"The best way to see a city is to run a marathon."
This has to be one of the most misleading statements I have ever read. I came across it in an article for the Dublin City Marathon 2009 registration magazine, and I suspect the author has never run a marathon in his life.
On the 11th April 2010 I ran the Paris Marathon with a target time of sub-4.30. The route starts on the Champs-Elysées heading away from the Arc de Triomphe, through the Place de la Concorde with the tall obelisque, and past the Louvre containing the Mona Lisa (which is surprisingly small, and not particularly attractive by today’s standards). At around miles 3 and 4 it passes through the Place de la Bastille, the symbolic location of the French Revolution. At mile 10 it enters the Bois de Vincennes and runs past the imposing Château de Vincennes, after which it doubles back on itself and heads back into the city, running alongside the Seine, again past the Bastille at mile 14, the Hôtel de Ville and the beautiful Notre-Dame cathedral on the Ile de la Cité at mile 15. At mile 16 it passes the Musée d’Orsay, containing Monet’s waterlilies. At mile 18 it passes the Eiffel Tower on the other side on the river, and at mile 21 enters the Bois de Boulogne, where the Count of Monte Cristo had his country house (his town house was the largest on the Champs-Elysées. Rah.) In the woods it turns and twists and finally comes to an end on the Avenue Foch, just the other side of the Arc de Triomphe Etoile.
I didn’t notice a single Parisian landmark. This is what I remember:
Cool early morning, leaving the hotel in running gear and bin bags, feeling nervous and a little strange until we see other bin-bagged runners, all drawn like magnets towards the Arc de Triomphe until there are so many of us that we overwhelm the traffic and Etoile is so overcome with runners that the cars actually stop on the roundabout in confusion. The Arc itself looming just behind me at the start, scaffolding on one side and plastic bags over the heads of the angels on the other side. The whirr of the helicopter high overhead, and the calming smell of Tiger balm and Deep Heat oozing out of every pore. The wet tarmac of the Champs-Elysées, stepping over the discarded water bottles, body-binbags and old jumpers, piled high around the traffic lights, still flashing red-green. The loudspeaker shouting at us, cheer if this is your first marathon, and more than half the 4:30 category cheer. No, I think, I’ve done this before and I’ll do it again today. Piece of cake. The agonising 20-minute shuffle down to the start, and the rush of excitement when we pass under the arch and the runners disperse, followed quickly by frustration at having to remember to hold back, to conserve energy for the miles ahead. Looking out for the first mile marker, missing it, and panicking that there are only kilometre signs. Counting the minutes to where the second mile should be, and feeling a rush of satisfaction when I see it is there, and that I’m running 10 minute mile pace to the second. The frustration at realising I’m in the wrong category and that everyone around me is too slow; wasting energy dodging round them and checking my blind spot, and remembering to hold my line round corners.
Bands of every nationality and genre on every corner, parents, friends, family, children, grandparents, strangers, all rooting for every one of us, hooting horns, clacking hand-clackers, waving flags and homemade signs. The water station, a mélée of runners crowding the tables, empty gel packets littering the road after the elites and sub-3 and 4 hours, making the road sticky with sugar and slippery with banana skins. Looking down in a panic at mile 8 to check that my chip is still secured on my right runner (I tied it on myself with a cable tie, why wouldn’t it have been there?). Checking my watch at every mile on the line, 5 seconds over here, 20 seconds under there, run a couple of paces faster for the next one, save energy on the down hills, head down on the up hills.
Feeling tired at half way, but the 6 seconds over time hardly showing it. A woman in a wheelchair trying to cross the road, ignored by the runners – sorry lady, courtesy is not a priority today. People’s t-shirts, someone running for Olivier DCD (décédé - dead) 7.3.10, a group running for cancer, “If you think training for a marathon is tough, try chemotherapy.” Mario, moustache and beret, pushing a bike adorned with flowers, bells, a frying pan, the pedals taken off (to protect passing runners’ calves, or to reassure the organisers that he wouldn’t start pedalling?) Flags pinned to shirts – Ireland, GB, New Zealand, Spain, South Africa, Italy, USA. Shouts of “Bravo!”, “Allez!”, “Bon courage”, “Come on girls!”, “Sarah!” (thank god they printed our names onto the race numbers, it saved me a good few times – the staff at the water stations smiled and called us by name as if they knew us). A group of hot firemen lining the street. That helped.
Mile 14 and I’m really feeling the fatigue, wondering how to run another 12 miles, and why, until I see my parents by the side of the Seine, cheering me on, and a further down the road an Irish flag – come on Ireland! I shout at the girls, and their support follows me round the corner (how many GB flags did I pass today without cheering?) This support gets me through the long tunnel and the repeated ups and downs of the underpasses, stretching my legs on the downs only to drag myself up the other side, and again and again, four times over. I pass out Mario and the chemotherapists, and many people walking, defeated by the hills. I run into the back of some of them but neither of us has the energy to be apologetic or annoyed.
