Fabrice’s Story

I met Janita for the first time on the screen. The Mayor was there, but he said he was not there. He said it was only his ghost. Of course, he was still there, because The Mayor is never completely not there. He also said I could use a joker card, like in Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, and call him if I was stuck. But he also said it would cost me a lot of money.

So Janita and I started.

She asked me who I am, where I come from, and why this 100 kilometre competition is important to me.

My name is Fabrice. I am French. I am 59 years old. My birthday is on March 30th. I come from Cleebourg, in Alsace. I lived my childhood here until I was 18 years old. Then, from 18 to 25, I was in the French army. After that I came back, and I worked. Today my principal work is as a lorry driver. I work in Karlsruhe, in Germany. I also have another work connected with EOD and mine search, sometimes in Germany or in other countries. I was also a reservist in the French army until I was 52 years old.

That is a little bit my life.

This 100 kilometre competition is important for me because it is a challenge. It is not against another person. It is for me. I make this for myself.

In the past, I did competitions in the army, but that was different. Forty years ago, the army paid me for this. Today, I pay to make the competition. That is funny. Before, it was my job. Now, it is my challenge.

Janita told me about cycling. She started when she was young. Her father bought bicycles for her and her sister. Later, after school, she started again with an old bicycle and then bought a better one. First she said she would not do competitions, but then she entered one. Then another. She started with 15 kilometres, then 40, 50, 90, 100, and even 160 kilometres. For her, 100 kilometres on the bicycle became easy because she trained so much. She liked being outside, meeting people, and riding with a cycling community. Sometimes they rode 100 kilometres on a weekend just for fun.

The Mayor did not tell her that I do not like cyclists. Maybe that was better.

Janita asked me what gives me the energy to say, “Yes, I can do this,” at 59 years old.

I think the answer is simple. I am stubborn. This can be good. Last year, I learned about this 100 kilometre trail from a Dutch ex-paratrooper who organises it. I said, “Okay, why not? I test if I can or not.”

The start is Friday evening at 6 p.m. I hope to finish in 22 or 23 hours. If I finish in 21 hours, that is better. If I finish before 24 hours, it is okay. But I want to finish. After the march, on Saturday evening, I am going to a birthday party. On Sunday, I think I will be in clinical death. On Monday I have two sessions with Simon, our physiotherapist. The Mayor said Simon will rebuild me.

I am not working Friday. Friday morning I prepare my clothes and my bag. At 2 p.m. we go to the start. I have to register. The organiser will check the safety bag, drinks, oils, and other things. At 5:30 p.m. the paratroopers jump at the departure point. At 6 p.m. we start.

I am not working Monday or Tuesday. Monday is physio. Tuesday, I said maybe I walk at home and cut the grass. Janita said I should rest. Maybe she is right. Maybe.

Then I asked Janita what was more important when she competed: strong legs, good training, or a strong mind. She said all three. Strong legs, because without legs you cannot move forward. Good training, because she trained almost every day. And a strong mind, because if you say, “I cannot do this,” then you cannot do it. You must say, “I can do this. I will do this. I will get there.”

She told me about one 160 kilometre cycling competition. In the first 25 kilometres, she fell. It had rained the night before. Everything was wet and muddy. She scraped her knee. Her shoes and socks were wet. She was negative for the next 10 kilometres. Then she reached a stop, washed her knee, ate something, drank something, and maybe had chocolate. After that, she felt better and continued. She still had about 125 kilometres to go.

That is mental strength.

Then the connection with South Africa was not perfect. The Mayor said Janita was south of the Sahara and we were north of the Sahara. She had winter in South Africa, but it was 16 degrees. Here in Alsace it was also about 16 degrees, and raining. The Mayor said I brought the rain with me.

Janita asked me what is the most difficult moment when I train for a long distance: the beginning, the middle, or the last kilometres.

For me, the most difficult moment is before the beginning. The moment before I start is hard. The first five, ten, fifteen minutes are hard. I must say to myself, “Go. Just go.” When I begin, it is okay. I find my rhythm. The middle is okay. The last kilometres are okay because I can say, “Only three kilometres. Only five kilometres. I am almost home.” But before I begin, that is the hard part. To get out the door is the hard part.

