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Prologue
Adrienne
Faster, Adri.
I will myself to dig deeper, even though I’m right at the edge of my limit.
He’s gaining on me. For the last few miles of this hundred-mile race, it’s been a game of cat and mouse. I want this win, more than anything. Butwantdoesn’t win ultramarathons. Resilience does.
Planning helps too. The Yorkshire 100 is not only my local race but it’s renowned as one of the UK’s toughest, cutting right through the heart of the vast, remote Yorkshire Dales in the dead of winter. The route winds its way through boggy moorlands, down snow-covered trails, and over so many rugged peaks that our elevation gain will be akin to climbing Mount Everest, all the while facing brutal fierce cold winds, driving rain – and that’s if the weather gods are kind. But I know I’m ready. I’ve been training for months, learning every twist and turn of the route, knowing I’ll have to navigate while sleep-deprived and in pain.
I’d managed to stick diligently to my plan – right up until the sixty-mile checkpoint. I’d allotted myself thirty minutes to rest and refuel, then I had to move on. I’d been looking forward to this one. My ex-husband, Pete, was bringing our three-year-old son so I could hug him before his bedtime. But as I’d staggered into the freezingchurch hall, I couldn’t see them amongst the small group of hardy volunteers. I’d waited, downing ramen noodles laden with cheddar and salami, as many calories as I could stomach, one eye on the door. My phone messages went unread. Time ticked by, my thirty-minute break turning into an hour, eating into my narrow lead. I knew if I had any chance of winning I had to leave. So I left.
But my closest opponent hadn’t spent long at the checkpoint either. He’d sped through it, not even eating a hot meal, and with the rest of the pack several hours off the pace, from then on it had only been the two of us in contention.
Now there are only five miles left. My heart and lungs protest more than my muscles, screaming at me that they can’t go on. I ignore them. Slowing down is not an option. I dare not waste any energy even looking over my shoulder. Maybe he’s fallen back. But I doubt it. A course record is on the line. He came here to win. Unfortunately for him, so did I.
I’m deep into what we ultrarunners call the ‘pain cave’. For me it’s the place my mind goes when it’s convinced I’ve hit my limit – but somehow I have to keep going. This pain cave is well earned. I’ve endured hours of torrential rain in the pitch-darkness, falling over in the mud and slush, one hundred miles of eye-stinging wind, muscle cramps and blisters. Thankfully, the sun has risen on a dry morning – though my hands are still frozen into claws inside my gloves, my eyelashes coated in frost. My vision is tunnelled down so all I can see is a few feet in front of me. Still, I know this route so well, every pebble, blade of grass, dip and climb of the trail burned into my memory.That knowledge is the padding of my pain cave, the way I keep myself comfortable. I settle in and keep putting one foot in front of the other.
The cross-country track I’ve been following ends and, for the first time in twenty-four hours, I’m running on tarmac, on the undulating country road that leads to the village hosting the finishing line. A marker nailed to a telephone pole indicates the final mile. I stretch and wake everything up to find another gear. I stick my head out of the cave. I need to feel the pain now. This isgrit my teeth and somehow bear ittime. A dream of hot tea and crumbly ginger biscuits floats through my mind. My mouth salivates at the thought.
After hours of silence and isolation, suddenly there are peopleeverywhere. Lining the route, shouting and waving, holding up hand-painted signs. Are they surprised to see it’s me? I can’t tell.
Tears well up in my eyes, but I need to hold them back. I can’t let myself get overwhelmed with emotion yet. The lead-up to this race has been the most difficult of my life, so much so that I almost didn’t make the start. The temptation to take back my accusation, to do anything to make the trolls go away, is so strong. But I’m not taking anything back. And I’m not going to let it stop me from competing.
Racing has always been my sanctuary. The time I feel most myself, no matter what is going on – good or bad. It’s my mindfulness. My meditation. Mysalvation. I’m not about to let Coach Glenn take that away from me too.
Only a few hundred yards left now. My eyes clear, I lift my head and even chance a smile. It’s not just the run. It’sthis, the competition, the push and pull, that makes me feel alive.
Before I know it, I’m grinning from ear to ear. And I’m still running. No, more than that, I’m flying. I’m filled with a sudden, absolute certainty that I’m going to win. I don’t relax, though. I dare to push that little bit more, and my body responds.
The finishing line comes into view, a huge banner stretching across the high street with a digital clock underneath, the red numbers ticking up. The time it displays shocks even me. If my running maths is correct, I’ve smashed the previous course record by over five hours. I had no idea I was moving that quickly.
Two volunteers hold a stream of white tape across the path and I think instantly of Ethan, my son: how proud he’s going to be of me, when he sees that medal round my neck. Where is he? Pete normally brings him in front of the finishing line so he can watch me cross it. He dresses him in a bright yellow coat so he’s unmissable. But I haven’t spotted them yet.Where could they be?
There’s a burst of applause, but it’s not for me. It’s from behind me. Is the other runner making a push for the finish? I can’t get complacent. The win isn’t mine yet. Runners can lose a race in the final steps. I surge forward, sprinting those last few feet. The tape snaps across my chest.
I’ve done it. I’ve won.
Cheers crash over me like a wave, and I wait a beat – arms raised, eyes closed – for the euphoria of the moment to hit. But then a voice rises above the crowd, louder than all the rest.
‘LIAR!’
I stumble, my foot slipping as I spin round, searching for the source.
I just about manage to stay upright – but not before I hear the voice again: ‘MURDERER.’
The crowd noise becomes more hesitant, hushed. Between the cameras flashing, banners waving, I can’t see who it is.
Murderer? What the hell?
I take a step forward, but that’s when my legs give out, the adrenaline flooding my system, overwhelming me. My knees bash against the ground and I wince with pain.
Someone steps forward to help me. Heavy black boots, the toes polished. Uniform trousers. A high-viz vest over an all-climate shirt, a radio on their shoulder.
Police.
‘Adrienne Wendell?’ the officer asks, but he doesn’t need an answer. He knows who I am. It’s written on my race bib above my number. ‘You need to come with me. It’s about your son. There’s been an accident.’