by James Birk
Chapter 27
At what seems like an ungodly hour I’m partially awoken by the incessant beeping of the alarm on my ‘pay as you go’ mobile phone. I reach over to my bedside cabinet to switch it off and find myself groping thin air. Still fundamentally asleep, my instincts reason that if I’m not in my own bed then I must be in the childhood bedroom that I still occasionally use at my parent’s house. There being no bedside table in that particular room, logic tells me that my annoyingly loud phone must be on the floor and so my arm swings down hitting the rather low but nonetheless very real chest of drawers, with a painful thud and knocking over a glass of water in the process. Swearing profusely I finally consent to opening my eyes and discover that I am in a strange room with rather tasteless wallpaper, though in my semi-conscious state I cannot recall where it is that I actually am. Switching off the alarm I decide that the mystery of my location can wait. I roll over about to return to my slumber when I wake up properly and remember where I am. I realise that I’m not in Cardiff any more. I’m in Paris, the most romantic city in the world. I’m in Paris in a hotel room and I’ve got to get up because I’ve got something important to do today. I leap out of bed, pull on my jeans and head down for food.
Breakfast in the hotel is not delivered with a smile but to be fair, there is a much needed strong black coffee and all in all it’s a pretty good spread; the carbohydrates from the various patisseries on offer will almost certainly come in handy later today when I undertake the frankly crazy challenge I have set myself.
Post petit dejeuner I head back up to my room to prepare myself for the day ahead. Firstly I shower, which seems a mildly ludicrous thing to do given that my immediate plans upon leaving the hotel are going to mean I will almost certainly need another shower before the day is out, but it’s refreshing and it wakes me up a bit more. I unpack the kit from my holdall and lay it on the bed in front of me. First to go on are the shorts, which on inspection do seem to be particularly undersized, and not particularly flattering. The t-shirt is tight fitting, but comfortable enough, and I recollect that the old lady in the shop told me to remember that it’s not a fashion show, but in reality, it has been a while since I wore anything this snug. Next on are the socks. Have I ever spent so much money on a pair of socks? According to the packet they are lined with silver, which should apparently prevent blisters. I don’t know if it’s true, but anything seems worth a shot. Lastly I put on the trainers; the now well-worn and comfortable trainers that were such an ordeal to purchase all those months ago. How did I ever cope before I acquired these fabulous trainers?
I remove the T-Shirt as I realise I’ve forgotten a vital element of my ritual. I unzip my bath bag and take out some plasters which I use to cover my nipples, recalling a painful experience from the not too distant past. I put the shirt back on and use safety pins to attach a number to my chest. It’s not straight, but at this stage I’m not too bothered.
It’s still quite cool out as I leave the hotel, which makes my outfit seem all the more preposterous, but I can see one or two other people dressed in a similar fashion so I’m put at ease. I head to the Place de la Republique Metro station and take line eight. The train is not too busy, but at each stop more and more people dressed in shorts or tight fitting leggings get on. They all have numbers pinned to their chests. At Concorde I change to line one and this train is really busy. Fortunately I only need to take it for another four stops. At Charles de Gaule Etoile, the majority of passengers disembark and we uniformly step onto the steep escalators, which take us to street level, where we are greeted by the magnificent early morning sight of the Arc de Triomph bathed in post-dawn sunlight.
The Champs Elysées is literally swarming with people of all ages, shapes and sizes but the vast majority of people here all have at least two things in common, everyone is sporting a number on their front and everyone is wearing a pair of trainers.
The instructions over the loudspeaker are in French and English, indeed the announcer seems determined to show off his linguistic skills as he occasionally indulges the Spaniards and Germans in the crowd as well, although clearly he is most proud of his mastery of the Anglo Saxon tongue as even the French get fewer instructions than the various Americans, Australians and Brits in the crowd. Perhaps he thinks we’re stupid. My own failure to manage even the most basic of French phrases would certainly support his opinion.
