Page 5 of See You at the Finish Line

I never drink coffee on race day. It makes me way too jittery. As it is, I bounce from foot to foot, stretching my legs as the intense energy builds inside me.

Runners jog past, smiles on their faces. One races away from the crowd to vomit. We all deal with our nerves in different ways. The crinkling of emergency blankets wrapped around shoulders grates on my nerves, and I try to tune out the irritating noises.

It’s just me and the desert.

Fall is creeping in, so the sounds of crickets chirping in the early hours of the morning are scarce, but if I concentrate hard, I can still hear a few lingering in the distance. It’s not distracting enough.

I always warm up and run the first bit of a race without my headphones, not that headphones are allowed on most ultra trails anyway. I like the feeling of hearing my easy breaths and light footsteps as I embark on a new course.

Unfortunately, none of my usual pre-race rituals are calming my nerves. I wish I had some music. Or an audiobook. Would it be bad to pray for an act of god so the race gets cancelled?

I’m standing off to the side, loosening my stiff shoulder and checking my phone for updates from Leah, when I hear gravel crunch underfoot nearby, alerting me to someone approaching.

“Hey,” a deep male voice says. I look up to see a man standing in front of me, his dark brown hair still messy from sleep, and light blue eyes crinkling at the round edges from his timid smile. Even in the dark, I can make out the bright colour.

“Hi,” I say slowly.

“Sorry to bother you, would you mind taking a picture for us?”

“Sure, no problem,” I say with a smile. It’s not an uncommon request. As a solo racer, I’ve been taking pictures of people since I arrived.

He runs a hand through his unruly hair and rubs the back of his neck. He’s nervous. His tall, muscular body shifts a little. Huh. He doesn’t have the usual physique of an ultra runner. Not thatthere's a typical physique, ultramarathons attract all body types. People enjoy the slow pacing and eating of delicious food along the way.

“Here’s the thing, we need to use your phone.”

“Why?” I ask slowly, eyes narrowing.

“We forgot ours,” he says with a more confident smile. “Our caravan will bring them to us before the race starts, but they’ll be cutting it close, and we won’t have time when they get here. We’d love a picture at the start of the race.”

“You want me to take them with my phone and text them to you?” I gather.

“That would be great,” he says, relief clear on his face.

“How do I know you’re not a stalker and this is your clever way of getting my phone number?” I say, putting a hand on my hip.

“Then you’d have to give me some credit. I’d be the world’s most dedicated stalker to run this race just for a chance at your number.” He holds his hands out to the sides like he’s selling me the idea, and I try to hold in my smile.

“Well, you could sign up and not actually do the race,” I counter.

“And waste a perfectly good $1200? I don’t think so.”

“So, a stalker who doesn’t think my number is worth that much, huh? I’m flattered,” I say sarcastically.

“What can I say, times are tough. Stalking doesn’t pay the bills like it used to.” He’s funny. I like that.

“A shame really,” I say, shaking my head, trying to keep the smile off my face. When was the last time I had an easy conversation like this with a man?

“It is. So, do a stalker a favour?”

“Anything for a fan.” I finally let my smile free and he beams at me.

“You’re the best.”

“That’s what you tell all the people you stalk.”

He laughs and leads me over to two other men waiting nearby. They line up, and I take a series of pictures of them at the starting line and then in front of some of the rock formations. It’s dark so the camera flashes. Hopefully it’s good enough.

“Wow, you take your job seriously,” he says as I put my phone down.

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