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What I absolutely cannot do is think about how far there is to go. Two hundred miles is an unfathomable distance, even though I’ve run it several times before. If I truly thought about it, my mind would shut down. My body would refuse to do what I ask of it. Instead, the only way I can manage it is to break the impossible down into achievable chunks. Eat the elephant one spoonful at a time. I only have to make it to the next cache of water. Two caches and then I can sleep. Three caches and we will have reached halfway, then go our separate ways. Four caches until I see her again. And then another four caches to the end. Each one I’ll mentally tick off, like the countdown to Christmas.
I even plan to give myself rewards. An advent calendar of the race. At the fourth cache, I’ll have my protein bar. At the sixth, I can have more paracetamol. At the seventh, I’ll stop and cook a warming soup – even some macaroni cheese. To occupy my mind, I recite things. Favourite songs. Poems. Films. I’m able to watch the entirety ofThe Lord of the Ringstrilogy in my mind. I picture myself with Legolas’s elven skill of running for miles at a time, my feet barely making an indent in the soil. When I feel sluggish, I picture Sam carrying me towards the finish. It can also help to think that I’m running away from a Balrog.
Some people say that to complete this kind of distance, you need to understand yourwhy. To have a reason concrete in your mind, some motivation beyond yourself – acause maybe, a charity, an illness, a difficult situation you’ve endured and overcome. But this distance is too long for why. Running these impossible distances isn’t some kind of need. There’s no practical, real-world application for this skill of mine. It can’t even pay the bills – well, unless you’re like Rupert, or if you win the prize pot.
My realwhyis that runningisme. Ultrarunning is my art. My body is a lump of clay I’ve sculpted into becoming an efficient runner – a winning runner. And the same broad spectrum of emotions I’ve seen conjured by a remarkable piece of music or a moving work of art – tears, elation, devastation – I’ve also felt in my races. With each race I challenge myself to create something more beautiful. To tweak all the variables in my control and see if I can run something close to a perfect race. To see if I can challenge myself to do better. To be better. It’s my version of what Boones wants to do: finding out the limit of human endurance. But while he uses a stick to beat us into greatness, I use a paintbrush to coax my true form to life.
Ultrarunning levels the playing field. It’s not really about having the chance to compete equally against men. It’s never a question in my mind that ninety-nine per cent of the time, Rupert would beat me in any length of race. He is bigger, stronger, faster, has more endurance, more oxygen at his disposal. But the thing about ultramarathons is that they are rarely run under perfect conditions. And that’s when I can come to the fore. While my approach to the physical side of training is more intuitive than most, following my body’s lead, when it comes to mentally preparing for the race itself, I am diligent, bordering on fanatical. Iresearch as much as I can about the route, the weather, the terrain – in the hope that I don’t get fazed by a change in conditions.
It’s the same for most women who enter the most extreme ultras. Theyknowthe distance is insane, so they don’t even enter unless they are capable of finishing. That’s what makes it a more level playing field, putting them a step ahead of a man who’s just chancing it. Many ultras come down to who makes the fewest mistakes on the day. Often that’s a woman.
Years ago, I let myself be a canvas painted by someone else. Glenn held the brush, chose the colours on the palette. He had been almost wholly in charge of my life – he regulated what and when I ate, my training schedule, even what went on in my personal life. Was it a wonder that Pete felt like he and Ethan played second fiddle?
Darkness is beginning to fall in the desert, deepening the hues of orange and red all around me. I glance at Mariam. Somehow we have managed to keep each other going all the way through the first fifty miles together, through the day and into nightfall. The residual heat cooks up from the earth, my legs bathed in warmth as I run.
Our shadows have lengthened, becoming almost like company. My heart rate speeds up, my breaths quicken, as if my brain has forgotten the shadow is attached to me and I suddenly think I’m being overtaken by some unseen foe. Hallucinating this early into the race isn’t a good sign.
I glance over my shoulder but of course there’s no one there. Yet behind us is the sunset I would have missed if I had only focused on my forward motion. It’s so stunning it almost brings me to a halt. I slow to a walk instead, takingthe opportunity to pop a salt tablet and swig water. The sun, which has been beating down on us for so long, now hangs low – lingering above the horizon. With the haze of sand in the air, it looks truly golden, almost soft. A falling star. The sky is painted in hues that reflect the desert – burnt orange deepening to crimson. The black of night is quickly encroaching and the contours of the landscape are more starkly apparent.
Mariam hasn’t slowed with me – she’s in her own zone.
Shit. It really is getting dark quickly. I do stop now, fumbling inside my backpack for my head torch. I try to tell Mariam to do the same, but my voice comes out as barely more than a croak. Another sign the hours of hard running is catching up with me – I’ve forgotten how to talk. I fix my light to my head, make sure spare batteries are in an accessible pocket and turn it on, flashing it to get Mariam’s attention.
A breath of wind tickles my cheek, soft at first, then more firmly. My jaw tenses with fear. I try to calm myself. Wind is fine. Wind is to be expected.
I just don’t want it to develop into a storm, like the one we had on the first night.
I can’t let Mariam get too far ahead. Night will be the most difficult time to navigate when our brains are addled and an extra pair of eyes will be invaluable. Especially if there is another sandstorm. The wind swirls ominously around my body, warm and yet a little too strong for my liking.
I glance one more time behind me, and I spot something else that gives me pause. On the horizon a figure appears, silhouetted by the dying sun. They’re still quite faraway, but there’s something about their posture that makes me feel like they are staring straight at me.
And I no longer feel like something beautiful. I’m not in control, a predator chasing down the lead.
I’m the prey.
37
Stella
The radio bleeps and Henry calls my name. I fumble in my pocket as Pete continues to stare at the photo of Matthew/Matteo on my phone. ‘We’ve located Dr Emilio,’ says Henry over the radio. ‘Your friends have him contained in the medical tent.’
‘Got it,’ I reply. Pete and I exchange a look. ‘Just because he’s not Glenn’s son, doesn’t explain why he had the ketamine,’ I say to Pete. ‘He still might be involved. Matthew’s accomplice, like we speculated. We have to be careful.’
We take off at a jog towards the tent. Mac, Ali and Rachid surround the doctor in one of the chairs, whose face is a bright shade of crimson. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Emilio shouts, as we arrive.
‘Give it up, man – we know you poisoned Nabil!’ says Mac with a dramatic flourish of his hand. He’s enjoying this too much.
‘What?’ Emilio splutters. ‘I did nothing but try to save that man. Who even are you?’
‘Then why did she find ketamine in your bag?’ Mac points at me. ‘Really, Dr Emilio, explain that to us – or should I call youMatthew?’
‘Oh, cool it, Mac, you’re not Hercule fucking Poirot,’ Pete mutters, grabbing Mac by the arm and pulling him back. ‘We found a photo of Matthew Knight and it’s not him.’
Mac deflates like a balloon. ‘What?’ He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m going to take his side. ‘So he’s not involved?’
‘Itoldyou,’ says the doctor, standing up now. This time no one stops him. ‘Those drugs are for your father, Stella. That’s why I have them with me. But who is this Matthew person and why do you think he poisoned Nabil?’
I swallow. I still don’t know who I can trust.