Marathon De Paris - 30e Edition

[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.