Champagne day beginning

Walking down Boulevard de Sebastapol, I know that I’m headed for Porte Maillot and the entrance to the Bois du Boulogne. My starting Champagne moment, drawn to that Champagne day – renewing an old dream and a past glory, as I visualise my walk through the top of the Bois, along to the exit for Avenue Foch, and see the finish line image which is indelibly etched within me – soon.

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The Metro station is down here, could be Hotel de Ville that I am destined for, says a chattering voice within me, then Chatalet comes into sight and I choose to check if this will get me on the line I need. I am confident it will, not terribly concerned though about any wasted time, or the risk of it not taking me easily to where I want to be.

This is part of my gentleness with myself, as I still sense that I’m in a state which could easily turn more anxious, and that my mood is rather low. This lowness could be anxiety, and it could be elements of depression kicking around. Regardless of which it is, today is a Champagne day, and that’s how it will be. The bubbles won’t flow for a little while yet; they are being well chilled before being served and will be deliciously fresh, crisp, impactful and wonderful when that time arrives. So, I have time to manage myself, and continue to do so.

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Line 1 takes me from Chatelet to Porte Maillot, perfect. The walk in Chatalet, from entrance to Line 1 platform, is as long as changing from DLR to most lines at Bank, possibly longer. This morning, while the time approaches 0800 on a work morning, there are so few people around. Do they not work in Paris on a Friday? Is it a late start for everyone today? Are tourists the only people to use the Metro? So different to London, to Stamford, to so many places. Yet, this is one of the world’s great capitals, and my experiences of this grand city are not those which typify it, I suggest to myself.

Or, are they? I’m here for different reasons, purposes, than many. Yet, sharing the sameness, the connectedness, with everyone in Paris and who has ever been here, perhaps even with future visitors also.

Leaving Line 1 at Porte Maillot, I take a minute to get my bearings, as the Arc de Triomphe is not visible. In Given how it is etched indelibly as part of that finish line image which I seek, the Arc is my mental touchstone this morning. In hindsight, it is not visible from here.

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I probably know which way I’m going, and a quick check on Google Maps reassures me that I’m right enough for now. Onwards, dreaming, renewing, still chewing a little, mood a little grey and low, in tandem with the grey cloud which I had not expected this morning. Cold enough to need my hat and my scarf and my gloves and my sweater. I look smart. This is deliberate, chosen, important to me for this trip.

It is a stroll, to the roundabout, into the Bois by the Petit Train (which is closed) and onwards toward the exit for Avenue Foch. Runners, a few. Cyclists, some more. Traffic on roads in the Bois, all beside the Peripherique which is busy, so traffic and its accompanying urgency are understandable while also shaking me. Busier up here than on the Metro. Is this how Paris works, by car? 

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Stroll, then a chat with beautiful T,  waking to her day, sharing our day. This is our day, St Valentine’s Day 2020, separated physically by a train journey, connected indelibly by our love and warmth and shared visions for this Champagne Day. This particular start to the day, though, is unscripted, unplanned.

Slowly, picking my steps on my way along, on pathways made for cyclists and dog walkers more than runners or pedestrians.

All pathways by his feet are worn

I see his Blood upon the Rose, Joseph Mary Plunkett

This quote comes to mind, pathways, always worn, by others and not only me.

Head up, seeing where the puddles and muddy sections are, wearing my smart suede shoes that are not blue, more a modern dark brown. These are ok on good surfaces, while mud is not a friend to them.  Unlikely to wear these paths much, contributing a little to their living memory.

Checking my bearings, I come to the turn for Avenue Foch. It’s sooner than I expect, and I check on Google Maps before choosing my direction from what is obviously a busy enough junction in the Bois. I turn my walking left towards Pavillon Dauphine Saint Clair, not sure what it is, the sign posts are to there, and it’s in the same direction as Ave Foch. 

The road is a long gentle curve. Around the curve in the road, I can see a big and busy traffic intersection, and I can see the roundabout. Initially, I can’t see the cobbles, which are so engraved and etched, deeply, in my memory of that day, that moment. The transition from smooth road to uneven cobbles was a physically rather than visually-noticed transition that day. Tiredness had dulled my visual awareness, and it became utterly transfixed by the finish line and the Arc image, once it appeared that day.

