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I suck on my straw and keep my head down. We’re probably less than an hour from the finish. If I keep up my pace, maybe he’ll drop behind me naturally. But he seems determined to stick to my heels.
And determined to talk to me. ‘I know who you are,’ he says.
‘Oh?’ I clench my fists at my side, grinding my back teeth. The man’s tone sets me on edge.Focus on your own feet, I repeat to myself over and over. I watch the white of the gaiters covering my trainers cycling against the dark brown of the ground.Just run, Adri. Just run. Keep going.
‘I heard the podcast. You’re a brave woman.’
Is he trying to goad me? I can’t tell. But I don’t have the will for conversation. I don’t have brain space for anything other than running.
The bivouac has appeared on the horizon now, the flags of the stage’s finishing line fluttering in the breeze. I can’t concentrate on that, though. I can’t get ahead of myself, or else I’ll speed up prematurely and run out of steam before the end. Keeping a steady pace is so important.
The thought of finishing also brings up twinges of pain in my body, things that I had been blissfully unaware of until I had dared to dream about finally getting to sit down. Things like pressure under one of my toenails, probably a blister, and chafing along my lower back from where the backpack bounces against my body with each stride. Myright quad throbs with pain – I think I aggravated an old injury when I fell – and my eyes sting where the salt from my sweat has dripped on to my lashes. There’s intense pressure in my bladder too; I hadn’t had the chance to relieve myself on the jebel. If I stop now, this runner 501 will probably wait for me. If I was on my own, I’d just let it go on the run – the sun is so hot, the liquid would probably evaporate on contact with my skin. No one said ultrarunning was glamorous. But with him in tow I feel I need to hold it.
His breathing bothers me too. That rhythm.
He’s wormed his way into my head and I can’t focus. I can’t get into the zone. It’s the most frustrating way for me to run, and I resent him for every moment he has stolen from me. It’s not the attitude that I want to carry with me while running. I drop my pace by the tiniest amount, so we end up running side by side, rather than him being in my wake.
‘It’s impressive you caught up with us,’ I say.
‘I’ve been pushing hard since yesterday. You think Boones will let me join the elites tomorrow officially? Be in with a chance at the prize money?’
‘He likes a trier, so I bet you have a good shot.’
‘When I was a kid, all my dad talked about was the Ampersand races. That’s why I’ve come here. To see what all the fuss is about.’
‘And?’
‘I think I get it. Boones provides the arena. But it’s up to the individual whether to push their limits or not.’
‘I bet your dad is really proud of you.’
‘Hard to be proud from the grave.’
We run in silence for the next few minutes, as I berate myself for my lack of tact.
‘I never gave him much to be proud of when he was alive,’ 501 continues, after a while. ‘But he didn’t give me much to be proud of either.’
‘So really you’re doing this for you.’
He looks over at me as I say that, cocking his head like a curious child. ‘And you? Why’ve you come back, after so long away, like that podcast said?’
‘Because I have to know.’
‘Know what?’
I think of Boones’s promise. The answers he’s going to give me. But I realize that now there’s a different question I’ve wanted to ask myself.Am I capable?
I can’t escape the feeling that this is where I’m meant to be. This is me in my element. And I’d forgotten how much joy I got out of it, even under these circumstances. I run because I love to run. I run because of where it can take me. I run because that’s what it feels like my body is made to do.
‘I’ll let you know when I find out,’ I reply.
It’s cryptic, even for me, but to my surprise he nods – as if he understands perfectly.
‘Same for me.’ He pauses. ‘You think you deserve to know?’
I falter – in thought and in my step. The question is so unexpected. ‘No, I don’t. But I’m not going to let that stop me.’
We run a few more steps, our feet pounding in sync against the dry earth, cracked into almost perfect hexagonal patterns. Nature’s geometry. If I’d stayed at home,ignored Boones’s summons, suppressed my curiosity, I wouldn’t be here, seeing this. If I hadn’t lied, would Yasmin and Glenn still be alive? Would we have found some other way to reveal the truth? Would I have avoided making my son a target?