Page 6 of Runner 13

Adrienne

The queue to register stretches out in front of me, thirty-odd people deep.

Under the glare of the bright sun, my skin tightens and my eyes prickle, as all the moisture seems to be baked from my body.

I wonder if others are feeling as uncomfortable as I am, but most of the elite athletes would have acclimatized to the soaring temperatures using fancy heat chambers, some of them with built-in treadmills so they could really get their bodies used to exerting themselves in the heat.

All I’d managed to do is convince Debbie at the PureSpa in town to let me use the sauna for a few hours as a thanks for sending so many clients her way from the shop.

If it gets much hotter, I’m not sure that’s going to cut it.

I dig out my water bottle, use some of it to soak my cap, then take a big swig.

I pop a salt tablet too. It’s not only about hydration; I must also replace the electrolytes that I’ll be losing through sweat.

The thing about the dry Moroccan heat is that the sweat evaporates almost instantly, so it’s easy to get dehydrated without being aware of it.

Some people have failed in desert races purely by forgetting to take their salt. I’m not going to be one of them.

With my cap and sunglasses, dressed in a long-sleeve moisture-wicking white shirt and black running shorts, I blend seamlessly into the crowd.

For the first time I don’t feel eyes on my back.

I’m just another runner, like everyone else.

All around me, excited chatter fills the air, the atmosphere electric.

The buzz of athletes about to embark on a challenge they’ve been training their minds and bodies to achieve for months.

They are either ready or not. But can you ever truly be ready for a two-hundred-and-fifty-mile race?

Ultimately it’s going to come down to grit.

And that’s why I love it. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.

That turned out to be the cost of speaking out. If I’d known, would I have made a different decision?

Never , I think, shuddering, but then it’s my turn at the desk. I approach a frazzled-looking man with a clipboard and show him my invitation.

‘Oh, you’re an elite?’ he asks.

I nod, even though hearing it out loud makes me feel like a fraud.

He waves me away with his hand. ‘Over that way.’

‘Aren’t you going to weigh my pack?’

He tuts. ‘All the elite checks are taking place in a different marquee. You didn’t need to stand in this line.’

‘Oh,’ I say. I’d been in with the fun runners. No wonder the atmosphere had felt so much more relaxed.

He eyes my pack. ‘That thing does look a little heavy.’

‘You can tell by sight?’

‘When you’ve seen as many runner packs as I have, you start to make a good guess! The ideal is around six kilos in my opinion. Any more and your form will suffer – any less and you probably don’t have enough nutrition.’

‘I’ll worry about my form and nutrition, thanks.’

He tilts his head in deference, and I wander over to the correct tent.

I’m shown straight in. Even with fans blowing, it’s stuffy inside the marquee – and surprisingly dark. I remove my glasses and cap before greeting the two women sat behind the desk. ‘Um, Ms Wendell signing in,’ I say.

The two exchange a look, and then one of them gets on the radio, speaking in rapid-fire French, too quick for me to understand. The other one gestures for me to open my backpack. I swing it round off my shoulders and place it on the desk.

‘We’re checking to make sure you have all the mandatory equipment. If you add anything later – or have someone else carry food for you – that is also grounds for dismissal from the race.’

I nod, watching as the woman examines my fastidiously packed gear.

I double- and triple-checked the mandatory kit list, so I’m not worried about missing anything.

I’ve got packages of food (marked with the number of calories for each day), spare socks, sleeping bag and mat.

A small foldable stove and fuel cubes for boiling water.

A first-aid kit, compass, pocket mirror (for signalling, not vanity), whistle – and some slightly more unusual pieces of equipment: a snake bite and antivenom kit.

My phone and a solar-powered battery charger.

I’ve included a couple of personal extras – a little lion teddy and a small digital camera.

Surplus to requirement, but I wouldn’t travel anywhere without them.

She then puts it all back and hangs it above a scale.

Eight kilograms. Two over the minimum. She raises an eyebrow, but I shrug.

There’s no maximum weight – but in a race like this, every gram counts.

It could be the difference between finishing and not.

For me, though, the boost those items give me is worth it.

‘OK, all is fine with your gear. I’m going to attach a tracker to your bag.

’ She clips a bright orange tag to the strap of my backpack.

I almost stop her, hoping that she hasn’t placed it somewhere that’s going to dig into me as I run.

I’ve trained with the bag – as is. Even the slightest change could cause a hotspot that ends my race.

But I swallow down my protest. I can’t control everything.

And I’d much rather have the GPS tracker than not.

‘This will also serve as your emergency beacon,’ she continues.

‘If you need help, you press down both these two buttons on the top here. You need to press both ,’ she repeats, ‘to activate the beacon. Then stay where you are and we’ll send someone to your location as quickly as possible.

