A Marathon to End All Marathons--Running Around the World

He’s on the short side--5 feet 8 or 9--and skinny as a stalk of celery. His legs, though, even in repose, are as uncompromising as forged steel, in stark contrast to a soft smile that could--did--charm a Chinese border guard.

He’s Djamel Balhi and he’s running around the world.

Djamel jogged into Los Angeles this week, carrying an 11-pound pack on his back and 1,001 tales in his head. The 25-year-old Parisian left home May 23, 1987--alone, save the occasional company of a friend for an hour or two, possibly a day, usually on a bike. With no visas, little money (“the world on $8 a day”), armed only with limitless curiosity and a ready wit, Djamel has run through Europe, Asia Minor, the Middle East (a sprint between bullets in Iraq; a brush with Kurdistan rebels), India, the Himalayas, China, Japan and points between. Now comes the U.S. (he ran San Francisco-Los Angeles in 12 days), Canada, Paris in July.

Putting Djamel’s jaunt in perspective, the average marathoner (26-plus miles) considers it just short of insanity to compete more than once every two to three months. Not counting one leisure day in 12, Djamel averages 42 miles a day!

Over breakfast at Ma Maison/Sofitel, Djamel fielded questions. On sleep: “I stay at hostels, in jails, monasteries, beaches, two nights on the Great Wall; outdoors, the best place is the median between lanes on a highway”; on food: “I adjust to whatever the country offers, but it’s hard sometimes to find water”; on danger: “Nobody robs someone in red shorts”; on problems: “Stomach cramps one day in Turkey, that’s it. Oh, and I was arrested in China--for spitting!” And what has he learned? “I can say ‘To be or not to be’ in 18 languages.”

Djamel accepted a city certificate signed by Mayor Bradley, drank enough Ma Maison water to crowd a camel, and exit, running.

Wanted: A Male Canary Cage?

In the end, the ad was irresistible:

“LARGE BROWN BLANKET,” it read, “will exchange for male canary cage.” Then a telephone number.

On the other end of the line: Patricia Bradley of Woodland Hills.

“About that ad in the local Pennysaver. . . .”

“You want a blanket?”

“Not really; I just wanted to know why you need a. . . .”

“I want a canary for my friend. She’s 84. Keep her company.”

“Yes, but a male. . . .”

“Only ones that sing, males. I used to breed them. Had 12 females and one male. Melchior. No, not for the Wise Man, for the singer. You’re too young to remember.”

“Why do only males sing?”

“Search me. I guess it’s because they don’t have to lay the eggs. You sure you don’t want a brown blanket? Brand-new. I was going to throw in an afghan I knit, but I gave it away last night. Nearly froze at the bus stop. A man gave me a lift. I gave him the afghan.”

“Good for you. But what I really wanted to know was: What’s a male canary cage.”

“That?” Bradley said. “They just left out the comma between ‘canary’ and ‘cage.’ ”

Oh.