Page 33 of Runner 13

Adrienne

Matt gives it his best shot, launching himself forward to keep up with me, but he is spent.

He’s used up so much of his energy catching up with me and the other elites and not left enough in the tank for the final mile.

I don’t feel bad about leaving him behind.

There’s no way he will get lost – not with the flags so prominent and visible on the horizon.

I cross the finishing line of the stage, but don’t linger in the end zone.

Instead, I head to the tent. Mariam is already there, fast asleep and curled up in the far corner.

Keeping the focus on my own feet, I try to run through all my post-race rituals: drink my recovery shake, do my stretches, tend to my blisters and sore spots, look over the course for tomorrow. I want to rest, but I also feel wired.

My muscles are beginning to stiffen so I make the decision to walk the bivouac.

All the elites are in now. There are so few of us left, the field having been depleted by the events of the last forty-eight hours.

Outside tent number one, Rupert is being interviewed again by the documentary crew. My instinct is to give him a wide berth. But something about running the second stage – taking on that jebel and feeling strong – has empowered me. I forgot how running can do that.

‘The ultra community is small, and we’re all friends here,’ Rupert says to the woman with the microphone.

‘All of you?’ she asks.

‘The ones who matter,’ he replies. Do his eyes flick to me in that moment?

I’ve had enough. I wait for them to finish and until Rupert is alone.

I might be outrun. I might be threatened. But there’s no way I’m going to be intimidated off the race.

I stride towards him. ‘Rupert? I was hoping we could talk,’ I say, ducking inside his tent. He scowls in response, but doesn’t ask me to leave. I take that as an opening. ‘What did you mean yesterday: “It should have been you”?’

At least he has the grace to look awkward about it, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck.

‘Nabil was the best of us. If anyone deserved this win, it’s him.

But you – you ruined a good man’s life. Glenn was a brilliant coach.

One of the best. Why did you do it? Because he dropped you from his roster? ’

‘How do you know that?’ I say, unable to hide my shock.

‘Keri, my girlfriend, she was at your little camp. She told me Glenn fired you for refusing to race in an Ampersand. So why the fuck are you here now?’

‘Same reason as you, Rupert.’

‘I highly doubt that,’ he mutters, darkly. ‘I didn’t want to be here.’

I frown. ‘Then why are you?’

He shakes his head. ‘Look, just stay out of my way.’

‘Why, are you threatened? Is it because last time we raced against each other, I won?’

He stares at me dead in the eyes. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about. Now leave me alone.’

I swallow hard, backing out of his tent. My hands are shaking, and I clench them to stop. I didn’t think many people knew about Glenn dropping me. Rupert’s animosity makes more sense now. He thinks I made up the lie to get back at Glenn. The urge to scream the truth is so strong.

But it would be my word against that of a dead legend. Without proof I’ve already lost.

I’m distracted by a loud cheer rising from near the finishing line.

Fun runners are crossing over, and they’ll keep coming in over the next few hours.

My heart lifts to see the camaraderie and the support offered by the other runners.

This is part of what I always loved about race days.

Even though running is such an individual event, the way runners come together to support each other makes it feel more like a team sport. It’s inspiring.

It’s also testament to the hard work each person is putting in each day.

As I approach the medical tent, I can see another – a line of almost fifty runners is waiting to be seen by a doctor.

Foot issues are the most common problem.

The tent will be packed with people piercing blisters, slathering them in iodine, wrapping them in tape.

I’ve learned to take care of all that myself, even if the offer of professional help is there.

During races I like to be self-sufficient. In control.

I wander out of the circle of tents, past where the toilets are set up.

I wish I had a camera with me, to take a photo for Ethan.

He would love these mundane details, the everyday facts like how do you even go to the loo in the desert.

I hope one day I can be in a position to bring him to Morocco and the Sahara Desert – to sleep under the immense canopy of stars and see the magnificent dunes for himself.

Five hundred thousand dollars would go a long way to achieving that . The thought creeps in. What would it be like to win? There are only ten of us left now. My odds are increasing.

Without realizing it I’ve walked almost halfway round the perimeter of the bivouac, towards the admin trailers.

They look surprisingly cosy in the darkening sky, lights illuminating their windows.

