bunch of notes last Sunday evening, still drenched, in my cups, so it might not be quite so upbeat as yours. But I'll have a tilt at starting a report tomorrow, and see if I can get it finished over the weekend.

Have a drink on me, and savour the achievement further. But I definitely won't be stumping up "to purchase a few cases [of Ch Margaux 2005] on my next visit to the region". Crikey mate, you're talking well into a four figure sum per case ex-VAT! But yes, it is said to be a staggering vintage.

Anyway, once again, very well done.

[Sweder]

Sadly there's no offer of 10k splits from the Paris folk; most upsetting as I'd love to compare them with last year in London. It was certainly a negative split, though. Given that it showed 3:57 on the clock and I chipped at 3:52, that suggests a delay of 5 minutes from gun to start line. Share that evenly (and taking my exact clock time at half way of 2:00:44) that gives me . . . err . . . I'll just grab another beer from the fridge . . .

. . . something like 1st half:1:58, 2nd half:1:54

Anyway, true to my usual rush to get a report out I've managed to miss a few things out (like running past the spot where Diana died). In an ideal world I'd have spent a little more time whittling it down, but hey; I've got a honey-do list as long as your arm over Easter and besides . . .

. . . there's another race tomorrow (the good Good Friday friday run).
Look forward to hearing all about Zurich. There's no rush. As all true disciples of Guinness know, good things come to those who wait

[Nigel]

C'est magnifique, fantastique - mais non... vraiment exceptionel.

I was with you at every stride, Sweder, through all the ups and downs of your magical marathon.

You conveyed it all just brilliantly, managing to conjure a whole cultural divide from Asterix to Nelson and James Bond, yet whilst still somehow paying respectfully gracious and elegant homage to a great city and its people. "Vive la difference" and "Come on England", all at the same time.

Your race sounds like an absolute belter, so buy the bloody wine, vieux garcon, je dis. You darned well deserve it, I say !

Et bravo, mon brave !.

[Seafront Plodder]

but hey; I've got a honey-do list as long as your arm over Easter

I've just seen Mrs S, and all I can say is that you must have very short arms. :p

[Sweder]

When I eventually got on the Eurostar to come home I jotted down some thoughts on marathon running. They're not pearls of wisdom and they're certainly not original thoughts, more echoes of what others have written here or told me that have been reaffirmed through experience. They’re for me to look back on as I prepare for my next race, but they might offer an insight for anyone taking on the challenge for the first time.

1. If this is to be your first marathon TIME IS IRRELEVANT.
To finish is everything; your time is something to look back on, not look forward to. They give medals to everyone who finishes; the first and the last, so finish.

2. Respect. Respect the distance, the amount of training you will need to fully prepare your body and (just as important) your mind. Statistically a majority of people who start a marathon finish it. There are many who don’t, many more who finish injured or in pain.

3. Know your limits; listen to your body. Let others set off at break-neck speed if that’s their thing. The marathon is a race never won in the early stages, but it is often lost there.

4. Treat the start as you would a long training run – think of conserving energy for later.

5. Know your enemy: the weather, the conditions, how you feel within yourself on the day. Any one of these, if not prepared for or ignored, can and will cause trouble.

6. Even in the last couple of miles don’t relax your mental focus. There can be a terrific urge to stop – its almost overwhelming – just as you approach the best part of the run. Try to hold something back so you can enjoy the run-in.

7. A marathon is a race of two halves:
The first twenty miles, and the last six.

This last one provided a strong mental image for me during the run.
In Paris Rog reminded me of the adage as the 6 mile marker approached.
‘Hey, a marathon’s run in two halves, right? 20 miles and 6 miles.’
‘Yeah . . . ‘
‘Well, we’re almost half way. Just the half with the 20 in to go . . . ‘

8. Be very careful who you run with

[El Gordo]

Boy, I wish I'd known this a week ago...

[Sweder]

My euphoria wilted as I queued to exit the finish area.
Hundreds of runners shuffled towards tables piled high with fruit and bottled water, but this was not the main reason for the congestion. I couldn’t make out what was happening further down the line, but I knew I was cold, getting colder, and desperate to share my good news with the guys.

30 minutes later I was none the wiser and a good deal less happy. I’d reached B for Bastard, passing the bag handlers, more water stations, massage tents and first aid points, wrapped in a poor plastic facsimile of a Batman cape. Continuing the trend of anarchy that pervaded the course, families and friends milled about searching for their heroes, wandering towards the finish area like elegant Zombies. There was no discernable path through this scrum. I pushed and shoved, growing ever more frustrated, until finally I located the small tent under the ‘ABC’ banner. I searched the sea of faces to no avail; they weren’t here. Behind the repatriation area, through high chain-link fences (they do have them in France then) runners reclined on the grass, stretching, resting, tended by lovers, friends and families in the bright spring sunshine.

