Chapter 47: Panting in Pernes

The annual Telethon for Disabled Kids in France runs on 7 December, and our little village of Pernes-les-Fontaines wanted to make a big contribution.  For the 6^th year in a row, Pernes organised its annual Xmas Run/Walk for the Body, “Les Fêtes de la Forme”.

Having just returned from Paris the previous day, we hadn’t had time to train.  As veterans of Marathons and Half Marathons, we knew what we were letting ourselves in for, but signed up anyway, 30 minutes before the starter’s gun, with great trepidation.  We felt our 10 euros each would be the smaller price to pay for the pain we were about to endure, but we wanted to help the kids and get out with our community.

Our first step was to go home and change from smart walking shoes into runners (“trainers” for you Poms).  The next was to return to the Centre des Augustins, once a church in the 13th Century, and buy our hot dog and drink tickets.  We knew it was important to replenish our body fluids and carbohydrates immediately after this demanding event. 

In France, this system of purchasing food at fêtes is splendid.  One buys tickets to exchange for food, meaning the food handlers don’t have to handle filthy lucre, and a substantial goblet to hand back at the end of the night for a one euro refund, respecting the environment and recycling.

Having signed up and paid our Entry Fees, we were given a pink wrist band for entry to the after-party, an athlete’s bib, a daunting map of the course, and a Santa hat.  The Santa hat was most welcome as it was now eight degrees.  The run was set to commence at 6.30 p.m., followed by the walkers, with a combined warm-up at 6.15.

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We arrived back in time for the warm up, in front of the ex-church, to find all of Pernes wearing Santa hats and bibs, warming up to the pumping beats of a DJ, a fitness trainer, Santa and a Polar Bear.  Over 600 people were here!  Together we stretched, pumped, stepped and shook until we were warm, and then, not hearing the starter’s gun, the crowd sort of emptied out of the square and the race had begun!

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Conserving our energy early, the first stretch required an uphill struggle, jostling for space, to the Santa PO Box at the top of the hill where we stopped for photos.  A gruelling 50 metres further away was the drum section of the local high school playing some terrific synchronised drumming.  Here I met Santa and was given a lolly to assist my now-draining sugar levels.

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Time slowed as we traversed through the town shopping square, past the Boulangerie that Keith visits each day for our bread, but never in his current condition, and made it to the distant corner a further 75 metres away.

Rounding this corner, we observed the Gendarmes had closed the main entry point into Pernes on the D28.  In the light of swirling blue lights, a bunch of cars sat patiently waiting for five minutes for the stragglers to pass.

Now we had a brief respite as we travelled downhill along Avenue du General de Gaulle, a street found in every town in France.  From this vantage point we realised everyone had passed us, because we kept stopping for photos, and that we had a huge job in front of us to make up ground.  A sea of bobbing red Santa hats formed a tsunami down the hill.

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Determined to catch up, our efforts were further daunted by the necessity to take more photos when the local kids used a snow machine to blast Keith with fake snow, and the males-dressed-as-female Cheer Leaders seduced Keith into their cheer-leading ranks.

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At the bottom of the hill, we turned back into the medieval streets, realising our chances of victory were now completely dashed by the cobblestones that we find so difficult to manage, whereas the French can take pavé in their Gallic-strides.

We’d possibly travelled nearly half of our route by now, but our Walls had not yet been hit. A three quarter gibbous moon glowed in a clear black night sky, its shine challenged by the illuminations on the ancient towers, the Notre Dame, and the medieval portals.  We were growing heated from our efforts – and from our four layers of clothing including thermal underwear and puffer jackets, plus scarves and Santa hats.

We threaded our way through the labyrinth of our village, zigzagging back and forth as we attempted, and failed, to pass a family with four kids including a three year old.  It was the opportunity to stop for photos that was killing us, plus the chance to stop and dance at each of the music stations on the route.  First was the singer doing Queen’s “We Will Rock You”, then the DJ playing “Dance Monkey”, while the high school kids unbelievably had managed to get AHEAD of us to set up their drums on a different corner.

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Each corner and plaza brought new musical treats or entertainments, called “animations”, so progress was slow.  We crossed La Nesque, once again quite high but not flooded, and turned into the path by Notre Dame, not burnt out like the one in Paris, and older.  We were stopped again by the “Free Hugs” station, and enjoyed a solid, warming hug each, so good for our near-broken wills. 

Relief was in sight as we arrived, a smidge before we’d collapsed, at the Refreshment Station where we were offered cut-up oranges, bananas, nuts and juice, supplied by a local supermarket.  Grabbing handfuls of nuts and some juice, we began the long and tortuous slope back up into the town from the river.

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Now we’d Hit the Wall.  See Keith’s face under the Portal of Notre Dame.  There can be no other explanation for it – he was all in.

The final metres passed in a daze of families, kids, Santa hats and music.  As we triumphantly crossed the finish line, bags of nuts were pressed into our hands and Keith’s friends were once again in evidence. We were inspired by the local Step Class as we realised we’d managed to cover the whole, two kilometre, course in just over half an hour.  We were ecstatic.  These were our Personal Bests (PBs) wearing Santa hats. 

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Back inside the hall, over-heated but satisfied, (that’s us not the hall), we feared everyone else would have hogged the hot dogs.  But then we saw everyone else had gone home to change or eat, or had opted to take another circuit of the town; the place was near empty.  We eschewed going around again as far too much effort; we’d already peaked. Happily devouring two hot dogs, two pizzas and two glasses of excellent wine, we chatted with some locals until the place filled up, the first band began, and it became too loud to talk.  The second band was due on at 9.30 but by now we were cramping and knew we had to go home for a stretch down, a warm down and a lie down.

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It was a spectacularly unexpected night.  If we’d been stranded in Paris, as was threatened, we would have missed this.  Who would have given up this immense evening for another night in Paris?  One can only wonder.