26 miles, 20 glasses of wine: What it’s like to run the world’s booziest … – The Telegraph
The very first marathon runner, the Ancient Greek Pheidippides, raced 26 miles to Athens to bring news of victory against the Persians – and promptly dropped dead on arrival. By all accounts, he was sober. So it was with some trepidation that I put my name down for the Marathon des Châteaux du Médoc, a long-distance event in south-west France that takes an unorthodox approach to hydration.
Instead of power drinks and energy bars, participants are encouraged to sample at least 20 glasses of claret in 30C heat, while gorging on croissants, cheese, oysters and steak – in compulsory fancy dress. No one has ever died attempting the Médoc, but there’s always a first time.
Five months later, as I stood at the starting line on a sunny September morning, having failed miserably to either lose weight or train adequately, it occurred to me that there really are easier ways to have a midlife crisis.
Clowns to the left of me, Batman and Joker to the right (yes, really), I was stuck in the middle of 22 fellow Wonder Women seriously regretting the boozy carbo-loading meal in nearby Bordeaux the night before. I wasn’t the only one. The streets and cafés in the pretty town of Pauillac, where, until the pandemic, the marathon has taken place every September since 1985, were packed with participants looking decidedly green around the gills – and not just the inflatable sharks doing calf stretches behind us.
Some runners were passing around Imodium and Alka Seltzer, while others had opted for a more civilised approach: a family of German Flintstones sitting at a roadside café washed down their hearty breakfast with pints of beer. By 8.30am they had ordered a second round.
The mood was upbeat, a band was playing, people were dancing, and the carnival atmosphere was enhanced by the trapeze artists dangling from a crane above us and fireworks lighting up the river path – although what these had to do with this year’s theme, “Medoc at the Movies”, was anyone’s guess. No one seemed to be taking themselves or the event itself too seriously.
The race is as much a celebration of the region’s fine wines and local delicacies as it is a sporting event. Many of the 8,000 participants may have been experienced marathon runners (not me; until a month earlier, the furthest I’d ever run was 10K), but they weren’t there to beat their Personal Best – with dégustation stops every couple of miles, what on earth would be the point?
By the time the compère began her countdown, most of the runners seemed to have forgotten that this was a race at all, rather than a street party. Then suddenly, to cries of, “Allez! Allez! Allez!” we were off. At first slowly, dodging the hairy Smurfs in G-strings – and then picking up the pace as we headed out of town.
We soon found ourselves among the vines. The marathon course winds in a figure-of-eight shape, heading southwards out of Pauillac, looping back midway, and then turning northwards before finishing right where it started. Along the way it takes in plenty of Bordeaux’s finest wineries, including household names such as Château Lafite-Rothschild and Château Montrose.
The route was lined with well-wishers; children dressed as superheroes, local residents spraying runners with garden hoses, and families tucking into picnics, urging us on with cries of: “Courage!”
Veteran Médocer Val – who carried a half-pint beaker on a ribbon around her neck “to save going back for more” – recommended that, given the marathon’s six-and-a-half-hour cut-off point (policed by a “Sweeper Cart” packed with brooms and, for some unknown reason, pushed by clowns in top hats), we should take our time.
If we aimed to complete the course in exactly 6 hours 29 minutes, we would be able to sample the wine at all 20 châteaux en route and still reach the finish line fast enough to receive a medal. You couldn’t walk it, but the pace shouldn’t be too arduous, she said.
She lied.
It had started so well. We were filled with confidence after reaching the immaculate lawns and fairytale turrets of Château Pichon-Longueville Comtesse de Lalande, three miles into the race, well ahead of time, despite sampling wine, pain au chocolat and several handfuls of cheesy biscuits along the first stretch of road. Seven miles later, we were more than a little drunk and completely unfazed when an elderly Bride of Dracula and a six-foot pirate ship overtook us.
The plan began to unravel at the stately Château Larose-Trintaudon. Lingering to take turns drinking straight from the tap of a wooden wine barrel, the honks of a comedy bicycle horn jolted us out of our complacency – the dreaded Sweeper Cart had caught us up. We fled in panic out of the gates – and collided with a tipsy tyrannosaurus rex.
The next 10 miles were more of a grab-and-go affair than a leisurely wine sampling experience. Three of our number had to call it a day at the halfway mark. By then the blistering heat had begun to take its toll and our polyester outfits were chafing. David had to stop repeatedly to dry off his enormous false boobs on the vines. The roads were littered with discarded shirts, wigs, beards and gladiator shields. Half of the male participants were now running in their pants.
“It’s more bumwatch than Baywatch,” winced Rebecca, as a group of red speedo-clad Frenchmen shimmied past. A runaway bride collapsed. Many people were throwing up. And some simply vanished into the vineyards, never to return. At Château Lafite Rothchild, six hairy Marilyn Monroes and the entire Jamaican Bobsleigh team stripped off and leapt into the lake.
But joining them wasn’t an option. With the Sweeper at our heels, there was little time to take in the spectacular scenery, dance to the bands or pose in feather boas on the red carpet at Châteaux Haut-Marbuzet. I began to doubt whether I would make it to the finish line at all. Sprinting past, a German dalmatian helpfully informed me that my exhaustion was entirely in my head. I was more concerned about the enormous blisters on my feet.
Then, at last, we rounded a corner and the magnificent Château Montrose rose into view, framed by the bright blue waters of the Gironde estuary. The final four-mile stretch along the water passed in a glorious blur of music, oysters, white wine and entrêcote (served straight into my palm by an insistent trouserless smurf).
But it was the burst of glucose from the ice creams that carried us, limping, across the finish line. And finally, the booziest, most bonkers marathon on earth was over.
And the prize for managing not to drop dead on arrival? A souvenir bottle of wine.
The next Marathon des Châteaux du Médoc takes place on September 2, 2023. Registration opens in March 2023 and costs €96 (£83); marathondumedoc.com. Accommodation and transfer packages are available from the official travel agent Tutti Quanti (marathon@agencetuttiquanti.com)