Paris: What am I doing here?



Paris side street

Spring has well and truly sprung in Paris. Unlike two years ago when, at exactly the same time of year, I arrive with spring clothes to find arctic conditions. I was perpetually cold and perpetually grumpy about it. This time, the tulips are blooming, the roses are blossoming, there is new growth on the trees and smiles on the faces of the Parisians. Still, they drive like maniacs though. How they don't crash and kill each other every hour on the hour I will never know.

I'm staying at the Hotel Duo in Le Marais - a fashionable, trendy little district in the 4th arrondissement noted for its collection of bistros, bars, boutiques and restaurants. Naturally the gay population flock here (they know a good thing when they see it) and so too my fashionable, trendy and newly-fiancéd travelling friend who we'll call Apple (he's gay, shhh) has booked himself and his tired Mexican boyfriend (let's christen him Fatigado*) into a top floor studio apartment only 7 minutes walk from where I'm staying.

Fabulous. 

Apple & I: The Louvre, Paris 7.04.2011

What has prompted this visit however (apart from the bonus presence of dear Apple) is the Paris Marathon. A friend of mine who lives in London - an over-achieving athlete masquerading as a lawyer by day (let's call him Online Trainer) - entered me in the Paris marathon 6 months ago. At my own urging. I know, I still can't believe it myself. Here's how it happened.


Friday night drinks at The Winery in Surry Hills** with a law school university friend (dubbed 42@42), two bottles of red leading to a healthy, over-inflated idea of my own capabilities and a Blackberry are to blame. The combination of all four things turned out to be lethal. If even one of those things was perhaps not present (for example, no Blackberry means I couldn't have emailed Online Trainer from the bar while floating along on my red wine ego cloud; no 42@42 means there would have been no talk of a Paris Marathon hence it would not have even entered my head to email anyone to sign me up for anything), I would not be in Paris right now waiting to crucify my under-prepared body with God-knows-how-many hours of running. Or probably more accurately, the oft-under recognised but much-utilised Run/Walk.

42@42 was also due to arrive in Paris shortly with a fellow marathoner in tow. It would be a first marathon for 42@42 who until now had famously declared "I'm never running a marathon, ever" (note she also flatly stated she'd never practice as a lawyer either and look where that got her). Excited would-be marathoners were jetting in from everywhere. Online Trainer would turn up later in the week to bust out his 18th marathon or some such ridiculous statistic. Apple & Fatigado were far more sensible than all of us and intended to perhaps watch some of it, point and laugh at our suffering, take a few photos, then sit down, eat, drink and rest their weary legs.

And then there was me. It would be my first marathon too. Prior to this I had only ever run a half marathon. Once. In my hometown of Sydney. Again on very little training. You see a pattern emerging, don't you?

Socially this was going to be a cracker of a time - after all, a bunch of my friends would all be in Paris at the same time. Physically though, this might be the death of me.

Despite the impulsive, ill-fated entry, once the hangover had worn off the next day and I realised what I had done I simply vowed I just would not go. Easily fixed. Send Online Trainer a handful of Euros to reimburse him for his trouble and be done with it. Relieved at this decision, there was obviously no need to train. Who has the time anyway?

Because he is an over-achieving crazy person, Online Trainer viewed his role as my Official Proxy Marathon Enterer with all the seriousness of a professional trainer mothering a potential Olympic gold medalist. Much like me and my blatant disregard of his weekly marathon training emails, he doggedly maintained a staunch belief that I would nonetheless arrive and participate in this folly. It seems there is a communication gap here the size of Texas. For reasons known only to himself and no other, he seems to think I have Untapped Potential as an athlete. Perhaps it is because he lives half a world away and doesn't really know my training habits first hand. Perhaps it is because he himself is the essence of true Untapped Potential and therefore thinks there is Untapped Potential in everyone. Who knows?

All I knew as I stood on the Champs Elysee on a sunny spring morning in Paris with 40,000 other excited marathoners waiting for the gun to go off was that Online Trainer was going to be hugely disappointed.


* According to Google the Spanish translation for 'tired' or 'weary' is 'fatigado'. Does not mean 'fat'.
** A small boutique bar in Sydney's Surry Hills where apparently poor decisions are made over expensive bottles of red.