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.