Do not use it if it is not a true life-threatening emergency – pressing it will result in your immediate exit from the race.

Your race bib should be here any – Ah! Here he is. ’

The back of the marquee flies open, and for a moment I’m blinded by the bright white sunshine flooding in. I lift my hand to shield my eyes and hold my breath. This is it. I get to meet the man who claims to have the answers I’ve been waiting for.

‘You made it!’

My heart sinks and I exhale. It’s not Boones. It’s a young guy – tall, lanky like a string bean and with a mop of wavy hair – with a posh Home Counties accent. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt beneath his Hot & Sandy vest and pressed trousers, in stark contrast to everyone else in athletic wear.

‘I’m Henry, race logistics. It’s very nice to meet you.’

‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I reply.

‘We had our doubts you would come. You were the final runner to register.’

‘I thought it was a hoax at first. Or a mistake, at least.’

‘As you can see, no hoax.’ He stops on the other side of the table. ‘I’ve got your race number here, personally assigned by Boones.’ He places it face down.

‘When do I meet Boones?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘Plenty of time for that – don’t you worry,’ says Henry with a smile. It doesn’t do much to reassure me.

A doctor wearing a red cross on his breast pocket, a stethoscope round his neck and a nameplate that reads ‘Dr Emilio’, stops by our table.

He looks like he’s far more used to spending time in the Moroccan sun than I am – his skin evenly tanned – and he has thick dark, almost black hair.

Mediterranean heritage is my guess – and a heavy Italian accent confirms it.

Boones has assembled an international team.

‘This is the next elite?’ he asks, gesturing at me.

‘Yes, meet Adrienne Wendell,’ Henry says.

The doctor frowns. ‘Oh, any relation to …?’

‘Pete Wendell?’ I finish for him. ‘He’s my ex-husband.’

Dr Emilio quirks his upper lip as he exchanges a look with Henry. I feel like there’s a conversation happening that I’m not a part of. ‘Is, uh, everything OK with Pete?’ I ask.

He doesn’t answer me. ‘Your medical documents, please,’ he says instead.

I hand him my up-to-date resting electrocardiogram and a letter certifying my good health from my GP. He examines it with a critical eye. ‘This all looks good. Strong heart. May I listen?’ He lifts his stethoscope.

I nod, breathing deeply to keep my heart rate normal – and to keep from blushing.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in such close proximity to a handsome man.

I open the top button of my shirt and he leans forward, pressing the cool metal face of the stethoscope against my chest. He doesn’t say much, but he writes a few notes, which I take to mean everything is OK.

‘I need to take some bloods and a urine sample, then you can go.’

‘Bloods?’ My stomach flips, this time having nothing to do with the doctor’s rich brown eyes. I hate needles.

‘For a drug test. We will take them at the end as well. Nervous?’

‘That obvious?’

He laughs as he begins the process of wrapping elastic round my bicep. ‘I’ll be quick. So you haven’t met Boones?’

The way he pronounces ‘Boones’ makes it sound more like ‘Bones’. I know he’s trying to get me to chat, to distract me, but I just want to shut my eyes and pretend there’s no needle.

‘Not yet,’ I say.

‘He’s not so scary in person, I assure you.’

‘Maybe when you’re not running in one of his races,’ I say through gritted teeth.

‘You have a point,’ he replies. He’s good this doctor – I know he’s moving quick and the process so far has been painless. But it’s not the actual pain that I’m afraid of. It’s the needle, the blood being forced from my body … It sends me into instant fight or flight.

I don’t want to faint now. I don’t want to give them a single reason to doubt my ability to run.

‘Look, is there something I should know about Pete?’ I ask, still curious about the way the doctor had reacted to his name.

‘Do you know his tent number?’ he asks.

I nod. Of course I do. Ethan made sure I had it memorized. It’s sweet that he wants us to look out for each other. And for his sake I will. There’s something in the doctor’s tone that has me worried.

‘Then I suggest you make that your next stop.’ He caps the blood vial and releases my tourniquet. ‘All done,’ he says. ‘We’ll get this processed and if there are any issues, we’ll find you in your tent.’

I stand, resisting the urge to place my hand over the spot where the needle went in. I gather my backpack. ‘Thank you, doctor.’

‘It’s Emilio, please.’

I smile. ‘Emilio, then.’

‘Oh, don’t forget your bib,’ Henry says, as I’m almost through the door.

He hands it to me, and I do a double-take as I realize what race number I’ve been given.

I’ve always been told Boones has a sense of humour. Or maybe this is the start of one of his infamous games I’ve heard so much about. I think about protesting. Offering to take any other number. Maybe some runners have dropped out – there must be a different one available.

No. This is a test. It must be.

Runner 13.