Page 1 of See You at the Finish Line

Friday 3:55 a.m.

Damn it, my shoes still feel different. Lifting my left foot onto the kitchen chair, I retie the cursed thing for the third time.

“Paige!” my sister yells from down the hall of our small two-bedroom house.

“What?”

“You know I can hear every grunt and groan you make, right?” Leah says, scuffing her feet as she emerges from the dark hallway.

As far as sisters go, people think one of two things about us: We look identical or like strangers. It’s completely understandable when you compare her caramel brown chin-length bob, bedhead currently making it stick up all over the place, with my deep chocolate brown hair tied back in a tight ponytail.

“Sorry.” I grimace with what I hope is an apologetic look, but right now I can’t find it in me to feel anything but nervous. Butterflies are using my stomach as their personal playground.

Leah yawns loudly, not suppressing a single noise as she opens her jaw as wide as it can go.

Chuckling, I tease, “It’s a pity Ian is missing out on this attractive display.”

Leah scratches her head lazily, creating further chaos in her already messy hair.

“Nothing he hasn’t seen before. There’s only so much mystery left after living with someone for five years. Let’s see if marriage changes anything.” She glances down at the huge rock on her ring finger as it glitters under the fluorescent kitchen light—a small frown tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“You okay?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah, it’s just the usual. Don’t worry about me.” She shakes her head and looks up, plastering a wide smile on her face. “It’s race day!” She gives a little shimmy of her shoulders and wiggles her butt with all the enthusiasm of a night owl forced to wake before sunset.

I laugh as the butterflies manifest again, this time churning the peanut butter toast I forced down my throat.

Race day.

Rubbing the phantom pain in my right knee—an ache from an old injury—I mentally prepare for the race that’s taken me three years to train for.

I haven’t always been a long-distance runner. Running sprints on the high school track team won me a scholarship to the University of Utah for the 200-metre race. Eventually, I got bored with the short distances and the repetitive terrain of the same old track every day. I wanted space and freedom. The year after I graduated, I signed up for a half marathon on a whim.

I don’t recommend doing that.

That race destroyed me. And I fell in love.

I thought my muscles would never recover, thought my heart might explode when I crossed that finish line. So, of course, while lying in bed, ice packs covering my body to ease my aching muscles, I signed up for the next one.

Cue me making a running wish list that feels infinitely long, adding races faster than I can finish them. As soon as I cross one race off, another takes its place. It’s a never-ending cycle and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Which brings me to today’s starting line: the Moab 240. An ultra runner’s bucket list race. A 240-mile loop through the Utah desert with a 117-hour cut-off. Just under five days. Rough terrain, unforgiving elements, and the challenge of a lifetime. I’ve wanted to do this race ever since Leah and I—and Ian—moved to Moab.

My running buddy of ten years entered us in the lottery, and we won our places. She then proceeded to get knocked up, something she assured me she and her husband were thrilled about. I’m happy for them.

But that means I’m now running this beast of a course solo and hoping to find some people my own speed to tag along with. I’ve never done more than one hundred miles by myself before.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Turning to the course map spread out on the table, I study it for what feels like the thousandth time while Leah turns the coffee pot on, reaching into the cupboard for one of my many, many mugs.

“Earth to Paige.” She snaps me out of my trance, waving an empty pink mug with a flower-shaped handle in front of my face.

“Sorry. I’m just nervous.” I close my eyes and try to take a calming breath. Those damn butterflies laugh at the effort.

“Are you sure you don’t want to defer?” She wrings her hands while waiting for the life-giving coffee to brew, a frown marring her face. She’s asked me every day since Sadie told me she had to cancel. That was three months ago.

“I’m sure,” I say with much more confidence than I feel. “I’ve put in way too much work to drag this out for another year. I have to do it.”

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