Close Encounters of the French Kind
How a chance encounter during the 2014 Paris Marathon taught me that running and competition can transcend language and cultural barriers
We all need a Harvey.
He showed up in the thick of my pain. My left IT band throbbed as if bulging out of the side of my thigh. My hamstrings were tight like frozen rubber bands, and I attempted to balance by swinging my stiff arms as fluidly as possible. Opposite arm, opposite leg, opposite arm, opposite leg, just like my high school cross country coach had drilled into my brain 14 years ago.
No matter how well you try to hold it together physically, sometimes your mind just wants to crack. At least, that’s how I feel during the second half of a marathon, one of life’s greatest mental games, as I experienced during the 2014 Paris Marathon.
Can you do this? Do you really want to? Are you crazy? Why are you so crazy? It’s just running! You could be eating a buttery croissant right now. Six more miles. And that 0.2. Six miles plus 0.2 miles equals what feels like 10 more miles! Your pace is slowing by 30 seconds. Your pace is slowing by 45 seconds. One minute behind. People are passing you. Why are you letting them? You’re failing. Big time. You’re losing the game. Stop!
Stop.
Tu es une compétitive.
An older man in a red shirt and black three-quarter length leggings appeared next to me. I glanced at him, and he flashed a wide smile.
“How?” I thought, slightly envious.
Holding up his thumbs as he ran by spectators cheering in French, he appeared to be really enjoying himself, as though celebrating something grand-I guess they call it joie de vivre.
I thought he was going to pass me. “Get away,” I thought. I didn’t want a sidekick. I needed to get through this torment alone. But Harvey remained, his feet echoing my cadence for a couple of minutes. Then he sped up. He was maybe 10 feet in front of me when he glanced back and winked. I don’t like being teased. So I attempted to bridge the gap. I’m young and agile. Shouldn’t I be able to hang with an old man?
What unfolded reminded me of a scene from “Alice in Wonderland”, when Alice runs feverishly through a maze while being chased by The Playing Cards — a whirlwind of speed and frenzied hunting.
I dodge left, then right, around multiple runners until I see Harvey’s white hair an arm’s length away. I smiled as I passed him. Two can play this game, Harvey. I was ready to push the metronome a little faster.
And just like that, I felt like something snapped. Waves of adrenaline electrified my veins.
Tu as vraiment un super rythme et un super niveau.
A few miles earlier, at mile 17, the Pont de l’Alma road tunnel, infamous for Princess Diana’s car crash. It was loud and dark. A strobe light pulsed and electronic pop music blared, seeming like a weird rave as I ran through. I spotted a red shirt in front to my right. Wtf. My nemesis had surpassed me. I dodged left. My feet then bounced off the ground as if on fire. I was fire.
I emerged into the light, smiling. “Take that, Harvey!”, I thought. I glanced back. But he wasn’t there. I scanned runners around me. No red shirt to my sides or in front. I looked behind me again. “Come back, Harvey. I didn’t mean it!,” I thought.
I was on the cusp of a personal record. I realized I actually needed his push to get there. I hadn’t run a marathon in three years. The desire had dissolved after I finished the New York City Marathon in 2011. I hadn’t been emotionally awake, and suddenly I was reconnecting with a deeply committed relationship I’d maintained for half of my life.
Stress had eaten away at my passion, ambitions and self confidence. At the time, I was in the midst of recalibrating after an immense transition: a new city, new job, new apartment, new friends. New life. It would make sense to find comfort in a familiar pursuit. Ironically, running was the last thing I wanted to do after my mother passed away three months before I moved to New York. Rather than something that brought me joy, running felt like a chore to cross off a list of things to do at the end of the day. Routine night runs around Central Park left me in a pool of thoughts about being robbed of a mother and wondering if I had what it took to stay afloat in New York.
So why did I come 3,500 miles to Paris three years later? Because it’s Paris. Because I was curious. Because I wanted and needed a push.
And then Harvey appeared next to me, as if he fell from the sky. He winked, and we kept going, stride for stride for stride, working our way through a sea of runners. Pain wrapped my body, and I regretted not eating more than leftover cold boiled potatoes for breakfast.
Harvey and I never introduced ourselves throughout the course of the run. We didn’t even speak to each other once. We just ran. And ran, and ran, a push-pull language with our feet.
I don’t recall the moment when I’d actually lost him. It was somewhere during the last mile and a half. In a way, I felt like I’d shed something indescribable from the last three years as I ran toward the finish. I felt really excited to run, like it was something enchanting and beautiful and pure that made me whole. I ran 3 hours and 30 minutes, a personal best by seven minutes, and requalified for the Boston Marathon.
Harvey represented my inner self. During the last few miles, he’d brought out a genuine passion in me that had been dormant due to challenging life circumstances. I wanted to thank him for pushing me during a time I needed it. But I didn’t know anything about him. I didn’t even know his name. How could I possibly find him? I left Paris wondering.
A couple of weeks ago, more than two years after I ran the Paris Marathon, I received a random email. In French. It was from a man named Hervé Ducroquet, but he refers to himself as “Harvey”.
He is a real estate expert for a notary and lives in Lille, about 125 miles north of Paris. Harvey had looked up my name based on my bib number (admittedly, I’d done the same, without luck). He told me he had searched for my name on the Internet and that’s how he came across my website, by which he sent a message:
Bonjour. J’espère que tu vas bien. Je suis Harvey. J’ai fit le marathon de Paris avec toi en 2014. Nous avons courru 24 kms ensemble t’au 40 kms tu m’as salué. Tu as vraiment un super rythme et un super niveau. Tu es une compétitive.
“Hello. I hope you are well. I am Harvey. I ran the Paris Marathon with you in 2014. We raced together from 24 km to 40 km. You welcomed me. You’ve got a great rhythm and a great level. You are competitive. “
Harvey doesn’t speak English. My French is questionable, but we mutually understand the language of running and competition. I responded in English:
It’s such a lovely surprise to hear from you! I’ve never stopped thinking about the Paris Marathon and how much you helped me to run so well. For the past two years, I’ve wanted to thank you, thank you, thank you.
To which he replied in French:
Quand reviens-tu en Europe pour un autre marathon?
When will you be back in Europe for another marathon?
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