Running Through Paris
Pre-Race Preparations
I pulled my watch off its charger and onto my wrist in sleepy grogginess. Barely awake, I realized I was lying in a bed in Paris. And then I noticed the time.
“Oh, my God! Garrett, it’s 9:05!”
This is how my race morning began. My phone and my husband Garrett’s iPad were carefully set for a 7 am wake-up call, and they dutifully sounded off at their designated times. But our bodies had acclimated to French living.
We had fallen back asleep.
With an internal clock typically set to military timing, Garrett rarely slept once awakened. But the spell of Paris had overtaken us as we arose with the rest of the city.
A tour guide told us the day before that the city came alive at nine. This was after we had questioned Paris’ quietness on an early morning drive. We would have laughed at our sleep-in on any other day on our overseas vacation. But today was race day—the event that brought us and our friends to Paris.
I had been training for months, mapping out details leading up to this morning. Although international travel and an eight-hour time change brought complexities, I went to bed peacefully the night prior with a two-hour pre-race preparation plan. After some light reading, coffee, and breakfast, I had allowed plenty of time to meet my fellow half-marathoners for a 9:30 am scheduled taxi ride from our hotel.
It was a great plan - until I overslept.
With enough time to brush my teeth and secure my race number to my running vest, I quickly checked the weather before choosing my running attire.
The no-rain forecast lightened my spirit and my choice of race gear. I left behind my rain poncho and raced to meet my friends at the front desk.
The Weather is a Fickle Beast
Trying not to think of my body lacking its morning caffeine and bathroom routine, I focused on the positive: a precipitation-free weather forecast. My feet were still thawing out from standing in a downpour at packet pick-up the day before. I viewed a dry day of running as nothing short of a gift.
Our Paris travel party included four couples, with four of our eight signed up to run the Paris Half-Marathon. The trip and race were a 60th birthday wish of our friend, Kristi. She had invited Tam and me, her long-time running friends, and her sister-in-law and brother-in-law to join the festivities. We all eagerly agreed on a trip to Paris with spouses in tow. Kristi’s husband, Tom, also signed up for the race, topping off our running team of four.
Since I moved from Omaha several years ago, our time together has been limited to joint vacations or my quick trips back. Kristi, Tam, and I have spent over twenty years running together with 5 am wake-up calls. We shared much life over these many years of running. After my move, I missed my Omaha early morning runs with Kristi and Tam the most.
A run together through the streets of Paris was a perfect way to celebrate Kristi and our friendship. The half-marathon's 13.1 miles provided plenty of time, and we had lots to catch up on.
2005 - our first half-marathon together. tam (3rd from left). Kristi (3rd from right), me (2nd from right)
Although Tom did not map out a strict training plan in miles, he made up for it with his seamless execution of the race signup process. There were complexities in running an international race past the language barriers.
As we focused on a signed medical release requirement, Tom instead noticed an option on the online registration. He chose to have his and Kristi’s race shirt and bib mailed to them. Tam and I missed this detail.
When Kristi sent a text celebrating the arrival of their race goods while still in the States, Tam and I knew our race preparation would include a trip to packet pick-up. This was only offered the day before the race.
We would need to travel to a park in Paris on Saturday to pick up our packets. With a wide pickup window spanning 10 am to 6 pm, our biggest concern was navigating the Metro, not the pick-up itself. Garrett agreed to join us and assist in navigating the Paris subway system to our destination.
Wearing rain jackets as we boarded the city transit system, I brought an umbrella ‘just in case.’ We left at noon with our sole goal of quickly checking this task off our list. The Metro ride to the packet picket at a Pac Floral de Paris was seamless. After a brisk walk in the rain to the park, we were happy to have our rain jackets and an umbrella.
The long line wrapped two ways. We were on the second leg when I snapped this pic.
We were more grateful for our weather gear as we approached the park entrance and saw a huge, weaving line of people. Second-guessing why there was a long line for such a mundane process as packet pick-up, we found someone who spoke English. They confirmed we were in the right place.
After half an hour of slowly moving in a line that expanded both sides of a sidewalk in front of the park entrance, we finally saw people coming out with half-marathon-labeled bags.
