Page 13 of Runner 13
Stella
Dale walks me directly to Boones’s trailer, but he’s not there. Evidence of him is all over the place, though. A packet of Marlboros resting on the windowsill. A pocket watch dangling from the rear-view mirror of the Jeep outside and a tin of moustache tamer on the passenger seat. He was meticulous about some things. Parenthood just wasn’t one of them.
‘He was here half an hour ago,’ Dale says. His palm is grubby where he used it to peer into the window. He wipes it against his shirt.
‘Damn it,’ I mutter under my breath. The bivouac is far larger than I imagined. He could be hiding anywhere.
Dale cocks his head. ‘Everything OK? Do you know Boones or something?’
My jaw clicks as I bite down my back teeth. I take a breath. ‘It’s fine. I’ll catch him later.’
‘Well, duty calls.’ Dale pats his camera. ‘If I see Boones, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. It’s … Stella, right?’ He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Then he leans his head back and shouts ‘Stella!’
‘Please, noStreetcarreferences.’
‘Couldn’t resist,’ he says with a grin. Then he waves and wanders back towards the centre of the bivouac.
No way I’m waiting around for Boones to show. Evenif I am desperate; he doesn’t need to know that. ‘Hold up, I’ll tag along,’ I say. I do have a job to do while I’m out here. Finding the people signed up with Runners for Hope and documenting their journey. Whatever my opinion of Boones, the runners deserve respect. These people have prepared for months, their thoughts consumed by the race, every spare moment of free time eaten up by training. Family life, social life, hobbies – all sacrificed in the name of following a strict regime. ‘Can you help me find these people?’ I show him the list of people who are running in support of Runners for Hope. I need to take photographs and record interviews for all of them.
Dale glances at it and nods. ‘Sure.’
‘You seem to know your way around,’ I say, as we walk towards the circle of runner tents.
‘I’ve been here a couple of days already. I came early to help set up. You should see those Berber guys at work – they can whip up these tents faster than you can blink. Boones has been rushing around, waving his arms at everyone like the conductor of the world’s most insane orchestra. But the race is going to be something else.’ His tone borders on reverential.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I’m used to people talking about my dad like he’s not a man but instead some kind of ultrarunning god. Doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with it. ‘Are you part of Boones’s team then?’
Dale barks a laugh. ‘Not exactly! Just a fan. If it weren’t for my leg, I’d have a race number on, rather than this.’ He gestures to his camera.
‘What happened?’
‘Busted my ankle, never properly recovered. Not enough to run two hundred and fifty miles anyway. I’ll have to be satisfied watching through the lens.’
We pass a tent with a number ‘38’ hanging off it. ‘Hang on, this is on my list,’ I say to him.
‘Oh, I figured you’d want to go to the elites first. That’s where the real stories are.’
‘No, I’m good here,’ I say, waving him off. I hope he doesn’t catch the grimace on my face. The last place I want to go right now is to the elite tents. Not when I might run intoher.
Dale lopes off, fiddling with his GoPro. I duck under the canopy of tent thirty-eight. A man with curly hair pulled back into a ponytail is diligently fastening strips of electric blue kinesiology tape to his toes, prepping his feet against blisters. At his side is a bib with the race number 124.
I glance at my list, matching his number to a name. ‘Hugo?’ I kneel so my face is in the shade. ‘I’m Stella – photographer for Runners for Hope. Mind if I take a few snaps?’
‘Only if you get my good side!’
I laugh. ‘Don’t mind me, carry on as you were.’ After photographing his feet, I document the contents of his backpack, which spill out on to the woven carpet covering the tent floor: the foam egg box-like mattress laid out behind him, feather-light sleeping bag on top, the toothbrush with half its handle sawn off. Anything to save a few grams. Been there, done that.
I put the lens cap back, sliding the body of the camera round to my side, then take out my phone so I can filmin vertical for social media. ‘Do you mind telling me your story? Why have you come to run Hot & Sandy?’
‘Of course.’ He faces the camera, holding up a Polaroid of a beautiful young girl, her head wrapped up in a butterfly-print headscarf. ‘Hi, I’m Hugo Pritchard – race number 124 – and I’m here with Runners for Hope in aid of my daughter. She was diagnosed with leukaemia at the end of last year and my wish was to raise five thousand pounds for the charity that helped our family through this incredibly tough time. I’m already at an amazing four thousand, six hundred, but every little bit helps, so please keep donating.’
Once he’s finished telling his story, I turn off the video. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your daughter,’ I say.
‘I just want to make her proud. I know she’ll be watching that tracker, and that will keep me going when it gets tough out there.’
I write down his GoFundMe address and promise to make a pledge. Hugo’s video ends up being the first of many incredible, moving personal stories that I record. By the end of the day I’m going to be broke. My phone is full of them.
Runner 650 – running to show support for women who have experienced pregnancy loss.
