Like every year at the end of summer, the trail running world gathers in Chamonix, a mixture of the world championship and the Cannes Film Festival. This year, I was drawn to participate in the 100 km race. With 6,700 m of positive elevation gain, finishing it isn’t even the stuff of my wildest dreams. But I will try to begin it and finish the first climb since the start line in Courmayeur, Italy. A 1,400 m climb over a distance of 9 km. Everything else will be a bonus. Before and after the “race”, the week will be dedicated to the hunt for autographs from runners and influencers. They are unknown to 99.99% of the population, but for me, they’ve been icons for years. I leave from Brest in Brittany. We’ll be on the road for at least 13 hours, so I take off early. The air is cool for August 27, but the sun is shining. My body is subject to multiple and diverse sensations: excitement, anxiety, haste, fear, a slight despair at the passage of time and the fact that my age will soon prevent me from even thinking of taking part in these events. To pass the time and, let’s be honest, relieve the financial burden of such a long journey, I’ll be carpooling. I’m familiar with the procedure by now, having to drive a lot for my work.
The Curious One
Like me, J lives in Ploudalmézeau, also called Gwitalmeze in “Breton”, a small town not far from the sea, known mainly for its magnificent beaches and for the Amoco Cadiz oil tanker disaster, which destroyed their ecosystems for almost a decade. J travels a lot, working part of the time for a company based in Bourges, which is a marked change of environment for this passionate Bretonne. As a result, I frequently drive her, at least for the initial parts of her journey. I really like J. Not only is she pretty, but she’s insatiably curious. When we first carpooled, I was taken aback – not to say shocked – that she would spend all her time on her cell phone while we chatted about various subjects, such as our professions or programs aired on the radio at the time. I soon discovered that this wasn’t due to her lack of interest or short attention span but because she would research whenever she didn’t know something or someone or didn’t sufficiently understand an idea. This curiosity and appetite for life weren’t limited to road trips either, and she spent her weekends sightseeing and attending festivals, of which there are fortunately many in Brittany. The first 165 km (I couldn’t help thinking “the distance of the UTMB”, i.e. the main race that would leave Chamonix in 2 days’ time), that first couple of hours, went by very quickly. Had I been prescient, I would have enjoyed them even more.
The Annoying One
We pick up K at the St-René carpooling area shortly after St-Brieux, at Yffiniac to be precise, a strange Aquitaine name for a village in Armorique. We soon realise that we’re not on the same wavelength. K talks a lot; he rambles. He shares his enlightened political opinions, interspersed with a multitude of conspiracy theories. In a desperate attempt to cut the flow, I turn on the radio; France Info. K comments on each piece of news. And what comments; it would take several air freshener magic trees to dispel his foul-smelling words. I sense that J is about to crack. I suggest switching to a music channel. After an exhaustive exploration, made difficult by our different tastes and the quality of radio transmission in France (a holdover from the last century? I’ve never experienced such an abundance of sputtering in any other European country), we settle on Nostalgie. After all, it’s a notion that doesn’t lack appeal to people on his side of the fence. This seems to relax the tedious man who takes out his vaporiser. Doesn’t it bother anyone?” he asks, without a question mark since he wasn’t expecting an answer, and a tad too late, as an artificial smell of banana with artichoke accents fills the cabin (who makes these flavours? Do you need a special degree?). J and I start chatting about 80s music, which is obviously the best, as evidenced by her extensive knowledge of the subject when she wasn’t even born. We allow ourselves to sing French hits by Téléphone and Niagara, as well as Queen and Abba, at the top of our lungs without worrying about false notes and atrocious accents. K sulks a little; clearly not a fan of karaoke. It’s a break for us.
