A perfect route is the most tedious task a runner arriving in a new place may find themselves alone with. Any number of variables can stand in the way: time of day, energy, weather, blow-dry freshness, busyness, imposter syndrome, inclines, personal caffeination, and hunger (Boulangerie Aixoise for the home straight).

Marseille can be trusted to provide all of them. By abstaining from cigarettes for up to one hour, one can trade them in for the Takeshi’s Castle-style agility course of the touristique 6th Arrondissement, and the inevitable salty embrace of the 7th.

I ponder my route: beginning in Le Plaine and passing its newfound Gen Z inhabitants, a testing hill stride up to Notre Dame Du Mont, and journeying into the winding old money hills and tales of Endoume...

Luckily, most sentences uttered in Marseille begin with where I live, and end with the sea – so the land chooses my path for me. Armed with a 4L hydration vest for a 35 degrees Celsius excursion, and basic conversational French to boot, I threw myself in a desired path towards the huge body of water that makes this city unlike any other.

My favourite part of the act of running has always been the end of it, which is actually the opposite of running. In this case, it happens to be the moment I find myself submerged in the Mediterranean Sea, about 30 metres from the shoreline as the crow flies.