by Phil Hewitt
Fiona and I are both modern languages graduates, and Adam and Laura, by now nine and seven, had started to do a little French at school. We were keen for them to progress, and it was time for them to get to know one of the world's most beautiful cities, an experience which came with the added excitement of travelling there and back under the sea. For us (older) Brits, it's a truly novel experience to sit on a train and end up in a country which speaks a different language. In our student days, we'd InterRailed to our hearts' content, always more than a little gobsmacked at that great experience of standing in a European mainland train station and totting up all the different countries that you could reach without once getting on a boat.
From a London station, Edinburgh and Glasgow were about as exotic as it got. In Paris or Stuttgart or Vienna, the world (well, Europe at least) was your oyster. But now, since the advent of the Channel Tunnel, we too can be part of that great sense of countries joining together. Those awful coach journeys to Paris were a thing of the past, with all that tedious getting on and off at a ferry port in the middle of the night. Now we Brits had joined the gang. Catch Eurostar and, at the price of having half an hour's worth of sea over your head, you could be in a different land all without leaving the comfort of your seat.
Another big bonus, of course, was that it was so wonderfully easy to sign up for the Paris Marathon with that instant confirmation email. I secured my place soon after we got back from Ireland, and life seemed good. I was twitchy whenever I didn't have a marathon on the horizon, and now I had a good one, along with the perfect pretext for planning a treat for all of us.
We travelled out on the Friday; I ran the marathon on the Sunday; and we then had three days to stroll the boulevards.
The weather was perfect throughout, another of those important elements which fortunately slipped into place this time. And just to add to the family feel, we were joined by Fiona's brother, Alistair, on the race day itself. It was another sociable time in Paris, and again the togetherness of it all – just as it had with Marc, his family and Michael a couple of years before – added hugely to the experience. Factor in that base support and you factor in a precious stepping stone on the path towards eventual success – priceless when it comes to knocking off a minute or two.
In the intervening two years, Amsterdam and Dublin had surfaced to suggest, whatever excuses I could offer, that I was definitely getting slower. For that reason, I can't say I was overly confident about my Paris performance. A few days before the race, I had also twisted my ankle, doing nothing more heroic than walking to Marks & Spencer's for a sandwich. Mostly it was fine to walk on, but there was a lateral movement, which I couldn't quite pinpoint, which sent razor-sharp pain shooting up my leg. It gave me grief the day before the race at the Paris Marathon registration, and I started seriously to doubt that I could run at all. In the event, so strange is the world of running, it gave me no problems at all – a great relief and perhaps the final element of good fortune I needed. Another factor was that I went into it with a couple of months' worth of intervals under my belt.
Also helping on the day was the fact that 2006 was the race's 30th anniversary, a landmark which added greatly to the fun and the colour of the event. We were given special 30th-anniversary yellow sunhats, which everyone wore for a picture at the start. It must have looked lovely from above. Down below, there was the traditional swill of piss and ponchos – something which was starting to seem typical of the Paris Marathon. But from above, we must have been quite a sight, resplendent in our matching hats – a fine start to a race which became more and more enjoyable as the morning wore on.
Once again I was back in the world of five-minute kilometres. Rather than focusing on 4:45 minute-kilometres for an eventual 3:20 finish, I decided to look at it the other way. Five-minute kilometres would get me there in 3:30. The task was simply to build up minutes in hand and then not let them go. It seemed a more practical, more encouraging approach, and soon it started to pay dividends
I reached 10 km in 47 minutes, which gave me three minutes in hand just under a quarter of the way round. I wondered whether it was enough, but at this stage the main thing was that I was feeling comfortable and looking forward to the next section of the race, the country trek through the Bois de Vincennes. Even-numbered miles were again marked in Paris, and the 10-mile marker came up in good time. I trotted out all my reasons for liking the number ten. I'd reached double figures and there were just 16 miles left, which always sounds manageable. For once, I was managing to think in both miles and kilometres – a definite rarity in marathon conditions.
Alistair, always superb at judging times and distances and always knowing exactly when to pop up, had been at the roadside at 3 km; he was there again at the halfway mark, at which point I had more than six minutes in hand. Again I wondered whether it was enough, given that I was bound to slow. But, again, more importantly, I knew that for the moment I had the power to add.
The run, however, wasn't entirely incident-free. We were all going at a decent pace in a fairly tight bunch when a silly old biddy in the crowd decided that she was going to cross the road in front of us, an insane move. I remember seeing a vision in pink waving a hand in an 'I am coming across' gesture. Oh my god! I thought as I turned to see her flat on her face in the road. I didn't see the impact, and I didn't see whether people were jumping around her or over her, but they must have been. Making matters worse was the fact that it would have been horribly difficult for anyone to wade in and retrieve her. I wonder what the consequences were. It's possible that she was seriously injured. I hope she was OK, but it was such a stupid thing to do; mad, irresponsible and wholly lacking in any sort of understanding of what was happening all around her. With the best will in the world, she was always going to be knocked flying – and she duly was.
