Every Friday night,
weather permitting, up to 28,000 Parisiens do the
Pari Roller, the world’s largest mass
street-skate. The roads are cleared of cars, taxis
turn off their engines and partygoers lean from
balconies to whoop and cheer.
The event grew in the mid-90s. A hard core of
skaters took to the streets to enjoy their sport.
More people joined in after a transport strike in
1995 and from several dozen the numbers grew into
hundreds. The first proper, police-sanctioned
Friday-night event took place in 1997.
Now the chief organiser, Boris Belohlavek, a
32-year-old computer engineer, liaises with the
authorities and organises a different 30km
(19-mile) route each week. Police on in-line
skates and motorbikes, two ambulances and about 70
Pari Roller volunteers administer the event
supremely well, skating ahead to block off roads,
holding back traffic, making sure participants
don’t go on the pavements, and keeping the group
together.
Organisers at the front are called
lìèvres (hares), those at the back,
tortues (tortoises). The speediest
participants at the front are not allowed ahead of
the lièvres, while those in danger of
dropping behind the tortues at the back are
politely but firmly asked to quit. It’s definitely
not for beginners — being able to skate fast,
brake quickly and avoid others is essential.
The start is always in front of Montparnasse
station at 10pm. I turned up looking forward to an
unusual and novel way of seeing Paris by night. My
jangling nerves — it’s been three years since I
was last on skates — were not helped by the large
number of scruffily trendy youths who surrounded
me, doing impressive turns and spins, travelling
backwards on one foot, some with cigarette
clinging to bottom lip and personal stereo clamped
on ears.
With no obvious signal we set off, achieving a
cracking pace straight away, up the aptly named
Rue du Départ, turning into the middle of Rue de
Rennes and then right on to the Boulevard St
Germain.
The pace was quick and I put much effort into
reaching a speedy but steady rhythm. Still, lots
of people seemed to be overtaking me. Many young
couples skated hand-in-hand, gazing dreamily at
each other. Groups of friends chatted and put the
world to rights. “You let your girlfriend walk all
over you,” said one twentysomething to another as
they glided by. “You know, you really should . .
.” Then they were gone and my efforts to keep up
in order to hear the next instalment of their soap
opera were in vain.
We passed over cobbled streets which jarred
parts that really shouldn’t be jarred, then
crossed the Seine on the Pont St Michel. Notre
Dame was beautifully illuminated away to our right
but there was no time to stop and stare as we left
the Île de la Cité over the Pont au Change,
skirting between the 1st and 4th
arrondissements and up the Boulevard de
Sebastopol towards the Gare de l’Est.
The adrenalin rush and sheer buzz of being in
the middle of thousands of people skating through
the traffic-free Parisian streets at night was
immense, but other emotions and feelings were
coming into play too, not least tiredness. The
fact that people skated by at high speed was
unnerving, although I was surprised by the
complete lack of pushing and shoving.
Near the Gare du Nord we starting climbing
uphill along the Boulevard de Magenta, which was a
long and tiring slog, occasionally stopping to let
those at the rear catch up. Once we started again
I let momentum battle gravity, and after I’d
achieved a steady rhythm the slope seemed more
gentle.
We paused at the top of the Rue Caulincourt, on
the edge of Montmartre cemetery having looped
around Sacre Coeur. I was towards the back, close
enough to hear the dire warnings from one of the
organisers that we were about to go down a steep
hill and any skaters who were not confident of
their abilities should drop out now.
I never got chance to consider the possibility
because the crowd was on the move.
Like the awful moment on a rollercoaster when
you reach the highest point and the clank of the
chain that brought you there goes quiet, so too we
halted momentarily one last time before plunging
towards the Boulevard de Clichy. As one huge
amorphous mass we shot downhill at around 40km/h,
the momentum eventually sweeping us through the
Place de l’Opéra and into the sanctuary of the
Place Vendôme, where we had a 20-minute break.
I was now pooped and spent much of the rest of
the trip well within earshot of the sound of the
tortues exhorting those who were lagging to
“push, push, push!” in not altogether sympathetic
tones. We headed south, crossing over the Champs
Elysées and back over the Seine on the Pont de
l’Alma. My spirits lifted at the sight of the
Eiffel Tower, whose light seemed to be a source of
strength as we entered the final miles.
It still felt as if we had a good while to go
but I looked up and saw the Tour Montparnasse
shining like a beacon of hope, illuminating the
way home. I was tired and I could have cried —
more elation than exhaustion and I was now very
much among those being chivvied by the
tortues. One of them skated up to me.
“We’re opening the streets back up to traffic now;
you’ll have to go on the pavement.” No way, I
thought: only another 200 metres to go. I’d
started on the road, I’d finish on the road. I
found a reserve of strength and pushed on,
reaching the front of Montparnasse station at
half-past midnight, two and a half hours after
setting off.
Out of 3,000 participants, I was among the last
to arrive. A fitting position, I reflected in the
nearby Bar Atlantique afterwards over a well
earned beer, for one of life’s
potterers.