Page 2 of See You at the Finish Line

She nods and draws in her own deep breath. “Make a friend early on so you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I check my bag ... again. Shoes, poles, shorts, extra shirt, water pack, electrolytes, gels, candy, compression socks, sunglasses, hat, sunscreen, ibuprofen, acetaminophen, buff, jacket, headlamp, headphones, watch, hat, gloves, emergency blanket, bandages. Everything is still in the same place it was when I checked thirty minutes ago.

“You’re crazy,” Leah says, sighing.

“I know.” I smile.

She’s not wrong. It takes a special kind of person to want to put themselves through this kind of hell, and while I’d saywantis a bit of an exaggeration, I’m doing this thing.

Which proves I’m crazy.

I check Leah’s bag again as well, making sure she has my replacement supplies. She and Sadie will be at each aid station and followingas close to the trail as they can get in case I need Leah to kidnap me and never let me sign up for anything like this ever again.

She’s sworn on her coveted signed Backstreet Boys poster that she will not let Sadie talk me into continuing if I give her my safe word.

Seeing 3:00 a.m. on the clock this morning was not pleasant, but now that 4:00 a.m. has rolled around, it’s time to get going.

Leah has no problem leaving the house like the beautiful mess she is, eyes bleary and in her pajamas. We make our way out to Leah’s car with our bags in the dark chill of the morning. I grip two perfectly barely ripe bananas in my hands as Leah passes me the keys.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” she asks around another yawn.

I shake my head. “I need the distraction.”

Sliding behind the wheel, I shift the seat back to make room for my long runner’s legs while Leah mutters something about giraffes and genetics as she ungracefully climbs into the passenger side. I smile wickedly at her, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

“Isn’t twenty-eight too old to be this petty?” I ask, pulling out of our driveway.

“Isn’t twenty-six too old to be peer pressured into doing something stupid?” she shoots back.

Fair point.

“I think thirty is the cut-off for that—you’ll have to tell me when you reach the wise old years.”

“Whatever. At least I’ll still be alive to turn thirty.”

I know she’s only joking, but my big sister is a worrier. Though she knows I’ll be careful, this race is not a joke. Racers can get lost, severely dehydrated, and injured on the course. I don’t think anyone has died, though. Not that that would stop me. While Leah is an overthinker, I underthink everything.

“I’ll be okay, Leah,” I say gently.

She reaches her hand over the middle console to grip my leg.

“You’d better be.” She squeezes until she gives me a charley horse, causing me to yelp in pain.

“Um, excuse me! Are youtryingto injure me before I even start? You’re lucky I’m driving.” I throw my water bottle at her with one hand, but she catches it before it hits her.

“Eyes on the road, missy.”

“You sound like Mom more and more every day.”

She clutches her chest. “You take that back!”

“Never.”

We love our mom—she’s amazing. She raised Leah and me on her own after our dad died. In an uncharacteristically impulsive decision, she moved us out of Salt Lake City on a whim to a small town in the mountains that was not very accepting of her single-mother lifestyle.

She could only accept so many “come to church” casseroles dropped off by guilt-tripping neighbours before she bought a sexually explicit demonic blow-up Santa to put up in our front yard at Christmas time. That got them to leave us alone.

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