(Like The Wind Magazine) Run, run, and don’t look now.

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February 2015, Nancy, France. Participants are crouching down behind the white line; the whistle blast will resound in a few seconds. The corporal and sergeant are staring at our group, my legs have started to shake like the leaves of a feeble paper birch. How could I take this endurance test without running out of steam?

I have worked hard in the woods of my Lorraine land, but I could scarcely catch my breath after one song of Dan Reynolds playing in my mp3. Abdominal exercises? Easy. Push-ups? With one hand. Running? An ordeal which, from the moment I was forced to practice, I have done my utmost to escape.

Our section has been divided into six different teams, and each of them positioned on a frozen outside track, up to its respective row of coloured cones. Observing my comrades, I am trying to find some comfort in a frightened look, in a longer sigh, in a distraught murmur. To my blighted hope, no one is moving. No one is blinking. On your marks, get set, go! The first audible signal has rung out.

My group leaves the starting line at full throttle, forgetting that the trial’s purpose consists in running at the rhythm of our chief’s whistle blows: every time the latter provides us with a piercing sound, the whole section is supposed to have progressed from one unique raw.

First alarm. We are all right on course. Second one, still on schedule. Third one, could be better. The fourth one begins to put us in a difficult position: the pace has sped up and henceforth, we are initiating a race against time. Agreeing to dance with our own resistance.

After half an hour, I have a hunch that we have been running for ages, following each other as a herd of donkeys would sprint for an old carrot. Nobody wants to be considered the weakest of the troop. Runners are overtaking me; and yet, I cannot jeopardise my admission within the military reserve force.

Observing my comrades, I am trying to find some comfort in a frightened look, in a longer sigh, in a distraught murmur.

I have waited for too long to take this training course. Greek mythology has taught me not to look back or, just like the unfortunate Orpheus, I would take the risk to lose my dear Eurydice, today wrapped in a suiting battledress. Clinging to my very last strengths – I am firmly rubbish at running, I catch up to not let them out of my sight. A freezing air is enveloping my entire face, making my eyes shine and my mouth crystallise. The run doesn’t end.

I may be in better shape than in 2004, date of my first cross-country race; even so I am now struggling with a stabbing pain in my chest. I am breathless. Nine persons have already stopped, and I am keeping a discreet watch over them. Could my mindset be stronger than I thought? Five minutes later, I have found the answer: a little bit.

I slow down peacefully, joining the other pilots on a large wooden bench. It seems that my tenacious efforts to stay on the track have paid off. I have succeeded.