The Last Tango

Two weeks to go (7 April)

With a fortnight to go I’m settling into the wind down.  My midweek outings remain pretty much the same, bar a kilometre or two.  The big change is that my longest run of the week is now a mere 23km.  For the first time it doesn’t lurk disconcertingly in the back of my mind for the days leading up to it and it’s a measure of how far I’ve come that I now see the prospect of running a half marathon as a welcome break.  But then, I have notched up 13 of them since December. 

They’re funny things, training plans.  I’m sure there’s science behind it but I cannot for the life of me understand the premise:

• One, painstakingly increase your distance by a mile each week until you’re six miles off your target; then
• Two, do absolutely nothing for three weeks and hope you get by on adrenaline and carb loading come race day. 

How much difference do they think a few extra spuds will make?  Does Mo Farah win things just because he can swallow more pasta than his rivals?  Seems absolutely crackers to me and my newfound confidence at dispatching half marathons without so much as a water bottle only underlines that.  Why not train to 30 miles, so that you know you can complete the course and still have something left in the tank?  “This one was easier because I already knew I could run 26 miles”, confirms a friend who casually smashes half an hour off her Personal Best at the Paris Marathon.  Which is fair enough, I’m sure, but I’d rather have had a couple more weeks’ training to know that than have to go through an entire fucking marathon again.

Bonkers.

For all my cynicism I love a good rule and so stick to the letter of the training plan, even on a supportive weekend break to Paris.  France, now there’s a country that truly gets carb loading!  I gleefully mop up my leftover baguettes with bits of brioche, pastry and bigger bits of baguette, wondering what the hell their training plans say about the need to increase carbohydrates: You’d have no time for running, you’d just be cramming bread and croissants in at every waking moment.  A Frenchman without a breadstick is a lie: If carb loading worked they’d be the fastest nation on earth.

My training only allows for two runs here and so I try to use them well.  The first goes nicely to plan, a lovely loop of Sacré Cœur ending with a view over the city at sunset.  From this vantage point I can see the Arc Du Triomphe, built in honour of the French surrender during the second world war, and the Louvre, opened to the public to commemorate the surrender of the monarchy to some local peasants.  Further east is the iconic Eiffel Tower, built to appease the feared invaders of the 1889 World Exposition, and just about visible by the river is the modernistic Centre Pompidou, which was intriguingly built inside out so that the French didn’t have to make eye contact with the aggressive foreigner in charge of installing the plumbing.

It’s a breathtaking panorama and I take time to stroll round the Sacré Cœur to appreciate the city from all angles.  It’s impressive and the Sacré Cœur is a suitably imposing monument to keep constant watch over Paris.  Whilst London’s skyline is in danger of becoming overly gimmicky Paris keeps it classy and the subtle back lighting emphasises its pure beauty.  I pause to read a plaque explaining why it was built - as a symbol of subordination to the fictional Prussians, or something – then take the near-vertical road home to the apartment.  All the boulevards are gargantuan in size which makes running a more pleasurable experience than at home, though I can’t suppress a snort of derision when I learn that they were deliberately built like that to facilitate the movement of soldiers. 

What a courteous gesture to invading armies.

The next day begins at six with my last half-marathon.  With an 11km radius to play with there are tons of world famous landmarks I can get to: But I choose poorly and aim for the eastern park, the Bois de Vincennes.  A glance at the map led me to think it would be a picturesque stroll along the Seine: But as I pass abandoned dockyards, motorway flyovers and vacant shipping quays I’m constantly taunted by the knowledge that Notre Dame and her ilk are in full view 180 degrees behind me. 

It’s a soulless run which I try hard not to blame on Paris itself; and then the rain comes down, and I give in.  Paris is rubbish.  It stinks, it’s empty, it’s dull.  It’s romantic like a foetus on a toothbrush.  One enormous boulevard after another, derelict flats, 11.7 million people in need of a lick of paint and a bath.  In a country of endless beauty and genteel pleasure how on earth did they come to make such an unpromising dump capital?

Realising that I’ve misjudged the distance and have no chance of getting to the park in my mileage, and with my mood slowly taking a turn for the worse at the thought of what could have been, I kill time traipsing round the bits of the city no one bothers to visit.  And I can see why: Outside of the tourist trap, Paris is a homogenous, faeces-strewn trampshack.  I compare it to London and it loses out in almost every way, the one saving grace (more bridges over the river) overshadowed by the fact that as none of the neighbourhoods have any individuality or personality about them, why would you bother crossing the river?  Moving from Brixton to Chelsea to White Chapel you could be in different continents, here it’s just a uniform grey.  I see armies of homeless people whilst I’m out and about, most in tents, and you can’t help thinking that they’re not truly homeless just lost, struggling to identify which decrepit breezeblocked highrise is theirs.

Bijou.

As I cross south and head back into the centre things perk up.   I come across the Muséum National d'Histoire Naturelle, a misplaced National Trust building in exquisitely manicured gardens, and come

a-cropper with a bunch of ostriches hiding in a random menagerie.  And then a yak.  And then I’m back into prime real estate as I circle Notre Dame, breathing in the history and the atmosphere (and the recurrent stench of dog shit, sadly, for this is Paris) as the matins bells sound to herald the arrival of the Japanese tourist coaches. 

 

I get gripped with adrenaline – this is what marathon training is all about, this is why we put ourselves through it – and surge back to the apartment at a much quicker pace than usual.  I was here and you were not, and I was here because of the marathon.  QED.  As I come to the end of the outing I realise I’m slightly lost, unable to locate the elusive Boulevard de Sébastopol despite it being half a mile wide and 20 miles long.  I stop at a street corner, pull out my map and spend a minute or two getting my bearings, then resume running: At which point my Nike+ informs me that I was a few seconds off setting a new record time for a half marathon.  This is an unexpected boost: I discover I am not in the slightest bit irritated, taking some pressure off me to finish the marathon itself in any particular time.

The rest of Paris passes in a happy blur of tartes aux pomme, croque-monsieur, boeuf.  I stock up on booze for the post-marathon era and as much Vache Qui Rit as my pockets can handle.  With the marathon training effectively done and dusted it’s time to kick back and play the waiting game.

Training?  Tick.  

Pelouse knows what time it is.

Footnote: My girlfriend maintains that my mood has not been too adversely affected by the move back to England from Australia.  Which is bollocks, clearly, as this Parisian diatribe testifies.

Built by the Parisians to accommodate the soldiers of the lost city of Atlantis, should they be passing through