Page 19 of Runner 13

Stella

Seven years earlier

Ibiza

When Yasmin runs, the sun’s rays follow her like a spotlight.

Her skin lights up, suffused with gold, so it’s impossible to take your eyes off her.

Her smile might have something to do with that too.

Even after an eighteen-mile training run in the intense Spanish heat her smile is broad, like she’s won the lottery.

I told her that once. She’d laughed and agreed with me.

‘But I have won the lottery, Stella. Look at what my life is!’

On a day like today I can almost see what she means.

She’s running along a cliff edge, the ozonic, salty sea air scented with orange blossom, to a background track of waves crashing against the white-sand beach far below.

Through my lens she casts a navy silhouette against a dusky blue sky, her arms pumping, legs pounding the earth, the tail of her signature pink hijab streaming out behind her.

I still don’t fully understand it, the desire to push your body and mind to endure silly amounts of pain and suffering for the sake of a race.

Yet watching Yasmin makes it seem beautiful.

Natural. She was born to do this. She would run forever if given the chance.

I can see why she’s come here. For a week she’s been intensively training under the guidance of the legendary ultrarunning coach Glenn Knight, alongside four of his top performers.

There’s Adrienne, Yasmin’s idol. The mountain-loving phenom, who’s been beating men and women alike in impossibly long races in the most brutal conditions.

The ‘rock goat’, they call her, because she’s the greatest of all time on the skyrunning courses.

She’s the physical opposite of Yasmin in so many ways – fair-haired, shorter, slight, like a stiff breeze might blow her over – but the rock goat is as stubborn as she is fast. She doesn’t give up, and, as a result, she’s a champion.

Then there’s Keri and Ivanka, university students and best friends from Ireland and Poland respectively, on the running team at Manchester University, where Glenn lectures.

They are both sub-2:45 marathoners – but with a burning desire to make their names out on the trails.

As if 26.2 miles isn’t long enough – some people are nuts.

Winona is another relative newcomer, spotted by Glenn at an ultra in Colorado. She’d come from nowhere and ended up on the podium, with two broken bones in her foot and a dislocated shoulder from a fall. Grit personified.

And finally there’s Yasmin herself. My half-sister.

The nineteen-year-old with talent bursting from every pore.

The one who set up her own backyard ultra in the garden of her south London studio flat and ran over a hundred miles in twenty-four hours, documenting every moment of it online, going viral.

I’m the only non-runner here. Glenn hadn’t wanted me to come. He harped on about the sanctity of the camp, how they needed to feel like they were cut off from the rest of the world, totally devoted to their craft. No family or support crew permitted.

He only changed his tune when Yasmin told him who my father was.

Because this training camp has only one mission: to get a woman to win an Ampersand race. The ultimate ultramarathon test. And he’s gathered only the best of the best to the island.

To that end, I’m the secret weapon. Emphasis on secret. No one outside the camp is to know that I’m here. I don’t even tell Pete, which has the added benefit of not having to reveal to Adrienne that I’ve started dating her ex.

But the truth is, I hardly know anything about my dad’s races, not really. The last time I’d been to one, I was seventeen. That didn’t stop Glenn from grilling me for every detail over dinner.

‘They say he likes to push the boundaries of what humans are capable of – what we’re willing to endure. Would you say he’s a sadist?’

‘Probably,’ I reply with a grim laugh. Then I shake my head.

‘Not a sadist. More like … a scientist,’ I say, paraphrasing my mom’s words.

‘It’s not that he enjoys watching people in pain.

But he wants to know how far someone will go.

Each race is an experiment. He tweaks the variables every year, then sits back and watches the result. ’

‘So his runners are like rats in a maze.’

‘Rats who volunteer,’ I counter. ‘He doesn’t force anyone to run.’

‘He pushes others – but has he ever pushed himself?’

‘All the time. He devises challenges for himself – things like crossing the US on foot. Walking to Alaska from Mexico. His own pilgrimage through the Sahara. He doesn’t do it for records or acclaim, though. Sometimes he doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing. Just comes back with the stories.’

‘So why, then?’

‘Same reason he put on the Ampersands, I suppose. Curiosity. But he’s a better race director than runner.’

‘What about when he’s not directing races? What does he do then? When is “Boones” not actually “Boones”?’

I pause. Of course ‘Boones’ is a nickname.

A play on words. A boon is meant to be a good thing.