I spotted a cluster of colourful canopies corralled near the exit. Street vendors flogging hot dogs, burgers and all manner of intestinal damage clogged the traffic flow as surely as their wares would their punters' arteries. I’d decide to bail, aiming to meet up with the others at their hotel, when at once I saw and heard Jane.
‘There he is!’
Frantic waves exchanged as I pushed through the crowd, relief and endorphins coursing through my veins. Jane and Cam were together; behind them Tina, Kader and an ashen-faced, hobbling Chris.
‘How’d you get on?’
‘Yeah, great, a PB, broke four hours . . . how’s Chris?’

Chris had what is commonly known as ‘a ‘mare’. He’d left us at 10k, gone like a train to around 30k and blown up. True to his statement 24 hours earlier he'd finished, though at what cost only time would tell.
‘- Where’s Rog?’
‘- Well, we ran together for 23 miles then . . . I left him.’
Hearing the words out loud I felt like a rat.
‘- Well, he’'s not here; maybe he went straight back to the hotel?’
I figured this was probably right; I’'d been about to do the same. There was a nagging doubt though; what if he'’d pulled up? There was more chance of flying over the rooftops than getting a mobile signal. The arrival of more runners every minute pointed to the one sensible option : head for the hotel.

Sure enough, Rog was back at the digs.
Resplendent in neon Hawaiian shirt, finishers medal nestled in exposed chest-hair, he was jubilant.
‘- Bloody brilliant! What a run!’
He'’d come home with 4:10 on the clock and a chip time of 4:05, a pb by near-on 20 minutes. In the last mile he'’d been taken out by a local runner cutting across to take a flag from the crowd. Sporting impressive cuts on legs and arms he couldn’t stop grinning, waving away my mumbled apologies for leaving him so close to the finish.
‘- I’'d have done the same. I saw you go and I said to my legs ‘Come on legs’ and they said ‘get the bus’.’

We gathered in the girls’ room for a glass of champagne and a photo call, making plans to meet up at The Bowler in an hour. I left for my hotel, jogging easily through the cool, cobbled streets. My knees and ankles refused to swell, though my thighs ached from hours of pounding concrete and stone. I thought about Chris and what was undoubtedly one of the bravest performances of the day. Months of planning and preparation dashed, yet he’'d fought to the finish, conquering the dark forces of despair and fatigue. There but for the grace of God and all that. I also considered my debt to Rog. He’'d been the perfect companion, bright, bubbly, keeping a good pace, cracking dreadful jokes. I’'m just grateful he didn’'t choose to run in that bloody shirt . . .

After a swift shower and confirmation that a) I could stay one more night in the hotel and b) I could defer my Eurostar ticket, I was in The Bowler holding a tall glass of Beamish. Manchester United and Arsenal were running hell for leather at each other on the screen, encouraged by around 30 natives sporting Maroon shirts with ‘'Henry’' on the back and a couple of Brits (also Gooners) propping up the bar. I joined them for some good-natured banter, pondering the wisdom of leaving the finest footballer in Europe on the bench.

Rooney burst the net at the precise moment Cam entered the pub. I whooped like a loon, punching the air as elation boiled over. I apologised to Cam, a lifelong Gooner, bade her welcome and got a round in. Chris looked like death (barely) warmed up, a concerned and attentive Tina guiding him to a quiet corner seat.
- ‘You look like you could use a lie down mate.’
- ‘Yeah, but I needed a beer first.’
- Fair enough.
Rog and Jane joined them, loading the table with crisps and beer. Cam joined me at the bar, and we chatted about Arsenal’'s forthcoming Champions League challenge.
‘- I hope we get an Arsenal/ Barca final.'
I expressed a genuine hope. The Wenger Boys continue to save their best displays for the European stage; Barcelona can be irresistible on their day. The idea of the two clashing for the European crown was mouth-watering.

No sooner had the words left my lips than United put the current game beyond reach with a second goal. I turned to Cam, offering what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. She smiled thinly in reply.
- ‘It’'s your bloody day, isn’t it?’

[marathondan]

Interesting that you didn't wear a watch - that must be very rare in any kind of race - was it a deliberate ploy to reduce the pressure?

[Sweder]

Sadly the Garmin I'd hoped to use - the one I borrowed from SP - went the way of all flesh with my laptop in Rotterdam

That said I've yet to run a marathon with a watch. My previous three were all in London where race time is generously displayed at most (if not all) mile markers.