Page 43 of Runner 13

Adrienne

We stop and embrace, all the tension between us melting away out of sheer delight for finding a familiar face in the middle of the desert.

‘You made it. I was worried about you,’ Mariam says, as she pulls away.

We check our bearings, and for the next two caches they match.

Eventually, our routes diverge for a short time, before coming together again at the jebel.

In total, we could run together for a hundred miles.

It’s too overwhelming to think about it like that, though.

Only one step at a time. From one water cache to the next.

‘When I saw your water bottles in the cache with mine, I decided to see if you might join me.’

‘Thank you for waiting. How are you feeling?’

‘Out of my depth.’ It’s hard to tell from beneath Mariam’s mirrored sunglasses, whether she’s teasing or being serious.

Something about the firm set of her lips makes me think the latter.

This is way more than anyone could have anticipated.

She shakes her map before folding it back into her waist pack. ‘What do you make of this?’

‘A true Boones-style twist. Although even this seems quite extreme. Did you hear what he said?’

‘Which part? The insane time cut-off? The fact we have to collect those stupid bottle tops?’

‘When he said, “Don’t let him catch you”.’

Mariam raises her eyebrows above the line of her shades. ‘I missed that. Too distracted by the camel.’

‘What if Boones has done something more? What if there’s someone out here trying to stop us?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Something the doctor told me. That Nabil had been poisoned.’

She comes to a grinding halt. I stop too. ‘You are not serious?’

‘I am. I mean, I don’t know the details but –’

‘Who would do that? Another competitor?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘If it is, it is down to Boones. That bastard. He would really make us run for our lives out here? Poor Nabil, his family … Even if Boones delivers on what he promised me, it is not worth a man’s life.’

‘He promised you something?’

She nods. ‘Money to rebuild my family’s village school if I finish.’

‘Mariam, look where we are. We’re in the middle of absolute nowhere. No official checkpoints. No medical staff along the route. I think we only have one choice.’

She finishes my sentence: ‘To keep running.’

I nod.

‘Together.’

I nod again.

With two of us navigating, it becomes easier to fall into a rhythm. The sun creeps higher and higher in the sky, unrelenting in its power.

With fifty miles already in our legs from the previous two days, and another ten on top, my muscles ache with every step.

I periodically look down to check I’m still wearing my running shoes – my feet feel as if they’re engulfed in fire.

If it were a single hotspot – the start of a blister, a stone in my shoe, some sand creeping in through the gaiters – I could stop to sort it out.

But this isn’t one irritant. The laces of my shoes feel like they’re being tightened atop my feet, the heat rising through the soles almost unbearable.

The ground feels quite literally like lava.

But there’s nothing to do except quit – or keep going.

I keep going. Mariam’s breathing is calm and even, and I try to emulate her.

Every now and then I glance over and think it should be impossible for anyone to be that strong, but for the most part I stay in my own lane, focusing on my own pain.

It’s not even just my feet. The rest of me is flagging too.

My shoulders throb, tension squeezing my neck in a vice grip, worsened by the weight and constant swing of my backpack.

The anti-chafing cream I rubbed on to the sore spots isn’t doing the job – they’re more like open wounds now, seeping blood on to my filthy shirt that I haven’t changed in three days.

My legs are covered in grazes – tiny cuts from too close encounters with acacia thorns, bruises from where I’ve kicked rocks up on to my shins, and every inch of exposed skin is covered in sand and dirt.

I don’t have to worry about suncream, at least. The dirt is like an extra layer, sometimes cleared by rivulets of sweat, creating mud-brown streaks on my legs – but it never takes long before it’s replaced by even more crud.

At the next water cache I swallow painkillers – paracetamol and ibuprofen.

Liver function be damned, I need to do something to dull the ache.

They stick in my throat, along with the salt tablet.

I just can’t seem to get hydrated, even though I’m taking in as much water as I physically can.

We decide to eat some food too – I shovel calories down my throat, even though my stomach wants to reject everything I put in it.

If I don’t refuel, then I’m truly toast.

What I absolutely cannot do is think about how far there is to go.

Two hundred miles is an unfathomable distance, even though I’ve run it several times before.

If I truly thought about it, my mind would shut down.

My body would refuse to do what I ask of it.

Instead, the only way I can manage it is to break the impossible down into achievable chunks.

Eat the elephant one spoonful at a time.

I only have to make it to the next cache of water.

Two caches and then I can sleep. Three caches and we will have reached halfway, then go our separate ways.

Four caches until I see her again. And then another four caches to the end.

Each one I’ll mentally tick off, like the countdown to Christmas.

I even plan to give myself rewards. An advent calendar of the race.

At the fourth cache, I’ll have my protein bar.

At the sixth, I can have more paracetamol.

At the seventh, I’ll stop and cook a warming soup – even some macaroni cheese.

To occupy my mind, I recite things. Favourite songs.