I head towards the back of the crowd; I’m under no pretentions of elitism today. I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more. The announcer continues to talk but to be honest I’m no longer listening. I’m focussed and I’m also nervous. This is crazy. What am I thinking? After what seems like an eternity the countdown begins. People count from ten to zero in a variety of dialects (although disappointingly it’s still English that comes out on top. It seems most of us didn’t even manage to commit the first ten numbers to our memories during school French lessons). We reach the end of the count and a horn sounds. We’re off! Well not quite. It still takes another ten minutes to get from the top of the Champs Elysees to the official starting point at the next to the Paris Saint-Germain football shop (I must remember to pop in there later and buy souvenir football shirts for Dave and Rob). There is a cacophony of beeps as the electronic tags, which I and every other runner are wearing on our trainers, transmit an audible signal as we cross the start line. Then we’re off, on the start of an epic twenty-six mile course that will take in a great deal of the sights, sounds and very definitely the smells of the city as approximately thirty-four thousand people including me attempt to complete the Paris marathon.
I reach the bottom of the Champs Elysées fairly quickly and head into the vast open space of Place de Concorde, which was heaving with traffic yesterday, but is now awash with thousands of runners. I can see a man dressed as a large panda running just in front of me, but it strikes me that there are only a few costumes dotted around, not like the footage of the London Marathon that inspired me to even attempt this almost a year ago. I wonder if that’s just a British thing? I can tell that there are a few Brits involved in this just from the snippets of conversation I can hear around me, and in some ways it saddens me that I’m doing this on my own rather than with a group of friends, but at the same time I’m enjoying the solitude. There is enough camaraderie from all the strangers running alongside me and yet, because I don’t know anyone it feels like this is unique and special to me. I’m running at a fairly slow pace at the moment, I recall going much faster in training, but there is a voice inside telling me to conserve my energy, and in any case my pace is currently dictated by the huge mob of people that I’m running with and there isn’t much room to manoeuvre. This doesn’t stop the odd inconsiderate soul from attempting to barge through every now and again, which makes me wonder why they didn’t just start further up the pack to begin with. For the most part there seems to be an unspoken acknowledgment from the majority that we’re all in this together for the moment, and in truth it does give me a nice momentum that I’ve never really experienced during my solo runs around Roath Park.
Leaving Place de la Concorde and heading on to a road called rue de Rivoli I see the first mile marker, which seems to have come around fairly quickly, although there are still twenty-five to go so I’m not celebrating just yet. I also catch sight of a WH Smiths, which doesn’t seem quite right in the middle of Paris, but it makes me smile. The second mile marker seems to come very quickly after the first, which makes me feel incredible, until I realise that it actually says two kilometres, not miles because of course the French don’t really understand miles. In fact I’m not sure I understand miles fully, I learned the metric system in school too. Why don’t we use that more often in Britain? Being two kilometres in means that I’ve still got forty kilometres to run, which actually seems really far, and my optimism sinks a little. I’m still feeling pretty fit at the moment though.
By five kilometres I’m starting to blow a little bit. There’s no danger of me running out of steam just yet, but it does fee
l like I’ve been jogging for a while now, and I’ve still got most of the route still to go. If I hadn’t quite got the distance into perspective beforehand then the reality is dawning on me now. Fortunately the five kilometre mark also represents the first refreshment stop and bottles of water are handed out to all. There is also fruit on offer and I grab a couple of chunks of banana and ram them into my mouth. I’m not usually a fan of fruit but it is pretty welcome at the moment. I notice that most people are just taking a few sips of their water and discarding the bottles straight away and with plenty more water stops ahead, I suppose they don’t want to be slowed down too much. I only drink a bit, but decide to hold onto the bottle for the time being. I’m not especially thirsty, but it’s like a comfort blanket, it makes me feel safe.
On we go. The atmosphere is incredible; there are huge numbers of people lined along the streets of Paris, cheering us on. I hear plenty of French voices, but there are English voices too, or French people speaking English. Everything is so positive; there is almost a surplus of good will. At various intervals there are people playing music and at one point there is a fire truck with its ladder extended over the road and something like ten firemen standing on it shouting their support from above.