The Political One
After this relaxing musical interlude, we stop at the Beauregard carpooling area in Rennes. It’s right next to the Grand Quartier shopping centre, and we take the opportunity to stretch, have a coffee and obey a few physiological injunctions. We have to pick up T, the next passenger. I’m surprised to discover a slim, blond young man in an azure-blue suit. Thinking of my English son always in a suit, I ask him a few questions. T is studying leather goods at Le Mans and working as a part-time apprentice for a well-known luxury accessories firm. But that’s not why he’s in a suit. The 21-year-old is also a member of the regional youth council for Brittany (his parents live in Rennes). Elections are coming up, and pretty soon, the conversation turns to politics, usually a taboo subject in carpooling. I already had J, very much to the left, K, very much to the right; now I find myself with a young liberal. Naturally, the discussion moves into this area between K and T. The latter is initially very calm and articulate, putting forward arguments and counter-arguments. He believes that the political game is based on the debate of ideas and that solutions for the greater good emerge from discussion. A naïveté probably due to his young age. The argument begins to heat up just as we reach a major accident on the A81 near Laval. An hour almost at a standstill; torture. I try to calm things down. I ask T about his leather goods business, which suits J, a textile designer. Then, fatal mistake, I enquire the Annoying One about his business. He immediately takes off with his passion, a famous brand of vans. He scours France and Europe for them, repairs them and then sells them at a huge profit. I had no idea there were so many sub-types. We are treated to an exhaustive list of all his bargains. The story of his successes lasts all the way to Le Mans.
The Dynamic One
The Political One gets off at Le Mans, near the university. Luckily, the next passenger to hop on agreed to come to the same carpooling area. I can’t hold back a smile as K’s face tightens. L says hello with a big smile, her gleaming teeth contrasting with her gorgeous ebony skin. She’s tall and slender, her hair neatly braided. She reminds me of Nina Keïta in her modelling days before becoming a senior government official in Côte d’Ivoire; she is absolutely gorgeous. She carries a large plastic bag in addition to a handbag. As I put it in the trunk, I catch a glimpse of… strands of hair? This provides me with a conversation starter. It turns out that L has launched an online boutique selling hair extensions. She prides herself on having one of the largest selections in the independent seller sector. She promotes her products via videos distributed on Instagram and TikTok. She makes the videos in the evening, after her daytime job in a ready-to-wear store. She points out in passing that in the summer, she supplements this with an occasional activity at markets and street-sell, where she resells products bought by the pallets. When J and I mention how much her energy amazes us, she confesses that she needs the money, as she’s bringing up her nine-year-old son alone.
I can see that K has been fidgeting in his seat for some time and can’t wait to add his two cents.
- But tell me, where are you from?
- I come from Le Mans.
- Yes, I know, but before that?
- Nowhere, I live in Le Mans. I was born there, in fact.
- OK, but what about your parents?
- My father is from Orléans, and my mother is from St-Cyr-en-Val, a village nearby; they met in high school.
The annoying one is on the verge of apoplexy. He barks “But before! Where do you come from?” The guy’s going to blow a gasket. K suddenly understands. “Aaah, do you mean where in the world my family is from? Is it because of the colour of my skin? On my mother’s side, it’s Congo Brazzaville, and on my father’s, it’s the Ivory Coast.”
We move on to Tours during this enlightening conversation. J and L start talking about work and fashion.
The Desertion
An hour passes. K opens his gob as soon as there’s silence. But I’m starting to get really hungry and his logorrhoea isn’t enough to put me off. So I decide to take a lunch break and stop at the Romorantin service area on the A85. We buy sandwiches, coffee and bottled water for the rest of the journey. J takes the opportunity to have a cigarette, because unlike K, she doesn’t impose it on us in the car. After a quarter of an hour we are ready to set off again. But just as he’s about to get back into the car, The Annoying One announces ‘Oh crap, wait, I’ve got to go and make the colossus cry’. And off he goes again towards the station. J clutches my shoulder to stop me moving asKpulls away from us for the first time in 6 hours. Then she commands, “Go”. I don’t know what gets into me, but I obey and step on the gas. Once we are back on the motorway, we start laughing. I’m probably going to regret this and get banned from the platform. But it’s worth it. We really couldn’t take it any more. As I’m not totally heartless, I pray in my heart that The Annoying One finds someone to make the rest of the journey between Romorantin and Macon. I’m also praying that he suddenly looses his voice, or else he runs the risk of visiting numerous motorway service areas.
