I’m not a runner, never will be and surviving a marathon was not on
my bucket list. I love to walk long distances and hiking for miles on end is
one of my favorite pastimes, but a runner I’ll never be. We’d set our sights on
the Paris race simply as a motivator for
maintaining a workout program as we ate our way through Europe and attempted to
stay in reasonable shape through the winter. Joe has long enjoyed running and
ran two previous marathons (the 2009 Marine Corps in DC and the 2010 New York City
race), while I’d done two half marathons in the past few years just to see what
they were like with no training at all (and my times and race-wrecked body
confirmed my lack of preparation).
The big day finally arrived after seven long months of arduous
training. We ran at least twice a week until January, between three and eight
miles each time out, and then in the new year started a three run a week ASICS training
plan we found on the Paris Marathon web site. All proceeded as recommended
until a painful bout of bursitis in my hip erupted in mid-March on a 17.5-mile
run in Vienna. Once I’d made an Internet diagnosis, I followed the recommended
prescription for recovery: no more running for at least a month. My hopes for
completing the marathon were promptly dashed and my plan for Paris took a
dramatic turn; after several weeks of rest, I would start the race and simply run
whatever piece my body allowed me. We went to pick up our race packets while
the children slept off their arrival jetlag, but I felt like a fraud at the
running expo. There I was with my official number and bright blue Paris
Marathon tote, but I was sure I wouldn’t be able to finish the course. I hadn’t run in just
over three weeks in an attempt to heal my sore hip and I knew that if the
bursitis flared up during the race, I’d never make it more than a mile or two after
the pain erupted. Rather than start the race cold turkey, I finally decided to
test my beleaguered joint with a short, comfortable three-mile run with Caroline around the Champs de Mars and along the Seine on
Friday, two days before the marathon, just to see how I felt. I was amazed that
the jog yielded absolutely no pain and I allowed myself to think that maybe,
just maybe, I’d be okay. But I found it impossible to believe that the
excruciating pain I’d felt just three weeks earlier would have disappeared so
thoroughly and wouldn’t return.
The alarm rang on race day at 6:00 AM sharp. The skies were overcast
with threatening clouds and the temperatures were chilly, in the upper 30s with
the low 40s forecast by midday. Except for the winds, which kicked up some strong
gusts, it was perfect marathon weather. We had organized our gear the night before,
safety-pinned our race numbers to our shirts and set out our Garmin GPS running
watches, ready to go. We took hot showers, donned all our layers, including our
“throwaway clothes” that would keep us warm as we waited in the cold for the
race to begin. Joe looked the part of the quintessential runner in his standard
attire: black compression
shorts, red singlet, white long-sleeved jersey as a throwaway shirt and his
favorite white visor. Much more concerned about warding off the elements, I, on
the other hand, looked like “Nanook of the North,” a marathon ringer if ever
there was one. My multiple layers included black shorts, a black long sleeved
running shirt, a turquoise short-sleeved shirt and a light blue fleece, the
warmest piece of clothing I own. On my head was the Paris Marathon-sponsored
do-rag, which I found perfect for keeping my hair out of my face, especially if
it was going to be windy. But the pièce de résistance, and what got Joe laughing
out loud was my disposable layer: a set of baby blue cotton pajamas that I
managed to pull on over everything else and planned to jettison once the
starting gun sounded. My PJs had served their cold weather purpose on our trip but
I would no longer need their warmth once we headed south, so I thought why not?
I’ll put them on for one good final use. I figured that I was about to attempt
a marathon and could wear whatever get-up made me most comfortable. Joe called
me his Arctic warrior but I just called myself cozy.
After a quick breakfast in the apartment, we donned the plastic, thermal
Paris Marathon sheaths we received in our race packets, kissed the kids
goodbye, confirmed the mile markers where they hoped to cheer us on and headed out
the door at 7:30 AM looking like a couple of Parisian bag people. When we reached La Motte-Picquet metro
stop on the Boulevard de Grenelle, we were the only ones
on the platform but were soon joined by about a dozen other runners on their
way to the Place Charles de Gaulle-Étoile. The train soon arrived, and
before we knew it, we were at the base of the Arc de Triomphe with tens of thousands of other runners.
Joe dropped off his post-race dry clothes at the baggage storage area (Caroline
had mine since I feared officials might not give me easy access to the storage
bags if I failed to finish the race), took advantage of the porta-johns where I
lined up cheek to cheek, so to speak, with a gentleman using one of the
open-air, molded blue plastic portable pissoirs that lined the usually grand Avenue Foch. We got a kick out of
doing what we would never dare attempt on any other day of the year: we walked across the Place de
l’Étoile to the Arc de Triomphe and on down the middle of the Champs Elysées.