In the middle, it depends. My last big training was 54 kilometres. The first 28 kilometres were many flat roads. After 28 kilometres, the road started to go up. Not a mountain like the Alps, but it climbed. It went from about 300 metres over four kilometres. That was hard. Going down is nice, but the climb is hard.

Janita told me about a mountain bike race in the rain. It rained from the morning and continued through the whole race. Everything was wet: hair, shoes, socks, body. It was muddy, slippery, cold. Her body said stop, but her mind said continue. She checked the kilometres: 10 done, 30 to go. Then 20 done, 20 to go. She kept saying, “Just a few more.” At one point, the rain came from the front so hard that she could not open her eyes properly. But she kept going. After that she said, “Never again. If it rains, I am out.” But now it is a good memory. She has the medal and some very dirty photos.

When I am tired, cold, bored, or in pain during training, I say to myself, “After is better.” When I finish, it is okay. It is only a bad moment. After the bad moment, it is better. Maybe there is hot coffee. Maybe a cool beer. Beer is a good motivation. Hot coffee and cold beer are good. Cold coffee and hot beer are not good. The Mayor said in England they like warm beer. Janita did not agree, especially not after 100 kilometres in the sun on a bicycle.

Janita had a mantra when she cycled. She thought of the cartoon fish who says, “Just keep swimming.” So she told herself, “Just keep cycling.” I liked this. For me, maybe it is, “Just keep walking.” I will test it.

Then Janita asked me about the military and difficult situations. She asked how those experiences taught me discipline and mental strength.

For me, the strongest experience was in a minefield. I worked in a minefield during the Gulf War, on a beach in Kuwait. For mine cleaning, you need discipline and mental strength. You must be very calm. You must do things correctly. You cannot make a mistake. That was one of the strongest lessons. Also parachuting gave me discipline and mental strength. When I was 19, in South Lebanon, I also learned this.

I think the same discipline will help me in the 100 kilometre competition. It is not combat against another person. It is combat against myself. I want to win this combat. The discipline is the same, but the enemy is only me, my pain, my tired legs, and my doubts.

Janita told me what competition taught her about fear, pressure, and confidence. She promised herself she would never be last. That was pressure, but it was also motivation. At the start, there was pressure because people wanted to go fast. Sometimes people push too hard in the beginning, and later they fall back. She learned not to let pressure make her too fast at the start. Confidence came every time she finished and had a good time on the clock. Fear also helped her stay safe. On mountain bike routes, sometimes there was a steep downhill. Professional riders could take it, but there was also a safer route. Maybe it was longer, but it was safer. She chose safety. I agree. Safety first. It is better when you have no injury.

In French we have a saying: Alsatians will never submit to pressure. The Mayor joked, except when it comes to pulling a pint of beer.

Janita asked me about my biggest fear and my biggest hope for the 100 kilometre challenge on June 5th.

My biggest fear is that I do not finish. Maybe I have a problem before the end. Maybe my legs are finished. Maybe my feet have blisters. But blisters are not a problem. I must finish. Maybe I get lost in the German forest, but I have GPS, so I do not think this will happen. My biggest fear is not finishing.

My goal is to finish in 22 or 23 hours. If I finish in 21 hours, better. If I finish before 24 hours, okay. But I changed my words. It is not “I would like to finish.” It is not only “I will finish.” The Mayor corrected me and said: “I am going to finish.” So I say it now:

I am going to finish.

Because I am stubborn.

I did not train for one year. Normally, training starts one year before. I started two and a half months ago. I train many days. I go swimming. Four days a week, I walk: three hours, five hours, six hours, sometimes twelve hours. One or two days I swim. This week, because the trail is Friday, I make only light work. After this session I go swimming for one hour, then walk home. Also I relax a little.

The longest walk in my training was 54 kilometres. It took 12 hours and 10 minutes with breaks. I started at 3:40 in the morning and finished at ten to four in the afternoon. It was up and down, harder than the trail in some ways, because my training route had more climbing. After that, of course, there was motivation. A beer.