Mile 21, the furthest I've run since October, my body protesting but my mind definitely not listening. The first water station with an energy drink – I grab two plastic cups of Powerade and promptly pour them both over my face and shirt as I run (what, me, walk through a water station? I’m not stopping till 26.2 miles!). I inhale jelly babies, raisins, bananas, not tasting anything. The cool of the woods at mile 23, people walking, a girl crying but still moving forwards. My breath starting to come in unattractive grunts of effort, but I’m overtaking quite a few people now. I want to stop and piss but know I only have 7 minutes to spare and I’ll need every second, I’ve lost 3 minutes since mile 20. Pushing myself on as fast as I physically can, my body screaming at me to stop and walk, a sub-3 hour guy walking towards us with his medal already on and looking fresh, cheering everyone on. A girl on roller skates almost makes me lose my pace, I nearly shout at her but can’t waste any more energy on her. A table with bottles and plastic glasses of red wine inexplicably on the side of the road, the alcohol smell nearly making me retch. The never-ending woods – I’ve missed mile marker 24 and didn’t see 25 even though I know it was there, but it doesn’t matter. I know I’m going to make it now, and my body is tired but not broken. 10.2 minutes’ more running, the crowds on the side of the road getting bigger and louder. The finish must be mere metres away but I can’t see it – I run round a roundabout and then I see the arch and try to sprint but I have nothing left. People are shouting but I don’t know what they’re saying. There’s a cluster of photographers in my way and I have to dodge them, and suddenly I’m there, and my watch says 4:27:29.
Someone hands me a t-shirt and a medal, and takes the chip off my shoe. I stretch halfheartedly, not because I can’t be bothered but because I can’t – how was I running just minutes before? I can’t even bend my legs now. I queue for a massage because I can’t face the 15 minute walk back to the hotel just yet. In the massage tent there are brave volunteers lancing enormous blood blisters and pulling out dead toe nails. I take off my shoes and the masseurs look relieved that my feet are still in working order, a small blister between my second and third toe and that’s it. I put my medal on, and start making my way back through Etoile towards the hotel in my red plastic bin bag and runners, walking in as straight a line as I can, and a guy passing me looks concerned and says, “Ça va?” as if I’m about to fall into the gutter and expire. Yes, I want to say, I’m absolutely fantastic. I just won my marathon.
This has to be one of the most misleading statements I have ever read. I came across it in an article for the Dublin City Marathon 2009 registration magazine, and I suspect the author has never run a marathon in his life.
On the 11th April 2010 I ran the Paris Marathon with a target time of sub-4.30. The route starts on the Champs-Elysées heading away from the Arc de Triomphe, through the Place de la Concorde with the tall obelisque, and past the Louvre containing the Mona Lisa (which is surprisingly small, and not particularly attractive by today’s standards). At around miles 3 and 4 it passes through the Place de la Bastille, the symbolic location of the French Revolution. At mile 10 it enters the Bois de Vincennes and runs past the imposing Château de Vincennes, after which it doubles back on itself and heads back into the city, running alongside the Seine, again past the Bastille at mile 14, the Hôtel de Ville and the beautiful Notre-Dame cathedral on the Ile de la Cité at mile 15. At mile 16 it passes the Musée d’Orsay, containing Monet’s waterlilies. At mile 18 it passes the Eiffel Tower on the other side on the river, and at mile 21 enters the Bois de Boulogne, where the Count of Monte Cristo had his country house (his town house was the largest on the Champs-Elysées. Rah.) In the woods it turns and twists and finally comes to an end on the Avenue Foch, just the other side of the Arc de Triomphe Etoile.
I didn’t notice a single Parisian landmark. This is what I remember:
Cool early morning, leaving the hotel in running gear and bin bags, feeling nervous and a little strange until we see other bin-bagged runners, all drawn like magnets towards the Arc de Triomphe until there are so many of us that we overwhelm the traffic and Etoile is so overcome with runners that the cars actually stop on the roundabout in confusion. The Arc itself looming just behind me at the start, scaffolding on one side and plastic bags over the heads of the angels on the other side. The whirr of the helicopter high overhead, and the calming smell of Tiger balm and Deep Heat oozing out of every pore. The wet tarmac of the Champs-Elysées, stepping over the discarded water bottles, body-binbags and old jumpers, piled high around the traffic lights, still flashing red-green. The loudspeaker shouting at us, cheer if this is your first marathon, and more than half the 4:30 category cheer. No, I think, I’ve done this before and I’ll do it again today. Piece of cake. The agonising 20-minute shuffle down to the start, and the rush of excitement when we pass under the arch and the runners disperse, followed quickly by frustration at having to remember to hold back, to conserve energy for the miles ahead. Looking out for the first mile marker, missing it, and panicking that there are only kilometre signs. Counting the minutes to where the second mile should be, and feeling a rush of satisfaction when I see it is there, and that I’m running 10 minute mile pace to the second. The frustration at realising I’m in the wrong category and that everyone around me is too slow; wasting energy dodging round them and checking my blind spot, and remembering to hold my line round corners.
