Page 38 of Runner 13
So if I’m still here, and the race is going ahead, then I might as well do my job while I keep an eye on things. I start with several shots of the elites – Nabil, the front runner, tall and strong, long-limbed. His lips are set in a firm line, his eyes looking out to the horizon, hardly blinking. Next to him, Farouk, shorter and stockier, keeps his expression a little less serious. He reminds me of my cousins, always with a small smile playing on their lips, like they’re in on an inside joke. At the signal from Boones they leap off the starting line, powering ahead of the pack.
A helicopter flies overhead, swooping low and sending up clouds of dust that I shield my lens from. I squint up at the sky and think I catch sight of Boones in the chopper, leaning out of the open door behind a cameraman.He must have jumped in straight away, wanting a bird’s-eye view of his creation. The fun runners jog past me next, and I continue taking photos until the last runner is off the line. Already some people are walking. Do they really imagine they can go the entire way without breaking into a run? Conserving their energy, perhaps. It could be a strategy. I fear that they will be the first ones Boones will weed out.
After the last runner is away, a camel follows, two men walking beside it. I snap a photo – it might work for the charity’s social media. A funny anecdote. And, with that, my first job is done. I stand, stretch and wander back towards the bivouac. There’s still plenty of activity, even though the runners are gone. The tents are almost all broken down, and the equipment is being loaded on to the backs of trucks ready to be moved and set up at the next location.
‘Stella!’
I look up. It’s Dale, waving me over to one of the Jeeps.
‘This is our driver, Ali,’ Dale says, once I reach them.
Ali puts his left hand over his heart and extends his right to me. I shake it. ‘As-Salaam-Alaikum,’ I say.
Ali smiles. ‘Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,’ he replies. ‘Welcome, sister, it is nice to meet you.’
‘And you,’ I reply.
He looks young – maybe only eighteen or nineteen – his dark hair covered by an NYC-branded baseball cap. He’s wearing a traditional moss-green thobe overtop of his jeans.
‘You’re sure you’re qualified to do this?’ Dale asks, looking Ali up and down.
Ali seems to take his scepticism in stride. ‘My uncle hasbeen running tours in the desert for many years. I do much of the driving in my time off from university. You’re in safe hands, trust me. Five stars on Tripadvisor,’ he adds.
‘I want to be first to get the best shots, so that means we’re going to have to be fast and flexible, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Can you do that?’
Ali stands straight, like he’s receiving a military order. I can’t tell if he’s mocking Dale, or if he’s on board. ‘Whatever you need,’ he says, and he gives me a wink.
I suppress a smile behind my hand.
‘Let’s go then. What are we waiting for? I need to catch up with the elites.’ Dale clambers in the back of the Jeep. ‘You coming?’ he asks me out of the open window.
I hesitate, staring out at the bivouac, marvelling at how it’s returning to its original state. Our existence being wiped away, as if we had never been there. Even the starting flags have been taken down, ready to move to the next camp. Boones’s trailer is gone. I don’t even know how I would arrange a car back to Ouarzazate anyway at this point.
I get in the car but I take the front seat next to Ali. ‘I’m ready,’ I say.
Ali waits until he sees me clip in my seat belt, then he’s off, driving out into the sands.
We don’t follow the runners directly but instead trace the edge of a large dried-up riverbed, keeping a high vantage point. Ali drives for about half an hour, one ear to a radio, before pulling to a stop next to a large boulder, its pitted and cratered surface tempting us to climb it. Clambering up with our equipment isn’t easy, but from the top we get an incredible view, looking down on the cracked-earth ground of the wadi. It’s like we’ve driven to Mars.
‘Look, there!’ says Dale. He thrusts his arm out and I follow his pointed finger. The first runner appears on the horizon at the head of a thin line of mostly white shirts bobbing up and down. They shimmer ever so slightly in the heat haze reflecting up from the ground, like moving mirages. I’m amazed at how quickly they’re able to run in such intense heat and on such little sleep from the storm. They’re superhuman.
Dale starts snapping away as Nabil – the current leader – steams past us far below. Dale doesn’t even stop to adjust the settings on his camera, whereas I’m slower, more deliberate.
I’m not worried about photographing the elites anyway. My charity clients will be nowhere close to them – they’re probably hours away – so I focus on getting images of the landscape, showing off the vastness of the desert they’re running through, the remote nature of the challenge.
Dale finishes before I do and he jumps off the boulder. I stay a bit longer, relishing in the grandeur of the vista in front of me. I’ve got to hand it to my dad. He knows how to choose a location.
‘Are you much of a runner?’ Dale asks me as I climb down.
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I leave that to my fiancé.’ I don’t share with him who my father is. That’s none of his business. ‘What about you?’
‘Before my injury I couldn’t get enough. My family were all runners. My mother even competed in the Olympics.’
‘Really? That’s incredible.’
‘I had to take up ultrarunning just to get out of her shadow!’ He laughs. ‘No, she inspired me. It was runningwith her that made me realize; it takes me a marathon distance before Ireallystart to love it. Ultras, man. They’re an addiction.’
‘I knew someone who felt like that,’ I say.