Janita told me about her training rhythm. When she was cycling seriously, she trained almost every day. She woke up at 5 a.m. and cycled 30 or 35 kilometres before work. Then she showered, went to work at 9 a.m., worked until 6 p.m., ate dinner, and slept. On Saturdays she did longer rides, maybe 60 or 70 kilometres. On Sundays it depended how she felt. Her cycling friend was 75 years old and very fit and motivated. Sometimes they did 40 or 50 kilometres. Sometimes 70, 80, or even 100 kilometres. If there was a race on Saturday or Sunday, they rested the day before. She trained a lot, but she also listened to her body. If she was really tired, she stopped. If it rained, she stayed home.

The Mayor said, “You heard? She listened to her body.” I heard. I understand.

Janita asked me what I understand about energy now, at 59, that I did not understand when I was younger.

When I was younger, energy was one direction. Go. Push. Resist. Continue. Today, I understand energy differently. The goal can be the same, but the way is different. When I was young, I could attack directly. Today, I still have the same goal, but I need more safety, more rhythm, more intelligence. I am still stubborn, but a little bit less stupid stubborn, because my body has 40 more years.

The Mayor told me he is 65. He said life begins at 60. I like that. I hope the next 59 years are good. When I am 118, maybe we meet again and speak about ideas.

I asked Janita what advice she would give me for the last 20 kilometres, when the body is tired and only the mind can carry me forward.

She said that, in long rides, she kept her head down and kept moving her feet. She did not look too far ahead. She looked where she was, and she kept going. One foot, then the other.

This reminded me of the army. When we marched 40 kilometres with weight and a backpack, sometimes we disconnected the brain. Switch off the brain and let the body walk. The Mayor joked that he does that every day, but one of us needs to have a brain.

The last question was this: imagine you finish your 100 kilometres and cross the line. What do you want to feel in that moment? And what message would you give to other people your age?

I said: I do not imagine finish. I am going to finish.

When I cross the line, I do not know exactly what I will feel. Maybe my body will say, “Okay, you can make more.” Maybe I will search for another 100 kilometres. I do not know. I will see on Saturday evening. Maybe I will say yes. Maybe I will say no. Next week I can say.

But for people my age, my message is simple.

Do not talk too much.

Just do it.

Not say. Do.

Just do it.

I am Fabrice. I am 59. I come from Cleebourg. I was a soldier. I was a reservist. I work as a lorry driver. I have walked in the army, in minefields, in hard places, and now I walk against myself.

On Friday at 6 p.m., I start.

And I am going to finish.

Just Keep Going

Janita’s Story

This was my first meeting with Fabrice, although it did not feel like a normal first meeting. The Mayor was there, but he announced that he was not really there. He said he was a ghost. Then, of course, he continued to appear, disappear, joke, correct, interrupt, and help when needed. That seems to be his way of not being there.

He told Fabrice and me that we had questions for each other. Fabrice had questions for me, and I had questions for him. The Mayor also said he had not told me that Fabrice does not like cyclists. That was useful information to receive after the conversation had already begun.

I started by asking Fabrice who he is, where he comes from, and why this 100 kilometre competition is important to him.

He told me that he is French, 59 years old, born on March 30th, and from Cleebourg in Alsace. He grew up there until he was 18. Then he joined the French army and served from the age of 18 to 25. Later, he came back and worked. His main work today is as a lorry driver in Germany. He also does work connected with EOD and mine search, in Germany and other countries. He was also a reservist in the French army until he was 52.

The 100 kilometre competition is important to him because it is a personal challenge. He is not doing it to beat other people. He is doing it for himself. He said that in the past, he did competitions in the army, but then it was his job. Forty years ago, the army paid him to do hard things. Today, he pays to do them himself. That made us laugh, but it also said something important about him.

Fabrice is not only training for a walk. He is testing himself.

He then asked me about cycling. I told him that I started when I was young, when my father bought bicycles for my sister and me. We used to ride in the afternoons. Then, in high school, we were busy with other sports and with life on the farm, and the bicycles were forgotten for a while. After school, I started riding again with a friend, first on an old bicycle. I enjoyed being outside, I got fitter, and eventually I bought myself a better bicycle.

