Run Strong

While many were surely cursing the closure of some of Paris’ main roads last weekend, 22 000 runners were pounding their pavement with millions of footsteps during the Semi-Marathon de Paris. Having slid my name in just before registration closed in December 2008, I was one of them, challenging myself to a “best run.” Though it was officially my fourth half-marathon since I started running in 2006, this was the first one I was taking seriously. Having trained myself, I was now running the race alone. With no running buddies to set the pace, nor even friends to meet at the finish line, this was not only about achieving my ideal two-hour finish, but completing a personal journey. Even after three years of independent, sometimes challenging, travel, this was my final proof to myself that I could accomplish anything on my own.

As I exited the metro with a stream of other athletes on Sunday morning, I somewhat belatedly set three ultimate goals for myself: run hard, have fun and finish. My finishing time struck me as being entirely dependent on my ability to just accomplish these three things.

After a seemingly endless walk through the Parc Floral of the Chateau de Vincennes (on the outskirts of central Paris), I anxiously collected my race bib, clipped my GPS chip to my shoelace (checking twice to make sure it wouldn’t fall off), checked my bag and joined the crowd milling around the castle walls. The air pulsed with excitement as we warmed up doing laps in the Chateau courtyard and along the moat. We gawked at our competitors, searching their bibs for the colour that would indicate their expected finish time. Eyes widened with admiration for those with times under an hour and a half…true runners! Bracing ourselves against the cold wind and sunless sky, we eventually huddled together underneath the castle’s drawbridge portal then behind our starting gates (separating each time category from the others) waiting for the signal to bolt.

Two pacers with green flags poking high out of their shirt-necks moved to the front of our group, sparking a nervous chat about how fast we would actually have to run in order to make it in on time. I switched on my MP3 player to keep from thinking about the daunting “race pace.”

Suddenly there was a stir in the crowd. Someone’s watch beeped, signaling 10AM. We waited for a BANG, but it was too far in front of us to be heard. Instead, the vee-jay for the race signaled our departure through his loudspeaker. After a slow walk to the actual starting line, we were finally set free and people scattered in all directions searching to pass or be passed without collision.

Aside from the line of men emptying their bladders one last time before activating their race chip by crossing the starting line, it seemed that everyone regardless of size or age was flying by me. I wondered if my training had been for naught and looked inwards for a sign of what was slowing me down. Was I in pain? Not yet. Was my breathing steady? Just fine. Could I push myself to go faster? Should I? Finally I decided that this was not the time to start speed training, and a slow warm-up had always served me well.

I let the speed-demons float by, contenting myself with observations about their form, gear, shoes. Surely, I would pass some of them as we neared the finish line. I wondered how many thousands of people were in front of me and behind.

Kilometer 4.5 marked the first refreshment stand. Shiny orange slices streaked with blood-red pulp, banana halves, white sugar cubes and water bottles were grabbed by the fistful in a panic-stricken effort not to slow down, at least not to stop. Caught up in the mass hysteria, I crammed an orange and banana into my mouth, chasing them with water as I ran.

More runners passed me as we turned onto Rue des Charentons, en route for the Bastille. On our way into central Paris, the Bois de Vincennes had given way to old apartment buildings whose main floors have been turned into couture shops and cafes. Most of the shops were closed as per French Sunday morning protocol making the window-shopping less interesting, but smells of viennoiseries still wafted tantalizingly beneath our noses. Might they possibly serve croissants and coffee at Kilometer 10?

As the relief of the street changed I began to catch glimpses of the crowd in front of me – an entrancing ocean of bobbing heads, undulating up and down and steadily forward.

Kilometer 10 arrived after a loop around the Bastille. With no croissants in sight we wolfed down more oranges and sugar cubes, sucking water from new bottles and throwing them, still full, onto the sidewalks. I wondered about the ratio of clean-up-crew members to runners. We certainly were not a low-impact crowd.

By Kilometer 12, a blister was forming on the arch of my right foot. It occurred to me that I should have used the free anti-rub cream in my race package, despite the general wisdom that you shouldn’t try anything new on race day. 12 kilometers…More than half done. How long had we been running now? I made resolutions to buy a GPS watch before my next race and tried to turn my attention to the Senne now flowing gracefully beside us.

