Running Through Paris: A Half Marathon Journey in the City of Light
On January 10, 2024, I received a text from my GP surgery in Kent suggesting I try running to improve my fitness. It was an invitation to join a Couch to 5K program under the guidance of a coach.
Now, let me paint a picture—I was not fit. Walking to the bar for a beer was enough to leave me puffing, and while I could joke about it, there was a serious side to my situation. I was at an age where if I didn’t start looking after myself, I was on a slippery slope to poor health.
A few days later, on January 15, I met with the coach, armed with new trainers and a thick coat. A vital stats check followed—blood pressure: 142/80. Weight? 116kg. Waist size? Let’s not go there.
I started with simple one-minute jogs around cones, slowly building up until, by March, I had graduated as a fully-fledged 5K runner. My health improved significantly—I lost weight, my blood pressure returned to normal, and I found myself hooked. A 10K became the next goal, and on May 17, 2024, I ran my first one.
That’s when I got the crazy idea—what about a marathon? But reality set in, and I decided a half marathon was a more realistic goal. I trained for longer runs, increasing my time on my feet until, in September 2024, I ran 13.1 miles in 2 hours and 8 minutes. I knew I could do the distance. Now, I just needed to make it official.
Enter the Paris Half Marathon, March 2025.
The Journey to Paris
On Friday, March 7, we set off for Paris, the sun shining but the wind still brisk. A bus took us to Rennes, a city of beautiful architecture, both old and new. Naturally, we sought out coffee upon arrival at the Gare.
Now, if you love French coffee, you might want to skip this part. What I was served was foul—bitter, burnt, and closely resembling old sump oil (not that I’ve ever attempted to drink that, but I imagine the experience would be similar).
Thankfully, public transport in France is as reliable as their coffee is questionable. We boarded the TGV, where first-class seats offered comfort and space as the countryside zipped past at an impressive 298 km/h.
Yet, one thing still tormented me—the aftertaste of that awful coffee. Seeing my struggle, Debbie, ever the problem solver, suggested we wash it away with fruit juice. And just like that, an armada of fruity goodness swooped in to liberate my taste buds from their suffering.
As we approached Gare Montparnasse, I took a moment to appreciate the romantic (and unnecessarily complicated) nature of the French language. It wouldn’t be French if it weren’t at least a little complicated, would it?
Exploring Paris
Saturday was about exploring. We walked through Paris, soaking up the city’s energy and stopping by Place de la Bastille. Notre Dame was bustling with visitors, and its impressive restoration was well underway.
Breakfast was coffee and croissants at Paris Baguette, and I can confirm—the coffee was superb. Redemption!
Race Day: The Paris Half Marathon
Sunday morning, race day. I woke early, had a carb-rich breakfast, and opted for the Metro to conserve energy. The start, however, was chaotic.
The race was supposed to begin in waves by color, but it seems that plan went out the window. Instead, runners were released in small groups every couple of minutes. I ended up starting an hour later than scheduled.
Once underway, I found my rhythm. With 50,000 runners, navigating the crowd wasn’t easy, but I settled into a manageable pace. At the halfway mark, congestion forced everyone to adjust their speed.
Running through one of Paris’ beautiful parks was a highlight, and I imagined how the locals must love having such a space. But the real boost came from the spectators—cheering, clapping, and encouraging us every step of the way.
The final stretch through the city and its suburbs was lined with supporters. As fatigue set in, their energy kept me going.
But let’s be honest—those last few miles were tough. At around 20km, I learned an important lesson:
Never trust a fart after 20km.
With aching legs and an empty tank, I pushed on, rounding Place de la Bastille to the sound of roaring cheers. Finally, I crossed the finish line.
Time: 2 hours 15 minutes.
Not quite where I wanted to be, but considering my flu in January, I was happy with the result.
As I shuffled through the finish area, I was handed a medal and a goody bag. I couldn’t help but think:
“That was a lot of work for a banana.”
Debbie was waiting for me, and as I embraced her, the emotion of the journey hit me.
“I did it,” I exclaimed.
“I know you did, and I’m so proud of you,” she replied.
A final step: goodbye, old friends
As I shuffled back through the streets of Paris, medal in hand and banana devoured, I realised it was time. My trusty Brooks trainers, veterans of every damp morning run, every hill repeat, every long slog through the French countryside, had given their all. The soles were worn, the bounce long gone, but they'd carried me from Couch to 5K to the streets of Paris.
Over 400 miles of pounding pavements, muddy trails, and misty towpaths, they’d done their duty. They’ll be retired with full honours, probably to garden duty. Thanks, guys, you did me proud.
Reflections on the Train Home
The morning after, I woke up feeling surprisingly good. No aches, no stiffness. If I’m honest, I felt like running a 5K. I didn’t, of course—today was a travel day, and there would be plenty of walking.
Paris looked beautiful, even in the rain, and as I watched a runner pass by from my window, I smiled—this activity that once felt impossible was now part of my life.
Before heading out, we made one last coffee in the Airbnb—homemade, and thankfully, not sump oil.
On the TGV ride home, we reminisced.
What a weekend it had been. Our superb little apartment in Ménilmontant, surrounded by street art and global cuisine. The bustling streets, bars, cafés, and stunning architecture. And, of course, the half marathon—the real reason for the trip.
The support from spectators was incredible, and their encouragement pulled me through those exhausting moments. I hit the wall a few times, but with mental focus and a bit of stubbornness, I made it.
Would I do it again?
You bet I would. In fact, I’ve already pre-registered for next year.
Just one thing, though—I’ll be avoiding that coffee shop serving sump oil.
Final Thoughts
Running has become a part of my life in a way I never expected. A year ago, I couldn’t run for a minute. Now, I’ve completed a half marathon in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.
For anyone out there wondering if they could do the same—trust me, you can. It starts with just one minute, one step at a time.
And when the going gets tough, just remember…
Pain is just a French word for bread.
