Bon Courage

Bystanders cheering, "Bon courage!" with arms raised in salute is the kind of reception you expect turning into Central Park at the end of the NYC Marathon, or perhaps laboring up a steep stage in the Pyrenees during the Tour de France. It is not, however, what you expect to encounter running through the medina early in the morning on a scorching July day. Running isn't something you see much of at all in Marrakech, and certainly not in the old walled city. Which is why Samuel has become a bit of a start-of-day curiosity bordering on celebrity in the Sidi Ben Slimane neighborhood. He's in training, readying himself for the imminent arrival of his sister Lulu, a promised running partner, in a month's time. Lulu is 26 to Sam's 35 and has been running with a NY club team for more than a year. So, in addition to the usual health and fitness motivations, I suspect there's a bit of good-natured sibling rivalry encouraging these jaunts.

Anyway, Sam's got a few more weeks and his medina fans to revel in. The guys at the local hanouk (corner store), women headed to the hammam or public bakery, kids on bikes or in small groups selling candy, even the cats picking away at last night's garbage, all raise their hands (and heads, in the case of the cats) as he jogs past. Oh yeah, and I'm his trusted trainer, following on my bike (and in shorts, no less, to further the 'this is serious training' element of our outing).

After taking a left out of the house past the tomb of Sidi Ben Slimane, and weaving through the medina for about 7 minutes, we hit the road headed to Bab El Khemis, our flea market haunt. In the early-morning hours, the stretch is bustling with guys wheeling carts piled high with whatever the season's fruit - now melons and some small round cacti. Mostly young and brash, these guys yell out "bon courage" with a bit of a snicker and several have tried to tag along, impeded by their carts and a distinct shoe disadvantage - flip flop versus Nike Zooms. They give chase for a few meters and inevitable run their carts into the curb, nearly sacrificing the day's produce for a moment of chauvinistic competition.

Besides the heat, which threatens to kill us every morning, and the stares and sniggers, running in Marrakech can be a dangerous sport. The other day, as we reached the halfway mark and made our turn home at the Afriquia gas station, a glassy-eyed glue-sniffer tossed a glass bottle at the curb just as Samuel passed, shards grazing his shins and arms. Fortunately, his trainer was there to make sure no harm had come to her prize athlete. "Faster, faster," I entreated. "Picture Lulu. Hear her pounding at your heels. Feel her breath on your neck. Faster, man, faster!!"