Page 43 of Runner 13
‘J’ai besoin d’eau.’He gestures to his water bottles. The ground is wet by his feet; I wonder if he accidentally tipped them over.
‘Let me get one of the volunteers,’ I say.
‘They say no more,’ he replies, shaking his head.
‘That’s ridiculous.’ He looks worryingly unsteady, swaying on his feet. I reach out to help him, but he waves me off. ‘Here,’ I say, spinning the lid off one of my bottles and pouring the fresh water into his. There’s no rule against sharing water. It’s not food or any other gear. It’s part of my ration. If that means that my race suffers later on, that’s my choice to make.
‘Merci,’ he says. He fumbles in his pack and pulls out a small bag of tablets, pops one and then takes a swig. Salt, I assume.
‘Are you OK to run? Do you want me to get a doctor?’ Idon’t want to leave him like this. But he seems to recover as he takes in the water, standing straighter, his eyes brighter.
‘I will continue. Thank you again. You have saved my race.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ve watched some of your race videos. You’re an inspiration to me.’
‘Not today,’ he says, bitterly.
‘Every day,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I am fine now. Thank you.’
I back out of the tent and into the daylight. I hesitate. There’s a medical tent right next door, and the handsome Italian doctor from yesterday is inside. I debate calling him over. But then Nabil emerges from the rest tent and sets off at a jog. A fast jog.
It reminds me that this is a race. I set off after him, not wanting to lose sight of his heels. A competitive spark ignites within me, one I thought had been long extinguished. If I can stay with him for the rest of the stage, then maybe I’ll have a good enough time to remain in contention. I think about Ethan logging in to see how well his mum is doing. I’ll make him proud.
I keep my head down, watching the ground changing beneath my feet. No longer is it cracked, dry and littered with tiny stones. Instead, it’s fine sand, like I’m back running on the beach in South Wales, where I took Ethan on our last holiday. We stayed in a caravan right on the edge of one of the largest sand dunes in the UK.
But these dunes are different. For one, the sand is much more bronze here, and the heat reflecting off it is intense – so much so that it threatens to melt the soles of my shoes.
Here there are decisions to be made. Nabil has gone offin one direction, following the ridge line of the dunes. But if I follow him now, I’ll be running on sand already broken by his footsteps. The surface will be unstable. With every step I take the sand will send me back by two.
If I choose my own line through the dunes, running along an unspoilt ridge, following Nabil’s idea but not his actual footsteps, I might be able to keep up a good pace. So I choose a different dune.
Immediately, I regret my decision. I’m no good at picking out the firmer patches of sand – every step I take, the ground seems to sink beneath me, causing me to slip and lose balance. My head is spinning, my vision becoming blurred. I can barely keep my eyes open against the glare; even through my category-four sunglasses everything is too bright.
This doesn’t feel right. I look around and I feel myself sliding down the side of a dune, tall mountains of sand looming. But hadn’t I set a course to run along the ridge line? How did I end up here?
I give my head a shake, but that makes me drop to my knees. One of my bottles falls out of its shoulder pocket, leeching water into the sand through the straw. A sound comes out of my mouth that barely seems human, a groan, as I try to get my hands to work to pick up the bottle. My fingers fumble with it, making things worse.
‘Hey! Hey!’
I hear shouts but can’t find the source. I squint into the sun and spot a shadow on the top of the dune, waving.
I try to lift an arm to wave back but I can’t.
I just need to drink something. I try the next bottle, which only has a few sips left. That’s when I remember – Igave some of my water to Nabil. Now I’ve spilled what little I had. This could be it. My race over.
‘Need any help?’
My head pounds and I feel a flutter of panic. I haven’t come this far only to fail. This isn’t even the biggest dune field I’m going to face. I can do this. I force myself to my knees, then to my feet. I manage to raise my hand. ‘I’m OK,’ I say, my voice croaking.
‘Sure? We’ve got an emergency over here but I can come back for you …’
‘I’m OK!’ I say, louder.
To prove it – to him and to myself – I take a step. Then another and another. I’m slow but I’m moving.
My head swims and I think I’m about to faint. I pinch myself, hard, on the inside of my arm, the pain sharpening the rest of my senses. I don’t know what’s come over me. The doubt that accompanies the light-headedness is overwhelming. Am I really cut out for this? Maybe throwing myself into the world’s toughest race as my ‘comeback’ after seven years away wasn’t the best idea.