The rain didn’t let up until after we spent two hours in line. Once at security, we entered the expo and seamlessly retrieved our bibs and shirts. Too tired and wet to take in the various vendor offerings, we left as quickly as we came in, deciding to shop the merchandise after the race.
With wet shoes and soaked jeans, we quickly agreed to dry off at a pub outside the Metro entrance. Our carb-building meal of beer with fish and chips lifted our pre-race mood.
cheers to a warm pub and carb-loading
A Race to the Start
Leaving my poncho behind and counting on the pub carbs to kick in, I ran to the hotel entrance the next morning to meet my fellow runners.
It was then that our race officially began.
Like packet pick-up, the race starting point was lost in translation. Runners started in waves based on the times we submitted on our race entries. None of us thought to check with the others to ensure we chose the same time. As a result, we were assigned different waves but were banking on being allowed to start together.
The taxi driver dropped us off at the closest drivable point to the start. We thought our only open issue was being allowed to start together, but once again, we assumed wrong. Our immediate issue was finding the starting line.
Bustling with people, we crossed a bridge and easily located the area for bag drop-off. Tom, Kristi, and Tam chose not to run with their phones and instead packed them in a checked bag to be picked up at the race end.
In addition to my errant oversleeping, I had not properly plugged my phone into its European electrical charge convertor. I was the only runner in our group with a cell phone as it glared red at a low charge level.
Excited for the race to start with the assumption that we would run together, we weren’t worried about the need for phones. We did have the wisdom to choose an end meeting spot in case we didn’t finish together. Spying a big white tent a block away, we assumed this would be where we would shop for race merch as part of our post-race celebrations. A perfect meeting place was chosen - just in case.
The assumption early on was that the three running friends would run the Paris race together - just like we had run together in our everyday life in the States.
Tam was just back to running from a knee injury. The last time I was back in Omaha in September, she wasn’t running at all. Although we planned to finish together, there was a lingering thought that Kristi and I may finish ahead. Tom had also made it clear that he would have his music on, likely finish behind, and look for us at the white tent.
We began following the masses, thinking the starting line would be close to the bag drop-off area. We walked by hoards of runners in the race who began in an earlier wave. We were sure we were close to the start.
But we walked, and we walked, and we walked until Tom finally had the wisdom to ask a bibbed runner who, like us, appeared to be searching for the start. We followed him until we finally reached race entry. Our bibs were checked, gaining entry together without a glance at our designated start times.
We ultimately walked 2.5 miles before reaching the start of our 13.1-mile run.
Are we there yet? Bridges, runners, Notre-dame sighting…just following the crowd.
Wee Wee Monsieur
Anyone who has run a race knows the importance of porta-potty placement and timing. My hasty wake-up call, which lacked pre-race digestion and expulsion preparation, made me a bit more mindful of this.
As we entered the race area, we were happy to see the standard potties. Although we were sure such a large race would accommodate bathroom needs, we were leery given the other international differences we encountered. I eyeballed the porta potties, weighing whether I should wait or use one while it was available. Then I noticed something I had not seen in the States.
Was a man peeing openly outside the porta-pots? WHAT?? There were no lines or a sense of urgency to force an outside pee. I thought my eyes were deceiving me as I watched the man casually release his male unit without hiding the exposure. Tam said aloud what I was thinking.
“Are those open urinals?”
Yes, that is exactly what they were. Men in the crowd jumped in to relieve themselves into the open air.
Tom thought the concept was brilliant and immediately followed the other males in taking advantage of the amenities offered.
Oui oui, Paris, well played.
The urinals typically had several men utilizing them… I took pics when unoccupied
Gone Girl
We knew the race was large, but only after did we learn the final tally of over 50,000 finishers. As groups of runners started in waves, we followed the mob before us while crowds of awaiting runners lined up behind us. We inched to the official starting line with loud music and cheers from the organizers increasing our adrenaline. Warmed up from our long pre-race walk, we were ready to get the Paris party started.
Last photo of team usa together
behind us. before us. and finally, we start!
With no rain and perfect running weather, our wave was up, and we were off.
Tam and Tom quickly led our crew, with Kristi reminding them of a pace she worried was too fast. We felt exhilarated by the crowd's support and the energy of the other runners. Kristi, Tam, and I fell into our typical comfortable conversation, which was part of our lifelong running routine. Tom was our beacon, at a height a full head above the rest of us. He listened to his music and ran to his own beat.
