Page 73 of In the Long Run
By the time the ten-kilometre marker appears, the sun has pushed away any threat of rain and sweat trickles down my forehead, my chest, my back.I’m glad I decided to carry my own water rather than rely on the aid stations.
A blind runner and their guide from Achilles International, both wearing bright yellow shirts, pass Knox, Violet and I before the first bridge crossing.
‘Okay, that’s it,’ Violet says, breathing loudly.‘You two have to go ahead.You’re stressing me out.’
‘We’re happy to run at your pace.’Knox pulls his cap off, dragging a hand across his forehead.I don’t know what he’s done to strap downthe baguettebecause surely something that large must be bouncing around?
‘Nope.I insist.I need to do this on my own.’She makes a shooing motion without breaking stride.
Knox raises his eyebrows at me, his question silent but clear.
‘You’re sure?’I ask Violet.
‘Yes!’
I lift a shoulder at Knox and follow his lead when he ups his pace, ducking around the group of women in Running Mums Australia shirts that we’ve been following for a couple of kilometres.
Runners are stretched across the whole course now, so within a few minutes it’s just us.Surrounded by a cool – and very welcome – breeze, I can hear the sound of birds calling out to each other, and the thump of our feet against the rail trail.Knox is right next to me, but I want him closer.
‘You good?’he asks when I gasp and startle, feeling a rush of wetness slide down my back.
‘I think my vest’s leaking.’Damn it.I knew I should’ve replaced it, but one of the golden rules about running is nothing new on race day.That probably doesn’t apply to water bladders, but I’ve always been a stickler for the rules.
‘Let me take a look.You don’t want to chafe.’Knox points at a leafy gum up ahead that shades half the path.
I regret stopping as soon as we have because it’s going to suck to get going again, but chafe is the worst, and moisture and friction are the perfect recipe for it.
Knox stands behind me, his fingers brushing against my neck as he moves my hair out of the way.‘You’re soaked,’ he says.Never have I ever imaginedthose wordswould come out of his mouth inthis context.
There’s a tug, a bit of pressure and then he pulls the offending bladder out of my vest.There’s barely any water left out of the two litres I filled it with this morning.How did I not notice this?
The six-foot-three reason opens the bladder and shakes outwhat’s left inside it.He disconnects the mouthpiece and starts winding it up.‘Take it off,’ he says.Another thing I’ve fantasised about him saying to me in a different situation.
‘If you run in a wet vest, you’re asking for trouble.We’ll strap it to mine.If you need water, we can share.’
The idea of sucking on his hydration pack’s spout feels strangely intimate, which is ridiculous considering I’ve had histonguein my mouth, but I know he’s right.I unclip my vest and move my energy gels to my running tights.Same with my phone.There’s nothing else that I need from it.Knox rolls my vest up and turns around so I can wedge it underneath the pulley strings criss-crossing the back of his.I’m almost done when it catches on the bottom corner, so I bend lower, yanking at the elastic.
And I try not to notice how his running shorts cling to his muscular ass.But it’s right there.Looking biteable.Am I an ass girl now?I’ve never been one before, but if I believe any of the positive affirmations constantly shared on social media, all forms of personal growth should be applauded.
‘Gen?’Knox asks and I snap back to the task at hand.
‘Yep.Ready,’ I screech.The birds in the tree above us flap their wings and squawk in protest.
It doesn’t take long for me to realise that I have clearly developed a dependency on my hydration vest.I feel naked without it.It’s distracting, and I’m still trying to find my rhythm when my shoe clips a rock I should’ve seen on the edge of the trail.I topple sideways, my left ankle rolling.
It doesn’t pop.Which is good, right?
Pops and cracks are bad.
There’s a split second where I blink up at the sky, momentarily blinded by the sun and think I’ve gotten away with it.Then the ache sets in and I groan.
‘Are you okay?’
Knox’s shadow falls across me, blocking out the sun.The universe must be keen to get its giggle on today, or maybe I did hit my head, because the guy’s got a halo and it looks damn good on him.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, pushing up to a seated position and breathing deeply through my nose as I wait for the head rush to pass.
‘Is it your ankle?’He crouches down, his big hands gently cradling my calf.
