Allez les filles: le marathon de Paris

Speeding out of Geneva at 200 km/h on the train de grand vitesse it still hadn’t hit me. Collecting my goody bag, my impossibly-small-for-a-medium t-shirt, my race bib and timing chip, reality had still not sunk in. Later that night at the hotel, laying out my shoes, socks, spandex, sports bra and U of M alumni dry-fit t-shirt, the big day still seemed eons in the future. Braiding my own hair and Julie’s into two tight French tresses, so that errant fly -aways would be the last of my worries on the 26.2 mile trek, what I was about to undertake still had not fully registered. It wasn’t until the next morning at 5 am, when my cheesy Migros themed cell phone ringer jolted me from a fitful sleep that I sat up and thought, “Shit, I’m going to run 26.2 miles today.”

After a hearty breakfast in bed (not intentionally, our hotel room was so small we literally couldn’t have eaten our petit-déjeuner of peanut butter and toast anywhere else), we double and triple checked our gear, made a desperate and unsuccessful attempt at procuring coffee from the machine in the lobby, and made our way to the République métro stop, where we were bumpily propelled to Charles de Gaulle- l’étoile….the site of the busiest traffic round about in the world, the Arc de Triomphe, and the start of the marathon.

The sight of 35,000 other runners packed into a small area on one of the most famous streets in the world (the Champs-Elysées) had me looking around every which way like an ADD kid in a toy shop. Luckily we had gotten there early enough, and had ample time to check our gear, snap the requisite pre-race “happy” photos, and wait a half an hour to pee in the porta-potty’s (I was insanely jealous of the men who could take advantage of France’s lax or non-existent public urination laws, and just line up at a wall and let it go). With 20 minutes left before race time, we ran some warm up strides, stretched, and finally went to join la grande foule at the start.

Packed like sardines amidst tens of thousands of other runners, all who appeared to be more seasoned than me, I really started to get nervous. Hearing chatter of “when I ran New York,” or my “3:30 in Chicago” I started letting myself psyche me out. I glanced at my brown 5-hour pace bracelet (which has the times of where you should be at major mile markers to complete the race in 5 hrs), an eye-sore amongst the majority of shocking pink 4hr 30min bracelets, and bright green 4 hour bracelets, and just for a moment wondered if I could really do what I was about to do. Then I snapped out of it, made a mental recap of my months of training, and chucked the bracelet to the ground; my only goal for today would be to finish the race.

The start was anti-climactic; I was so far back from the actual start that I never even heard a gun go off (in the end I found that it took be 9 minutes to get from where I was to the actual starting line). Julie and I waddled in silence and nerves, squished between the hordes of smelly runners. Approaching the start, we gave each other one last high five and went our separate ways. Funny how, surrounded by 35,000 people about to do the same exact thing as you are, you can feel so incredibly solitary. For the next 26.2 miles, there would be no music, no running buddy…..just me.

One upside that’s actually a downside to running an international marathon is that they are incredibly accommodating to foreign, non-European runners. Unfortunately, this meant that they marked the course at every kilometer, and at every mile. So at any given time during the race you knew exactly how much (or how little) you had completed, and exactly how much torture was left to come. The first 6 miles were sluggish, neither my legs nor the congestion on the street helping much. It was forecast to be a 26 degree day (79F), yet in the city, with thousands of people and buildings enclosing on all sides, the heat was definitely increased. Luckily the sights helped ease the discomfort; we ran past Le Louvre, La place de la Concorde (where they be-headed Marie-Antoinette), and La place de la Bastille (the place of the infamous prison that was stormed on July 14, leading to French independence).

After this first stretch, probably around mile 8, we headed into le bois des Vincennes, a giant forest on the outskirts of Paris. The first few miles here were probably my favorite of the entire race; my legs were feeling good, I got plenty of jeers and cheers (and even one very inappropriate joke) pertaining to my Michigan shirt, and I met some very interesting people. One woman started speaking to me in French, yet it was obvious she was an Anglophone, so we turned to English. Turns out she was also living in Geneva, and a cellist in the chamber orchestra, who had driven up the night before, and arrived a mere 3 hours before the race! I ran with another man, a 6’5’’ Brazilian who probably weighed 300 pounds, because he had asked me if I went to Michigan. I replied yes, and he replied, ‘’Me, 4 years at MSU. I may be Brazilian (tugging at the flag emblazoned on the soccer jersey he wore), but my heart is in East Lansing.”