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On the 17th April 2012, I passed by this place for the second time in twelve months, and have not done so since. I had come to Paris in 2011, to run the Marathon de Paris in my quest to run inside three hours. I have not been here since 2012, when I did fulfil that quest. There I was, at the tender age of forty seven years and forty seven days, running a marathon inside three hours for the first time. There, at Marathon de Paris 2012. I emerged from the Bois, noticed cobbles which were uncomfortable for my weary feet, and also seemed slippy to run on, then the Arc visible and magnetic behind the finish line.

Arc behind me when I started on Champs Elysee and ahead at the finish, yet unmoving and ever still, the beacon of connectedness and completeness, and tears flowed that morning, down my face and my vest and my shorts and my legs and my shoes and my feet, to add slip to my passing on the cobbles. As they do now, tears from years ago mix with tears of writing all these years later, recent memory entanglement of older memory; of what feels permanent. 

I cross the traffic to the side of Ave Foch, on the western edge of this dual carriageway, which seems to be fed by more lanes of crossing traffic than could ever be envisaged. The Arc is visible from this western edge, yet this is not the image which I hold in my memory. I don’t even take out my phone to frame a photo here, instead crossing the carriageways to the eastern edge. Traffic hurtles past, on cobbles, motorcyclists on city bikes with two front wheels seeming most aggressive. Getting there, I look up along Ave Foch and realise my view of the Arc is obscured by trees on this side. Hmmm.

The dawning realisation was quick. The best image, and the best photo, will be from the centre of the Avenue, between the two carriageways. That’s the closest view to what I saw when I cleared the trees and roundabout, and looked up to see the finish and the Arc that day. Only one option, and I found momentum taking me there without any conscious decision. This was my energy and momentum for the morning, for now.

To the central reservation. There I went. Picture, a narrow strip of cobbles between two small markers which denote the separation of the carriageways. Cars hurtle past on both sides, I care not, or so I seem. I look up, and there is my image, The Arc is further away than I expected, it didn’t seem that far away in my minds eye when I saw it in 2012. Still there, majestic through the air of Friday morning. Photo time. Morning light is still grey, and car lights sparkle in the picture. I have my image. I secure my memory, I take my photos.

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What is most surprising was how I feel as I stand in that central reservation area, between the carriageways. I see that image of the Arc, and I am filled with immense pride, a few tears. I luxuriate in this being. Here. This place. Now, and past, and forward. Emotions flow through my veins, connecting much of now and recent weeks with the solitary purpose and clarity of identity which propelled me to this performance in 2012. I was rooted, called, compelled to be here, to come back. Compelled through looking at the city map, where will I go, a suburban adventure sought, and the compulsion came from the map to my mind. Now I’m beginning to understand a little more about why. I ran that race in 2012. The mottos of  “Never look back” and “Don’t look back in anger” spark in my mind. This is not anger, nor is it regret. It is embracing, both ways, me embracing the experience and the place embracing me. 

“Let go, and remember” is the mantra that best describes how I feel. Letting go creates space for the future, remember connects now and future to past wonder. And, it is a wonder to me, even more so in hindsight than when I ran. Finding that latent, that unexpected capacity and capability, the running capability, taking me to so many explorations. And, while I no longer run, it still takes me to new explorations, today, here, this morning. Finding the discipline and structure and dedication and resilience, with the unwavering support all the way from beautiful T. Then, as now.

More than the running capability, I truly wonder now at the running mind which I had, and which I developed, and which enabled me to envisage and create the compelling vision and bring it into being. This worked in tandem with my developing knowledge, and wisdom from running experiences, bringing the latent capacity and capability to the surface. To Listening, and running the final metres again, in a different reality, quite a long time into the future. 

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This is what I am creating space for, by letting go and remembering. There is so much power, so much impact, so much connected inspiration in the emotions of letting go and of remembering. Snuggling down as if wrapped in a familiarly warm body duvet, I still see myself standing there. It was for a relatively short time, possibly due to the scariness of French driving and the rush hour traffic levels. Yet, while I could feel and sense these around me, and I had precious little to protect me from anything on this imaginary island on Ave Foch, I stood still there for a long time, a time that connected past with now with next. This time is measured in different ways than just seconds and minutes, linear time. I stood there, stood still in now, moved back and forth between now and 2012, connecting 2012 to now, to my recent past and my present and future possibilities intertwined in complex ways which no linearity of time does justice to. 

That was a sublime way to begin my Champagne day.