The Sad One
We’re hyper-excited, aware that we’ve done something wrong. We talk volubly about K, criticising him at every turn, to justify ourselves and stem the feeling of guilt that is invading us by the minute. Even L helps us by giving her opinion, poor thing, who had absolutely nothing to do with it, apart from being the revealer. We leave J in Bourges shortly afterwards. The journey to Montluçon on the A71 is a silent one, due in part to relief, in part to embarrassment. We pick up R at the Bedun carpooling area, just after the Montluçon toll. She’s wearing a greenish-grey Islamic scarf that matches her eyes. It’s a good thing K isn’t with us any more. She’s also carrying two large suitcases and looks anguished. Her mouth smiles as she says hello, but the turquoise lakes above it do not. She’s Iranian, a refugee. She used to live with her sister but has now found a job in Macon. She has a degree in chemical engineering and is going to work for a company that manufactures plastics and rubber. She got the job by accepting a salary no local would have considered. The conversation is calm but somewhat disjointed. You can tell that R is not happy about this trip. There’s a silence, and then little sniffles and sighs make me look in the rear-view mirror. R has started to cry. Very quietly, trying not to disturb. But L, who had stayed in the back after J got off, unbuckles her seatbelt, slides into the middle seat and, without a word, slowly but firmly, takes R in her arms. Heavy sobs replaced the discreet cries, and R tells us everything. How she fled the mullahs’ regime to join her sister, how she organised her 12-year-old daughter’s journey, and how her husband, having found out, obtained a divorce and sole custody of the daughter. She did contact a refugee association and the French authorities. But she’s not French; she’s divorced now, and her daughter has family in Iran. This is not a family reunion situation. If she wants to see her daughter, she must return to Iran. Which would, of course, land her in prison. And now she has to go and live in a town she doesn’t know, alone, far from her sister, who lives in Bordeaux. The crying has subsided. She sits up and apologises profusely for her outburst. L remains in the middle seat. After a short while, we asked R about her studies and her new job so we can end the journey on the positive aspects of her life. We were going to leave her at the Mâcon Sud toll booth but decide to drive her to her accommodation, a room in a local house in an old neighbourhood.
Alone
The afternoon is drawing to a close, and I’m beginning to feel emotionally and physically exhausted. I suggest to L that we stop for dinner at a service area near Bourg-en-Bresse. She won’t eat but graciously accepts the delay. I take my time. We set off again, and after a fairly disjointed discussion about our carpooling partners, silence sets in. I propose we put the radio on. We opt for classical music. Not symphony, we need peace and quiet. The traffic on the A40 is fairly fluid, and the pace is constant. The scenery is sumptuous. We cross the foothills of the Jura. A short hypnotic passage through the Chamoise tunnel; 3.3 km of spotlights judiciously spaced to produce an almost stroboscopic effect. I leave L and her bags of hair strands at Saint-Julien en Genevois station, where she can catch a train to Geneva. I watch her magnificent body leave and find myself alone for the first time in 13 hours. My mind is full of the people I’ve just met and who I seem to know so well. What will become of them? Is K still in Romorantin? Will J find a job that will allow her to stay in her beloved Brittany more often? Will T’s passion for politics survive contact with reality, with its petty arrangements and compromises? Will R be able to reunite with her daughter? Will L be able to carry on for long with three parallel jobs? Will I remember them in a week’s time? The Alps arrive, majestic, and my mind turns to the days ahead. Ultra-trails are very similar to carpooling. There, too, I’ll meet very different people with whom I’ll share a few hours – of wonder and suffering – and whom I’ll never see again.
reboot50 