Page 20 of Runner 13

Adrienne

At last, I’m running again.

The tension of the bivouac is behind me, along with the snide comments and side-eyes, the storm-battered weariness. Now I can say all I need to with my feet, and that’s how I like it.

I’m amazed by how quickly the first few miles disappear.

I keep pace with Mariam, matching her stride for stride.

We push hard in the early morning, trying to cover as much ground as possible while the sun is not at full strength.

Navigating is easier than I imagined too, despite the crude hand-drawn map.

Every so often we pass a rock that has been spray-painted bright blue, marking the route.

They’re easy to spot amidst the otherwise monochrome shades of brown landscape.

I’m not fully able to relax into my stride, though. My nerves are frayed, stinging like they’re exposed to the air. Pete’s disqualification, Jason’s injury, the note in his journal – it’s all put me on edge. I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for … I don’t even know what.

Knowledge is king, Addy.

Hearing Glenn’s voice in my head makes me recoil, despite the fact that he is right. He’s the only person to ever call me ‘Addy’, as if renaming me was part of the control he could exert.

It almost makes me stop in my tracks. But I grit my teeth. I’m not going to let him – or his memory – distract me. This is part of the reason I stopped running. Because I couldn’t dissociate it from him .

From what he did.

I focus on the other voice in my head. Ethan’s. Mum, you know the way.

I wonder if he’s at the tennis courts right now.

He normally goes first thing in the morning, whether he’s staying with me, Pete or his grandparents.

At our local court the net hangs half off, but we still hit a ball around until it’s time to walk to school.

I’ve never been the best player – even at ten, he can run circles around me – but I’ve got better thanks to the sheer number of hours we’ve practised.

I’m so proud of his discipline – maybe because I recognize it in myself.

It’s not the only thing he’s got from me. At his last tournament he got suspended from the team. The night it happened, Pete had dropped him off with me, absolutely furious.

‘Tell your mum what happened,’ he’d said.

‘It wasn’t fair,’ Ethan had replied, his arms folded across his chest. ‘Finn’s ball was in. The umpire was wrong. He should have won his game.’

‘And you thought yelling at the umpire was going to help?’

Ethan had stormed off to his room.

Pete had sighed. ‘Can you talk to him?’

‘Was the umpire wrong?’ I’d asked.

‘Not the issue. His outburst was, and the coach says he’s not to play again until he understands that.’

I’d winced. He was right. Ethan needed to learn to control his temper. Losing it was something he’d inherited from me.

‘The ball was in,’ Pete had conceded, eventually.

And that’s when I knew. Ethan was more like me than I had realized – the good and the bad.

His fierce sense of justice. That strain between the truth and the reality.

What’s fair about a ball being in and the umpire calling it out?

One is the truth, but the other sometimes needs to be accepted as real to be a good sportsperson.

Sport, like life, doesn’t always abide by the rules.

Ethan’s never known me as an athlete. Certainly not as a champion.

And I’ve never told him. My boxes of medals are stuffed under my bed.

I don’t compete at his sports day. It’s easier that way.

To pretend that my life began when we moved to Ambleside and I started working in the outdoor shop. That I’m just his plain, boring mum.

Maybe now he’ll see a different side to me.

The further we run, the more spread out the pack becomes. I lose the front runners but I’m not worried at this point. The race is long and these are literally the very first few miles. As long as I keep a good pace, I’ll be able to make up the time.

Still, when I reach the next checkpoint, I’m grateful.

I’ve been playing it close to the line with water, and my bottles are nearly running dry.

In my long-sleeved-top, shorts and compression socks, most of my skin is protected from the force of the sun’s rays, but I feel like I’m cooking from the inside out.

Sweat beads on my forehead and upper lip, the suncream I lathered on my face now dripping into my eyes, making them sting – a rookie error.

And we’re not even at the peak of the day yet.

As I pass through, one of the volunteers hands me my water.

I need to transfer it to the reusable bottles lodged in the straps of my pack, the straws at a convenient height so I can sip without removing them, so I step into the shade of one of the shelters.

I could also do with putting some sachets of rehydration salts in with my water, to help me as we’re about to enter the dunes.

Taking a break makes me feel agitated about my time, but I tell myself it will just be for a few minutes.

A groan sounds from the back of the tent. I peer into the darkness, my eyes having trouble adjusting from the searing bright light outside.

I step closer. ‘Nabil? Are you OK? Tout vas bien? ’ I ask in halting French.

‘ J’ai besoin d’eau.’ He gestures to his water bottles. The ground is wet by his feet; I wonder if he accidentally tipped them over.

‘Let me get one of the volunteers,’ I say.