Bands of every nationality and genre on every corner, parents, friends, family, children, grandparents, strangers, all rooting for every one of us, hooting horns, clacking hand-clackers, waving flags and homemade signs. The water station, a mélée of runners crowding the tables, empty gel packets littering the road after the elites and sub-3 and 4 hours, making the road sticky with sugar and slippery with banana skins. Looking down in a panic at mile 8 to check that my chip is still secured on my right runner (I tied it on myself with a cable tie, why wouldn’t it have been there?). Checking my watch at every mile on the line, 5 seconds over here, 20 seconds under there, run a couple of paces faster for the next one, save energy on the down hills, head down on the up hills.
Feeling tired at half way, but the 6 seconds over time hardly showing it. A woman in a wheelchair trying to cross the road, ignored by the runners – sorry lady, courtesy is not a priority today. People’s t-shirts, someone running for Olivier DCD (décédé - dead) 7.3.10, a group running for cancer, “If you think training for a marathon is tough, try chemotherapy.” Mario, moustache and beret, pushing a bike adorned with flowers, bells, a frying pan, the pedals taken off (to protect passing runners’ calves, or to reassure the organisers that he wouldn’t start pedalling?) Flags pinned to shirts – Ireland, GB, New Zealand, Spain, South Africa, Italy, USA. Shouts of “Bravo!”, “Allez!”, “Bon courage”, “Come on girls!”, “Sarah!” (thank god they printed our names onto the race numbers, it saved me a good few times – the staff at the water stations smiled and called us by name as if they knew us). A group of hot firemen lining the street. That helped.
Mile 14 and I’m really feeling the fatigue, wondering how to run another 12 miles, and why, until I see my parents by the side of the Seine, cheering me on, and a further down the road an Irish flag – come on Ireland! I shout at the girls, and their support follows me round the corner (how many GB flags did I pass today without cheering?) This support gets me through the long tunnel and the repeated ups and downs of the underpasses, stretching my legs on the downs only to drag myself up the other side, and again and again, four times over. I pass out Mario and the chemotherapists, and many people walking, defeated by the hills. I run into the back of some of them but neither of us has the energy to be apologetic or annoyed.
Mile 21, the furthest I've run since October, my body protesting but my mind definitely not listening. The first water station with an energy drink – I grab two plastic cups of Powerade and promptly pour them both over my face and shirt as I run (what, me, walk through a water station? I’m not stopping till 26.2 miles!). I inhale jelly babies, raisins, bananas, not tasting anything. The cool of the woods at mile 23, people walking, a girl crying but still moving forwards. My breath starting to come in unattractive grunts of effort, but I’m overtaking quite a few people now. I want to stop and piss but know I only have 7 minutes to spare and I’ll need every second, I’ve lost 3 minutes since mile 20. Pushing myself on as fast as I physically can, my body screaming at me to stop and walk, a sub-3 hour guy walking towards us with his medal already on and looking fresh, cheering everyone on. A girl on roller skates almost makes me lose my pace, I nearly shout at her but can’t waste any more energy on her. A table with bottles and plastic glasses of red wine inexplicably on the side of the road, the alcohol smell nearly making me retch. The never-ending woods – I’ve missed mile marker 24 and didn’t see 25 even though I know it was there, but it doesn’t matter. I know I’m going to make it now, and my body is tired but not broken. 10.2 minutes’ more running, the crowds on the side of the road getting bigger and louder. The finish must be mere metres away but I can’t see it – I run round a roundabout and then I see the arch and try to sprint but I have nothing left. People are shouting but I don’t know what they’re saying. There’s a cluster of photographers in my way and I have to dodge them, and suddenly I’m there, and my watch says 4:27:29.
Someone hands me a t-shirt and a medal, and takes the chip off my shoe. I stretch halfheartedly, not because I can’t be bothered but because I can’t – how was I running just minutes before? I can’t even bend my legs now. I queue for a massage because I can’t face the 15 minute walk back to the hotel just yet. In the massage tent there are brave volunteers lancing enormous blood blisters and pulling out dead toe nails. I take off my shoes and the masseurs look relieved that my feet are still in working order, a small blister between my second and third toe and that’s it. I put my medal on, and start making my way back through Etoile towards the hotel in my red plastic bin bag and runners, walking in as straight a line as I can, and a guy passing me looks concerned and says, “Ça va?” as if I’m about to fall into the gutter and expire. Yes, I want to say, I’m absolutely fantastic. I just won my marathon.
I love it. LOVE it. SO descriptive and so true!
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