It was upsetting, but all we could do was keep going. I had no intention of losing focus. By the time I was down by the Seine, just before 24 km, I had ten minutes in hand. Along the Seine, the support was good once again, with plenty of people by the roadside and on the bridges. I was getting some nice shouts every now and again of 'Allez, Phil' alongside the Tuileries Gardens, which is where Fiona and Adam and Laura were waiting. I had said to them that I would probably pass by there at about 11.15 a.m. In fact, I passed by at 10.56 – and I am not going to apologise for knowing this. Run well, and these things will lodge in your mind. You need clarity of thinking, and when you get it, you cling to it.
But my earliness caught them unawares. They were waiting by a sponge station and I had to shout out a couple of times to get noticed. They saw me fleetingly, but the important thing was that they did see me – though not as important as the fact that I saw them. I was delighted to have been so far ahead of the game at that point, but my time highlighted the basic difficulty your supporter will always face. When you are trying to work out when you are going to be where for your friends and family, you have to be completely realistic. If someone is asking you what time you hope to finish a race, you might downplay it in the hope of impressing all the more with your actual time. But when it comes to your supporters, you have to be as bang on as you possibly can. But, inevitably, once the race begins, you see that time as a time to beat, a mini-race within the race. When I said '11.15', I suspect I was hoping 11.05, whereas 10.56 was wildest dreams territory.
And there goes another of the great marathon imponderables. If it hadn't been my day, I would be writing now that my time at that point suggests how much I had overcooked it, just how disastrously I had let my ambition run away with me. In Amsterdam I had been brought low by going off too fast; but here, with every other factor working in my favour, speed was a sign of strength rather than a warning that I was riding for a fall. It's the finest of fine lines. Thank goodness I was on the right side of it on that beautifully sunny morning in Paris.
The Eiffel Tower was looming large on the horizon by now and then suddenly it was behind us. At the 30-km marker, I had exactly an hour for th
e final 12 kilometres if I was going to come in around 3:20. With nearly 11 minutes up my sleeve at this point, it still seemed very manageable. I had stopped adding to the time in hand by now, but it wasn't yet going down.
At 34 km, you reach the Bois de Boulogne, and then the countdown really starts. During my first attempt at Paris, this part had seemed so long, but knowing this was now a key way of coping. I was expecting to feel awful, but the awfulness didn't come. I kept telling myself that all I had to do was just keep going and that's what I did. At 35 km I topped up my water and sipped on a lemon gel; 36 km came and went; 37, 38 and then 39 slipped by. I was feeling strong.
For quite some way, looping around the large lake in the Bois, there was no support, but once we started to emerge, the crowds built up again. Suddenly there was just a kilometre left, and it was just a question of pushing onwards. That's all I had to do. I guessed I was slowing over those last 2 kilometres, but still not significantly, and this time round, it helped massively to know that I was going to be in the Bois pretty much until the end, just before the final turn which gives the first glimpse of the finish.
And that's just what happened. Suddenly the Arc de Triomphe was up ahead and I was plugging away towards it, passing the 42-km marker, knowing that in less than a minute I would be there. I remembered to pull my sunhat off for the final photographs as I headed towards that final beep as you pass over the timing mat: 3:21:44. I'd done it. At last a PB – four and a half minutes faster than my previous best on the same course two years before and a massive 50 minutes quicker than my London debut eight years before.
Of course, it is an utterly unremarkable time which thousands of runners will routinely beat, but for me, never hooked on intervals, running only when the rest of life allowed me, it was a considerable achievement. I was running to my potential and I had hit a time which was to my credit. Not in the 'good for your age group' category perhaps, but good for me and for the effort and time that I was prepared to put into it.
I'd lost just under a couple of minutes from my time in hand over the last 2 kilometres, but I'd never felt in serious trouble. It was a straightforward, no-nonsense run – as easy as can be imagined and one to savour. After the slump of Amsterdam and Dublin, I felt that I was at last back on track, running much more confidently and in fact much more expectantly, hoping for the best rather than simply hoping to delay the worst. With Paris, I felt in the zone again – or maybe even for the first time. Given a fair wind and all those imponderables coming up trumps again, I knew I could build on it.
Looking back, though, the biggest reason for satisfaction was the fact that I could honestly say I had used all my experience as a marathon runner. This time, I had actually thought – as well as run – a good race. I had botched Dublin with spectacular stupidity; I had botched Amsterdam by going off too quickly and running out of steam. This time, I had run much more steadily and much more sensibly, helped by not going for a target which was too ambitious.
Of course, I would have loved to touch 3:20 but two years after my best-ever marathon, and after a succession of disappointments, I decided that I wanted above all to get a PB, rather than fixate on a time target and risk going astray. It worked, and the marathon was as easy as you like.
Or perhaps, rather than easy, I should say it was controlled. All the uncontrollables had converged in my favour, and I had managed to control the controllables. Even when tiredness set in, I didn't slow significantly, and I reckon I had Pamela to thank for that, encouraging me to do intervals all those years earlier. I am sure they made a big difference in Paris in 2006.
