Page 11

‘Oh, you’re an elite?’ he asks.
I nod, even though hearing it out loud makes me feel like a fraud.
He waves me away with his hand. ‘Over that way.’
‘Aren’t you going to weigh my pack?’
He tuts. ‘All the elite checks are taking place in a different marquee. You didn’t need to stand in this line.’
‘Oh,’ I say. I’d been in with the fun runners. No wonder the atmosphere had felt so much more relaxed.
He eyes my pack. ‘That thing does look a little heavy.’
‘You can tell by sight?’
‘When you’ve seen as many runner packs as I have, you start to make a good guess! The ideal is around six kilos in my opinion. Any more and your form will suffer – any less and you probably don’t have enough nutrition.’
‘I’ll worry about my form and nutrition, thanks.’
He tilts his head in deference, and I wander over to the correct tent.
I’m shown straight in. Even with fans blowing, it’s stuffy inside the marquee – and surprisingly dark. I remove my glasses and cap before greeting the two women sat behind the desk. ‘Um, Ms Wendell signing in,’ I say.
The two exchange a look, and then one of them gets on the radio, speaking in rapid-fire French, too quick for me to understand. The other one gestures for me to open my backpack. I swing it round off my shoulders and place it on the desk.
‘We’re checking to make sure you have all the mandatory equipment. If you add anything later – or have someone else carry food for you – that is also grounds for dismissal from the race.’
I nod, watching as the woman examines my fastidiously packed gear. I double- and triple-checked the mandatory kit list, so I’m not worried about missing anything. I’ve got packages of food (marked with the number of calories for each day), spare socks, sleeping bag and mat. A small foldable stove and fuel cubes for boiling water. A first-aid kit, compass, pocket mirror (for signalling, not vanity), whistle – and some slightly more unusual pieces of equipment: a snake bite and antivenom kit. My phone and a solar-powered battery charger. I’ve included a couple of personal extras – a little lion teddy and a small digital camera. Surplus to requirement, but I wouldn’t travel anywhere without them.
She then puts it all back and hangs it above a scale. Eight kilograms. Two over the minimum. She raises an eyebrow, but I shrug. There’s no maximum weight – but in a race like this, every gram counts. It could be the difference betweenfinishing and not. For me, though, the boost those items give me is worth it.
‘OK, all is fine with your gear. I’m going to attach a tracker to your bag.’ She clips a bright orange tag to the strap of my backpack. I almost stop her, hoping that she hasn’t placed it somewhere that’s going to dig into me as I run. I’ve trained with the bag – as is. Even the slightest change could cause a hotspot that ends my race. But I swallow down my protest. I can’t control everything. And I’d much rather have the GPS tracker than not.
‘This will also serve as your emergency beacon,’ she continues. ‘If you need help, you press down both these two buttons on the top here. You need to pressboth,’ she repeats, ‘to activate the beacon. Then stay where you are and we’ll send someone to your location as quickly as possible. Do not use it if it is not a true life-threatening emergency – pressing it will result in your immediate exit from the race. Your race bib should be here any – Ah! Here he is.’
The back of the marquee flies open, and for a moment I’m blinded by the bright white sunshine flooding in. I lift my hand to shield my eyes and hold my breath. This is it. I get to meet the man who claims to have the answers I’ve been waiting for.
‘You made it!’
My heart sinks and I exhale. It’s not Boones. It’s a young guy – tall, lanky like a string bean and with a mop of wavy hair – with a posh Home Counties accent. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt beneath his Hot & Sandy vest and pressed trousers, in stark contrast to everyone else in athletic wear.
‘I’m Henry, race logistics. It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I reply.
‘We had our doubts you would come. You were the final runner to register.’
‘I thought it was a hoax at first. Or a mistake, at least.’
‘As you can see, no hoax.’ He stops on the other side of the table. ‘I’ve got your race number here, personally assigned by Boones.’ He places it face down.
‘When do I meet Boones?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘Plenty of time for that – don’t you worry,’ says Henry with a smile. It doesn’t do much to reassure me.
A doctor wearing a red cross on his breast pocket, a stethoscope round his neck and a nameplate that reads ‘Dr Emilio’, stops by our table. He looks like he’s far more used to spending time in the Moroccan sun than I am – his skin evenly tanned – and he has thick dark, almost black hair. Mediterranean heritage is my guess – and a heavy Italian accent confirms it. Boones has assembled an international team.
‘This is the next elite?’ he asks, gesturing at me.