At first, I said I would not enter competitions. Then I thought, why not? I started with 15 kilometres, then 40, then 50, then 90, 100, and later 160 kilometres. Once I trained properly, 100 kilometres became manageable. It was not only about the distance. I loved being outside. I loved the rhythm. I loved the cycling community. We would go out on weekends and ride 100 kilometres for fun.

Fabrice listened to this, even though he apparently does not like cyclists.

When I asked him what gives him the energy to say yes to a 100 kilometre walk at 59, he said, “I am stubborn.” He corrected himself with help, but the meaning was clear. His stubbornness is part of his strength.

He learned about the challenge from a Dutch ex-paratrooper who organises it. He decided to test himself. The competition begins on Friday evening at 6 p.m. He hopes to finish in 22 or 23 hours. If he finishes in 21, that will be even better. If he finishes before 24 hours, he will accept that. His plan after the event is very Fabrice: finish the 100 kilometres, go to a birthday party on Saturday evening, be in “clinical death” on Sunday, and then go to Simon the physiotherapist on Monday. The Mayor said Simon would rebuild him.

Fabrice is not working on Friday. He will use the morning to prepare his clothes and bag. They will leave at 2 p.m. for the start. He will register, and the organisers will check the safety bag, drinks, oils, and equipment. At 5:30 p.m., paratroopers will jump at the departure point. At 6 p.m., the trail begins. He will also not work Monday or Tuesday. On Monday he has physio. On Tuesday he mentioned cutting the grass at home, but I told him he should rest.

I asked him what part of long-distance training is most difficult: the beginning, the middle, or the last kilometres.

His answer was interesting. The hardest part is not the middle and not the end. It is before the beginning. It is the moment before he starts. The first five, ten, or fifteen minutes are hard. Once he is moving, he finds his rhythm. The middle is okay. The last kilometres are okay because he can count down: three kilometres, five kilometres, almost home. But before the start, he must convince himself to go.

That is a very honest answer. Many people think the hardest part is when the body is already tired. For Fabrice, the real battle starts before the feet move.

He described one of his training walks: 54 kilometres in 12 hours and 10 minutes, including breaks. He started at 3:40 in the morning and finished at ten to four in the afternoon. The first part was quite flat. After 28 kilometres, the road began to climb. It was not a mountain, but the road went up and made the body work. He thinks some of his training was harder than the actual trail because he trained with more climbing.

I shared one of my own hard moments from cycling. In a 160 kilometre competition, I fell within the first 25 kilometres. It had rained the night before, so everything was wet and muddy. I scraped my knee, and my shoes and socks were wet, which I hated. For the next 10 kilometres, I was negative. Then I reached a stop, had something to drink and eat, washed my knee, and probably ate chocolate. After that, I felt better and continued.

I also told him about a mountain bike race in the rain. It rained from the beginning and kept raining through the whole race. There was mud, dirt, slippery ground, wet hair, wet socks, wet shoes, and cold. My body wanted to stop, but my mind said, “Keep going.” I kept checking the distance: 10 kilometres done, 30 to go; 20 done, 20 to go. At one point, the rain came from the front so hard that I could barely open my eyes. I finished, but afterwards I said, “Never again. If it rains, I am out.” Today, of course, it is a good memory. I have the medal and the dirty photos.

Fabrice’s way of dealing with pain is simple: “After is better.” When he is tired, cold, bored, or in pain, he tells himself that this is only a bad moment. After it is finished, it will be better. There may be hot coffee. There may be a cold beer. Beer, we agreed, can be a good motivation. We also agreed that hot coffee and cold beer are better than cold coffee and hot beer. The Mayor tried to defend warm English beer, but I could not support that, especially not after 100 kilometres in the sun.

My own cycling mantra came from the cartoon fish: “Just keep swimming.” On the bicycle, I changed it to, “Just keep cycling.” I told Fabrice that for him it could become, “Just keep walking.” He said he would test it.

A very serious moment came when I asked him about his military experience and how it taught him discipline and mental strength. He spoke about minefields during the Gulf War, on a beach in Kuwait. He said that mine clearing requires discipline and mental strength. You must be calm. You must be precise. You must not make mistakes. He also spoke about parachuting and about being 19 in South Lebanon. These experiences taught him how to keep control in difficult situations.

