Page 60 of Runner 13
Yet the path seems endless. Looking at it on the map and experiencing it in person are very different propositions. My visualization has failed me. My palms get clammy, my footing no longer so assured.
When my quads start twitching, like a violinist playing pizzicato on my muscles, I know I’ve made a mistake. I was so worried about the man, I forgot to drink. When was the last time I took a salt tablet? Ate some food? Went to the bathroom? Cursing myself, I wonder if I’ve put enough of a gap between myself and the man that I can refuel.
My legs are really shaking now. If Idon’tstop, I could get in a bad way. The path is narrow and there’s almost nowhere to get some privacy – or to hide. That’s when Ispot a boulder, just a bit higher up where the route opens out a touch. It looks like there’s a cavity on the other side of it, big enough to conceal me. I scramble my way over, picking each foothold with care. I place both palms on the rock, feeling the heat radiating from it. I take a few deep breaths and squeeze my way round to the small opening – tighter than I’d hoped. I fumble in my waist pack for a salt tablet, pop it on my tongue and take a swig of water.
Movement by my feet catches my eye.
Something curled up, tense, and unravelling rapidly.
My mouth goes dry. I realize how stupid I’ve been.
A viper, its body in perfect camouflage with the rock behind, its head raised. It’s blocking my path back; I must have stepped over it in my haste to hide myself from the other runner. Suddenly that venom pump in my bag doesn’t seem so useless. I still hope I don’t have to use it.
I wish I had poles with me. Or anything to distract the snake. It begins to sway, focused on me.
We’re locked in a stand-off, and it feels like time drags out – seconds becoming minutes.
And then: it lunges.
I jump, my palms catching the rock, feet desperate to find a hold. But the snake is more scared of me than I am of it, if only marginally, and it slithers away, disappearing into the mountain.
I don’t waste any time darting back on the trail. My adrenaline is really pumping now, and it powers me up; I move faster than I thought possible.
The breeze at the top of the jebel cools my heated blood. It also sweeps away my fear and anxiety. On theridge I feel more in control. This is where I come into my element – on pathways that are barely as wide as my foot, with over a thousand-feet drop on either side. It’s from this vantage point that it becomes clear just how remote we are – vast desert, as far as the eye can see. No sign of human civilization anywhere. The heat casts a haze over the ground, an almost unearthly shimmer. The colour palette of red, orange and brown clashing with the bright blue sky. There’s almost no green to be seen.
I leap from rock to rock, my speed part of my ability to stay safe. If I overthink, question every movement, hesitate rather than haste, I’d likely lose my footing. Some of the rocks are more stable than others. One wobbles precariously beneath my foot but I’m not balanced on it long enough to allow it to alter my stride. I spring on to the next, a jolt of fear the only damage.
This is good. This is exactly what I came here for. We’re going to be crossing a jebel on the final day. I’ll be even more confident when I tackle it now that I know what to expect.
I almost don’t see the photographer lift the camera and snap my picture. He comes out of nowhere, hidden in the shade of a tower of rocks. Even though I feel alone up here, I’m not. And when I steal a look behind me, I see the mystery runner burst out on to the ridge. The chase isn’t over yet.
Damn. I don’t want to be followed by this guy the entire way. Even if he’s just a fun runner on an amazing charge, having him mere minutes behind me and gaining is sending my stress levels through the roof. If the photographer managed to hide from me, maybe I canget out of sight of this guy too. I veer off the route – checking for snakes – and tuck myself down, hoping I’m no longer visible.
My legs shake as I crouch. I need a distraction. I take my backpack off, enabling me to sit down even lower, and chew on a piece of dried jerky I pull from a side pocket, adjusting my position to avoid cramping. I realize how stupid this would look to any other racer on the course. Like I’m throwing away any advantage that I might have had. But I’m not even thinking about winning at this point. I need to find out who is behind me.
I don’t have to wait long. I hear his feet pounding on the rock, then his breathing – deliberate sharp breaths, as if he’s trying to keep a lid on his fear and adrenaline. He’s not as comfortable with exposure as I am. Good. That gives me an upper hand.
He passes by too quickly for me to read the name on his race bib, but I see the number again: 501. I was right. He’s not one of the elites. He’s got thick dark hair and a stubbly beard – but it’s that gait, that stride, which I can’t stop watching. It’s the way he carries himself, head held high, shoulders back, hips driving forward, that really reminds me of someone. Add in the staccato tempo of his breath …
I give it a while longer, waiting for him to drop off the ridge and allowing the distance between us to grow. I know that my chance at the prize money is likely gone, the time gap too big to make up. Some ‘runner 13’ I am. But I’m OK with that. Boones only said I had to finish, not that I had to win.
It strikes me then that maybethisis the real reason hewanted me to run in his race. Not that I had any true shot at winning. Not because of his belief in my talent. But because he wanted to see how I would do being chased by people who hate me. The ultimate test of my limitations.
I flash back to a training run with Coach Glenn in the Ibizan hills, when he gave a tip to Yasmin about maintaining speed while scared. God, I haven’t thought about that in so long. Yasmin could have beaten me easily with her long strides; it should be considered cheating to be that tall and strong. But she would freeze on the exposed high ascents, and ultrarunning was full of those. Coach Glenn taught her to nose-breathe to maximize airflow and oxygen intake, to calm her heart rate and focus on her goal. Three quick inhales through the nose, then a long exhale. The same pattern that runner 501 had been using.
But Glenn hadn’t trained any male runners that I knew of – what a major red flag that should have been. He’d written books about his technique, though. Maybe 501 was an avid fan, angry that I’d returned to the circuit.
Angry enough to want to hurt me?
There’s nothing I can do about it on top of a jebel. I start running again, confident that I’ve left a long enough gap. The way down is much faster – and more fun – than the way up. The huge hill of sand gives way under my feet; it feels almost like skiing rather than running, clouds of sand flying up behind me. Once I reach the bottom, there’s only a few flat riverbed miles until the finishing line for the day. I need to catch up with Mariam. See if she can help me figure out who runner 501 is.
I settle into my rhythm, listening to the pounding of myfeet against the sand, regulating my breathing. This is my happy place. My time.
Yet I catch a flash of white out of the corner of my eye, emerging from behind one of the shrubs, and hear footsteps rapidly catching up with my own.
Runner 501 has been waiting.
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