Page 3 of Runner 13

Adrienne

The plane door opens and I step out into a furnace.

The blast of heat is intense and immediate, accompanied by a fierce wind that forces me to hold on to my cap to stop it from being blown away.

The same winds had almost diverted the plane to a different airport – much to the consternation of everyone on board.

We’re all in Morocco for the same reason, after all.

The Hot & Sandy race. I still can’t quite believe I’m going through with it. Up until the moment I boarded the chartered plane at London Gatwick, I thought about turning back. The reasons not to run felt so much more important than why I’ve come out here.

For one, there’s Ethan. I’ve never left him for this long before. Even though he’s ten, he’s still my baby. And the last time I raced … I can’t even finish the thought without shuddering. The horror of it still has a lock round my heart, a cage I can’t break free from.

Then there’s Pete. He also got an invite.

Running my first race in seven years against my ex doesn’t seem like the smartest plan.

Pete is surprisingly relaxed about it, but I think it’s because he doesn’t see me as competition.

I don’t even see me as competition. Showing up at the start feels brave enough for me.

Last – but definitely not least – Boones. The mysterious race director of one-name-only notoriety, the Madonna of the running world. I’ve never wanted to run in one of his races. Only Boones made sure this was an invitation I couldn’t refuse.

Ethan, for his part, is delighted to have both his parents racing.

He’ll be tracking us on the website, watching our every step.

He looked up Boones online and put together a booklet of facts, like it was some kind of school project.

Boones lives deep in the forest of North Carolina.

He launched his first race – Big & Dark – over thirty years ago.

Only ten people have finished his races in their history. No woman has ever finished.

‘You’re going to be the first, Mum,’ he says, filled with the kind of innate confidence I wish I had in myself.

But focusing on the facts helps me too. I like to visualize the challenge ahead, mentally prepare for the pain – putting some padding in my pain cave, so that when I enter it during the race (and it’s inevitable that I will), I have something to bounce off to stop it from hurting so much.

It’s what I did when I broke the course record at the Yorkshire 100, and when I podiumed at UTMB. It’s what I try to do now.

The lack of information about the race has made that task difficult, though.

All I know is what I’ve gleaned from the website, loaded from a QR code on the invitation: a two-hundred-and-fifty-mile five-day stage marathon across dunes, dried-up riverbeds, and the rock-strewn mountains (known locally as jebels) of the infamous Sahara Desert.

The first two stages are twenty-five miles.

The third and fourth are fifty miles each.

Then the fifth day is the big one – one hundred miles – already nicknamed the ‘long day’.

Each stage will be timed and must be completed within a strict limit – bringing up the rear will be two Berber volunteers and their camel to sweep up any stragglers.

Temperatures might range from freezing cold in the night to over fifty degrees centigrade in the day.

Sandstorms are likely, as are venomous creatures.

We are expected to navigate the route using only a copy of a map hand-drawn by Boones and a compass.

And every runner must carry their own food, sleeping bags and survival gear for the length of the race.

All we will be provided with is water every ten miles or so and an open-air tent each night set up in traditional style by the Berbers in a miniature city known as a ‘bivouac’.

There will also be medics and photographers along the route, and we will be wearing GPS tracking devices.

So far, so manageable. But I know there will be curve balls to come. Boones is famous for them.

The invite itself had been the first surprise. When it arrived on my doorstep, I thought it was a prank. I was going to put it straight in the bin. Then I turned it over.

On the back was a handwritten note.

COME AND FIND ANSWERS . It read. Then, underneath, a licence plate: LK 1X XFG .

My heart pounded so hard, I could hear it ringing in my ears. It couldn’t be.

Seven years ago, I’d had one of the worst nights of my life. Yes, I’d won my race. But at the finishing line, the police had met me with the awful news: Ethan had been in a hit-and-run accident.

They never found the driver.

Who did it? That became the question that dominated my life. Who had tried to hurt my baby?

I’d gone straight to my laptop, opened the vehicle enquiry page on the government website and typed in the plate number.

IS THIS THE VEHICLE YOU ARE LOOKING FOR ?