‘They say no more,’ he replies, shaking his head.

‘That’s ridiculous.’ He looks worryingly unsteady, swaying on his feet.

I reach out to help him, but he waves me off.

‘Here,’ I say, spinning the lid off one of my bottles and pouring the fresh water into his.

There’s no rule against sharing water. It’s not food or any other gear.

It’s part of my ration. If that means that my race suffers later on, that’s my choice to make.

‘ Merci ,’ he says. He fumbles in his pack and pulls out a small bag of tablets, pops one and then takes a swig. Salt, I assume.

‘Are you OK to run? Do you want me to get a doctor?’ I don’t want to leave him like this. But he seems to recover as he takes in the water, standing straighter, his eyes brighter.

‘I will continue. Thank you again. You have saved my race.’

‘You’re welcome. I’ve watched some of your race videos. You’re an inspiration to me.’

‘Not today,’ he says, bitterly.

‘Every day,’ I say.

He laughs. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I am fine now. Thank you.’

I back out of the tent and into the daylight. I hesitate. There’s a medical tent right next door, and the handsome Italian doctor from yesterday is inside. I debate calling him over. But then Nabil emerges from the rest tent and sets off at a jog. A fast jog.

It reminds me that this is a race. I set off after him, not wanting to lose sight of his heels.

A competitive spark ignites within me, one I thought had been long extinguished.

If I can stay with him for the rest of the stage, then maybe I’ll have a good enough time to remain in contention.

I think about Ethan logging in to see how well his mum is doing. I’ll make him proud.

I keep my head down, watching the ground changing beneath my feet.

No longer is it cracked, dry and littered with tiny stones.

Instead, it’s fine sand, like I’m back running on the beach in South Wales, where I took Ethan on our last holiday.

We stayed in a caravan right on the edge of one of the largest sand dunes in the UK.

But these dunes are different. For one, the sand is much more bronze here, and the heat reflecting off it is intense – so much so that it threatens to melt the soles of my shoes.

Here there are decisions to be made. Nabil has gone off in one direction, following the ridge line of the dunes. But if I follow him now, I’ll be running on sand already broken by his footsteps. The surface will be unstable. With every step I take the sand will send me back by two.

If I choose my own line through the dunes, running along an unspoilt ridge, following Nabil’s idea but not his actual footsteps, I might be able to keep up a good pace. So I choose a different dune.

Immediately, I regret my decision. I’m no good at picking out the firmer patches of sand – every step I take, the ground seems to sink beneath me, causing me to slip and lose balance.

My head is spinning, my vision becoming blurred.

I can barely keep my eyes open against the glare; even through my category-four sunglasses everything is too bright.

This doesn’t feel right. I look around and I feel myself sliding down the side of a dune, tall mountains of sand looming. But hadn’t I set a course to run along the ridge line? How did I end up here?

I give my head a shake, but that makes me drop to my knees.

One of my bottles falls out of its shoulder pocket, leeching water into the sand through the straw.

A sound comes out of my mouth that barely seems human, a groan, as I try to get my hands to work to pick up the bottle.

My fingers fumble with it, making things worse.

‘Hey! Hey!’

I hear shouts but can’t find the source. I squint into the sun and spot a shadow on the top of the dune, waving.

I try to lift an arm to wave back but I can’t.

I just need to drink something. I try the next bottle, which only has a few sips left. That’s when I remember – I gave some of my water to Nabil. Now I’ve spilled what little I had. This could be it. My race over.

‘Need any help?’

My head pounds and I feel a flutter of panic. I haven’t come this far only to fail. This isn’t even the biggest dune field I’m going to face. I can do this. I force myself to my knees, then to my feet. I manage to raise my hand. ‘I’m OK,’ I say, my voice croaking.

‘Sure? We’ve got an emergency over here but I can come back for you …’

‘I’m OK!’ I say, louder.

To prove it – to him and to myself – I take a step. Then another and another. I’m slow but I’m moving.

My head swims and I think I’m about to faint.

I pinch myself, hard, on the inside of my arm, the pain sharpening the rest of my senses.

I don’t know what’s come over me. The doubt that accompanies the light-headedness is overwhelming.

Am I really cut out for this? Maybe throwing myself into the world’s toughest race as my ‘comeback’ after seven years away wasn’t the best idea.

No. There’s no way I’m going to stop on the first day. I think of the answers I’ve been promised if I finish. That’s enough to get my feet moving.

Then there’s the competitive fire that’s been lit now. That’s enough to quiet down the voices in my head. There’s no going back. Only forward.

I keep my focus on that flame all the way to the end of the first stage.