It’s not a completely flat course and every time we go uphill, I struggle a little; despite my improved fitness and the inevitable weight loss that goes with that, I’m still quite hefty and gravity is not on my side. The weather is warming up and the sun is now shining brightly. Paris looks stunning in the sunlight, but the increased heat is also making the going tougher. The support from the crowd counteracts the discomfort though and the momentum of the other runners around me keeps me going. As we approach the ten kilometre checkpoint I am finding it pretty tough going, and it is here that I begin to notice the downside of consuming too much water. I really need to go to the toilet. I take my allocated bottle of water anyway from the next refreshment stop because I’m sure it wouldn’t be a good idea to stop my fluid intake now. I also grab a handful of raisins and wolf them down. I haven’t had raisins since I was a child, but I now realise I’ve been missing out. I truly believe them to be a miracle food, such is the energising effect that they have on me. I drop my pace a little to take on some more water. I notice some people are starting to walk but I’m worried that if I walk at this stage, I won’t be able to start running again.
There are portable toilets dotted along the course but at each one there is a queue and I’m certain that such a delay will also kill my momentum, because in reality I’m only a quarter of the way through the course. Some people I can see are just stopping for their own little comfort breaks behind lampposts and trees, the women are tending to venture slightly further off the course but the men are happy to relieve themselves in full view of the public by the side of the road. I suspect this will be my best option, so at around twelve kilometres I dart off down a side street and do what needs to be done. It’s a huge help and I find a second wind when I return to the road. I realise that to focus on the end of the marathon at this stage is only going to demotivate me, so instead I focus on reaching the twenty kilometre marker, which is a shorter distance than the ground I’ve already covered, and significantly, from a psychological point of view, it is roughly the half way stage. The runners around me have spread out a bit now and I feel more alone, but the bonus is that I am able to regulate my own pace a little better, and I find that varying the pace is actually quite helpful, the odd little spurt helping me to find extra adrenaline, before easing back into a gentler pace to conserve my depleted energy. It is at this point that I notice a man with a mullet, pink t-shirt, and ridiculously revealing skin tight shorts seems to be racing me. Every time I increase my pace I surge past him, only for him to come roaring back in front when I slow down. I have no idea if he is consciously competing with me, but I decide that if he wants a race, I’m happy to oblige. He doesn’t look in any better shape than me and I think a bit of competition will help motivate me to keep going.
We actually seem to have left Paris now, and we’re running through what seems to be countryside, although there are still quite a few people about. At one point a cycling event threatens to cut us up but the race marshals enforce our priority, which seems right, as we are probably participating in the more prestigious event, although the looks on some of the cyclists’ faces suggest that they would beg to differ. It’s a little out of season for my hay fever to be bothering me too much, but the geographical change, plus the warmer climate (it is a lot hotter than I would have expected it to be in early April) has resulted in a mild irritation in my eyes, which is not helpful given that I am starting to struggle anyway. I could do with being back in the city centre. It doesn’t seem like I’m going to get there anytime soon though. More and more people are starting to slow down and quite a few are starting to walk now, but even though my pace is quite slow, I think it would be fatal to stop running. The fifteen kilometre marker and another drink stop come and go, and I’m starting to take an interest in some of the cold water sponges that are also available at these stops as I am now sweating profusely. Thankfully my incredibly tight running top is beginning to prove its worth, and is keeping me fairly dry. There is no sign of jogger’s nipple yet.
The race with the pink shirted mullet man is still in full flow as I finally reach the twenty kilometre mark. There are people taking souvenir photos and I’m pretty sure that one photographer captures an image of me overtaking my Lycra clad nemesis. I might well look into purchasing that image when this ordeal is over. Twenty kilometres isn’t quite halfway, but it is a morale boost and I find a third boost of energy. It’s not long before the twenty-one kilometres sign looms into view and shortly afterwards a notice declaring that I am at the 21.1km mark and officially halfway. I congratulate myself on having run my first half marathon, although I note that at two hours and twenty minutes, I’m considerably slower than my new boss Darren. I don’t care though, this ordeal isn’t about anyone other than me, but I do wonder how Darren would have felt if he was faced with the prospect of running back to back half marathons, which is in essence the challenge I now have.