Our first sign of being in Paris was spotting Notre Dame. It was surrounded by scaffolding as it underwent post-fire reconstruction. Knowing this would be the closest we would get to this great structure; we took it all in as we ran along the Seine River in a city rich in history and culture. Although this race is an annual event with no direct correlation to the upcoming Olympics hosted by Paris, the city was alive in preparedness and anticipation.
Our first water stop was at about mile three. We did not make advance arrangements for who would take water, nor did we have a plan if we lost each other. The thought of losing each other at a water stop had never crossed our minds. But it should have. With 50,000 runners, the crowds around us never dwindled, especially early on in the race.
I grabbed my water. Rather than watching for Tam or Kristi, I was surprised to be handed a small plastic water bottle. No sports drinks or other options were offered. No paper cups were placed on a table filled by volunteers. There were no choices; just a plastic bottle of water handed to any runner who could reach the offer.
Feeling guilty about plastic waste, I took extra time to drink all the contents while looking for a recycle bin. Running back into the mainstream, I finally eyed Kristi, but no Tam. Tom's height made him easy to spot. After a pause and looking backward, we decided to avoid a pile-up and keep moving ahead.
Convinced we would soon run into Tam; another mile quickly went by.
But no Tam.
Mile three would be the last we would see her on the race course.
Allez, Allez, Allez!
All course markings were in French and in kilometers. We rarely checked our watches other than occasionally noting how fast the miles passed. With no Tam sightings, Kristi and I debated whether she was ahead or behind us. Although we regretted not making plans to stick together at water stops and missed having our trio together, we hoped that Tam was enjoying our Paris run as much as we were.
Bands filled every corner. We enjoyed another castle, Paris park, or historic building sighting with each passing mile. The crowd cheered more enthusiastically as we progressed through the race route. Water bottles remained the only liquid offered, with race food options of grab-and-go nuts and chocolates.
The exuberant spectators constantly reminded us that we were not in the US anymore. Women were dressed up from hat to booted toe, cheering on runners, and cigarettes elegantly dangled between manicured fingers.
Children did not stare mindlessly at devices that American parents typically provide as entertainment. The French children were instead engaged in the event, with enthusiastic cheers of “Allez! Allez! Allez!” [pronounced: ah-lee]
The French are amazing cheerleaders. The crowd's enthusiasm was unfaltering for a race that had begun hours before. The race winners finished long before we had even crossed the starting line.
Later, Tam told us how when she started to slow down, a beautiful French woman got in her face and strenuously coached her to FINISH… “Allez! Allez! Allez!” [meaning: go! go! go!]
By mile eleven, Kristi and I were alone. Tom had dropped back, and we had not found Tam. Our legs felt heavy, and soreness was setting in. As with the start line, we were anxiously looking for the finish. Our conversation moved on to our hopes and dreams without too much emphasis on the hope of being done running soon.
We are the Champions
Turning a corner, we thought we were in the final stretch. A large logoed canopy was within eyesight, with gates clearly positioning spectators outside the runners’ paths. The metal gates were boarded with sponsorship ads as spectators cheered us on by pounding on the boards. Just like the Tour de France finish, Kristi and I felt like we were getting the same winner’s welcome.
“Allez! Allez! Allez!”… bellowed with the pounding of fists. Kristi and I teared up, grasping each other’s hands to cross the finish line together.
It was a moment I will never forget. My phone somehow had a bit of charge left, and I captured a shaky video on my camera.
And then we realized we weren’t actually done.
There were two more canopies ahead with a few more minutes to finish. But we finally finished together, laughing at our premature celebration.
We were presented medals and more bottled water. After a long walk through what seemed like an endless gated finishing area, we were given a race bag filled with a bar and a fruit drink. Bananas were handed out. And that was it.
Where were the booths for a massage? Celebratory finish line wine? Bars of chocolate? We were in Paris, so these expectations were expected. Instead, Kristi and I enjoyed our medals, thinking the big hoopla would be in the area miles away at bag pickup, where we would buy our celebratory race merchandise.