We were able
to squeeze our way into the 4:15 starting corral (the result of some
inexplicable error, I was assigned to the same corral as fleet-of-foot Joe). It was 8:30 AM and
we had about 15 minutes before the gun went off at 8:45 to officially start
32,000 competitors running through the streets of Paris. Emotions run high at
marathons for all sorts of reasons (nerves, excitement, fear and the
exhilaration of the challenge) and I reflected on the fact that every one of
the competitors had a personal reason for being there that day. While hopping
from one foot to the other to stay warm while waiting for the start, we met
Linda from Colorado who had the noblest of reasons for running the marathon and
had me on the verge of bursting into tears. She and her French husband,
Air Force Major Philip Ambard, a naturalized American citizen and
recipient of both the Bronze Star and Purple Heart, had planned to run the 2012
Paris Marathon together when he was on leave. But those plans evaporated in an
instant when he was killed in Afghanistan last April; Linda would be running
for both of them on her own. Linda’s story helped me let go of all the
nerves and anxiety I was feeling to embrace what I was doing and enjoy the
experience; my children would be cheering us on and we were all together in
Paris. Nothing else was needed and nothing else mattered.
Once the starting gun sounded, I discarded the
security blanket of my protective pajamas and we slowly inched up to the
starting line as successive corrals of runners were released. We walked over
piles of discarded clothing, food wrappers, orange peels, trash bags and water
bottles filled with urine (men sure do have it easy when nature calls). Just before the arc
of bright balloons indicating the start of the race and next to the announcer’s
platform, the final
opportunity for bladder emptying overpowered any personal reticence. The men
peeing in the middle of the Champs Elysées was expected, but the fact that women joined
them was a surprise. One woman scooted up to a barrier, squatted and let it go.
Apparently, she broke the ice because there were soon five lily-white derrières
clustered around the divider. Only in Paris and just the sight we needed to
lighten any remaining tension. It was 9:20, at long last, by the time our group
crossed the starting line. Joe and I kissed each other goodbye, wished each
other bonne chance et bon courage and
started our running adventure through Paris.
The course was amazing, as I knew it would be. I felt like a million
bucks as I ran down the magnificent Champs Elysées, through the Place de la Concorde
and along the Rue de Rivoli with the
Tuileries along the right. The gardens soon gave way to the Louvre, Châtelet,
the Hôtel de Ville and Le
Marais. All my nervousness had vanished; I was
in the zone, simply running, taking in the sights and having fun. Just
before the Place de la Bastille was the three-mile mark where my former
colleague and 20-marathon veteran, Neil (he and his girlfriend were in Paris as part of a
two-week trip to Europe), had promised to join me as my Sherpa. He had given Joe a
training plan for his first marathon and had run the final 10 miles of the race
with him for moral support. Right at mile 3, there he was, with fresh legs and
enough enthusiasm to keep me and a whole crew of runners going. Just after Neil
joined me, we saw the kids: Chris, Caroline and my nephew Pat were there as my
personal cheerleaders. We quickly traded hugs on the sidelines at La Bastille as planned.
I generally like to run alone. I set and then adjust my pace according
to how I’m feeling and I never want to think I’m holding someone back, but
having Neil at my side as my own cheering squad was a godsend. We had agreed
that he would stay with me for perhaps six miles in deference to my lone-runner
mindset so I took advantage of his selfless support for as long as I could. He
grabbed and held water bottles for me, got me banana slices when I needed them,
gave me running strategy pointers and encouraged me every step of the way. We
made it through the long 6.5-mile stretch in the Bois de Vincennes on the eastern flank of Paris, which was
convenient for stopping to lighten my bladder’s load in the au
natural facilities.
For several miles I was actually able to speak while running, to tell
Neil about the monuments we were seeing and the neighborhoods we were passing
through. He
was still there next to me as we headed back into the heart of the city and
approached the critical halfway mark, an important psychological threshold
since I’d been convinced that by then my hip would be screaming, I’d have run
what I could and would call it a day. But miraculously, none of that happened, the pain never materialized
and I just kept going. A three-week running abstention must have been the right course
of action.
My hip
was fine, my legs were fine and my lungs were fine, although I’d suddenly
become very quiet. I’d lost the ability to do any more talking and left that
task to my Sherpa who did his best to pump me up and I did my best to listen. We continued to run
along the Seine and I was still able to smile and enjoy the sights that came
into view --
Notre
Dame,
La Conciergerie and then the Louvre, some of the most beautiful
architecture in Paris. By this time it was clear that Neil was in for the long
haul; he was sticking with me and going the distance at my side. When mile 15
rolled around, I was indulging in frequent walking breaks (many more than my
run six minutes, walk one training plan called for) but the kids reappeared at
mile 16 with shouts of, “Go Maman!” I was so happy to see their
enthusiastic faces because I desperately needed encouragement and an emotional lift.
