Page 83 of Run Omega Run
Chapter 37
Heather
The starting gun cracked through the morning air like thunder, transforming hundreds of individual runners into a single organism surging forward. I felt my body respond before my mind processed the sound, muscles launching into motion with the automatic rigor that came from months of training on these streets with Bennett's encouraging presence pushing me to succeed.
The runners carried me forward in their initial rush, feet finding a rhythm that matched my heart rate as months of preparation aided me. The cool morning air filled my lungs, and I took a deep breath, replacing nervous energy with pure focus.
Around me, other runners found their own rhythms. Some pushed ahead with an aggressive early speed that would likely cost them in later miles, while others settled into conservative approaches that prioritized finishing over competitive placement. I maintained my planned pace over the first few miles, trusting in the preparation that had tested my limits and proven my capabilities.
My feet struck the pavement in time with my heartbeat—thud-thump, thud-thump—as droplets of sweat trickled down my temple and caught in my eyebrows. The morning mist still hung in the air, but my skin burned. With each forward motion,the laminated edge of Mom's photograph scratched against my skin through my shirt pocket, the corner slightly dog-eared from the miles it had already traveled.
The city revealed itself differently from this perspective, twenty-six miles of urban landscape that had been transformed from earthquake rubble into evidence of determined recovery. Scaffolding embraced damaged buildings like external skeletons, while metalwork caught the morning sunlight in geometric patterns, beauty emerging from functionality in ways that made even functional construction seem almost artistic.
Fresh asphalt stretched beneath my feet where broken concrete had once made running treacherous, the smooth surface providing optimal conditions for competitive performance. Bennett's influence was visible everywhere I looked, not just in the obvious improvements like repaired roads and stabilized buildings, but in subtler details that spoke of someone who understood how infrastructure affected daily life. Street lighting had been upgraded to provide better visibility for evening activities; crosswalk signals had been redesigned with timing that accommodated children and elderly residents; and even storm drains had been modified to prevent the flooding that had complicated previous recovery efforts.
Construction crews paused in their work to cheer as runners passed, hard hats and reflective vests creating bright spots of color against monochrome backgrounds. Their enthusiasm carried genuine warmth rather than obligation; these workers understood that the marathon represented more than athletic competition. It was proof that their rebuilding efforts had succeeded in creating a city where normal life could resume, where people could pursue goals that eclipsed mere survival.
These same streets had become as familiar as the mansion's hallways through months of training runs with Bennett, as we'd tested our limits against distances that had once seemedimpossible. I could almost feel his presence beside me now, matching my stride with the effortless strength that had challenged me to run faster and farther than I'd believed possible when we'd first begun training together.
Those morning runs had become my sacred time, hours when the responsibilities of managing our expanded household could be temporarily set aside in favor of physical effort that demanded complete presence. Bennett had approached my training with the same strategic focus he applied to construction projects and family security. Analyzing my gait for efficiency improvements and designing interval workouts that would build both speed and endurance without risking injury.
But beyond the technical aspects of preparation, those runs had created intimacy that couldn't be achieved through routine or pack bonding. There was something about pushing physical limits together, about encouraging each other through moments when lungs burned and legs threatened to buckle, that stripped away pretense and revealed essential character.
"Push harder," he'd called during our most difficult training sessions, his voice cutting through the sound of our footfalls on pavements still warm from summer heat. "I know you can do this. Show me what you're capable of when you stop holding back."
His challenges had never felt like criticism or impatience. Instead, they’d carried absolute faith in capabilities I hadn't yet discovered myself, a belief that my body and spirit possessed reserves of strength waiting to be accessed through motivation and support. He'd run beside me through intervals that left us both gasping for air.
"Again," he'd commanded after recovery periods that felt too short for complete rest. "One more mile, then we'll see if you've got another one in you after that."
The progression had been gradual but relentless, each training session pushing slightly beyond the previous effort until distances that had once seemed impossible became routine warm-ups for longer challenges. Bennett had celebrated every breakthrough. I loved him for that attention, for the way he'd made my running goals feel important enough to reorganize his schedule around my training needs. Most Alphas would have seen athletic pursuits as secondary to pack responsibilities, something to be tolerated rather than actively supported. But Bennett had thrown himself into my preparation with an enthusiasm that made clear he understood this marathon represented more than personal fitness.
The course began to climb toward one of the city's steeper neighborhoods, elevation changes that would test cardiovascular fitness and mental determination in equal measure. My breathing deepened as my body adjusted to increased demands, heart rate climbing into zones that Bennett and I had practiced during hill training sessions.
I'd lost count of how many miles I'd dragged myself through when the water station erupted ahead like a hallucination, volunteers swarming behind folding tables buckling under thousands of paper cups that promised deliverance. My throat had collapsed into a fist of pain, and when I tried to swallow, the rasp of steel wool tore at the raw meat of my tongue.
Through the organized chaos of runners grabbing cups and continuing without breaking stride, I spotted Dante stationed exactly where Bennett had said he would be. His marshmallow scent cut through the collective odor of sweat, providing a point that helped me navigate toward his position without losing momentum. The cup he extended toward me was filled with electrolyte solution rather than plain water; his culinary expertise applied to athletic nutrition in ways that would provideoptimal hydration without the stomach upset that could derail marathon performance.
"Looking strong," he called over the noise of runners and spectators, his voice carrying pride that made something warm bloom in my chest despite the growing fatigue that threatened to overwhelm me. "Keep that pace, you're exactly where you need to be."
His assessment carried the authority of someone who'd been monitoring my progress through careful observation and Bennett's regular reports from other positions along the course. The confidence in his voice suggested that whatever physical deterioration I was experiencing was normal. I managed a thumbs-up gesture before continuing forward, the electrolyte solution providing immediate relief that went beyond simple hydration.
Miles continued to accumulate beneath my feet, each segment of the course revealing new aspects of the city's recovery efforts while testing different muscle groups. Bennett appeared at crucial intervals like a guardian angel in running gear, his peppermint scent cutting through fatigue-dulled senses to provide moments of clarity that helped refocus effort when attention began to wander.
"Keep going, Heather," he called during one particularly challenging stretch where the course wound through neighborhoods still showing earthquake damage despite months of reconstruction efforts. "She's watching. She knows you're doing this for her."
The reminder of Mom's spiritual presence transformed each difficult stride into an act of devotion, proof that love could motivate effort beyond what seemed physically possible.
Around mile eighteen, the combination of accumulated fatigue and a steep incline that challenged both cardiovascular fitness and leg strength conspired to create what distancerunners called "the wall." My legs felt like they belonged to someone else, muscles threatening to buckle without the conscious control that had sustained my stride for the previous seventeen miles.
I ran around huge concrete blocks, debris still littering my uphill battle. This side of Shaker City was still practically a ruin. Thankfully, the dust in the air was currently low here, considering last night’s rain. But rain meant the ground was slippery, making falling and breaking an ankle highly likely. I had already spotted three runners tapped out at the bottom of the hill and was sure there would be many more to come.
The incline stretched ahead like a concrete mountain, each step requiring conscious effort that had previously been automatic. Other runners around me showed similar signs of struggle. Some were now walking rather than maintaining a consistent running pace, others stopping to stretch muscles that had gone from cooperative to rebellious without warning. The cheerful atmosphere of the earlier miles had given way to grim determination.
My vision narrowed as oxygen-starved muscles competed with brain function for available resources. Peripheral awareness faded until the world consisted only of the pavement ahead and the burning sensation in my thighs that suggested my muscles were approaching failure. This was the point where training mattered less than willpower.