In the past, when I have faded, I have faded because I just haven't had the strength over the final few miles, but that really wasn't the case this time. I never had any inclination to walk. I knew that I had to keep going – and I am sure it was the intervals that gave me the strength to do so in the very last stages.
Another way I turned experience to my advantage was that I kept sipping from the very beginning, not really drinking but remembering to sip when I didn't really feel I needed it – correcting a mistake I made in Amsterdam and Dublin where conditions were poor and I felt I could get away with drinking less. In Paris, the conditions were bright. There was a slight breeze, but it was warm. In fact, the conditions were ideal for running, and in the hope of converting them into a decent time, I made a point of concentrating on hydration – even more so than I usually did, topping up the fluids with a few strategically positioned sports gels, including a couple of super-high-powered ones which Michael had given me for the last couple of kilometres. In so many respects – and so unlike me – I had been the model marathoner.
In Amsterdam and Dublin I got so many things wrong. In Paris I got so much right, which gave me a lovely sensation for the most part of surging forward relative to my fellow runners – a sensation borne out by the stats. For once, I spent most of the race moving forward in the field. At 10 km, I was in 6,302nd position; at 21.1 km, I was in 6,090th position; at 30 km, I was in 5,723rd position; and at the finish, I was 5,076th. I overtook around 1,200 people between 10 km and the finish, and I overtook more than half of those over the final 12 km.
Non-runners will glaze at such statistical overload, but runners will appreciate the story it tells – the tale of a strong run which, for once, got stronger as I ran. In Amsterdam and Dublin I fell further and further behind. But in Paris I more than held my own in the field, improving my position as the kilometres slipped by.
In Amsterdam, I faded badly after 30 km. I also lost Dublin over the final 12 km. In Paris, helped by intervals, by proper hydration, by sensible running, by a stimulating course and by ideal weather, I converted a decent start into an excellent race. In all, 30,772 people completed the course that day. Mine was therefore a top-16-per-cent finish. And I know it sounds nerdy to know this, but run a marathon, and you will see that these things matter.
And better still, the real holiday was yet to come. Three days stretched ahead of gorgeous, glorious Paris. I was on a high – the next day quite literally. We walked all the way up to the second stage of the Eiffel Tower for a fabulous view, and then we walked down again – exactly what my marathon legs needed, but even more importantly, exactly what the whole family wanted as we revelled in a beautiful city that suddenly was looking more beautiful than ever.
Chapter Eleven: 'Around and Around'
To the Brink and Back – La Rochelle 2006
For the past few autumns, my father-in-law, Michael, had been running the La Rochelle Marathon, a race he warmly recommended. He achieved his best-ever result there in 2005, coming in at just inside five hours, good enough in his age bracket to win him automatic entry into the London Marathon. It was a terrific achievement. He was officially 'good for age', something I couldn't possibly hope to get close to, though it remained a dream. In fact, it still remains a dream – a woefully unachieved dream. But Michael had run his socks off in La Rochelle, and that was inspiration enough for me. There was clearly something about the course that clicked – and so I joined him for the La Rochelle Marathon of 2006, a race I look back on as one of the most significant I have ever run.
The race was on a Sunday in November; it didn't coincide with half-term, and so it wasn't possible to turn it into an extended family break, but still we managed to make it very much a family affair. Adam and Laura stayed with my parents, while Fiona and I flew out to La Rochelle to join Michael and my mother-in-law, Stella, who had driven down to the coast from their second home just south of Angers. For them, the La Rochelle Marathon was by now very much routine. They had their preferred hotel nicely close to the finish; they knew their way around. For us, it was like being greeted by locals when they fetched us from the airport.
Registration was efficient and undemanding, conveniently located near the docks, a short walk from our hotel. We settled in and then enjoyed an early pasta meal en famille before an early and mostly sleepless night. I knew the score on that one. I just kept telling myself that
sleeplessness really didn't matter too much, provided I was reasonably fresh when I went to bed – knowledge which really ought to have made it easier to get to sleep. But it didn't. All you can do is lie there and keep telling yourself, 'This does not matter, this does not matter…'
The start was at 9.30 a.m. and I was over the line within a couple of minutes, heading out under clear blue skies into the heart of this most eye-catching of cities. It's a place rich in history, and most of that history is still standing. A seaport on the Bay of Biscay, and the capital of the Charente-Maritime département, La Rochelle enjoys a strategic position, which accounts for its significance down the centuries. Now it's more noted for its bustle, its ancient streets and its lovely eateries – all of which combine to offer the most seductive of vibes, plus plenty of attractive roads to run along, in the city centre at least.
For the first couple of kilometres, it was all very crowded, the roads clearly not having been designed with marathons in mind. In fact, it remained a fairly tight race for most of the first half, the relative speeds of the runners eventually thinning us out rather than any particular breadth on the course. These weren't the wide boulevards of Paris, and the difference was noticeable.