Sitting there with my wine the only Steps I liked where the ones who danced in formation and sang a cover of Tragedy. The Paris Half Marathon or Semi de Paris was officially finished and I was enjoying a glass of cold Chablis at a side street cafe.  Steps were my new nemesis.  Steps down to the metro. Steps that little bit larger on and off the pavement.  Steps up to my hotel.  Steps up or down to toilets in a bar. The lifting my leg into the bath step was particularly cruel.  Yes I had fallen foul to the rookiest (not sure that is a word) of half marathon runner mistakes.  Long runs, or I should say, a lack of long runs preparing for Paris didn’t materialise on my training plan.  My training plan for that matter didn’t exactly show up either, but sure I had booked my flights and I decided to run anyway.

Lucky for me I’m no stranger to half marathons and I’ve enough coloured ribbons with clinking chunks of metal on the end of them to prove it. I would run in the hope that muscle memory would kick in and see me to the end. Not at all a wise plan and I wouldn’t encourage it at all, because you will end up having trouble with those aforementioned steps.

I woke to a beautiful gray haze of cloud and drizzle..

Despite a few failed starts getting out of Ireland due to Snowmageddon I managed to get to Paris, which didn’t even have a single snowflake.  On arrival I headed off to the runners expo in the stunning Parc Floral de Paris – Bois de Vincennes, picked up my race number and t-shirt and wrote my name on the wall and perused stands of running gear.

I had cleverly booked a room in Adagio Aparthotel in nearby Bercy Village only a few metro stops away.  Perfect for the pre and post run commute. Bercy Village is a hive of bars, restaurants and shops with everything from Five Guys (who helped me carb load) to Frog (a bar) and Nicolas, a wine shop where I picked up a bottle of bubbles on my way back from the run.  That was the Saturday night and on Sunday I woke to a beautiful gray haze of cloud and drizzle.  The kind of rubbish morning which makes you strongly think about staying in bed, skipping the run and maybe, just maybe, heading along later as a clapping spectator instead. My room was fully kitted out with a kitchenette including kettle, fridge and microwave so breakfast was in-house.

what were people eating?

I did of course stop whining, get up don my snazzy running tights and head out the door like thousands of others.  It was a weekend of rookie running mistakes for me. Instead of using the lovely bathroom in my hotel room, I spent a good half hour in the queue for the toilets, which at that point should really have only been entered wearing a full bio hazard suit complete with oxygen tank.  Dear God in heaven above, what were people eating.  Must have been all that pasta. Parc Floral de Paris was however buzzing with thousands of eager runners decked head to toe in slimming lycra and a colorful array of ponchos.  I of course had forgotten to bring my rain jacket, rookie mistake number three.

I was only massive as I shimmied…

Sure the Paris Half Marathon had just started and the rain came down. Not buckets now, but enough to make an already cold and cranky man wet as well.  All my years of survival training from watching (the original) MacGyver kicked in and I managed to salvage a stunning sea green poncho from the side of the road.  I even went as far as to nip it in on one side with a fashion forward knot that would make Gok Wan beam with pride. My poncho had quickly gone from drab off the rail rain wear to fitted flexible active wear. I was only massive as I shimmied along the streets of Paris accompanied by a permanent swishing sound as my arms rubbed back and forth along the delicate weather ready material.

To be fair, despite the miserable gray day Paris still managed to have a glint in its eye and look stunning, as only Paris can.  Sure in the latter stages of the race they even laid on tables with fruit and biscuits and cake along with water. Naturally I stopped to sample. I wasn’t pushed about hitting a certain time and the French are known for their cakes, so it made sense.

It took me about two hours twenty to finish the race, which actually wasn’t too shabby considering the ridiculously poor level of training that went into it.  Chuffed with myself, and still wearing my signature sea green poncho I headed off, neck adorned with my new brushed steel accessory to the tougher challenge which lay a head.  Steps !  My lesson has been learned, but Paris I still love you.