Le Course des Brasseurs

"Bienvenue à le troisième Course des Brasseurs!"

The small crowd of runners behind the thick white arch applauds, chats, or continues their warm-up routines. Strangely, I am one of them, despite my obvious lack of physical fitness. Seven months earlier I could've probably run the 10k, but the rich french food dragged me, wheezing, into the 5k. 

My maman suggested the race several weeks earlier. Roads are blocked off around Schiltigheim for the event, which raises money to help young low-income mothers. We weren't inscribed, but she had emailed the man in charge of the race, who assured us we could do so in the morning. At the sign-in table, two woman firmly told us we could not run without a paper from the doctor. Fortunately, there was a friend of maman supervising, who cheerily waved us through. 

Walking from the building to the starting line would normally take about 3 minutes. However, every few meters we were stopped by people greeting maman. As she commented the night before, all of Schiltigheim has her cellphone number. People at the vestiaire, runners, spectators, city officials… everyone seemed to know her. The mayor, who still looked professional in running clothes, stopped shaking hands and taking pictures to greet us. 

The crack of a gun sounded, we were off. The race was harder than I'd expected. I've gone running maybe five times since my arrival, not nearly enough to combat the disappearance of my muscles. I was breathing heavily after 5 minutes. 

Step. Suck air in. Step. Release air. The old men are passing me. Okay. Rhythm against the gray cobblestones. Eyes on the gray sky. There's a twist up the little street between the rows of colored houses. I can hear musicians playing for us up ahead, one of four little groups placed around the route. Turn the corner. A guy behind me curses in french, "What? There's more?"

About halfway through the race we pass my street, and my papa who applauds and gives everyone a grave "bravo bravo." 

Up the bridge. My breath is too fast, I slow down. A young woman in black clothes and hot pink sneakers offers a smile and "Courage, aller!" as she jogs on. 

A man with a megaphone gives us our times as we reach the fourth kilometer. "Now," I think, "is the time to push yourself." I can't. I feel spent, and jog slowly onward. Then, just as the finish line comes into sight, I feel fine and break into a run. Frustrated for not using this hidden energy sooner, I pass a man for the first time since the beginning stretch. 

Done. Walk dreamily through the barrier, a man scans the barcode on my number, another writes something down and I'm handed a black gym bag. I greet a boy I know from Scouts who hands me a glass of something pink and sweet, and then walk off to the nearest park where I lie down, even though I have a notion that you aren't supposed to do that after running. 

After a few minutes I make my way back to the finish line to cheer my maman as she finishes. She runs with a Europe ecology sign pinned to her back and a smile on her face, despite the strenuousness of the course. Instead of walking straight through like the others, she stops just after the finish line to greet people. 

After meeting a dozen more members of the community, the two of us walk over to the starting line and applaud as the gun sounds for the 10k. She stays for the awards ceremony, and I pedal home to shower and relax before leaving for the theatre this afternoon.


http://www.ville-schiltigheim.fr/canal-schilick/1796