Poems. Films. I’m able to watch the entirety of The Lord of the Rings trilogy in my mind.

I picture myself with Legolas’s elven skill of running for miles at a time, my feet barely making an indent in the soil.

When I feel sluggish, I picture Sam carrying me towards the finish.

It can also help to think that I’m running away from a Balrog.

Some people say that to complete this kind of distance, you need to understand your why .

To have a reason concrete in your mind, some motivation beyond yourself – a cause maybe, a charity, an illness, a difficult situation you’ve endured and overcome.

But this distance is too long for why. Running these impossible distances isn’t some kind of need.

There’s no practical, real-world application for this skill of mine.

It can’t even pay the bills – well, unless you’re like Rupert, or if you win the prize pot.

My real why is that running is me. Ultrarunning is my art.

My body is a lump of clay I’ve sculpted into becoming an efficient runner – a winning runner.

And the same broad spectrum of emotions I’ve seen conjured by a remarkable piece of music or a moving work of art – tears, elation, devastation – I’ve also felt in my races.

With each race I challenge myself to create something more beautiful.

To tweak all the variables in my control and see if I can run something close to a perfect race.

To see if I can challenge myself to do better.

To be better. It’s my version of what Boones wants to do: finding out the limit of human endurance.

But while he uses a stick to beat us into greatness, I use a paintbrush to coax my true form to life.

Ultrarunning levels the playing field. It’s not really about having the chance to compete equally against men.

It’s never a question in my mind that ninety-nine per cent of the time, Rupert would beat me in any length of race.

He is bigger, stronger, faster, has more endurance, more oxygen at his disposal.

But the thing about ultramarathons is that they are rarely run under perfect conditions.

And that’s when I can come to the fore. While my approach to the physical side of training is more intuitive than most, following my body’s lead, when it comes to mentally preparing for the race itself, I am diligent, bordering on fanatical.

I research as much as I can about the route, the weather, the terrain – in the hope that I don’t get fazed by a change in conditions.

It’s the same for most women who enter the most extreme ultras.

They know the distance is insane, so they don’t even enter unless they are capable of finishing.

That’s what makes it a more level playing field, putting them a step ahead of a man who’s just chancing it.

Many ultras come down to who makes the fewest mistakes on the day. Often that’s a woman.

Years ago, I let myself be a canvas painted by someone else.

Glenn held the brush, chose the colours on the palette.

He had been almost wholly in charge of my life – he regulated what and when I ate, my training schedule, even what went on in my personal life.

Was it a wonder that Pete felt like he and Ethan played second fiddle?

Darkness is beginning to fall in the desert, deepening the hues of orange and red all around me.

I glance at Mariam. Somehow we have managed to keep each other going all the way through the first fifty miles together, through the day and into nightfall.

The residual heat cooks up from the earth, my legs bathed in warmth as I run.

Our shadows have lengthened, becoming almost like company. My heart rate speeds up, my breaths quicken, as if my brain has forgotten the shadow is attached to me and I suddenly think I’m being overtaken by some unseen foe. Hallucinating this early into the race isn’t a good sign.

I glance over my shoulder but of course there’s no one there.

Yet behind us is the sunset I would have missed if I had only focused on my forward motion.

It’s so stunning it almost brings me to a halt.

I slow to a walk instead, taking the opportunity to pop a salt tablet and swig water.

The sun, which has been beating down on us for so long, now hangs low – lingering above the horizon.

With the haze of sand in the air, it looks truly golden, almost soft.

A falling star. The sky is painted in hues that reflect the desert – burnt orange deepening to crimson.

The black of night is quickly encroaching and the contours of the landscape are more starkly apparent.

Mariam hasn’t slowed with me – she’s in her own zone.

Shit. It really is getting dark quickly.

I do stop now, fumbling inside my backpack for my head torch.

I try to tell Mariam to do the same, but my voice comes out as barely more than a croak.

Another sign the hours of hard running is catching up with me – I’ve forgotten how to talk.

I fix my light to my head, make sure spare batteries are in an accessible pocket and turn it on, flashing it to get Mariam’s attention.

A breath of wind tickles my cheek, soft at first, then more firmly. My jaw tenses with fear. I try to calm myself. Wind is fine. Wind is to be expected.

I just don’t want it to develop into a storm, like the one we had on the first night.

I can’t let Mariam get too far ahead. Night will be the most difficult time to navigate when our brains are addled and an extra pair of eyes will be invaluable. Especially if there is another sandstorm. The wind swirls ominously around my body, warm and yet a little too strong for my liking.

I glance one more time behind me, and I spot something else that gives me pause. On the horizon a figure appears, silhouetted by the dying sun. They’re still quite far away, but there’s something about their posture that makes me feel like they are staring straight at me.

And I no longer feel like something beautiful. I’m not in control, a predator chasing down the lead.

I’m the prey.