This was the last year I ran a marathon. Two of them, as had become the custom. After the previous year’s final race — a decent time, though the ending hadn’t gone quite as planned — it mattered that I could still do it after a gap of over a year. For this year I’d decided: I would enjoy these. No more chasing. I’d earned the right to soak it all in. In Paris, for instance, I’d noticed massage stations around the thirty-kilometer mark. Back then, I was still hunting for the sub-four, so stopping was out of the question. This time would be different.
A Volatile Start
January was unpredictable: some days I ran in shorts, others below freezing. February felt almost like spring, but with a chaotic edge — hailstorms, downpours, thunderstorms. Too much water. March brought serious flooding on the rivers, full-alert level again. By now, though, I’d learned to choose my routes carefully.
Following the classic schedule, I ran a half marathon a month before the first full. I found one in Blois, a few towns over, held for the first time that year. The course was pleasant — a few muddy stretches across fields due to the weather, but overall a good-spirited warm-up through the historic town.
Marathon de Cheverny
The April marathon was held on an unusual course: three loops of different sizes, passing through the grounds of the Château de Cheverny — Tintin’s castle, for those who know. Aid stations were densely placed. The largest loop ran mostly along country roads. Just over a thousand runners, if I remember right, with the option to run in duos or trios, which boosted the numbers. Plenty of food and drink at every station. Costumed runners, good atmosphere along the roads throughout.
The relaxed pace showed in the time: 4:24:21, my slowest marathon. Beyond a generally pleasant impression, I don’t have many sharp memories of this one. The marathon was becoming routine. It was no longer a special event to finish one, and the euphoria had faded to a faint echo of the first time. I took two days off, then opened with twelve kilometers. My body was handling the distance better and better. But this was perfectly enough for me. I had nothing to prove to anyone — not even myself — and four-plus hours of running for pleasure was plenty.
The Local Race
In July, the small town where I lived organized a running event. I felt I had to take part. It was a twenty-two-kilometer race; I finished in 2:04. But it wasn’t as smooth as I’d expected. The organizers had said the entire course would be on asphalt and dirt roads, so I chose light, fast shoes accordingly. Near the finish, surprise: we were diverted onto an open field with no road at all — just a faint track trampled by cyclists here and there. The grass tufts did my ankles no favors in those minimal shoes. If I’d known, I would have chosen differently. Fortunately, no mud — the weather was perfect — and it only lasted about a kilometer and a half. But I’ll remember that finish forever. And it cemented my conviction: trail running was not invented for me.
Marathon de Tours: The Last One
I didn’t know it at the time, but the Marathon de Tours in mid-September was my last. The preparation had been modest: I’d stopped the weekend long runs — which were only seventeen kilometers — already in August. The enthusiasm wasn’t there. I wasn’t looking forward to this race the way I had to the earlier ones. I was increasingly seeing the downsides: getting up early, standing in the cold at the start, waiting forever, the packed start zone. And I couldn’t do anything about it.
That said, there was one moment that made the whole thing worthwhile. I’d previously grumbled about costumed runners, but this race delivered the greatest surprise of all. Standing in the start zone, I turned around — and behind me, life-size, stood Darth Vader. Complete with lightsaber. The only off-note in his costume was the footwear: running shoes instead of boots. But the rest was flawless, helmet included. I asked him if he was planning to run the entire distance like that. He said yes. And he did. I ran into him several times during the race, mostly on out-and-back sections where he was still heading out while I was on my way back — but in that getup, who could blame him. He caused a sensation everywhere. The local newspaper’s weekend edition ran the marathon as the cover story, and he was on the front page.
There was one more moment worth mentioning. At the twenty-eight-kilometer mark, a tent offered massages to runners. For the first time in my life, I went in. There was food, biscuits, bananas, drinks — and a few minutes of massage that felt genuinely wonderful. For a few kilometers afterward, I felt almost reborn. I thought I’d found a miracle cure. Then, around thirty-five, the normal feeling came back. Thanks to the massage break and the easy pace, I finished in 4:22:18.
The rest of the year was a cool-down. I ran fifteen kilometers twice more, then settled back into the usual ten to twelve.
The End of an Era
I never ran another marathon. A few half marathons remained in me, but life changes and the Covid years put an end to my racing — though not to my running. I stayed who I was: Runner Forever.
2016: 304 runs / 3,852 km
Since 2002: 3,522 sessions / 37,735 km