la course de l'escalade

In the middle of the (what I imagine could only have been damp, chilly) night on the 11th of December nearing into the wee hours of the 12th, when all of Geneva squeezed into what we today call the Vielle Ville (Old City), residents were awoken by knocking neighbors, warning bells of St. Pierre Cathedral, and cannon shots.  Whomever was able was roused to defend the sleepy city.

It was 1602.  The Duke of Savoy had sent forces to Geneva for a surprise, nocturnal attack on the stone wall enveloped city.  Although outnumbered and unprepared, the Genevois defeated those Savoyards.

Are Genevans proud to this day?  Erm, yes.  I would say so.

This past weekend, I participated in part one of the great celebration of the victory: the Course de l'Escalade - the Escalade Race - which took my flatlander self, as well as 24,899 others, weaving through and around the hilly, cobblestoned Old City.  The word escalade, or ascent, refers to the attackers who scaled the walls of Geneva.

They blared Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and You're the One that I Want to gear us up.

There's a wall you just want to scale, dontcha?

Did I mention the hills and the cobblestones?  Allow me to break down what I should have broken down for myself sometime prior to the race.  Hills involve inclines and declines, both of which require proper training.  (Go ahead, infer.) Cobblestones are irregular and slippery.

You're thinking, just slow down there on the hills, tiger, and take it little by little.  Yeah, yeah, that was my plan, for back in the Chi, you can sign up for a 5km-ish race with mild-to-minimum training and let the flat horizon lull you into a meditative trance until the finish line.  I learned something about the Swiss in this race, though, if you'll permit me to generalize.  (Swiss readers, forgive, then correct me if I'm out of line, here.)  They are the nicest of the nice, but put them in an athletic event and they are a determined lot, the Swiss.  Maybe it was the pride overpowering my fellow female runners (the race is divided by gender and age group), maybe it was their mountainous origins, but those women were relentless on the ups and the downs of the hills, and slowing down meant certain injury-by-trampling.  I will also admit that they are not shy to push their way right through in front of you if you happen to be a tad too slow for their taste.  As lactic acid overtook my obliques and my undertrained quads screamed mercy, I pondered these sorts of details.

This is the photo of me at the start line.  Why didn't I just have Tim take one from the sideline?
Because I had the brilliant idea of weighing my pocket down with a camera.

The nicest part about running in a gender/age separated race is that, if you're a woman of my tender age, all of the families line the streets when you run, so the chorus of Maman!  Maaaaaaammmmmaaaaaan! goads you on.  It helped to think that a few of those pushy broads were mothers, just like me, carving out a piece of a Saturday afternoon for themselves, sans stroller.

Post-race, tired me.  Post-race, peppy Jude.

Runners, I know you wanna know about the goods - I got that mug as a finishing gift.

p.s. Big thanks to my secretly Savoyard running partner, without whom the event would have 

been pretty gloomy and even more painful.