Page 7 of Runner 13
I’d gone straight to my laptop, opened the vehicle enquiry page on the government website and typed in the plate number.
IS THISTHE VEHICLEYOU ARELOOKING FOR?
The question seemed to taunt me. It’s the one I’d asked myself every day for seven years.
RANGE ROVER.
BLACK.
The same make and model as the vehicle involved.
I’d dropped the invite then, the paper searing my fingers. It had to be a sick joke from one of the trolls who still hated me for what I did. I kicked it beneath the counter, not wanting to look at it, think about it. Then Ethan had come home, buzzing about the fact that his dad had been invited to some exclusive new race: Hot & Sandy. He’d even taken a photo of the invitation. They were the same.
It wasn’t a prank.
Boones knew something about the accident. I’d tried to email him, write him a letter, even sent direct messages to the Ampersand race social media accounts. But they all went unanswered.
He wanted to tell me at the launch of his new race.
I knew then that I’d be entering. I had to find out.
Never mind that I’d spent seven years out of the ring. Seven years not racing, hiding away so as not to draw attention to myself.
The moment I boarded the plane, amongst hordes of other runners, the word was out. I try to stay off social media, but still, I couldn’t help but open the apps to glance at what people were saying. Some were curious, some wereneutral – but most were horrible. Variations onhow dare she?andwhat the fuck does she think she’s doing?And a couple even worse than that:Oh great, the lying bitch is back. Who is she going to bring down this time?
I glance over my shoulder before descending the stairs to the runway, the tarmac steaming through the soles of my trainers (of course I’d worn my running shoes on the plane – I wasn’t going to risk those getting lost in transit). As I walk to the single-storey terminal emblazed with large letters reading ‘ERRACHIDIA’ – the name of the closest town to where the race begins – I’m soon overtaken by other eager runners. Do they know the race hasn’t started yet? Each one has a small backpack slung on their shoulders, similar to the one I’ve got. We’re carrying everything we need to survive for the next few days.
I hardly recognize anyone. A decade ago, I would have known almost everyone participating in a race like this. But the plane was packed with fresh-faced newcomers. I recognize Rupert Azzario, wearing a dozen brand patches on his clothing from top-of-the-line sponsors. He’s like a walking billboard. My snide thoughts are accompanied by a spike of jealousy. At my peak I’d beaten him at the Yorkshire 100, the Dragon’s Back and the Lake District Ultra, but he’s the one making a living from his running, chasing races and records across the world. He has hundreds of thousands of followers. One of the privileged few living the dream. On the surface he’s mild-mannered, humble, quiet – everyone likes him, looks up to him. Ultrarunning’s golden boy. But beneath that genial persona there’s a fierce competitor – one with a ruthless desire to win. It’s served him well.
Rupert dodges eye contact, but I expected that. I’m sureI’ll experience worse. I feel on high alert, goosebumps rising on my skin despite the heat.
Liar. Murderer.
Those words still haunt me.
I try to shake them from my mind. I need to focus on getting to the bivouac, then finding Pete. That brings a smile to my face. It’s nice to think of Pete as an ally instead of an enemy for once.
Pete’s been in Morocco for a week already. He wanted to spend some time acclimatizing to the heat. Smart – it’s something I would have done if I could have afforded the time off. He’s much more used to these big races, having spent almost two decades on the circuit. His goal was always the prestigious American races – Western States, Badwater, Hardrock – or to podium at Comrades in South Africa. In my time I’d preferred to stay closer to home, focusing on races in the UK and Europe. As I board the coach for the next leg of the journey, I feel a flutter of butterflies in my stomach. Anticipation for the race, or fear? I find it hard to tell any more.
I choose a seat towards the back, turning my body to face the window, hoping I look like someone who doesn’t want to be disturbed. I’m grateful when no one sits down next to me, and I spread my belongings across the empty seat for good measure. We have a six-hour coach journey to the bivouac, then our medical and equipment checks, and the registration to pick up our race numbers.
‘Excited?’ A man stops next to me, so I have to turn towards the aisle. He lifts his sunglasses on to his forehead. He’s so tall he stoops and he’s young – late twenties maybe – with soft brown eyes and a buzz cut.
I know the polite thing would be to remove my sunglasses too, but I keep them on. ‘Mm-hmm,’ I reply, shifting even closer to the window, hoping the man gets the hint and takes a different seat.
He doesn’t.
‘You’re Adrienne Wendell, right?’
I stiffen. There’s something irritatingly familiar about his voice; it grates on my nerves like sandpaper. I can’t put my finger on why I recognize him. Has he come into the shop?
‘I’m Jason.’ He extends his hand, expecting me to shake it. I don’t. Because now I know who he is. He’s one of the presenters ofThe Ultra Bros Podcast. I spent years avoiding their questions. I’m not about to answer them now. ‘Wow, you came! The “rock goat” returns …’ He points to the empty spot next to me. ‘Can I sit here?’
‘No!’ I blurt a little too loudly. I don’t want to be interrogated for the next six hours. I scramble around for a reasonable excuse, my hand protectively guarding the seat.
‘Because you’re saving it for me,n’est-ce pas?’ A slight woman with burnished brown skin and cropped silvery hair pushes her way past Jason, forcing him backwards. I hadn’t seen her because she’d been hidden by his bulk.
‘Mariam!’ I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see someone. I quickly clear the seat for her, and she slides in.
