Tory Shepherd goes on the Marathon du Medoc in Bordeaux, France

Staying hydrated on a long run seems sensible – unless, of course, you are talking 20 wine tastings on a marathon through the Medoc in France.

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About 30km into the marathon, a red wine layback seemed like a good idea. After all, the next course is steak. So I hit the ground, while a laughing man directed a stream of French wine at my upturned face.

This is the Marathon du Medoc in Bordeaux, France. It’s a wine marathon, held every year since 1985. To be clear, it’s a proper 42.195 km-long event that happens to have more than 20 tastings along the way.

The layback was a one-off; most have civilised tables strewn with pre-poured tastings for runners to grab and go.

The route weaves between the chateaux and surrounding villages, where the locals pile out on to the road to offer high fives, water and snacks. There are also pit stops for steak, oysters and ice cream. Oh, and you’re encouraged to wear a costume.

Runners in fancy dress take part in the Marathon du Medoc race. Picture: Denis Doyle/Getty Images

For the minimalists, that might just be a Borat-style mankini (prepare to see a surprising number of bums). Others go all out, creating entire pageant floats to the theme of the year, which was “fun park”. Among those to take it more seriously was a team of Vikings complete with complicated hairdos, historically accurate tattoos (maybe), and a ship. A big ship, on wheels.

Our troupe of Aussies included a Mini Mouse or two, a Steve Irwin, and three of us – Robert and Natalie Watt, and myself – as Wet ‘n’ Wild lifesavers. We went to France with Sydney-based Travelling Fit, who organised transport, accommodation and tickets.

The marathon rituals include a degustation dinner the night before the race.

Runners enjoy wine at a chateau during a food and wine break in the Marathon du Medoc race. Picture: Denis Doyle/Getty Images

The food was unsophisticated but carb-loaded, the wine fine. Towards midnight everyone wandered outside (another glass in hand) for fireworks in the balmy sky.

There is always a winery degustation recovery lunch the day after the race, with a 10km recovery walk.

You can sense the theme here. You have to be both fit and pissfit to do the Marathon du Medoc. Although, you don’t really have to be that fit. I certainly wasn’t. When I signed up I hadn’t run further than 10km in years.

As with most marathons, there’s a time limit – you have to finish in six and a half hours. That means you need to tootle along at about 6.5km/h – a brisk walking pace.

Or you can do what we lifesavers did, start off with a jog (we did about 10km at the start and a few spurts further along). Then you can spend the rest of the time walking at a more leisurely pace, or build a buffer of time to spend at one of the stunning chateaux.

On the morning of the “race” we travelled from Bordeaux to the nearby town of Pauillac to join the riotously coloured crowd at the starting line. About 8500 people jostled for a position, already sweating through their costumes.

The cheers of the bystanders (Allez! Allez! Allez!) were a helpful encouragement.

It’s pretty brutal for anyone who falls behind, though. “Sweepers” – runners with actual brooms – are at the back of the crowd and if they pass you, they rip off your marathon number and you’re out.

Marathon du Medoc, Bordeaux.

It won’t happen to us, we thought. It happened sooner than we expected. Either our calculations were off, or theirs were, or there was some psychological trickery going on, but the sweepers were suddenly upon us with more than 10km to go. We abandoned one of the team, to our shame.

“Save yourselves,” Nat said. She’d been suffering in the heat (28C was starting to feel like 40C, and there’s not much shade). So Rob and I went heartlessly on. We were a little concerned now about the time, but not concerned enough to skip any of the wine stops. We just made sure we trotted a bit faster through the downhill bits.

We’d skipped the oysters – an overriding fear in a marathon is getting crook guts, and sun-soaked shellfish felt a step too far.

But we were so ravenous by the time we got to the steak stop that we were digging into piles of meat with our bare hands, blood and grease mixing with sweat and sunscreen. The ice cream towards the end was heaven on a stick. And then we were through.

And we had a message from our fallen comrade – she’d eluded the sweepers, and was going to make it.

So all three of us got our medals, and the accompanying bottle of wine. Just as well; all that exercise works up a thirst.