Marathon De Paris - 30e Edition

[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.’