Page 3 of See You at the Finish Line

Leah and I know we’d be lucky to turn out half as strong as our mom. But it’s a classic insult as old as time.

“Did you call her?” she asks as I take the long winding road towards the most difficult days of my life, attempting to force one of the bananas into my churning stomach.

I cringe. “No.”

“Paige!”

“I know, I know.” I wave off her angry mom voice.

“She’s going to kill you.”

If I survive the race, she will definitely kill me. Hiding that I’m doing this ultra from my mom has been one of the most difficult parts of training. I’ve basically had to hide it from everyone since she would have been suspicious of me blocking her online. Luckily, Leah and I moved a few hours away, too far for her to drop in unexpectedly and find my training gear everywhere.

Do you know how hard it is to sign up for a race like this and not talk about it constantly? There’s a joke that says, “How do you know if someone has run a marathon? Don’t worry, they’ll tell you.” It’s 100 percent true. And even more so for ultras.

The first time I ran a distance longer than a marathon, I couldn’t shut up about it. I want to shout it from the rooftops, but I’m also a coward and don’t want to deal with the lecture and constant worry from my mom.

I look over at Leah, eyes pleading. “I was hoping you could tell her for me.”

“Ha. Chicken.”

“Excuse me, I’m about to run 240 miles through the backcountry of Utah. I’m pretty sure that makes me a lion or something.”

“Yeah, the cowardly lion.”

“Okay big, strong woman, have you told her you and Ian decided to change your wedding date?” I pause. “Again.”

Leah gasps. “Rude.”

Smiling, I stick one finger in the air. Point for Paige. I sigh and look up at the stars still sparkling in the early morning sky. I know exactly what Mom would say if I called her. She’d tell me that this is not worth the risk. That I don’t have anything to prove. That I’ve already accomplished so much—why not stick to marathons?

I know where she’s coming from. Our dad traded one dream for another during our childhood, and his obsession with motorcycles took his life. Since then, Mom has been extremely risk-averse. As much as we joke, my sister does take after Mom while I’m more like Dad. He couldn’t sit still, always wanting more, and he passed the same restless energy on to me.

The stars continue to taunt me with their unattainable heights as I drive towards another goal, knowing that crossing that finish line in four days still won’t be enough.

Friday 4:35 a.m.

“It’s cold,” I mutter from the back seat of the rented SUV. I crack an eye open to peek out the window, even though I know it’s still completely dark outside. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but here we are. Three guys on our way to a race that’s going to kick our asses.

And we’re paying to do it.

I’m ready to say goodbye to the mornings. Training for an ultramarathon is a huge time commitment, and I feel like I’ve spent more days being awake hours before the sun than not. Ultramarathon training is easier for people who love waking up at 3:00 a.m. I am not one of those people.

“Don’t be such a baby, it’ll warm up,” Mateo says as he drives down the dark Utah roads. Caleb laughs in the passenger seat beside him.

“I’m not a baby,” I mumble.

This is my first time in Utah and so far, I am not a fan. For starters, it’s cold when it’s supposed to be the desert. Even though Vancouver has mild seasons, I’m not a wimp about the cold—Igrew up spending winters skiing in British Columbia, so I’m not unprepared for it. Plus, my head isn’t completely buried in the sand. I know Utah has proper winters, with snow and all that. I just don’t want it to be cold when I leave Canada. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable ask.

I also didn’t have any coffee this morning, so I probably am being a bit of a baby about it. Definitely a grouch at the very least. I’ve never been a morning person, preferring to stay in bed as long as physically possible.

This particular trait may have something to do with my brothers waking me up when we were kids. In the mornings they would turn on the lights, run in, and jump on me before rushing out, the door still wide open. Assholes.

I drag a hand down my face and try to get comfortable, but the seat belts are digging into my back.

“Turn the heat up,” I growl at Caleb, and I swear the fucker makes it colder just to spite me.

Caleb laughs at me, used to my hatred of mornings. He silently hands me a bottle of water.

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