After a small inner-celebration at Kilometer 14 for having survived the first two thirds of the run, I dug deeper into my reserves of willpower to keep my pace up. How I longed to walk! My mouth watered at the thought of more oranges and sugar waiting at Kilometer 15 and my chest ached as I remembered to force in a few deep breaths. Another internal check showed an achy left hip, sore right foot and slightly waning morale. Rue de Rivoli, with its awkward cobblestones, was too long! Kilometer 17 became my salvation point. If I could make it that far, I could finish the race. After all, I could whip off a quick 4-K any day.

In an effort not to slow down, I looked around me for others who might be sharing my plight. Girls in pink tank tops ran by and I followed from behind, trying to imagine being pulled by a magical invisible rope strung between us. As the pink turned from tank top to speck on the horizon, I gravitated toward the cute boy on the right whose pace was closer to mine. I mentally conversed with him, inventing his story as we went along – his name was Marc, he was single and liked my Cambodia t-shirt. I flattered myself thinking he might appreciate my running alongside him, but finally he too slid ahead and slipped away.

By this point I could see the sign announcing Kilometer 17. I ran towards it imagining it was the finish line, then hitting “reset” as I continued onwards to Kilometer 18. From there on I would no longer be counting my kilometers done, but counting down to the sweet relief of stopping what suddenly struck me as an insane physical challenge. My mind alternated between being excruciatingly connected to my legs and blissfully lost amid the sounds, smells and movement of the herd of runners around me.

At Kilometer 19 I was yanked out of meditation by a comment beside me. “1:46! Come on guys, we can make it!” Some hazy mental calculation told me I might not be far from my goal time. With my psyche refreshed, I narrowed my eyes purposefully and pushed the last drops of energy I had left into my legs. The runners around me were either doing the same or slowing to a walk, having forgotten to “save some for later.”

Our feet beat like hoofs on the now-gravel road re-entering the Bois de Vincennes; we were no longer an ocean, but a stampede hurdling desperately towards the finish line. We crossed Kilometer 20, another imaginary finish line. Stomach cramps signaled exhaustion and dehydration. My brain had abandoned my body and was already savouring more oranges 1000 meters away. I tried to speed up just so I could stop, searching the horizon for the red archway reading “FIN.” Suddenly, it was there, looming like a mirage, even shimmering deliriously in the rain. With crowds cheering, I fantasized that it was all to see my final dash towards the end. My smile widened impossibly as I sprinted across the last red line and finally, FINALLY, walked.

The chronometer read 2:14:23, but we could hardly be sure of our real time since the 500 meter walk to the start line had set us back. My legs and lungs told me it didn’t matter…we had run hard, had fun and finished. Most importantly, I, I, I had done it from start to finish alone! This was hardly really true when I considered the moral support given to me by Juju and L-Daddy, my running partner, friends and parents. But as I collected my finishing medal and began the endless walk to the chalet to collect my bag, I knew, even without being able to explain why, that I had needed to be alone.

Throughout all my travels, people had been telling me that I was “strong” to be striking out on my own. I longed to prove that this was true, but in my moments alone, sitting in hotel rooms or dining in busy restaurants with only my inner-mind to converse with, strength had too often given way to insecurity. It seemed an interminable struggle to enjoy my own company. Often, I would think about an Eastern European woman I met at the Sapporo Youth Hostel, who told me that traveling alone would make me stronger than I could even imagine. I knew she was right; unfortunately I could never quite imagine the ways in which I was becoming stronger.

Walking away from the finish line, medal weighing heavily on my ever heaving chest, I was finally convinced that I had become strong. Later, I would treat myself to lunch alone in a brasserie and chuckle confidently to myself about accidentally ordering veal kidneys from the “Menu du Jour.”

That night, after receiving a hero’s welcome from Juju and the 4 L’s I melted my muscles in a specially drawn aromatherapy bath and drifted comfortably away from the challenges and revelations of the day. When I finally remembered to look at my actual finish time before bed that night, it was already an almost-distant memory. As it turned out, my chip time was 2:06:48. Just six minutes shy of my goal time, it still made this my “best run” for speed and motivation. If I had to run it again, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Five days later, as I type this blog alone in a German airport, waiting for my friend Jordin to meet me with our plane tickets to Turkey, I still feel proud about my race and have even let out a few confident chuckles as I’ve relived it in my mind. I know my smile and squinting eyes are attracting looks, but I don’t mind them. I’m strong now and I’m enjoying my inner-conversation.