Teddy Bear trotters discover the joy of running at the Crim Festival of Races.
FLINT (8/27/05) - A Tanzanian teen winning Crim? It's as strange as seeing a retired state House speaker, 73, spring onstage to stretch in a way that would make Gumby green with envy.

Fabiano Joseph, 19, youngest-ever winner of the 29th annual Bobby Crim 10-mile road race, meet Bobby Crim.

I was walking the course backward when I first came on Joseph, who, slave to tradition, was running it forward ahead of 7,231 others - unaware, evidently, the men's open title and $5,000 check are supposed to have permanent homes in Kenya.

I met Crim, who founded the race when the fab Tanzanian was minus 10, the night before while handing out Michigan Runner of the Year awards. Crim stopped running for office, started running for health, lent his name to one of Flint's (and our state's) bedrock races, and seems better for it - as are we.

Watched by stuffed wild animals in the Character Inn lobby, Crim bent as few politicians half his age are able. He finished the next day, brimming with vigor, in 1:39:58, fourth of 25 in his age group.

Who else was out there? Everyone. Storm clouds did little to dampen spirits. After pomp and a jet-plane fly over, mobs took off.

Walking up Saginaw Street from the finish line toward the start, I saw medics, spectators, street people gathered and strung out to watch the spectacle. Sounds echoed, emptiness gathered energy.

I strolled up the bricks to First Street, with wheelchair winners whizzing by me, and turned west toward posher suburbs. Here came the press truck, Joseph and other fleet, spindly Africans, legging it as if lobby beasts had come to life and were chasing them.

Bands lining the course ignited, neighbors beat rhythms on nearby hollow things, volunteers lined and filled up cups for the throngs to come.

Runners came singly, in clusters, streams; soon the street was full. I saw myself early as a young man, flowing and racing; as an older one, straining, holding on just to finish; and now, walking backward with a camcorder, trying to catch a thing sweet and fleeting.

Clouds waited till all but the slowest finished, then loosed a downpour. Celebrants danced to a live funk-rock band amid the deluge. Others "stayed dry" pressing sweat to sweat underneath an immense tent in which beer and pizza were served and a giant TV replayed last year's rain-soaked race like a loop into perpetuity.

Trash cans overflowed with banana peels, orange rinds, cups. Crews cleaned up, tore down bleachers and pumped out porta-johns. Order, such as is, was restored as crowds thinned and vibrance waned.

All these things that make Crim, well, Crim, a great race, keep going, as does Crim himself. Bend it, shape it anyway you want - it keeps getting better.

The race turns 30 next year. Expect wonder and an old city, named for stone, to renew again. MR