This past week I received a note from my good friend John Cobley with a few pages of translation he has been working on of late. John recently wrapped up his blog Racingpast.ca, but I think it can still be seen online. For a hobby he translates Russian poetry, but lately has been working on translating the autobiography of Jules Ladoumegue, the former French middle distance hero of the Republique.
After John's translation I've included a link to a story we did about five years on the same subject. It began with John's challenge to identify the picture above, and how through my friends and contacts was able to solve the riddle. Hope you enjoy. George Brose
Paris Parade of over 300,000 Celebrates a Runner
by John Cobley
Parades across the world are often military, the Russian May Day Parade for example.
But there are many other types of parade—processions of people along a road that
celebrate historical events (the end of World War 2) or promote groups of society (the
Brazilian Rio Carnival Parade). And of course there is always a Parade of Nations to
open the Olympic Games.
A unique parade was held in Paris, France, on November 11, 1935. It was organized by
the newspaper Paris-Soir to pay homage to a runner who had been banned for life some
four years previously. Jules Ladoumègue had captured the hearts of his nation when he
had broken six world records and won an Olympic silver medal. A very sensitive and
modest man, “Julot” nevertheless appealed to the French, who were still recovering from
German occupation in World War 1. He also appealed to the public with his elegant
running style.
In the days before November 11, Paris-Soir promoted this parade: “All the champions,
all the stars, all the sportsmen will march in procession tomorrow for Ladoumègue. At
10:15 the great French champion will run the Paris route from Porte Maillot to the
Concorde. This 3K route will include the length of the famous Champs Elysées.”
Due to the effective promotion of this parade—and of course thanks to “Julot’s”
popularity--the event was hugely successful. The turnout was estimated to be between
300,000 and 400,000. Paris-Soir estimated the higher figure. And although carefully
organized, the parade became so chaotic that Ladoumègue, as he described later in his
book Dans ma foulée, was barely able to complete the course.
Below is the passage recounting his experience. He managed to run fast and show off the
famous style, despite the difficulties he had in completing the 3K course. He describes
the exhaust he had to breathe in, and the chaos of people, and bicycles and vehicles. “My
run was acrobatic,” he writes.
From Jules Ladomègue, Dans ma foulée (1953), pp. 173-5
On November 11, 1935, I had to perform the most beautiful run of my life. I say
beautiful because I ran it in the heart of France. Gaston Bénac took a chance on that day
to achieve the greatest public athletic success. Paris-Soir undertook the organization; the
press adopted the project with a touching solidarity. Parisians were invited to come and
demonstrate against the bias in the Federation [the Federation that had banned
Ladoumègue for life] and to express their sympathy for me.
Charles Poulenard, one of those who didn’t accept my disappearance [from
international athletics] easily, came to find me at 08:00. I had to be at Porte Maillot at
09:00, but I couldn’t make it till 09:30. I was hidden under a blanket in Georges
Carpentier’s vehicle. He couldn’t clear a path because of his own celebrity status—and
also because from the Place de Concorde to the Porte Maillot, a distance of about 3K,
There were 300,000 people. From time to time I risked a peep and then covered myself
again in fear. We finally arrived at the rendez-vous.
There was a great shout! The orderly process, although extremely important was
overwhelmed, and the vehicle invaded. Berretrot, with a loudspeaker that resembled a
pavilion of phonographs, was trying out his legendary voice. The news correspondents
were working with their sleeves rolled up. Actors, sportsmen, and all the Parisian
celebrities were at Porte Maillot. By chance I caught glimpses of Préjean, Biscot, Koval,
Blanchar, Fresnay, Chiron, Pladner, Tarin, Détroyat, F. Pélissier, Liénart, Chevalier.
Maurice Chevalier was the starter. He arrived at last with clusters of people clinging to
his vehicle.
He raised his green felt hat and then lowered it.
I started fast, although I didn’t have to, and I had to find a path between crowds of
vehicles, motorcycles and bicycles.
The public wanted to touch me, or at least see me. They got in my way. Vehicles
were impeded and had to stop and start. The Prefect of Police in his covered vehicle,
resembled the captain of a navy in distress. His authority and dignity left a glimmer of
hope in the procession.
La Place d’Étoile. I was getting used to the horns, trumpets, whistles and bravos.
Behind the Prefect, Gaston Bénac had finally joined in. The motorcycle agents were
clearing a 5m space in front of me. To my right and left the Veloclub de Levallois
surrounded me in formation. Along the Champs Elysées I passed the Fouquet at 25KPH.
It seemed I was holding the steering wheel of my own vehicle. My run was sometimes
acrobatic.
Everywhere there were shouts and shouts and words so genteel and human.
Flowers were thrown in front of me, filling me with their perfume before they were
crushed on the road. I would have liked to embrace everyone. And I was running,
running. Leduc and Lapébie directed me. I couldn’t see anything. Lapébie fell, knocked
over by a vehicle. It wasn’t serious. He quickly caught up, smiling in response to my
concerned look.
Turning point at the Champs-Elyssées! Still a kilometer to go. I saw the fountains
weeping their water under the pale sunrays. In all this excitement, I began to suffer as I
was continuously entering a hellish trail of exhaust fumes. It was a long run for me, this
3K. I kept my form. I wanted everyone to see my running style vividly; it was the only
gift I had to offer them.
Lifted by this public affection that also numbed my suffering, I was going to
complete my marathon. Others have done it before me, but am I not there for the last
time?
It’s terrible to suffer so close to crowds of people. I resembled a patient
surrounded by visitors. It’s also very hard to smile when you are at the end of your tether.
I heard people in the caravan talking among themselves. I heard “Concorde” as if it were
a metro or bus station. It was then that I heard the mounting clamour. With what little
clarity I had left, I considered myself happy! 200,000 people were pronouncing my name.
I was in such communion with them that I was also saying my name. Today my name
belongs to the street, not to me. I turned to the left, to the right and then once more to the
left. Before me was the great portal of the Tuilleries. My runner’s heart stopped as the
hands of a clock are stopped when its owner dies. Choking, inspired, the course left me
there!
Paris, your streets have shown me vividly the love of your people. Not being a
painter or a musician, I can only inscribe my little story on the ground. And of course it
will disappear.
I returned home protected by the police. Still enclosed in my dream world, I was
hardly talking. In my bath I surveyed on my body the marks left by the affection and
excitement of the public. There were even bites. I considered them medals, and I recalled
the agent who had lifted me up after plucking me from the grips of the crowd. I also
remembered Marcel Thil, my bodyguard, who had lifted me into his red Amilcar
automobile like a gangster stealing his loot. I saw Maurice Chevalier, a prisoner in the
Concorde, make his way singing
"He has such tiny footsie-wootsies
Ladoumègue…"
And Carpentier, whom I met for dinner. Everyone was tidying up their clothes
and maintaining their enthusiasm. That was great!
Names
Georges Carpentier, French world-champion boxer
Maurice Chevalier, world-famous French singer and actor
Gaston Bénac, leading French sports journalist
Charles Poulenard, French sprinter and coach of Ladoumègue
Here is the link to our earlier piece on this event.
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