Page 115 of Get Me to the Starting Line

My body has never gone this distance and it’s freaking out. I’m exhausted, depleted, starving, and I just want to stop. And I want a taco. Five tacos.

“I am never going to do this again,” I say with another sob.

Julien chuckles.

I stand up, glaring. “Are you laughing at me?”

He shakes his head. “You’re officially a runner now, vowing to never run again during the hardest part of a race. I’d bet my entire savings account you’ll sign up for another one.”

It’s my turn to shake my head. “I’m about to be a very rich woman. Your money is mine because there is no way I’m putting myself through this again.” I heave in a breath, every inch of my body and mind appalled that we have to keep going.

Two kilometres. That’s it. I can do two kilometres. It’s a little over a mile.

Sure, I can do a mile, but can I do it after running twelve? I guess we’ll see.

I have to consciously tell my feet to move. Everything hurts, and I’m not sure whether I want to curl up on the side of the road, cry, or sleep. Maybe all three.

I hate running. I hate it so much.

That becomes my mantra for the next mile. The last mile. I run every step to the beat of “never again.” Every syllable is a step. I must say it a thousand times before I see the next mile mark.

That’s when I see it—the thirteen sign.

A new wave of emotion overwhelms me as we get closer. Shit, this is a lot of feelings in such a short period of time. And anotheras the sign slowly but surely approaches. In one moment it seems so close and we’ll cross it any second, then after another few steps it feels so far away.

“I’ll cross last,” Julien says abruptly.

“What?”

“So you don’t have to come in last. You go ahead.”

I let the words settle. I don’t have to come in last. The thought thrills me for only a second.

“No.”

“What?” It’s his turn to question.

I shake my head. “If it wasn’t for me, you would’ve finished this faster. So no. I’m the slowest one here. I’m going to finish last.”

That’s when it hits me.

How many people get to say they came in last place in a half marathon? It’s kind of a cool brag. I ran the longest. Out of everyone here. We might have crossed the same distance, but I ran the longest. And that’s a win of sorts. I decide right here it will be a win.

“I want to run the last bit on my own,” I tell him.

“Are you sure?” He assesses my face to see how serious I am.

I nod, determination filling the space where doubt used to live.

“I always knew you could do this.” He tosses me a big grin, bigger than I’ve ever seen. It momentarily stuns me until he picks up his pace. It takes him a minute to cross the thirteen sign.

And I suddenly realize why everyone always corrects people when they say a half marathon is thirteen miles. Or a full marathon is twenty-six miles. It’s not. It’s thirteen point one. Twenty-six point two.

Passing the thirteen sign forces me to recognize the last one tenth of a mile is there for a reason. I turn the corner on that last 0.1 miles and see the finish line up ahead.

Emotions clog my throat and my breathing becomes unsteady as my eyes blur.

I’m going to cross.

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