Soon thereafter, we found ourselves in the eerily quiet darkness
of a tunnel along
the river (the one in which Princess Diana was killed) and emerged to see La Tour
Eiffel to our left –
a stunning sight on any day, but a particularly inspiring one for those in the
throes of a marathon. It was at about that point that I learned that sharing a
name with the symbol of the French Republic has its advantages. The generally
subdued French spectators started shouting in response to the name printed on
my race bib, “Marianne, bravo – vous êtes
l’esprit de France,” combined with “Allez,
allez!” It gave me such a unique psychological boost.
I started to focus on kilometers rather than miles since their
markers were much more prominent and they ticked away so much more quickly.
Making it into the Bois de Boulogne on the western edge of Paris and
through the final leg of the race is somewhat of a blur. All I could do was concentrate
on putting one foot in front of the other, most of them at a race-walking pace
with occasional spurts of 30-yard jogs, but once we were in the park, I knew I
could finish the thing. I kept repeating to myself what I’d heard Joe declare
that morning, “Once you get into the Bois,
you’re basically home free.” When we finally emerged from the interminable
woods, I knew the end was near and did my best to pick up my pace. If I was
going to complete a marathon, I was going to run the final stretch in style. As
we turned the cobblestoned corner onto the Avenue Foch with the
Arc de Triomphe looming majestically
in the distance, a race official yanked Neil off the course since he wasn’t
wearing a number. I would have to run the last leg alone. In any race, anywhere
in the world, the finish line is a lovely sight to behold, but the end of the
Paris Marathon has to be the most beautiful finale in the world. I dug as
deeply as I could to force my broken-down and now shaking body to keep
functioning for just a bit longer as the tears
started to flow. I had been running on empty for many miles and had to concentrate
on fixing my stare on the dramatic sight of the Arc at the end of the boulevard and the fact that I was about to
complete the race. I gave it all I had for the last many yards and crossed the line
at 5:44. I was in a total state of dreamlike shock.
Had I actually done the Paris Marathon? I truly couldn't believe it.
I surely
hadn’t started the day believing I would complete the race, but there I was on
the Avenue Foch after 26.2 miles. I leaned over, hands on my knees, caught my
breath and savored the moment.
Trembling uncontrollably from the dual triggers of exertion and
emotion, I immediately pulled the bright yellow marathon tee and the blue
insulating poncho provided to all runners over my head, grabbed some water and a
Powerade, downed a
banana and went to meet up with Neil. As my loyal sidekick and I made the short
two-block walk (hobble, in my case) from the Avenue Foche to our
appointed meeting place, the Brasserie Le
XVI at the corner of the Rue Rude and the Avenue de la Grande Armée,
I told him
that it was my “one and done” marathon. He then assured me that I'd actually
run two: my first and my last! At that point, no truer words were spoken as I
remembered thinking as we gutted through the final miles in the Bois de
Boulogne, I'd rather go through labor again than run another marathon. I did my best to
make sure Neil knew how much I appreciated his help in getting me over the finish line.
It was friendship above and beyond the call that provided me with
unbelievable assistance for a full 23 miles!
The best moment of the day was when we walked
into the celebratory, party atmosphere at the brasserie where the whole
gang from the night before was waiting for us. For the second time in 15
minutes, I was overcome with emotion as Joe, Chris and Caroline jumped up to
greet me. I was astounded when the rest of the patrons in the restaurant spontaneously started
applauding along with my family. Joe later told me that I looked quite surprised,
but with a smile on my face, and that I gave the crowd a “cute” merci curtsy. I don’t even remember that
exchange, but I will say that I felt awfully pleased to have been able to
complete a marathon with my family cheering me on in my favorite city in the
world. I’m
always incredibly proud of our children but it was a wonderful turn of events to
be on the receiving end of their support and to see how genuinely happy they
were that I had finished the race. I was definitely pleased with my own effort but
I was also so proud of Joe; he’d run a terrific race with a personal best time of
4:15. “That’s my guy!” I told my handsome husband with tears in my eyes as I
hugged him and couldn’t quite let go.
I never understand runners who say they’re not hungry at the end of a race
since I always feel like I could eat the proverbial horse. And this time was no
different. Joe and I shared a generous serving of creamy steak tartare and
salty frites and I had a delicious glass of ice cold Sancerre. I’m not sure a glass of
my favorite white wine had ever tasted better or that I’d ever enjoyed one so
thoroughly! The
laughing, drinking and eating continued for some time at Le XVI, which turned out to be the perfect
spot for our post-marathon festivities. We had plenty of room, an adorable, super-sympa young waiter and delicious
food. I
was able to sit back, relax and beam with indescribable joy at my husband and two
children after a monumental day that ended nothing like I’d anticipated. I’d
become a marathoner.
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