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Médoc Marathon Celebrates Birthday Number 20 In Style
- By Marianne Lucchesi Hamilton
- Published 01/1/2001
- Beyond California
By Marianne Lucchesi Hamilton
Photos Douglas Hamilton
You have to admire the French. For the past 20 years, they’ve seen fit to stage what may be the most spectacularly surreal combination of athletic achievement and functioning alcoholism known to humankind. The irony of this appealed greatly to my husband and me.
Doug (my husband) and I like wine. A lot. A collection of all manner of “hard” liquors sits, dust-covered and moldering, in our kitchen cabinet. But full wine bottles seem to disappear from our rack with remarkable frequency.
At the same time, we’re both addicted to exercise and staying fit. Now, as we’re both settling into our 50s, this juxtaposition presents some intriguing challenges. On rare occasions, the two activities actually intersect. Which is how we found ourselves at the starting line of the Médoc Marathon on September 11th, in the Bordeaux region of France.
Our racewalking coaches had casually mentioned the race well over a year ago. According to their description, during this event runners and walkers not only complete a full marathon; the course takes participants past (and frequently through) the vineyards and chateaux of 59 of Pauillac’s most revered winemakers (think Château Lafite-Rothschild, Château Lynch-Bages, Château Latour, et al.). And, our coaches added, during the race we would actually have the chance to taste these wines.
Hearing the words “winetasting” and “racing” in the same sentence immediately caught our attention (where wine is concerned, we are nothing if not quick on the uptake). Surely, we felt, this event had our names written all over it . . . even more so when we learned that (for obvious reasons) Le Marathon des Châteaux du Médoc has also been dubbed “the world’s longest marathon.”
The One to Go For
But upon trying to register for the race, we quickly discovered that it’s no easy feat: Each year, nearly 10,000 international applicants are turned away. The field is limited to approximately 8,000 athletes (so as not to unduly tax the surrounding hotels and restaurants in the Bordeaux region), and only 2,000 non-French runners and walkers are allowed to participate.
Fortunately, Boston-based Marathon Tours & Travel, organizers of “destination marathons” all over the globe, has the inside track on getting American athletes into Médoc. MT&T owner Thom Gilligan and his company host 100 runners, walkers, and serious oenophiles in France each year.
Although Marathon Tours regularly delivers racers to events in such exotic locales as Antarctica, Barcelona, Reykjavik, and Tibet, Gilligan says the blowout in Bordeaux is the one competition he personally never misses. “The Médoc Marathon is absolutely not to be believed,” he laughs. “It is ‘theater of the absurd’ at its finest, and as only the French can do it. As long as my company remains in business, this is the race I will always be a part of.”
Given his 30-plus years in the travel business, that’s high praise from Gilligan. Thus, Doug and I needed little coaxing to fork over the deposit required to secure our spots.
At the Training Table
Writing that check sparked a flurry of “training” for us. Feeling compelled to be able to distinguish a Bordeaux from a Burgundy, and a Rhone from a Rosé, we registered for winetasting classes at The French Cellar in Los Gatos, California, where we live. Doug ordered French Wine for Dummies from Amazon.com; I clicked my way to the delivery of a series of conversational French CDs.
Oh, yes – at some point we actually realized there were those pesky 26.2 miles to get through. Now, this is not unfamiliar territory for either one of us. Although (due to mutual neck injuries and surgeries) we are both recovering-runners-turned-racewalkers, neither of us has shied away from long-distance events. Before Médoc Doug had completed five marathons; I had slogged through six.
Still, the concept of racewalking while drinking wine was one I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around. On their own, I could perform either activity quite admirably, thank you. Together . . . the mind boggled. But, like Scarlett O’Hara, I figured I’d worry about that another day.
And so our athletic training increased … just as our recycling bin began to feature labels only my new Berlitz CDs could help me pronounce. I (a confirmed white wine drinker) discovered that a vast world exists beyond my favored big, buttery California Chardonnays.
