26 Miles And 385 Yards In Paris
Created | Updated Aug 13, 2003
I do not recall how we crossed La Manche, not exactly. I know that it was over, rather than under, but which boat and which route, I have no notion. Besides, when the gaping mouth of the vessel swallowed us whole, it was dark and I was comfortably ensconced in the spacious rear of Graham's Vauxhall Bernard. However, in case it's a clue, I do recollect 'carbo-loading' McEwan's export at the duty-free bar... evidently an essential preparatory activity for any distance-runner.
By the time we arrived at our intended destination, the Novotel in the French capital, the two Marks, whose sole task was to keep awake designated-driver Graham with their scintillating sarcasm and rapid repartee were pushing out all the zeds a Czech telephone directory compiler might ever need. So Graham and I unrolled our sleeping-bags among the landscaping and got in some essential pre-race shut-eye leaving Mark I and Mark II in the Bernard, all of us at dawn awoken by security and the sickeningly cloying reek of disturbed dog-excrement. We broke fast with traditional athletic fare, although the all-too-close and very recent encounter with doggy-do did rather taint the enjoyment of our musatoid meal.
Travel to the start I recall not, except that perhaps it was in Haddock's VeeDub, my mind preoccupied with my mode of apparel. Shorts were sorted... I had but one pair. Socks were more of an issue... I had a pair of woollen hiking socks in which I had earlier in the year completed the Yorkshire Dales' three-peaks and would feel suitably vogue on the Champs Elysees. However, I was convinced by my peers that these would jeopardise my chances of completing the course and was persuaded to go with the grey Marks and Sparks specials. Covering my torso was even more of a concern. Should I go with the sun-safe t-shirt, or should I go with the vest that had come into my possession, evidently once belonging to Graham's size eleventeen grandfather. Subjected to peer pressure, I opted for the latter, despite fears of exposing to sunlight shoulders never before aired for public viewing. Paris, May, the sun on my back. Perhaps I would perform like Serge Blanco?
Well no. Although I maintained a steady gallop for what I supposed was the first half of the race, it was only at the official half-way point (at 21.1km) that I came to realisation that I was not actually 15.8 miles in, but only 13.1 miles. In the giddy excitement of competition, I had been using the wrong factor to convert metric to imperial and was nigh on three miles behind where I thought I should be. Damn my education! My epiphany took the wind out of my sails rather and the rest of the race was something of a drudge, especially after I contracted nipple chaff at about 30km. However, not to be thwarted in my bid to complete, I did manage to engineer sufficient adjustment to my 'running-vest' to prevent any further abrasion of my sensitive parts and found new vigour over the final few furlongs to the Arc de Triomphe. Indeed, I maintain I may have won the race but for the fact that I was boxed in on the final bend.
In retrospect, I record the one recollection that sticks most firmly in my mind which is the shouted ejaculation of my name as I surged towards the line. It is not a common name; a vanity google-search returns a few scattered global namesakes, including most oddly a fantasy football team, and so was in all probability directed towards myself. To this day however, I know not who shouted the encouragement, but have often felt that I recognised in the crowd a boy whose father owned the sari shop by the clocktower.
We spent the rest of the day carousing Paris with Paul, one of the brothers of one of the Marks, ultimately before retiring to slumber on Paul's balcony enjoying some extraordinarily overpriced libation outside Notre Dame. Unfailingly reliable, Marks I and II and Graham fell asleep. But I, and I alone, had my medal and I wasn't afraid to use it.
Montague Trout