FORCALQUIER, France — Last Saturday, I got pulled over by the police for the first time ever. I was running, not driving, when the dark blue van pulled up behind me and the officer told me to stop on the side of a dusty road in Provence. My heart was already pumping hard from the steady incline, but my breath quickened when they asked where I lived and requested my “attestation.”

I struggled to free the small slip of paper from the teeth of the zipper of my shorts’ pocket, declaring “on my honor” that I’d left the house for one of the seven permitted reasons.

From my attestation, the officers verified my address and what time I had left home (11:38 a.m.). It was only 12:02 p.m., so I was well within my allotted daily hour of outdoor exercise, but I was pushing the permitted one-kilometer radius from home. According to my watch, I was still in range, but the French police officers said they knew distances in this small rural town better than the GPS.

Still, they let me go with a warning, so long as I turned around “à la courbe de la route.”

The officers drove off, heading toward Les Mourres, a nearby regional open space where locals were still sneaking away to hike and run. Once the police car disappeared, I sprinted, cutting across the empty town square and ending my run early. I was so relieved to avoid a $145 fine. I’m in grad school; I can’t afford that.