All the races are cancelled, so I perked up last week when I received the email saying that the 20km de Genève was organizing something. Initial confusion at the subject line which read “2.0km de Genève.” I thought this was either a typo, or that perhaps they had broken down the race into 2.0km intervals, which seemed odd. Finally I realized that they meant “2.0” as in “version 2.0,” a clever touch further over-egged in the modified logo, which had the “.” in “2.0” at the tip of the accent grave of “Genève,” like a typographical shooting star. This year’s edition would have the usual choices of 5km/10km/20km distances. But since we wouldn’t be able to run all together given COVID restrictions, each participant could run whenever they wanted (before Nov 22nd), and we could follow the course and track our times via a smartphone app. I signed up for the 10km.
I set the
alarm for 7:45, but I woke up a few minutes before it went off. I fed the cats,
had coffee and toast with almond butter, drove to the other side of the lake,
and parked near the finish line. I traversed the Paquis (the closest Geneva has to a “red
light district”), past a disheveled woman on a park bench speaking loudly to herself
and a young African guy listening to music on his phone, which he held at ear
level but looked away from. I arrived at
Rue de Lausanne just in time to catch the #15 tram, which would bring me up to the
starting line at Place de Nations. I
realized that I had forgotten to bring a mask, which is obligatoire on public
transportation now, so I slid the Buff I had brought with me over my head and
wore it bandit-style.
Near the
front gates of the United Nations, a few other runners milled around, heads
bowed as they consulted their phones. I
almost never run with a phone, as I don’t listen to music or anything when I
run, and I don’t like to have the extra weight on me. I also enjoy the feeling of not knowing
exactly where I am when I’m running, when the aperture of my senses seems to be
at its widest. On those rare occasions
when I have brought my phone with me on a long run, it’s been stowed away in a
pocket in my hydration vest, withdrawn only to take a picture if the scenery is
especially nice. I cringe whenever I see
someone running with their phone in their hand, as if they were desperately chasing after it.
However, given
the set-up of this race, leaving the phone behind wouldn’t be an option,
especially if I wanted to “register” my time – something with no tangible value
whatsoever, but one likes to be “official” and to compare times with other
runners. I wore a long-sleeve top with a
phone-sized pocket over the left breast, so my plan was to put the phone in
there, hoping that it wouldn’t bounce around too much.
The blue
sign marking the starting line was attached to a lamppost at the bottom of Avenue
de la Paix, which curves up and around the UN headquarters. As I approached, three fit looking guys
fiddled with phones and watches as they engaged in pre-race bouncing-in-place. They were lean and fast-looking, with
close-cropped hair and red knee-high compression socks, so I figured I would
let them go first, so I wouldn’t have to endure the psychological blow
of watching them speed away from me. After
a few seconds, one of them said, “Okay, allez,” and off they flew, only
to come tramping back down the hill around 20 seconds later, frowning and
muttering that the app hadn’t started properly.
A moment later, they had sorted things out, and they
disappeared around the corner for the second time.
I took out my phone and opened the race app, which required logging in with a registration number I had been emailed. Once open, the app told me cheerily to “approach the starting point!” I looked up and confirmed that I was standing immediately next to the start sign, but for some reason the app said I was 35 meters from the start, then 50 meters, then 10 meters, as I assume the GPS was trying to find me. Then all of a sudden, a synthetic male voice with a British accent began counting down, calmly but very loudly: “TEN…NINE…EIGHT…” I managed to stuff the phone back in my pocket and get the zipper closed by the time he reached “ONE,” and off I went.
Normally at
the start of a race, you feed on the excitement of the people around you, so
you run faster. This morning, there was
no one around me save the stray passing car, but I still found myself breathing
and stepping more quickly than I would on a normal Sunday morning.