In short order, I developed a keen appreciation for the more delicate, crisper shadings of the white Bordeaux, with their heritage of Sauvignon Blanc and Sémillon grapes. For Doug’s part, the Grand Cru Classé and second-growth reds definitely pleased his palate. It wasn’t exactly the most cost-effective training we’d ever done . . . but it was by far the most enjoyable.
Grand Vins, Grander Spectacle
On the morning of September 11th, Doug and I boarded the bus to Pauillac with our 98 other new friends. Outlandish dress being virtually mandatory at this event, most of us were outfitted in costumes. Doug and I opted for minimal coverage in the heat: He donned light running shorts and a wild t-shirt, while my French maid ensemble promised to keep me cool as well as stylish.
It would be next to impossible to describe the riotous sensual overload that greeted us as we stepped off of the bus. Imagine Mardi Gras crossed with San Francisco’s Bay to Breakers race . . . with a dash of Halloween in that city’s Castro District tossed in for good measure. Multiply it by roughly 300, and you have some idea of the sheer insanity we experienced as we waited for the gun to go off.
High above the enormous throngs of athletes and spectators, a “human mobile” slowly made its way into the air. This multi-leveled structure featured numerous trapeze artists, as well as a team of drummers in toy solider costumes who never missed a beat while suspended from the slim wires. Sirens blared, horns blew, whistles tooted, children and adults yelled and cheered … until the phrase “fever pitch” took on an entirely new meaning.
The fact that it was the 20th anniversary of the marathon, amped up the lunacy factor still further. Runners towing floats of every possible description fought their way through the crowd – birthday cakes were especially popular, as were piles of birthday gifts and towering bottles of Margaux.
Since the weather was already quite toasty (the 9:30 a.m. start-time ensuring that both heat and humidity were to be unavoidable factors in the race), we were amazed to see thousands of runners in elaborate (long-sleeved!) costumes. Everywhere we saw full-length medieval robes and “armor,” furry animal costumes, surgical scrubs, and clerical garb. Surely these crazies were not planning to run (and drink) for several hours under the Gallic sun, dressed like that? Mais oui . . . they were, indeed. And then the gun sounded, and we were off.
Photos Douglas Hamilton
You have to admire the French. For the past 20 years, they’ve seen fit to stage what may be the most spectacularly surreal combination of athletic achievement and functioning alcoholism known to humankind. The irony of this appealed greatly to my husband and me.
Doug (my husband) and I like wine. A lot. A collection of all manner of “hard” liquors sits, dust-covered and moldering, in our kitchen cabinet. But full wine bottles seem to disappear from our rack with remarkable frequency.
At the same time, we’re both addicted to exercise and staying fit. Now, as we’re both settling into our 50s, this juxtaposition presents some intriguing challenges. On rare occasions, the two activities actually intersect. Which is how we found ourselves at the starting line of the Médoc Marathon on September 11th, in the Bordeaux region of France.
Our racewalking coaches had casually mentioned the race well over a year ago. According to their description, during this event runners and walkers not only complete a full marathon; the course takes participants past (and frequently through) the vineyards and chateaux of 59 of Pauillac’s most revered winemakers (think Château Lafite-Rothschild, Château Lynch-Bages, Château Latour, et al.). And, our coaches added, during the race we would actually have the chance to taste these wines.
Hearing the words “winetasting” and “racing” in the same sentence immediately caught our attention (where wine is concerned, we are nothing if not quick on the uptake). Surely, we felt, this event had our names written all over it . . . even more so when we learned that (for obvious reasons) Le Marathon des Châteaux du Médoc has also been dubbed “the world’s longest marathon.”
The One to Go For
But upon trying to register for the race, we quickly discovered that it’s no easy feat: Each year, nearly 10,000 international applicants are turned away. The field is limited to approximately 8,000 athletes (so as not to unduly tax the surrounding hotels and restaurants in the Bordeaux region), and only 2,000 non-French runners and walkers are allowed to participate.
