Page 32 of Runner 13

Adrienne

I trip over my own feet, hitting the ground with a thud. I feel sand between my teeth and taste the metallic tang of blood on my tongue.

I don’t take his hand. I scramble to my feet and dust myself off. ‘You jump out at me from behind a bush and don’t think I’ll be scared?’

I don’t wait for him to reply, just start walking.

The adrenaline rush messes with my stomach and makes my hands shaky.

I want to throw up and collapse at the same time.

Instead, I spit the blood out of my mouth and pick up into a jog.

As long as I’m moving forward, towards my goal, then I’ll be OK.

Although it frustrates me, he falls into step behind me. ‘I just – I’m completely lost. I panicked when I came down the jebel and couldn’t see you.’

‘Don’t you have a compass?’

‘I do but I don’t know how to use it. I’ve been lucky so far, I guess. Always had someone in sight.’

‘You’re not one of the elites.’

‘Nope. But I’ve been training hard. Guess it’s paying off.’

I don’t reply to that. I don’t like that he wants to follow me all the way to the finish of this stage, even though there’s absolutely nothing that I can do about it.

It’s not like I can ask him to stop and wait – it’s the middle of the Sahara Desert.

Instead, I decide to simply not talk to him.

I have enough to concentrate on anyway. If I’m lucky, he’ll get the hint.

I suck on my straw and keep my head down. We’re probably less than an hour from the finish. If I keep up my pace, maybe he’ll drop behind me naturally. But he seems determined to stick to my heels.

And determined to talk to me. ‘I know who you are,’ he says.

‘Oh?’ I clench my fists at my side, grinding my back teeth. The man’s tone sets me on edge. Focus on your own feet , I repeat to myself over and over. I watch the white of the gaiters covering my trainers cycling against the dark brown of the ground. Just run, Adri. Just run. Keep going.

‘I heard the podcast. You’re a brave woman.’

Is he trying to goad me? I can’t tell. But I don’t have the will for conversation. I don’t have brain space for anything other than running.

The bivouac has appeared on the horizon now, the flags of the stage’s finishing line fluttering in the breeze. I can’t concentrate on that, though. I can’t get ahead of myself, or else I’ll speed up prematurely and run out of steam before the end. Keeping a steady pace is so important.

The thought of finishing also brings up twinges of pain in my body, things that I had been blissfully unaware of until I had dared to dream about finally getting to sit down.

Things like pressure under one of my toenails, probably a blister, and chafing along my lower back from where the backpack bounces against my body with each stride.

My right quad throbs with pain – I think I aggravated an old injury when I fell – and my eyes sting where the salt from my sweat has dripped on to my lashes.

There’s intense pressure in my bladder too; I hadn’t had the chance to relieve myself on the jebel.

If I stop now, this runner 501 will probably wait for me.

If I was on my own, I’d just let it go on the run – the sun is so hot, the liquid would probably evaporate on contact with my skin.

No one said ultrarunning was glamorous. But with him in tow I feel I need to hold it.

His breathing bothers me too. That rhythm.

He’s wormed his way into my head and I can’t focus.

I can’t get into the zone. It’s the most frustrating way for me to run, and I resent him for every moment he has stolen from me.

It’s not the attitude that I want to carry with me while running.

I drop my pace by the tiniest amount, so we end up running side by side, rather than him being in my wake.

‘It’s impressive you caught up with us,’ I say.

‘I’ve been pushing hard since yesterday. You think Boones will let me join the elites tomorrow officially? Be in with a chance at the prize money?’

‘He likes a trier, so I bet you have a good shot.’

‘When I was a kid, all my dad talked about was the Ampersand races. That’s why I’ve come here. To see what all the fuss is about.’

‘And?’

‘I think I get it. Boones provides the arena. But it’s up to the individual whether to push their limits or not.’

‘I bet your dad is really proud of you.’

‘Hard to be proud from the grave.’

We run in silence for the next few minutes, as I berate myself for my lack of tact.

‘I never gave him much to be proud of when he was alive,’ 501 continues, after a while. ‘But he didn’t give me much to be proud of either.’

‘So really you’re doing this for you.’

He looks over at me as I say that, cocking his head like a curious child. ‘And you? Why’ve you come back, after so long away, like that podcast said?’

‘Because I have to know.’

‘Know what?’

I think of Boones’s promise. The answers he’s going to give me. But I realize that now there’s a different question I’ve wanted to ask myself. Am I capable?

I can’t escape the feeling that this is where I’m meant to be. This is me in my element. And I’d forgotten how much joy I got out of it, even under these circumstances. I run because I love to run. I run because of where it can take me. I run because that’s what it feels like my body is made to do.

‘I’ll let you know when I find out,’ I reply.

It’s cryptic, even for me, but to my surprise he nods – as if he understands perfectly.

‘Same for me.’ He pauses. ‘You think you deserve to know?’

I falter – in thought and in my step. The question is so unexpected. ‘No, I don’t. But I’m not going to let that stop me.’

We run a few more steps, our feet pounding in sync against the dry earth, cracked into almost perfect hexagonal patterns.

Nature’s geometry. If I’d stayed at home, ignored Boones’s summons, suppressed my curiosity, I wouldn’t be here, seeing this.

If I hadn’t lied, would Yasmin and Glenn still be alive?

Would we have found some other way to reveal the truth?

Would I have avoided making my son a target?

So do I deserve answers? No, I don’t think so. But I’ve been offered them. And I’m going to take advantage, give it my all. Finishing is far from a given. I could have come all this way for nothing.

‘By the way, I’m Matt,’ he says. He sounds more breathless now, his pattern thrown out of whack, and his footsteps are dragging.

Meanwhile, I feel like I could go on forever.

By my judgement we’re less than a mile to the bivouac, so I can finally engage that extra gear.

Sure enough, as I push that tiny bit harder, he begins to fall behind.

Before he gets too far, I look back over my shoulder one more time.

‘Good luck with the rest of your race, Matt,’ I say, before taking off.