The bit of black fabric over my head and the egg-carton foam serving as my mattress is just not cutting it when it comes to comfort.

Suddenly someone storms out of one of them, the trailer door slamming out on its hinges. They rush down the stairs, almost pushing me over in their haste. It’s Emilio.

He swears loudly in Italian, then he spins round. ‘He’s a madman,’ he says to me, pointing back at the trailer. ‘You shouldn’t race any more. Please, Adri. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth your life.’

He seems almost mad himself, his eyes so wide I can see their whites, his hair in disarray from where he’s run his hands through it.

‘What happened in there?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t understand. You know he doesn’t actually want anyone to win, right?’

His earnestness makes me laugh, even in the face of his anger. ‘Of course. That’s the whole point of entering a Boones race. He wants “can they even finish?” to be the main question, not “who won?”.’

‘But that’s crazy!’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘I’m his doctor, not an ultrarunner. I had never heard of Boones or these races before he came to me.’

I frown. ‘So you’re not a doctor for Hot & Sandy?’

‘I am. I’m also treating Boones for … well, I was treating him, for all the good that’s done him. What a waste of time. He’ll be lucky to even see the end of the race.’

‘Boones is that ill?’ I feel panic start to rise.

He waves his hands. ‘Ah, I’m exaggerating.

He’s got time. Well, as long as he doesn’t try to run the last leg himself or something equally idiotic.

’ Emilio seems to have calmed over the course of our conversation, his breathing becoming more regular, his features less lined with anger and worry.

Behind him, the sun is setting, bursting with colours that seem too vibrant to be natural.

The Sahara seems to bring its drama and scale to everything – not just the sand but even the sky.

I’m so distracted by it that I miss that Emilio has been staring at me, his eyes scanning my face. His scrutiny makes me blush.

‘Only nine left,’ he says so softly that I can hardly hear. ‘Nine out of twenty. One poisoned. One nearly brained to death. Not to mention the ones who have dropped out from severe dehydration, skeletal injuries, dysentery …’

‘Wait, poisoned? You’re talking about Nabil?’ I think back to how I felt in the dunes. Woozy. Unable to stay focused. Hardly able to stay upright.

I’d shared my water with Nabil.

What if I had been poisoned too?

Still wants revenge.

I could have been the target.

‘You mean to tell me his death wasn’t natural?’ I press again, when his lips remain tightly shut.

‘I shouldn’t have said anything. Adrienne, I’m worried about you.

’ He takes a step forward, lifting his hand to my cheek.

The boldness of it stills me. His fingers are warm to the touch, and his eyes – when I stare into them – are filled with kindness, worry and maybe a hint of desire too.

I place my hand over his, leaning into his touch just the tiniest bit.

But it’s not butterflies in my stomach, not right now.

It’s fear. ‘Do you really want to be next?’ he whispers, and the fluttering gets even worse.

When he puts it that way, my plan to put my life at risk and run hundreds of miles for Boones’s promised answers sounds ridiculous.

Taking the advice of this handsome kind doctor seems like a much better plan, quite frankly.

Fifty miles are already in the tank, but there are still two hundred to go. Poor, poor Nabil.

I wonder if Emilio takes my silence as agreement, because he breaks out into a smile – and I’ll be damned if it isn’t as breathtaking as the sunset. I teeter on the edge of the decision. When he lowers his hand from my face, our fingers are intertwined.

But the moment is broken when Boones’s trailer door opens again, and he steps out.

After what Emilio said, I had expected to see a frail, fragile figure – but Boones looks full of vigour.

It’s like the drama of the race energizes him rather than depletes him.

His moustache is sharp, his eyes bright.

And when they land on me, I know I’m going to give it my everything.

I’m not going to let this opportunity slip away.

‘You’ll want to come and hear my announcement,’ says Boones. ‘It’s a doozy.’ He doesn’t wait for my answer, just strides off in the direction of the bivouac.

I break out of Emilio’s grip and follow, my feet moving of their own accord.

Emilio’s interest in me is flattering. But I haven’t come here for that. I’m here for answers. And the news about Nabil’s death only cements my decision. If someone is trying to scare me off, then that means they’re here – and not after my son.

I’ll do anything to protect him.

And I’ve come too far to turn back now.