I’m well and truly out of the countryside by now. It’s too early to be thinking about the finish line just yet, so I set myself a new target of making it to thirty kilometres. After all that’s less than a ten kilometre run in distance and I did plenty of those in training. The trouble is my legs are now completely numb, and it is simply habit that is ensuring they keep going. I’m behind the mullet man as I reach twenty-three kilometres and he’s starting to edge away. I think this particular battle may be lost.
From around twenty-four kilometres onwards we’re running along the banks of the Seine, which is a fairly pleasant experience in terms of the sights and sounds on offer. I get an alternative view of Notre Dame to the one I had yesterday. This is more gothic, and in some ways more impressive. The Louvre springs into view in all its glory. Even in my current state of exhaustion I remain impressed. There are quite a few slopes to contend with, complete with cobbled stones, which don’t make the going any easier. I’m becoming a little bit delirious I think, and the sun is really beating down now. There is still a lot of camaraderie though, and I’m offered encouragement by two middle aged Frenchmen as they race past me. It’s only a small boost but it helps, and whatever sanity I have left tells me that I have come too far in this race to give up now.
Is there a song about Paris being beautiful in the springtime? Or is it just one of those things that people say. In any case it’s true. On this Sunday in April, I’ve never seen anywhere more pleasing on the eye, and my eyes need it, they’re the only things telling my mind that I’m still alive. Just after twenty-eight kilometres the Eiffel Tower looms into view in all its magnificence and it’s enough to push my tired legs on. There are still people cheering from the sides of the road, although just as there are fewer people running alongside me now, so there seem to be fewer people in the crowds, which is a shame because I could
use some more encouragement. One bloke can tell I’m feeling rough, because he makes a point of looking at my chest where, just above my number is my forename in big bold letters.
‘Allez Christophe!’ he shouts as I amble past, and I feel bad, because I’ll never be able to tell him just how much he has helped me.
Thirty kilometres at last and I’m loading up on calories, grapping handfuls of raisins and banana. I take the bottle of water on offer out of habit, because I’m not consciously thirsty anymore, but there is voice in my head telling me that I will regret it if I don’t take it. All the sponges have been taken from the sponge station, but people are just dipping their hands into the water buckets and splashing their faces. I follow suit and it helps a little bit, but not much and not enough. I’m really struggling now, and even though I’ve completed far more of the course than I’ve got left, I really don’t know how I’m going to make it. All around me people are walking and it’s hard to resist the urge to walk myself, especially as they aren’t even going that much slower than me. I can see one man in tears by the side of the road, clutching his leg in pain, devastated that he has managed to come this far only to see his dream snatched away from him. I owe it to him to keep going I think.
Thirty-two kilometres complete and it’s getting unbearable. I still have ten kilometres to go and I can’t see how I’m going to do it. A sense of hopelessness overwhelms me and I stop running and finally give in to my legs and start walking. I’m devastated. I really wanted to run the whole thing but it just doesn’t seem possible. I keep moving in the direction of the course because I don’t know what else to do. Several people run past me, and I guess they must be thinking what a loser I am. What business do I have being in a marathon? Thirty-three kilometres and I’m still walking. I’ve passed signs for Roland Garros, which if memory serves me is where they hold the French equivalent of Wimbledon. I vaguely remember going to Wimbledon with my mother when I was a teenager. I didn’t get to see any big games, but I recall seeing John McEnroe being interviewed for the BBC, which I thought was pretty cool. I don’t know why that thought comes into my head but it does. I wonder if that fifteen year old boy watching the Z list games on the outer courts of Wimbledon would be impressed with his future self. Probably not, I thought, I’m sure he had bigger ambitions. Although he was always the last team member to get picked during PE lessons, so maybe an attempt at a marathon would impress him after all.