The question seemed to taunt me. It’s the one I’d asked myself every day for seven years.

RANGE ROVER.

BLACK.

The same make and model as the vehicle involved.

I’d dropped the invite then, the paper searing my fingers.

It had to be a sick joke from one of the trolls who still hated me for what I did.

I kicked it beneath the counter, not wanting to look at it, think about it.

Then Ethan had come home, buzzing about the fact that his dad had been invited to some exclusive new race: Hot & Sandy.

He’d even taken a photo of the invitation. They were the same.

It wasn’t a prank.

Boones knew something about the accident. I’d tried to email him, write him a letter, even sent direct messages to the Ampersand race social media accounts. But they all went unanswered.

He wanted to tell me at the launch of his new race.

I knew then that I’d be entering. I had to find out.

Never mind that I’d spent seven years out of the ring. Seven years not racing, hiding away so as not to draw attention to myself.

The moment I boarded the plane, amongst hordes of other runners, the word was out.

I try to stay off social media, but still, I couldn’t help but open the apps to glance at what people were saying.

Some were curious, some were neutral – but most were horrible.

Variations on how dare she? and what the fuck does she think she’s doing?

And a couple even worse than that: Oh great, the lying bitch is back.

Who is she going to bring down this time?

I glance over my shoulder before descending the stairs to the runway, the tarmac steaming through the soles of my trainers (of course I’d worn my running shoes on the plane – I wasn’t going to risk those getting lost in transit).

As I walk to the single-storey terminal emblazed with large letters reading ‘ERRACHIDIA’ – the name of the closest town to where the race begins – I’m soon overtaken by other eager runners.

Do they know the race hasn’t started yet?

Each one has a small backpack slung on their shoulders, similar to the one I’ve got.

We’re carrying everything we need to survive for the next few days.

I hardly recognize anyone. A decade ago, I would have known almost everyone participating in a race like this.

But the plane was packed with fresh-faced newcomers.

I recognize Rupert Azzario, wearing a dozen brand patches on his clothing from top-of-the-line sponsors.

He’s like a walking billboard. My snide thoughts are accompanied by a spike of jealousy.

At my peak I’d beaten him at the Yorkshire 100, the Dragon’s Back and the Lake District Ultra, but he’s the one making a living from his running, chasing races and records across the world.

He has hundreds of thousands of followers.

One of the privileged few living the dream.

On the surface he’s mild-mannered, humble, quiet – everyone likes him, looks up to him.

Ultrarunning’s golden boy. But beneath that genial persona there’s a fierce competitor – one with a ruthless desire to win. It’s served him well.

Rupert dodges eye contact, but I expected that. I’m sure I’ll experience worse. I feel on high alert, goosebumps rising on my skin despite the heat.

Liar. Murderer.

Those words still haunt me.

I try to shake them from my mind. I need to focus on getting to the bivouac, then finding Pete. That brings a smile to my face. It’s nice to think of Pete as an ally instead of an enemy for once.

Pete’s been in Morocco for a week already.

He wanted to spend some time acclimatizing to the heat.

Smart – it’s something I would have done if I could have afforded the time off.

He’s much more used to these big races, having spent almost two decades on the circuit.

His goal was always the prestigious American races – Western States, Badwater, Hardrock – or to podium at Comrades in South Africa.

In my time I’d preferred to stay closer to home, focusing on races in the UK and Europe.

As I board the coach for the next leg of the journey, I feel a flutter of butterflies in my stomach.

Anticipation for the race, or fear? I find it hard to tell any more.

I choose a seat towards the back, turning my body to face the window, hoping I look like someone who doesn’t want to be disturbed.

I’m grateful when no one sits down next to me, and I spread my belongings across the empty seat for good measure.

We have a six-hour coach journey to the bivouac, then our medical and equipment checks, and the registration to pick up our race numbers.

‘Excited?’ A man stops next to me, so I have to turn towards the aisle. He lifts his sunglasses on to his forehead. He’s so tall he stoops and he’s young – late twenties maybe – with soft brown eyes and a buzz cut.