The camaraderie and festivity stopped, however, around mile 10. I was getting dehydrated, and seeing an aid station at that point was like spotting a non-mirage oasis in the desert. I picked up the pace knowing water would be waiting…..only it wasn’t. “Il ne reste encore plus, il ne reste encore plus!”(There’s none left) was the only answer the race volunteers could give anyone. There were lots of angry jeers, but it didn’t seem worth wasting any energy in telling off les bénévoles. I tried to suck it up and continue, but another 3 miles without water was a long way. Luckily it was in the forest, and the shade helped a bit. But a mile away from the defunct aid station, I couldn’t take it any longer and grabbed a bottle off the ground, desperately guzzling it all in one go. I painfully stooped and picked up another, and poured this one over my head. Gross, I know…..but desperate times call for desperate measures. The next aid station was out of water as well, but at least this one had a hose. I caught a quick spray, soaked myself and was on my way.

Exiting le bois des Vincennes marked the important 13.1 mile half marathon marker. There were balloons, bands, and people stopping to take pictures with loved ones. My legs were on auto-pilot, starting to get tired, but also knowing they had come this far before and could surely do it again. Pushing on, we started the return on the banks of the river Seine. There was tons of crowd support as we passed Notre Dame, les jardins des Tuileries and la Tour Eiffel. The Parisians seemed much more impressed by the women running the race, and my running was sometimes set to the constant yelling of “Allez les filles, Allez les filles!” (literally: go the girls). Tons of spectators were yelling, “Ouaaais (yeah), Meee-SHEE-gan!,” and I had several people scream “GO BLUE!”, or “I went to Michigan too!” I was desperately happy at this point to have some distraction; out of the forest there was no more shade, the temperatures were really starting to rise, and we were running on rolling hills, in and out of stiflingly hot tunnels. This lasted until about mile 19. It was difficult, but in retrospect merely scraping the surface of what would come in the last 6.2 miles.

Approaching the sign for mile 20, the longest run I had completed in training, there was a woman screaming repeatedly at the top of her lungs, “C’est tout dans la tête!” (It’s all in your head.) Entering “no-man’s land,” I set the rhythm of 5 footfalls to my new mantra "c'est-tout-dans-la-tête", and crossed into the final leg of the race. By mile 20, my legs felt like wood. I was sweating buckets and drying up in 5 minutes, leaving a grainy film of salt coating my face and neck. I was burning in the afternoon sun, and the only thing to get me through was the promise of water and a couple of orange slices at the next aid station (which they thankfully still had). Never mind I only had 6 miles to go, my only objective was to get to where there was water.

Slowly but surely, I passed mile 21. Walked a few yards, refueled, and painfully restarted my awkward, plodding jog. We had now entered another forest, Le bois de Boulogne, and merciful shade enveloped large portions of the street. Mile 22, water, walk, restart. Just get to mile 23, just get to mile 23 was my anthem. At this point the finish was SO close, a mere 3 mile jog, yet seemed like the longest eternity of all eternities. After mile 23, (and slightly perking up by running past Roland Garros, the tennis stadium where French Open takes place), I shuffled to mile 24. We had to go around a lake, which was psychologically defeating because you could see the faster runners around the other side of the lake, heading to the home stretch. I was so dehydrated and thirsty, yet my stomach was sloshing from my over zealous consumption of water, and my whole body was aching like all hell. I had to stop and walk at this point, and was dazed off in my own little world until I heard a voice say, “Hey, when did you graduate?” Another runner stopped next to me, and started chatting. Turns out she, Liz, had graduated from U of M the year before me, moved to London to work, and had already done 2 marathons. We walked for awhile, then ran, then walked. I was not all “there” at this point, but having something, anything to focus on other than how awful I felt was extremely helpful. I didn’t want to be the one talking, so I asked her all kinds of asinine questions about her time at U of M, her work in London, and her other marathons (London and New York), to save what little energy I had left and still attempt to be amicable. I told her she should go ahead and not slow down for me, but to my surprise she said she’d been walking most of the past 5 miles, and that I was the one helping her.

