La Belle Dame Avec Merci

Running a marathon is, from all accounts, similar to the experience of giving birth. I know nothing about the latter, but having spent four hours and twenty seven minutes of my Sunday doing the former, I see striking parallels. You prepare eagerly, if a bit apprehensively, for months. And, as the final act sweeps you inexorably along, you find yourself thinking, with a mind fogged by exhaustion and pain, how you could possibly have believed this was a good idea nine months ago. Then suddenly its over, and they give you something to clutch (in this case a particularly hideous medal) and the sense of triumph swells as the delirium ebbs. And so you start planning the next one.

It was with a light heart that I got up yesterday morning, gingerly testing the cramped calf to discover that the Arnica oil had worked its magic overnight, and armed myself with the essentials (breakfast, sunscreen, running cap, metro tickets, watch, gels, ipod, etc.) Stepping out into the blossoming Parisian morning, there was a sun rising clear into a wide sky and as I joined the ranks of runners all making our way up the Champs Elysees to the inflatable arch that marks the start, I wasn't the only one looking about about with a sense of privilege and wonder. We were awake and alive, now, in this splendid town, the city was putting on her glad rags for us; we were the lucky ones. Naturally, I used the moment to do a spot of window shopping and was passionately grateful to be alone to do it. Men never understand... I fought my way through the milling hordes into the Green pen where the problem, as it always is, is ablutions. This was a particularly bad case. In each pen of a couple thousand runners, there was one, I repeat ONE, portaloo. It beggars belief. I stood in queue more as a testament to hope than anything else, while the announcers peppered us with irrelevant facts and badly read sales blurbs to help us await the inevitable. When the moment was upon us we began rolling forward, not running, but picking our way over the discarded clothing and used bottles and banana skins of those gone before. I'm a little perturbed that my chosen sport needs to be so messy; it seems a contradiction of the ethos of running. But I had the stirring strains of Chariots of Fire to take my mind off the chaos underfoot. The music made me thrilled and sad and I wished my parents were amongst those along the route to see me.

The pace settled into my feet and I ran the first kilometre faster than is my wont, pricked by the enthusiasm around me. Five kilometres was easy; now all I needed to do was exactly that, another seven times I told myself blithely. I amused myself by having a conversation in my head, switching into whichever accent was currently being spoken around me. My favourite was the pneumatically cheerful Canadian. Less amusing was the state of my bladder, and my eyes were peeled for the first bank of portaloos, but I was becoming increasingly disappointed with every passing block. Then, on a corner on the opposite side of the road, I spotted a free public toilet, one of those automat things that I never entirely trust not to lock me inside or suddenly swing open to reveal me to the street. Today, it was a lifebelt. Offering up a silent prayer, I dived into the river of streaming flesh with a volley of Pardonnez-mois but, alas, reaching it safely my hopes were dashed to see that it was overflowing and its door was jammed. As I reeled away in disgust a woman came up to me waving a sarong and gesticulating wildly. It seemed she had got up this morning and taken a pretty beach sarong down to a corner of the rue de Rivoli with the express purpose of assisting lady runners in their hour of need. Truly, saints do walk the earth among us. I wish I could say that I did not squat behind an automat on a street corner in one of the loveliest cities in the world, but... I also wish I knew her name. A thousand blessings upon you, whoever you are.

I was heartily cheered by this unexpected brush with kindness, and flew along to the Bois de
Vincennes, which was filled with families and brass bands. It was so warm and I was happy, if a little disheartened that I was running slower than my target time of four hours. It was moments when I thought of that that the sense of despair threatened to overwhelm me, and I bit down on it and forced myself to think of anything else. Even to count in French! We turned around and headed back through Paris and along the Seine. I didn't like the long eerie tunnels into which we descended for for what seemed like ages, but some were delighted by the acoustics and let rip with schoolboy yells that bounced about our heads and harmonized with the thousands of falling feet. Then we would rise back up into the sun and smile-lined streets and I appreciated the balmy air. The voluptuous statues lazily regarded our damp efforts from their plinths, and we plodded on through feed stations, where the tables groaned with sugar cubes and raisins and the cobbles were littered with oranges skins, past more bands in crazy wigs, and under the chestnut trees decked in new green.

It was in the final ten kilometres that the pain started to bite. My knees and thighs protested with every foot fall and the nagging voice whispered What if you can't? I am a lonely runner; I don't talk it out. Some people around me were beginning to broadcast their internal monologues, and others had running partners to share the pain with. But something stops me, almost as if admitting the pain is to allow it to win, so I lock it down grimly and attempt to look serene, if sweaty. The route had taken us into the Bois de Boulogne, a mythical name I associate with Audrey Hepburn movies, but by now I was past nostalgia and could only scan the road ahead for each mile marker. Inside, I was screaming and bleeding and elated with every mile that I achieved. The pace had slowed, and people were walking stretches, myself included. The only problem with this is that breaking into a run again detonates explosions of protest from the thigh region, and finally I resolved to get it over with tout suite and push on to the end. Which seemed like it was always around the next corner, and when I finally did see it, I wasn't entirely convinced it wasn't a mirage. Because suddenly there you are, another silly inflatable arch and its done. The final five hundred metres are the truest test; some sprint, some grunt and gasp, some limp, some look as if its all been a stroll in the park, some stumble and shove their way across. The point is not the end, but how it is reached, in my little opinion, that shows you what you truly are deep down, and its possibly the real reason we undertake the exotic exercise at all.

I collected the garish medal and donned the fetching plastic poncho to stabilise my body temperature and grazed my way past the final feed tables with the thousands of others. It was agony and bliss. I missed my family and thanked God for my wonderful, wonderful husband who supports and believes and nurtures me. Then I asked a gendarme where the nearest Metro was and hobbled down the stairs with the rest of the crazy crippled people in the silly plastic ponchos. I stopped in at L'Atelier du Chocolat de Bayonne for some dark chocolate turtles before dragging my protesting legs up the five flights of stairs to Dominika's pretty flat, where she had cooked a sumptuous lunch of sweet potato soup, steamed salmon and quinoa. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world!

So now I've done it. My legs today feel like they've been ripped off my body, used to beat carpets with and stitched back onto me with meat hooks. I can't think of a better reason to spend the day sitting in a Parisian cafe reading something by Philip Roth! And I have the memory of the Saintly Lady With The Sarong to cherish forever. I think I'll do the Amsterdam marathon next; its at the end of the year, which gives me time to train to do it in four hours, and to forget how much it hurts... Anyone want to do it with me?