How my excruciating injury at the Paris Marathon allowed me to truly behold the beauty of the city

Despite the booming pop music meant to rev up everyone’s energy, I’m exceedingly nervous as the 2019 Paris Marathon begins. The immense crowd — an estimated 60,000 entrants come for this race — inches toward the starting line, and then we all burst out, ready to run through the most beautiful city in the world for 42.2 kilometres.

The route kicks off in the shadows of the Arc de Triomphe, winds along the Champs-Élysées, circles through the Place de la Concorde and passes by the Tuileries Gardens, all within the first few kilometres — but I’m not paying attention to any of that. Instead, I’m too busy focusing on my own feet, which is poor execution.

The reason I signed up for the Paris Marathon was to look at something other than my busted Nikes. So, as I pass the Palais Garnier, I vow I won’t spend the rest of the race with my eyes down, and make a point of soaking in the architecture around me.

My joy is short-lived. A man in front of me waves and points down, but before I can work out his warning, it’s too late — I trip over a road divider and feel my ankle snap. With tears in my eyes, I see I’ve only reached the “Mile Two” marker (slightly over 3 kilometres).

Realizing my severe sprain, I decide I have to quit, find the nearest Metro and try to track down my parents near the starting line I just left — or shuffle back to our apartment and wait for them to realize I’ve failed.

I contemplate my two bad options while a third pops into my head: I could finish the race. Yes, it would be excruciating, but my ankle was going to hurt no matter what. Why not get a medal for my pain and tour the city before flying home to Chicago?

I originally had my heart set on a personal record, but that dream falls by the wayside as my new goal — just finishing, somehow — takes over. Each step tests my persistence, and the cheering spectators begin to thin as we approach the Bois de Vincennes, once royal hunting grounds and now a sprawling 995-hectare haven.

Without encouraging crowds, I again consider giving up as soon as I can reach a Metro station, until I glimpse a better sight in the middle of the park: the Château de Vincennes, a hulking medieval castle I didn’t even know was there. While others speed on, I stop and stare. This is what I’d come to Paris for, and I take a moment to stand in wonder.

Leaving the park, I realize my new goal of just finishing the race within the six-hour limit is slipping away. I hobble along the glittering Seine River as race officials take down signage and anything that indicates a marathon is happening at all.

It’s depressing yet freeing: No longer feeling pressure to finish at any specific time, I stop for photos, make small talk with spectators and keep going, ignoring the Parisian police yelling at me to get off the road and onto the sidewalk.

The Paris Marathon dramatically sidles up to the most famous sight in the city, the Eiffel Tower, before turning into the lush Bois de Boulogne. There, I meet two other injured runners, and we spend our last five kilometres slowly jogging together, talking about how much pain we’re in — but also how lucky we are to experience this pain in Paris of all places.

We reach the finish line as volunteers are taking it down.

The race ends by the most apt monument in Paris for something as laborious as a marathon, the Arc de Triomphe. Napoleon commissioned the arch to be built in 1806 to celebrate the achievements of the French army, and as I stand beneath it, I’m overcome with emotion.

“You did it!” my mom says after my parents spot me, now barely able to walk. I look up at the Arc de Triomphe, a landmark that has taken on a more significant meaning in the nearly seven hours since I started out that morning.

I finished the race without an official time, without fanfare and almost without a medal (they’d nearly run out of stock). But I leave Paris with something more important than any of that: the memories of seeing a dream city at my own pace, despite the roadblock that slowed but couldn’t stop me.

The Star understands the restrictions on travel during the coronavirus pandemic. But like you, we dream of travelling again, and we’re publishing this story with future trips in mind.