I’m still walking at thirty-four kilometres and I’ve got no idea why I haven’t pulled out. I see an unconscious man being tended by paramedics on the side of the road. There have been ambulances parked at various stages of the course, but this is the first instance I have seen of anyone actually needing medical attention. He looks in a pretty bad way and he’s not any older than me really. He looks a lot fitter too, or he would if he were conscious and didn’t currently have a tube in his mouth. He can’t even have been that far ahead of me, I realise, as it looks like a fairly recent emergency. So if I have no business being in this race, he certainly doesn’t. I’m doing better than him I think, and then looking around at all the other people walking alongside me I realise that none of them seem to think that their race is over. We’re all still going, unlike this poor bloke, and if being conscious is all it’s going to take to get me over the finish line then I’m going to do it!
I break into a jog again, just to see if I can, and although it’s sluggish it gets me to the thirty-five kilometre sign. Shockingly there aren’t any refreshments here, but I’m not put out. I can do this without any more water. I jog on for another five hundred metres or so before having to walk again for a bit, but I realise that I can probably keep going like this until the end, a sort of half run, half walk, will get me there. The next five kilometres are slow and painful but I am determined now that if I don’t see finish line it will be because I’m looking at the inside of an ambulance. I’ve come too far to give up, I need to finish this. At forty kilometres I find my fourth wind, at long last and even though I can’t really feel my legs I find some pace from somewhere. I’m not actually running anywhere near as fast as I was in the first half of the race, but it’s the fastest I’ve run for a while and my adrenaline levels are surging once more. I punch the air in excitement at forty-one kilometres, before looking around sheepishly when I realise that I’m still surrounded by people. One middle-aged man looks at me and smiles. He punches the air in solidarity. The roadside crowds are building now as I reach the end of the race and people are cheering us on loudly. Suddenly I notice a familiar flash of pink as I see the mullet man jogging steadily but slowly in front of me. I realise I’m going faster than he is. He hasn’t got a chance.
I surge past him and suddenly the finish is in sight. I’m going to finish. I allow myself a second punch to the air as I enter the final straight and I’m flying now, sprinting. People around me seem content to amble and plod their way over the finish line, but I’m going to do it in style. Five hours and twenty minutes after starting the Paris marathon I complete it and I’m back once again on the Champs Elysées. I’m in a dream world. I can hear all the cheering and shouting and it feels like it’s all for me, which I know is ludicrous, but that’s really how it feels. Suddenly my legs give up on me and it’s all I can do to stand. I’m stopped rather brusquely by a race official, who wants to take the electronic tag off my shoe. I’m a little bit confused but I let him, and then I’m given a plastic blue poncho to put on, which I do, and I look ridiculous, but everyone else is wearing them too so I don’t mind. I’m also given a medal, a proper medal, which is all shiny and bright and I put it around my neck and I think that I’m never going to take it off.
There are so many people around. Too many people. I feel a little bit sick. I see a table with more fruit and bottles of water, and the smell of the fruit is sickly and it turns my stomach a little bit, but I force some down me because I know I probably need it. I get another bottle of water and this one I drink as if my life depended on it, and remembering the bloke in the ambulance, I’m not sure that it doesn’t. I’m still in some sort of enclosure, and it seems a long way until I can get out of it, but I keep walking in elated bemusement.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see the man with the mullet and the pink t-shirt. He extends a hand.
‘Feliciations,’ he says gripping my hand enthusiastically for a few moments before wandering away. Maybe he was racing me after all.
After ambling slowly out of the enclosure and away from the masses I realise that my hotel is quite a distance away. Though I feel exultant I notice a mild sensation of anti-climax setting in as I struggle through the crowds towards the metro. Fortunately there is at least one person in Paris who might be able to keep my mood on an upward trajectory.
