Marathon De Paris - 30e Edition

[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?’