Marathon Diaries Part Two: On the move

The Paris mission was twofold. On the one hand, it would be effort enough just to navigate my way around the city and get to the race on time. My routes and schedule was clear in my mind: airport->expo->hostel->marathon->hostel->airport. Easier said than done given that it was my first time travelling alone. My limited exposure to French GCSE would be sufficient, I hoped, although in fact I was more reliant on the natives' ability to speak English.

So Saturday was mainly travelling from one place to the next. Not the ideal scenario for the day before the race. So much walking, standing and even jogging in certain instances left me feeling fatigued by the time I even got to the marathon expo. I was sneaking in short rests where I could but I feared all this movement would take its toll when it mattered the next day.

My concerns with fatigue and continued hip pain were quickly overridden by the sight of the Marathon Expo. It was here that I formally registered for the race and received my bib and other goodies. However, I was not expecting the sheer magnitude of the event, with stall upon stall of exhibitions. Somehow, there was even room for a bed company to make their pitch as well as a motor show. The prevalent theme was of course running and I did well not to give in to the temptation of spending money on merchandise. The Expo also boasted a 'Pasta Party'; with top quality, delicious pasta served in huge portions at just 3 euros. The perfect fuel for the exertions ahead. With its carnival atmosphere, I finally felt part of the marathon experience. Up to now, my involvement was restricted to emails but now I was in the heart of Paris, experiencing the same buzz of emotions and tasting the same quality pasta as the thousands of runners around me.

I'd loved to have stayed longer but I was in dire need of some serious rest. A few metro stops later and I arrived at the pre-booked hostel in the Latin Quarter. A wonderful area, perhaps too noisy, but only because there is so much going on there. The hostel itself lived up to its cheap price tag, offering basic facilities but getting the job done. It was very much in line with the honest nature of running a marathon and reinforced that this was anything but a holiday. I spent some time treating my legs to the treasured hot water bottle before crashing into an early sleep. One of my roomies ran Paris last year and ensured I'd have nightmares by offering spook stories such as the 'impossible climb' at km 36.

My sleep was minimal, but sufficient to give my legs the freshness they so craved on race morning. After a light breakfast and more hot treatment to the legs, I made my way to Foch Avenue, which is at the opposing end of the Arc de Triomphe to the Champs Elysees. The race would begin on CE but finish at Foch Avenue, with all gear dropped at the latter. There was no risk of getting lost en route, given that almost all passengers at this time (7am, Sunday morning) were dressed for the marathon.

The anxious long wait in the cold ahead of the race start (8.45am) was something to forget. Still, I was at the right place at the right time. I used the time to warm up, stretching everything I could all over. Inside my head a prolonged pep talk unfolded, the crux of which was that the time for bullshit was over. This is what I signed up for and I wouldn't have it any other way.

As I headed towards the CE I realised that part one was done. Now for the main course and the reason I was here in the first place. In four hours time, I'd know one way or the other if the mission was a success. The sun was out; not the best sign for the hours ahead, but for now conditions were good. The entire CE was flooded with runners, with precious little space to move and a deafening sound piercing the morning air. Yet this was the calm before the storm that was about to come.