When he’s not in that character, he’s an ordinary man, with an ordinary job – a bookkeeper for a couple of local businesses.

Truth is, he works as little as he can get away with.

He’s never been massively rich or ambitious in any other avenue other than racing.

His notoriety is what’s worth millions. People fall over themselves to impress him.

But his ordinariness might be part of it.

Because ultrarunning doesn’t attract flashy attention-seeking people – it’s too long, too arduous, too painful for that.

Boones wants to elevate the ordinary to extraordinary.

And, in his mind, diamonds are only made under extreme pressure. Otherwise they remain part of the dirt.

The information I give Glenn seems to satisfy him – at least for a bit – and he lets me stick around.

When I’d arrived here a week ago, I’d been so tense, my back in knots with anxiety.

Despite her talent, I didn’t want Yasmin to run in one of my dad’s races.

Not only were his trails dangerous – he was dangerous.

Everyone applauded him, but I know the risks.

Watching Yasmin thrive under Glenn’s instruction has gone a long way to making me feel more at ease, though.

She’s in her element on the trails, navigates with ease, manages to stay relaxed.

With time she’ll be a contender. For now I’m counting down until the camp is over, when Yasmin and I have planned a backpacking trip around Spain.

Sangria in Barcelona, tapas in Granada, and lots of lounging on sun-drenched beaches after all this high-intensity running.

Since I moved to California and she lives in London, we hardly ever get to spend quality sister time with each other. I cannot wait.

Yasmin runs past me, and I snap photos of her finishing. She raises her arms high in the air, sweat gluing rogue strands of hair that have come loose from her headscarf to her forehead.

‘Great job!’ Glenn high-fives her as she crosses the imaginary finishing line.

He throws a towel round her shoulders and offers her a bottle of fresh ice-cold water, which she accepts gratefully.

He’s a whirlwind of advice after that. ‘Beautiful action on those uphills. You’ll just want to watch your form – don’t be afraid of dropping to a fast walk to keep your footing.

Remember that nose breathing: in, in, in, out.

Can I see your watch? I need to note your stats. Knowledge is king.’

Yasmin holds her wrist out as he takes down all the metrics recorded on the fancy GPS running watch. Glenn is as bald as a cue ball but wears it well, with a strong, chiselled jaw and unique amber-flecked brown eyes that don’t seem to miss a moment.

‘Get any good pics?’ Yasmin asks me in between gulps of water.

‘Loads. I’ll pick a few for your Insta and drop them to you. How are you feeling?’

‘ épuisée ,’ she replies. ‘And I’m still way behind Adri’s time. I don’t know how she does it.’

‘You’ll get there,’ says Glenn. ‘Now, drink this.’ He takes her water away and gives her a different bottle filled with a murky brown liquid.

Yasmin grimaces. ‘This that recovery blend again?’ She spins the top off. ‘So gross.’ She throws her head back and takes a deep swig.

‘It’s good for you. Why don’t you head back to the resort?’ Glenn says to me. ‘I want to run through a few cool-down drills with Yasmin and some boring performance-review stuff.’

‘Are you sure?’ I direct the question to Yasmin.

She nods. ‘Yeah, definitely. I’ll see you back in the room to get ready for dinner.’

I wander back down the hill towards the lavish sports resort Glenn uses as a base for his camps. Someone in a light blue visor is jogging in the opposite direction. ‘All finished?’ she asks as she looks up, and I realize it’s Adrienne.

‘Yeah.’

‘Where’s Yasmin?’

‘Oh, she’s with Glenn. They’re doing a cool down or something.’

Her eyes flash. ‘Just the two of them?’

‘Yep.’

She drops her head back down and powers past me.

I stop, watching as she sprints the hill.

I think about that look in her eyes. Anger?

Jealousy? I wonder. It wouldn’t surprise me if she and Coach Glenn had a thing going on.

There had been rumours about him – creepy behaviour, some negative comments from other runners not invited to his special camp – but Adrienne had been the one to assure Yasmin he was the best. Told her how her career could be transformed through Glenn’s coaching.

The light is so beautiful on the island. The sun is setting, casting everything in a purple haze – a built-in Instagram filter. I take a photo looking out to sea, then check the result in the viewfinder. I flick through the images on my camera.

There is Yasmin. Except not Yasmin.

I see Atalanta, goddess of running. The one who challenged any man who wanted her to a race and beat them all.

I only hoped that whoever would eventually catch up with her would be worthy.