We then turned our attention to finding Tom and Tam.
with one phone and a disbanded team - I was only able to get two finisher pics
The Retirement
Knowing with certainty that Tom was behind us, Kristi and I stayed in the finishers’ areas, watching for our beacon of Tom. With less certainty, we scanned the incoming crowds for Tam. She was less easy to find as her height blended in, as did her running clothing color. Other than different colored running shoes, we did not plan clothes for colors that could be easily picked from a crowd.
About five minutes after our finish, we saw Tom’s blue bandana’ed head above the finish line crossing group.
Coming off of a lingering December illness and snow that kept him inside, Tom had little long-run training leading up to the 13-mile race through Paris. As Kristi and I compared long-run mileage in the weeks leading up to the race, Kristi worried about Tom and Tam; neither was able to get in mileage above double digits due to illness (Tom) and injury (Tam).
Kristi and I lamented whether to wait for Tam at the finish line or look for her at our designated white tent spot. A wiped Tom took in his last bottled water and declared his retirement. His Paris Half was his crowned running achievement.
tom finishes and immediately announces his retirement
The Reunion
Deciding to move out of the finishing area, we began making our way to the bag pick-up by the white tent. Kristi kept looking behind to the finish, sure we were abandoning Tam by moving forward. Second-guessing our decision to not carry phones other than my chargeless one, we quickly picked up the stored bag and turned to the other phones, searching for messages. Knowing Tam had no phone on her, we also knew this was misguided hope.
The debate continued on the best method for finding Tam. I was insistent that we check the white tent. Based on her energy at the start and her taking the lead when we were together, I thought Tam was ahead of us.
Kristi was sure she was behind, worrying that Tam re-injured her knee. Tom became the voice of reason, instructing us to return to the finish line. He would go to the white tent and text immediately (before my phone died) to let us know if Tam was there.
A plan.
It only took minutes for Tom to text us.
“Tam is here.”
Kristi and I ran to the white tent. Our foursome, Team USA, was finally reunited. Rehashing our recollections of the first water stop, no one knew how we separated. Tam was sure she had lost us by falling behind. She spent the next ten miles thinking her goal was to catch up to us. Worried that she was making us wait at the finish line, she kept forging ahead, keeping pace.
Ultimately, Tam finished five minutes ahead of Kristi and me. When she reached the white tent and found no one there, she was sure she had been left behind not only at the finish line but also at the white tent. She was shocked when Tom informed her of her yellow jersey status as our race leader.
Celebrating Tam’s performance and our reunion, our next goal was to find the race after-party. Tom had already decided that a merchandise purchase of a three-quarter zip was warranted, with this being his last race. But as we listened for bands and Paris libations, we found none.
We found that the French celebrated during their events but seemed to have all gone home after the finish line. Credit cards remained in our pockets as we limped to the Metro. Cold and sore, we groaned with every step back to our hotel without bags filled with purchases.
Post-Race Priorities
With my phone officially dead, Tom wisely remembered that we had yet to take a post-race group photo. Finding a Frenchman to snap a picture outside our hotel, we proudly showed off our hardware. Before scaling the hotel steps, we took a quick detour for French pastries to enjoy in our rooms after hot baths and showers.
A dinner meeting time was set. With heavy legs and shuffled steps, our crew of eight regrouped for a short walk to dinner.
Finally, we enjoyed a post-race wine, with Tam ordering a dry martini. After careful instruction on martini ingredients, the presented drink fell into the ‘lost in translation' category. It was served in a water glass with a straw, heavy in lime flavoring.
With laughs and cheers to a completed Paris Half, now behind us, we began planning our remaining days in Paris that would not include running. Our birthday trip, planned months earlier, was a wonderful celebration across the ocean.
We never did find half-marathon merchandise to buy after the race. The next day, I remembered a big Adidas setup at the expo. We visited their main Paris store on the Champs-Elysée, and I asked an employee if they had any of the race merchandise I had seen at the packet pickup expo.
“Yes, we have a lot of race merchandise, but it is still in boxes from the Expo. We aren’t sure when we will put it out.”
When I asked if I could later buy online, the employee gave me a heavily accented but concise “No.”
The consumerism of the US obviously does not translate to the French. But perhaps we should follow their lead.
The memories and our shared accomplishments will be our lasting reward.
