Page 114 of Get Me to the Starting Line

It’sthesamemedal.

Over and over again, I say it to myself as the minutes tick by. Luckily we’ve eased down into the valley where the air is cooler, giving me a breath of life when I was one second away from keeling over.

I get the same medal as everyone else.

The Spring Mountains loom overhead, making me feel small and insignificant—in a good way.

What are men compared to rocks and mountains?

I’m not nearly as important as I think I am. Maybe to a handful of people, but really, there are billions of people in the world—billions of creatures, indescribable sceneries, magical places I’ll probably never visit. Compared to all that, I’m nothing. This race is nothing.

There’s a strange kind of freedom in how little it all matters. A little sadness too, but it’s reassuring in the sense that my problems are a lot smaller than they feel sometimes. There are bigger, more important things to care about.

So I’m going to come in last.

The thought makes me bristle and I want to push it away, but instead, I let myself feel it. Feel the sting of embarrassment. That lingering feeling that I’ve failed in some way.

It’s the same medal.

I’m completing the same distance, and I’m doing it even though I hate running. Even though I’ve never run this distance before.

When we pass eighteen kilometres, right after the eleven-mile mark, I feel the emotions bubble in my throat. Every single step I take forward is a new distance I haven’t reached before. Every step is a personal win, a personal best.

Every step forward is a step I choose to take, to prove to myself that I can do this. Because I am doing it. I took care of my mother and sister growing up, even though that meant I had to give up the rest of my childhood.

Maybe it wasn’t the best thing for me, but it made me strong. I took care of my sick mother, and I’m the reason Paige has the life she has now. If I hadn’t forced her to apply to her current job, even I wouldn’t be here.

Even though here is a fucking half marathon in the desert.

And then I survived Ian. I think of Levi’s face and when Ian left me. I felt so incompetent. How was I supposed to raise a child on my own? I knew there were single parents out there, but all of them were stronger than me. Surely I wouldn’t be strong enough to do it.

But I did. I am. I’m raising my son as a single mother, and I’m damn good at it. My son is happy and taken care of. I don’t carethat he doesn’t speak. He’s mine, and he’s perfect. I think about the doctor’s appointment I finally got.

The paediatrician said it was a little concerning and set us up with a child development psychologist. I’m so grateful I can finally get Levi whatever help he needs. And that’s all that matters.

One step forward.

Stronger and stronger with every step.

The mantra emerges from the dark recesses of my mind. Paige typically has a mantra for every race, or at least for every year. This was one of them. I think it was for her first ultramarathon. I didn’t get how scared she felt until now. I was nervous for her, but she did it anyway.

She did it scared.

And with every step, she got stronger.

With every step forward, I’m getting stronger.

And even though this race scared me, I’m doing it.

We pass the twelve-mile mark, and a wave of emotion passes over me at the same moment I feel my body slam to a halt. Like I physically cannot move anymore.

“No more running,” I cry, letting a hiccuping sob escape.

Julien stops with me, his hand on my back, reassuring.

“This is the wall,” he says, his deep voice calm, holding no judgement. I’ve told him multiple times that he can go ahead, but after the first time he said no, he hasn’t dignified my request with any response but an eye-roll.

I’ve heard Paige talk about the wall. The last hurdle.

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