Soon the
app’s voice (hereafter “the Voice”) switched over to synthetic British female. She gave a plug for a breast cancer charity. I huffed up the long hill, past the US
mission and the hotel school. The Voice
then instructed me to take my next left onto Chemin de Machéry, butchering the
pronunciation and making me wish I had chosen the French Voice. I passed through the village of Pregny-Chambésy, and the Voice welcomed me, mangling its
name as well. Then the grade smoothed out and the road narrowed, and I moved
through the quite pretty and bucolic fields outside of town. Ahead of me, beyond the airport, the Jura
mountains hung purple as the sun strained to burn through in the morning
mist. This is one of the cooler things
about living here: one can go from the center of town to farmland in
a matter of minutes. My legs felt strong
and my rhythm steady as I headed downhill in the direction of the autoroute. My km splits were under 5:00, so my rough
target time of less than 50:00 (respectable for me on a hilly course like this) was
still within reach.
As I came
to an intersection, the Voice instructed me to cross the street, turn into a private
driveway, and follow a path into the woods.
This sounded a little suspicious, but I did as I was told, and behind a row
of jumelle houses there was indeed a path, which I followed. I checked my phone, and the little blue dot
indicating me was still overlaying the red line indicating the course. The path became a trail through thick woods,
but the Voice’s commands were clear, and I negotiated a couple of turns while
keeping a brisk pace.
The path
hugged the edge of the woods parallel to the autoroute, then turned east, back toward
the lake. I checked my phone a couple of
times to make sure I was still on course.
After another 500 meters or so, the light ahead of me started to brighten as the path neared the edge of the woods.
I emerged to find myself at a T intersection, with concrete paths the
color of butter leading to the left and right of me. In front of me on the other side of a wall were
train tracks.
I realized
that I hadn’t heard the Voice in a while, and when I pulled out my phone to
check, I saw that I had somehow flicked the little “silent” switch on the
side. The red line on the phone map
seemed to lead to the right, so I continued that way. I held my phone as I ran, trying to get my
bearings, but the little me-dot was drifting away from the line of the course. The Voice remained sullenly silent.
Raising my gaze, I saw figures moving quickly toward me, and as they got closer, I
recognized the three fast-looking guys from the starting line. They passed me and headed back in the
direction I had come. I paused for a
moment, and then decided that I must have made a wrong turn, and that I should
follow them, at least until I could figure out where I was. I turned and ran back for another 3 minutes or so, past the T
intersection, before realizing that no, this was actually the wrong direction. The three fit guys were probably running the
20km, which starts with the 10km, but then peels off into a different
direction.
Still
clutching my phone, I headed back in the other direction, past the T
intersection again. Looking down, I noticed
that my screen had gone black, as my phone had locked itself. I unlocked it, poking awkwardly with the touchscreen-sensitive
tip of my gloved index finger, to find that the app itself had closed. I reopened it, and it asked me for my
password again, which I had to dig around in my email to find. Finally, I managed to log in, and a cheery “approach
the starting point!” message appeared on the screen. The app had evidently forgotten
that I had already started. I poked
around, looking for other menus that might be able to let me pick up where I
left off, but there were none.
By this
point, around ten minutes had passed since I had first emerged from the
woods. Fortunately, I could still see
the course map on my phone, and I was able to pick my way across a bridge over
the train tracks, then down a set of stairs to a paved path that ran parallel
to them, alongside a cluster of houses near the lake side of Chambésy. My pace had slowed, and finally I emerged
near the gas station close to the autoroute on-ramp, a landmark I knew well, so
I would be able to find my way "unofficially" to the finish line from there.
I would
like to say that at some point I experienced a peaceful moment of “letting go” and giving
thanks for the misty fall morning and for living in such a lovely place and for
the ability to go out and run: a Zen-like
realization that it’s not about how fast you get to the finish line, but the joy
in the journey, etc. I did not. Instead I just felt sour as I loped past the WTO, then
down alongside the water for the final kilometer or so. The paths next to the shimmering lake were
already crowded with people, desperately clutching at the few remaining strands of fall before the arrival of the long, dark winter, whose approach this year feels especially ominous. I passed the
blue sign marking the finish line, then walked to my car and drove home, feeling
the chill from the sweaty clothes clinging to me.
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