Paris Marathon
The winter clouds had cleared, and the sun cast its warm, golden rays upon all that God had created on earth to dry up the water that had flowed through the city streets during an unusually cold winter. Flowers bloomed and birds chirped, heralding the arrival of spring with the colors of its plants and blossoms, the blue of its sky, and the warmth of its days—and the time had come for my trip to Paris. It was still cold in early April in the City of Light. The plane touched down on the runway as I looked out my small window and wondered: Will I be able to cover the forty-two kilometers? Will I be able to make it? Marathon Paris, Can I finish it? I wondered what that day would be like. My heart began to race, but I ignored it, gathered my belongings, and left the plane and the airport, heading to my place of residence.
The next morning, I went out to explore the race route. I was trying to find something that would make me feel at home there, in the hope that it might calm my nerves. The day passed quickly, darkness fell, and the streetlights and cafés of Paris illuminated its beautiful streets. I prayed to God to make things easy, then I excused myself and returned to the hotel to get some sleep in preparation for the busy day ahead the next morning.
I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to the ringing of my room phone; I had asked the front desk clerk the night before to wake me up at that time. I got out of bed and saw my clothes and shoes, which I had laid out on the couch the night before in preparation for the race. I opened my room curtain and looked out; night still enveloped the area, and silence reigned over the city. The streets were completely devoid of any signs of life. I smiled when it occurred to me that in just a few hours, they would be teeming with thousands of runners, and I would be one of them. A shiver ran down my spine, born of a mixed feeling of fear, happiness, and pride that I was going to run. Race Marathon, I closed my app and headed to the restroom. I washed my face, looked in the mirror, and told myself, “You can do this. You’re strong enough to conquer an extra ten kilometers beyond the farthest distance you’ve ever run. You’ll do it, and you’ll join the ranks of marathon runners—fewer than one percent of the world’s population.” I felt a sense of confidence wash over me. I got up and started gathering what I needed into a small bag given to every race participant. I picked it up and left the room.
The taxi driver was waiting for me at the hotel entrance. I got in the car and we headed to the Champs-Élysées, where the race was set to begin. I hadn’t expected to see so many participants; the crowd was huge and the atmosphere was incredibly festive, with music filling the air. Athletes from nearly every country in the world were getting ready and warming up in preparation for the race. I took some photos and began warming up with them. Once again, I felt confidence filling every part of me, and soon an announcement was made that participants should head to the starting line to get ready for the race.
Race
A few minutes later, the starting gun went off. The Paris Marathon had begun, and I was one of the runners taking part. I enjoyed every moment of that race; I savored the beauty and elegance of the streets of Paris—or “La Ville Lumière,” as the French like to call it—with the beauty of its buildings and the flowers on its balconies. It was a smooth, easy, and largely beautiful race, and on the few occasions when I felt tired, I distracted myself from thinking about it by encouraging myself, saying, “You’re doing a great job today, Ola,” “Well done! You can do this and achieve a good time, too,” and remember that you’re not just representing yourself, but all Arab women—no, all the women of the world.” Even when the fatigue set in a bit past the 30-kilometer mark, I reminded myself: “We’ve finished three-quarters of the distance; only a quarter remains. It’s not impossible, nor is it even difficult.” It’s us who make it seem difficult—we’ve planted the idea in our minds that it’s hard—and it’s also us who make it easy if we convince ourselves that it’s achievable and resolve to accomplish it as it should be accomplished. I finished the race in four hours and thirty-five minutes, I was overjoyed—I had become a marathon runner! I was filled with pride and enthusiasm; here was yet another Arab woman joining the ranks of female marathon runners. I exchanged congratulations with the other runners and went out with my friends that evening for dinner. It was a truly festive night.
Our heroine, Ola, did a fantastic job at the Paris Marathon, but I wonder how the London Marathon will go. Tune in on Wednesday at 1:00 p.m. for the final installment of our heroine Ola Asaad’s running story.
Read more on Run The story of A Historic Day
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