He sees the 100 kilometre challenge as a different kind of combat. It is not combat against another person. It is combat against himself. He wants to win that combat.

I understood him when he said that. Long-distance sport is not always about speed or medals. Sometimes it is a private battle between the body, the mind, and the promise you made to yourself.

When Fabrice asked me what competition taught me about fear, pressure, and confidence, I told him that I had promised myself never to finish last. That created pressure, but it also motivated me. At the start of a race, there is always pressure. People go fast. You feel you must keep up. But if you go too fast too early, you pay for it later. I learned not to let the pressure control me. I also learned that confidence grows every time you finish something difficult. Fear can also be useful. In mountain biking, when there was a very steep downhill, I sometimes chose the safer route. It might have been longer, but it kept me safe. I have seen too many cycling injuries. Safety first.

Fabrice agreed. It is better not to be injured.

Then I asked him about his biggest fear and biggest hope for the 100 kilometre challenge.

His biggest fear is not finishing. Not because he does not want it enough, but because something could happen: a problem with his legs, a physical issue, maybe blisters, maybe getting lost in the German forest. But he has GPS, and he does not think he will get lost. Blisters, he said, are not a problem. He must finish.

His goal is 22 to 23 hours. Better than that would make him happy. Under 24 hours is acceptable. But the real goal is to finish.

There was a small language correction, but it became important. He first said he would like to finish. Then he said he will finish. The Mayor corrected the grammar and gave him the strongest version: “I am going to finish.”

So Fabrice said it: “I am going to finish.”

And then he added the reason: because he is stubborn.

His training has been short but intense. Ideally, training for something like this would begin a year before. Fabrice started two and a half months ago. He walks several days a week: three hours, five hours, six hours, sometimes twelve hours. He also swims. In the final week, he is doing lighter work, including swimming for one hour and walking home afterwards, while also trying to relax before Friday.

I told him about my own training routine when I was cycling seriously. I woke up at 5 a.m. and cycled 30 to 35 kilometres before work. Then I showered, went to work, came home, ate, and slept. On Saturdays, if I did not work, we did longer rides. Sundays depended on how I felt. My cycling friend was 75 years old and extremely fit and motivated. Sometimes we did 40 or 50 kilometres, sometimes 70 or 80, sometimes 100. If there was a race, we rested the day before. I trained often, but I also listened to my body. If I was too tired, I rested. If it rained, I stayed home.

The Mayor made sure Fabrice heard that part: I listened to my body.

That may be one of the most important lessons for Fabrice now. At 59, energy is different from when he was young. He said that when he was younger, energy had one direction: go, push, resist, continue. Now the goal can still be the same, but the way must be different. There must be more safety, more rhythm, more intelligence. He is still stubborn, but not exactly in the same way, because his body has 40 more years of experience.

I told him that I am 65 and that life begins at 60. He liked that. He joked that when he is 118, perhaps we can meet again and speak about ideas.

Near the end, Fabrice asked me what advice I would give him for the last 20 kilometres, when the body is tired and only the mind can carry him forward.

I told him that on long rides, especially near the end, I kept my head down and kept moving my feet. I did not look too far ahead. I looked at where I was and focused on the next movement. One foot, then the other. Keep going. Keep going.

That reminded him of army marches with weight and a backpack. He said that sometimes you disconnect the brain and let the body walk. The Mayor joked that he does that every day, although someone still needs to have a brain.

My final question to Fabrice was about the finish line. I asked him what he wants to feel when he crosses it, and what message he would give to other people his age.

He corrected the question before answering it. He said he does not imagine finishing. He is going to finish.

When he crosses the line, he does not know exactly what he will feel. Maybe, if his body says it is still okay, he will look for another 100 kilometre challenge. Maybe not. He said he will know next week.

His message to people his age was direct:

Do not talk too much.

Just do it.

That is Fabrice. He comes from Cleebourg. He has been a soldier, a reservist, a lorry driver, and a man who knows how to work with discipline in dangerous places. Now he is preparing for 100 kilometres, not to impress other people, but to test himself.

He says he is stubborn.

I believe him.

And I believe he is going to finish.