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14
Adrienne
A foghorn sounds around the bivouac as Boones drives away, signalling five minutes until the start of the first stage of the race. My heart pounds in my chest. I close my eyes, tilting my head back, letting the sun warm my face and calm my racing adrenaline. It doesn’t work. Searing-hot rage rises instead, feeding on the undercurrent of fear.
At least Boones wasn’t bluffing. He knows who was driving the car. I just have to play his game, run in his race, and then he’ll tell me. Boones might like surprises, but I hope he’s a man of his word.
The river of fear works its way deeper. The challenges of the race I can handle – the heat, the miles, the pain. But what if someone is out there, wanting to hurt me? The one other person who might have told me the answer has already been seriously wounded, and Boones couldn’t stop it.
Anything can happen.
I focus on the first stage. Twenty-five miles. A little less than a marathon. There will be other runners, photographers, medics, volunteers lining the race route. I’m wearing a GPS dot that tracks my location at all times. Maybe the safest place for me is to be out on the course.
I walk towards the starting line. Now I need to focuson what I can control: when I eat, when I sleep, whether I stop to fix a hot spot, how much I drink, when I stop for the toilet – all of it a vast algorithm I must carry in my head, constantly doing the mental calculations of how far I have to go and how fast I can push the pace. This is what I used to be good at.
The rest is a mental game. Even without the threat Jason brought to the front of my mind, this is a Boones race. I’m not going to be able to switch off my brain and just run, like I might in a road marathon or on a trail I’ve done a million times. I’m going to need to keep my wits about me. The more the miles drag on, the harder it’s going to be.
The storm might have caused chaos in the night, but it’s covered everything in a thin layer of sand, disguising the myriad footprints and car tracks that had marred the desert surface before. It looks pristine, like fresh-fallen snow – except golden instead of white. The mountains in the near distance look clearer now too, lit up by the morning sun. Even from here I can see what look like waterfalls of sand pouring down the side of the jebels. We won’t have to face those today. That’s a challenge for the second day. I push it to the back of my mind.
As I make my way into the starting zone, people whisper behind their hands. Most of them have heard the podcast, igniting the old flames of scandal that had turned my running career to ash. They see my race number – that thirteen on my front – and they wonder why am I Boones’s pick. What’s so special about me?
And in turn I wonder about them.Are you the one? Did you try to hurt my son and are you back for more?
I don’t breathe normally until I’m with the other elites. Amongst them I feel the muscle memory returning, my old self emerging from her stasis. The starting zone is marked out with two huge flags set on top of trucks. It’s not as elaborate – or as professional – as the starting line for UTMB. It’s more rugged, more simplistic. But what was it that Boones had said in his speech? He was aiming for Pure & Simple. Maybe this is part of it, despite the obscene amount of prize money on offer.
I glance down at my watch – only two minutes until the starting gun. I’ve missed my opportunity for a proper warm-up. I can see the two front runners, Nabil and Farouk, jogging together, looking so relaxed and free. Whoever wants to challenge them for the title is going to have to keep them close. A fun runner approaches – I can tell, because their race numbers have a blue background, not white like ours – and asks them for a photo before their phone is taken away. Nabil agrees, graciously, while Farouk stops to tie a loose shoelace. The two talk for a short time, and I wonder if Nabil is giving the runner tips.
‘I thought you’d quit,’ says Mariam, who has snuck up next to me, making me jump. When I glance back at Nabil, the fun runner has melted back into the crowd.
‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘Had to send a message to my son before they nicked my phone.’
She nods, bending at the waist and swinging her arms, loosening up.
I readjust the shoulder straps of my backpack, then reach down and pull up my socks. I start to strategize. I can’t help myself. It’s not in me to run a race and notwonder what it would be like to win.One stage at a time, I remind myself. But if I want to leave myself a chance, I’m going to have to race smart. There’s no way I’ll be able to match Nabil and Farouk for pace out of the gate. But over this sort of incredible distance, anything can happen. It’s uncharted territory for most of us. There is no training you can do to guarantee you are ready for two hundred and fifty miles. All you can do is take care of yourself, try not to get too injured, too sleepy, too dehydrated or too delirious, and let the rest of the race fall into place.
To the side of the starting line there is a bank of photographers, their lenses panning the crowd. I don’t see Stella amongst them. Maybe she did go home with Pete. A frisson of anticipation slides down my spine and I stand straight, holding my head high. This might be the only image that Ethan is able to see of me if he is checking online. I want him to be proud of his mum. To see me as I struggle to see myself: someone strong, someone to be proud of. The last thing I want is for him to see someone who is scared. So I try my best to look relaxed.
I think of all I’ve risked to get here. I think of what I have on the line. I think about Ethan. The life I’ll be able to give him if I can free myself from the fear that’s kept me rooted in one spot.
There’s a healthy chatter amongst the crowd, but it dies down as Boones pulls up to the starting line. He gets out of the car, surveying the runners.
I’m holding my breath and that’s not going to help me run. I take a deliberate deep inhale, followed by anextra-long exhale. I see Rupert staring at Boones with laser-like intensity. Is there going to be another big speech?
‘Well, all right then,’ Boones says. And he clicks his fingers.
So we run.
15
Stella
And they’re off.
Boones got his way, as usual.
The race is on. I’m kneeling in the dirt, a few steps ahead of the starting line, my camera pointed at the line of runners. The sun’s rays beat down on the back of my neck. Fierce. Prickly.Why am I not sitting by a pool like Pete is?The question has crossed my mind several times. Just find a driver to get me back to Ouarzazate. Leave Boones to his final shebang.
But I can’t bring myself to go.