KEY POINTS:
It is one of the biggest prizes in athletics: your body weight in claret.
But it wasn't to be. Some may reckon it was never on for an out-of-shape fatty like me. But I blame the aid stations handing out oysters and Lillets myself.
There are several ways
to see the famous vineyards of Bordeaux and Medoc. You can go by car, bicycle or horse, hot air balloon, boat or even quad bike. Or you can be chased through them by a group of British fairies.
Every year, the world's largest fine wine growing region, which produces more than 800 million bottles of wine annually, stages Le Marathon du Medoc, a 42km fun run which takes in 55 vineyards and passes 50 chateaux. The course goes through famous wine-growing towns like Saint-Estephe, Leyssac, Marbuzet, Beychervelle and Le Pouyalet, home of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild.
"Le Marathon is a resolutely convivial run. It sums up l'esprit du Medoc," said race organiser Jean-Yves Saint-Ceran as we stood at the starting-line in Pauillac beside the Gironde estuary. "On this day, we celebrate health, sport and joie de vivre."
A clown offered me a wine cork to chew on. To keep up my energy levels, he explained. It turns out Les Bouchons de Bordeaux are delicious almond sweets made to look like wine corks.
"You should try and eat three corks a day to keep the cramp away," smiled a passing male French maid.
At least I wasn't offered a baguette and told: "No pain, no gain."
An amazing 8500 marathonians took part in the 2007 event. I limbered up in a sea of cross-dressing viticulturists.
"It's hectare after hectare of hospitality out there. The friendliness is almost unbearable," a gentleman dressed as a prawn told me.
I was surrounded by war paint, stetsons and squaw feathers. The theme of the 23rd Medoc Marathon was "Country and Western". I wasn't sure if I was insured against being rear-ended by Dolly Parton.
"This run is about your taste-buds. Not your lungs and legs," said a big man in a Playboy bunny costume. He seemed to question my staying power. His eyes immediately labelled me as a loser.
"No, it's all about taking on liquid and making friends," winked a large farmerish-looking man dressed in tights and stilettos. He wagged a finger. "But not too much wine."
A health certificate is required to enter, plus a $60 entry fee.
There is a large Red Cross presence for victims of heat-stroke and over-indulgence. I soon discovered why. From start to finish, degustation stations offer not water but local specialities like grenier medocain (flattened paunch of pig) and Bayonne ham. People hold out cheese and ice cream cones.
Whereas most spectators at marathons encourage you with cries of "Keep it up" or "allez, allez", in Medoc they just say "Pate? Pate?"
A roadside sign of cow does not mean you are approaching a cattle grid or crossing. It means, "Warning. Complimentary barbecued entrecote steak ahead washed down with a rather nice rose."
There are 29 wine-tasting stops en route. Local producers have tables by the roadside to tempt you with their wonderful wares. The Cap Ferret oyster stands were my downfall ... and the sponge stations offering the local Lillet fruit liqueur made in Podensac.
Before I got to the Vers St Julien signpost, my face was the colour of merlot and I felt I had aged 20 years.
I started walking a couple of kilometres from the start. Not because of cramp. But because of gout.
Fortunately, I found myself in the slipstream of some Napoleonic soldiers and then a group of fairies from Wiltshire. I remember being passed by a garlic. And a number of obvious fruits.
"In the Medoc Marathon, you are expected to put on weight not lose it," said a bald fairy in pretty pink tutu and matching gossamer wings. He touched my head with his wand and ran on.
I slowed to a pathetic stroll. When you are overtaken by a giant snail, you know your athletics career is over.
It was a pity. My training had gone well. For three months, I had gone to as many cheese and wine parties as I could. I had kilometres of cheese strips under my belt.
Wearing my wide-brimmed cricket hat during the race was a good idea. I was constantly mistaken for a monseigneur and so not jostled or barged too much. People tend to make way for someone who they believe is a high-ranking member of the French clergy.
But, within 4.82km, I had the stride length of Hercule Poirot and had to lie down. Vineyards can be very comfortable.
After a short nap, getting lost for a while and realising I was beaten, I followed the smell of gastronomy back into Pauillac to see school teacher David Antoine win in 2 hours, 27 minutes. He won 80 bottles of wine. Nurse Nathalie Vasseur won the women's title for the seventh time and received 50 kilos of wine.
Rather guiltily, I watched the rest of the field arrive home. Every competitor gets a T-shirt, a knapsack and a handshake from a man dressed as a squirrel. I bumped into the winner and congratulated him on his staggering time.
"Not too staggering," he said, smiling at my red face and the wine stains. Our definitions of a good time were clearly kilometres apart.
Then my fairy godfather appeared and said something in French. I wasn't sure exactly what. It might have been, "Un vignoble effort, mon ami."
MORE INFORMATION
For details of Le Marathon du Medoc see www.marathondumedoc.com
