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She reaches over and pats my knee, then looks up at Jason. ‘Sorry, mate,’ she says. It sounds hilariously casual in her lightly accented English, her third language after Arabic and French.
Jason fumbles in his pocket. ‘I’m in tent sixteen. Adrienne, please come find me. A few minutes of your time isall I need.’ He passes me an Ultra Bros business card with his tent number scribbled on the back. I take it but put it in the front pocket of the seat. There’s no way I’ll be seeking him out.
‘Thank you for saving me,’ I say, once he’s moved out of earshot. I notice that other eyes have turned towards us, some people craning their necks to get a glimpse of me. At least that’s what it feels like. I swallow my paranoia, shrink down and force a smile for Mariam. ‘How have you been? I am so glad to see you.’
‘Me? I feel the same way about you! It has been far too long.’
‘You look well,’ I say, and I mean it. She looks lean and strong, her dark brown eyes sparkling beneath her thick lashes, spidery laugh lines spreading from the corners. She must be over fifty but she’s in peak physical condition, and she’s been on the podium of several desert races over the past year. This is her home terrain, as she was born in Morocco, although I met her after she’d been living in Paris. We’d run in several races together across Europe and I’d always admired the way she’d balanced racing with raising her family.
When everything kicked off seven years ago, I thought she might stand up for me, vouch for me. But she stayed silent. I don’t blame her. Not many people wanted to stick their head above the parapet.
‘Ah, you’re too kind. Every time I travel to a race, I think, it’s finally happened! I am too old for this. But then I hear the word “go” and I’m off.’
I laugh, but Mariam doesn’t join in. Her eyes search my face, curiosity bubbling under the surface. She might havesaved me an interrogation from Jason, but he’s not the only one with questions.
Thankfully, she seems to think better of asking any, instead wriggling around in her seat. She whistles through her teeth. ‘Long journey ahead. I am going to try to get some rest. You should too.’
I nod, and she pats my knee again. Then she whips out an eye mask and pulls it down low.
Tears spring up in my eyes; I’m not used to such kindness. I turn back to the view to disguise it. The warm beauty of Morocco flashes by – clay buildings blending seamlessly into the dusky orange desert terrain beyond, interspersed with pale green foliage from olive trees. Everything seems suffused with soft light, like the place exists in a permanent golden hour. Yet there’s evidence of damage from sand and wind everywhere too, tattered window coverings and blown-in glass, walls rough and crumbling. If the climate can do that to rock and stone, what can it do to the human body?
The six hours pass all too quickly for me. When we arrive, Mariam is straight off the coach – she’d spent most of the final hour crossing her legs and fidgeting – but it won’t be long before I see her again, since we are sharing a tent in the bivouac. As the other runners rush towards the registration tent, I linger a bit longer, waiting for the aisle to empty.
Now that I’m here, the reality hits me. I’m about to face the community that worked so hard to shun me. It’s going to require bravery, confidence, pride. I’m not sure I have any of that left.
My phone buzzes and I fish it out of my pocket. The camp is one of the last places we’ll have signal.
It’s Ethan.Meep meep!He accompanies the text with an animated cartoon gif of road runner.
That’s why I’m doing this. I grab my pack down from the overhead compartment and swing it over my shoulders.
For Ethan. For me. To get the answers I need and get home.
It’s time to put myself back in the arena.
2
Stella
Camera? Check.
Volunteer badge? Check.
Sanity? Back in California, where I left it with the rest of my boxed-up belongings. I’m here following my ultrarunning-obsessed boyfriend deep into the Sahara. The things you do for love.
Fiancé, I correct myself. Not boyfriend any more.
I lift my camera and snap a photo of him standing in front of a huge Hot & Sandy banner. He flexes his biceps and raises his leg into the running-man pose. It makes me laugh.
‘There, much better,’ he says, coming forward to kiss my cheek. ‘I know you’re worried, but look – look at this place.’
‘It’s pretty impressive,’ I concede. I don’t share that the sight of the bustling bivouac beyond the banner is only adding to the feeling of dread in my stomach.
‘Meet you at my tent after my medical?’ he asks.
I nod.
He gives my hand a squeeze. ‘It will be OK. You’ll see. And then we can start planning the wedding.’