Up in the distance we saw the God-Send that was the 25 mile marker. Passing it, I asked my new found companion if she had any wisdom for the next 1.2 miles. “Make sure you sprint the end, it feels amazing” she said “and don’t cry if you think you should see the finish and you don’t. It always comes eventually.” Passing the 25 mile mark, the clock read 4:57. WHAT?!?!?! I was in shock. I knew there was no chance in hell I would be able to run a 3 minute mile at the end of the marathon, but with the lag time between the actual start and the time I crossed the start line (which would be my official time), there could be a chance for me to finish under 5 hours. I started to pick up the pace, and Liz fell behind. I turned to ask if she wanted to pick it up with me, but she just grinned and said, “No, I’m good. Go and try for your 5.”

With that I took off. Well.....took off might not be the right word. But I certainly tried as hard as I could to run as hard as I could. I was absolutely dying, but I was passing people left and right on a nice shady stretch to the finish. A certain amount of time passed, of which I have no idea….I was totally in la-la land. I heard people yelling “500 mètres! 500 mètres!” Quoi?!?! Holy crap, I am almost done. I looked in the distance and couldn’t see anything, so I tried to keep a steady pace. Pretty soon, yelling of “200 mètres, 200 mètres!” I still couldn’t see a finish, but at this point I started sprinting in. Turning a corner, I could see a huge crowd, and very un-impressive black scaffolding to mark the finish. My lungs, my legs, my whole body was burning, but I was still moving and passing people in the home stretch. “Allez,
Marr-GAR-ettttte, ALLEZ” (our names were on our backs) I heard people yelling. I could see the finish, the carpet you had to step over to record your time, and thousands of people cheering on all sides. 50 meters, 20 meters…….I passed a final cluster of people and squeezed my way through the still crowded finish line. I stomped on the timing carpet, and slowed to walk. 5:17. It definitely hadn’t taken me 17 minutes to cross the start line, so I knew I hadn’t gotten under 5 hours, but at this point I could have cared less. I just completed a marathon.

Elated and dazed, I continued through to receive my medal, and tried to stand straight and not wobble or fall over as a race volunteer placed one around my neck. Continuing down the line I got a poncho, and stocked up on free water, apples and bananas. Walking back to get my stuff, I was smiling like an idiot, but the pain was also starting to set it. I had tremendous pain in my toes every time my feet touched the pavement, so I took to walking on the outsides of my feet. I made a half-hearted attempt to find Julie in the crowd, but pretty soon walking became too painful so I cleared some gravel on a curb, put my poncho over my head to I wouldn’t continue to become a lobster, and waited to share my joy of having finished my first 26.2.

Turns out Julie had finished a long time before me (3:50….WOW) and had waited at the finish for me until 6 hrs, figuring I had either already finished or gotten hurt. She checked the first aid tent (I did the same thing when I couldn’t find her) then went for a free massage. We finally found each other, hugged and started babbling like idiots at each other about everything and anything marathon related. Walking like grannies back to the hotel, we napped, showered and went out for a celebratory and way over priced kir royal (champagne and crème de cassis liqueur) and dinner, then called it a night. The next day, we hobbled around Paris to do some sight seeing, half-smiling at everyone else we saw hobbling and limping around the city of lights.

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One week later, and the soreness is gone. In fact, all I have left form the marathon now are my t-shirt, medal, number, and 3 black toenails, due to fall off any day now. Finishing the marathon, I was so incredibly happy to have completed my goal, but just as ecstatic about not having to run anymore. In the moments just afterwards, I probably would have said I will ever run one of these again. But I think marathons are like child birth; you swear it off for good immediately after, then look back and don’t remember the pain, only remember the amazing moments and the incredible feat your body was able to accomplish. And before long, you want to do it again.

I ran today, 3 miles in beautiful albeit hot weather. It felt good, but also strange to be running just to be running, without a plan or goal in mind. Enjoying the scenery, enjoying my music, enjoying my stride. Running just for running can be pretty amazing too. Thinking back to crossing that finish line, being able to tell myself that “I ran 26.2 miles today” makes me feel like I can accomplish anything that I set my mind to. And leaves me hungry to improve my time, break the 5 hr. mark or even 4:30, and maybe someday qualify for Boston.

I guess I should enjoy running without a cause, plan or purpose, because I don’t think it’ll be long before I lace up mes chaussures for the next marathon, wherever it may be.