Fortunately, Boston-based Marathon Tours & Travel, organizers of “destination marathons” all over the globe, has the inside track on getting American athletes into Médoc. MT&T owner Thom Gilligan and his company host 100 runners, walkers, and serious oenophiles in France each year.
Although Marathon Tours regularly delivers racers to events in such exotic locales as Antarctica, Barcelona, Reykjavik, and Tibet, Gilligan says the blowout in Bordeaux is the one competition he personally never misses. “The Médoc Marathon is absolutely not to be believed,” he laughs. “It is ‘theater of the absurd’ at its finest, and as only the French can do it. As long as my company remains in business, this is the race I will always be a part of.”
Given his 30-plus years in the travel business, that’s high praise from Gilligan. Thus, Doug and I needed little coaxing to fork over the deposit required to secure our spots.
At the Training Table
Writing that check sparked a flurry of “training” for us. Feeling compelled to be able to distinguish a Bordeaux from a Burgundy, and a Rhone from a Rosé, we registered for winetasting classes at The French Cellar in Los Gatos, California, where we live. Doug ordered French Wine for Dummies from Amazon.com; I clicked my way to the delivery of a series of conversational French CDs.
Oh, yes – at some point we actually realized there were those pesky 26.2 miles to get through. Now, this is not unfamiliar territory for either one of us. Although (due to mutual neck injuries and surgeries) we are both recovering-runners-turned-racewalkers, neither of us has shied away from long-distance events. Before Médoc Doug had completed five marathons; I had slogged through six.
Still, the concept of racewalking while drinking wine was one I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around. On their own, I could perform either activity quite admirably, thank you. Together . . . the mind boggled. But, like Scarlett O’Hara, I figured I’d worry about that another day.
And so our athletic training increased … just as our recycling bin began to feature labels only my new Berlitz CDs could help me pronounce. I (a confirmed white wine drinker) discovered that a vast world exists beyond my favored big, buttery California Chardonnays.
In short order, I developed a keen appreciation for the more delicate, crisper shadings of the white Bordeaux, with their heritage of Sauvignon Blanc and Sémillon grapes. For Doug’s part, the Grand Cru Classé and second-growth reds definitely pleased his palate. It wasn’t exactly the most cost-effective training we’d ever done . . . but it was by far the most enjoyable.
Grand Vins, Grander Spectacle
On the morning of September 11th, Doug and I boarded the bus to Pauillac with our 98 other new friends. Outlandish dress being virtually mandatory at this event, most of us were outfitted in costumes. Doug and I opted for minimal coverage in the heat: He donned light running shorts and a wild t-shirt, while my French maid ensemble promised to keep me cool as well as stylish.
It would be next to impossible to describe the riotous sensual overload that greeted us as we stepped off of the bus. Imagine Mardi Gras crossed with San Francisco’s Bay to Breakers race . . . with a dash of Halloween in that city’s Castro District tossed in for good measure. Multiply it by roughly 300, and you have some idea of the sheer insanity we experienced as we waited for the gun to go off.
High above the enormous throngs of athletes and spectators, a “human mobile” slowly made its way into the air. This multi-leveled structure featured numerous trapeze artists, as well as a team of drummers in toy solider costumes who never missed a beat while suspended from the slim wires. Sirens blared, horns blew, whistles tooted, children and adults yelled and cheered … until the phrase “fever pitch” took on an entirely new meaning.
The fact that it was the 20th anniversary of the marathon, amped up the lunacy factor still further. Runners towing floats of every possible description fought their way through the crowd – birthday cakes were especially popular, as were piles of birthday gifts and towering bottles of Margaux.
Since the weather was already quite toasty (the 9:30 a.m. start-time ensuring that both heat and humidity were to be unavoidable factors in the race), we were amazed to see thousands of runners in elaborate (long-sleeved!) costumes. Everywhere we saw full-length medieval robes and “armor,” furry animal costumes, surgical scrubs, and clerical garb. Surely these crazies were not planning to run (and drink) for several hours under the Gallic sun, dressed like that? Mais oui . . . they were, indeed. And then the gun sounded, and we were off.