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I opened my mouth and cried out, demanding from them what I wanted.
27
Pierce
I glanced at my GPS watch. I was at thirty-two miles, which meant I should have reached camp half a mile ago. But based on the view down the valley below me, I still had at least a mile to go.
Just like yesterday, I thought, gritting my teeth. And the day before that.
The view was breathtaking, which helped me ignore my aching muscles and the nagging pain in the back of my right knee. Today’s route had us crossing along the ridge in Corcovado National Park, and for once the foliage was sparse enough that I could see for miles. It was all wild, totally untamed jungle. I had been running through it all day, but seeing it gave me a different appreciation.
And beyond the jungle was a thin beach along the Pacific Ocean. I had been fantasizing about jumping in the cool water for hours.
I caught sight of something neon on the trail up ahead; that color wasn’t natural, not even in a vibrant place like this, so it had to be another runner. Knowing that my heart rate was already in the highest zone and close to red-lining, I pushed the pace as the path descended down into the jungle. Sure enough, I caught up to him five minutes later. Viggo, a racer from Sweden. He and I had been leapfrogging all day, and I had given up hope of catching him in the last stretch.
“Looking strong,” I said as I passed him.
“You too,” he said, grimacing in pain.
I reached the day’s finish line, and camp, two miles later. Viggo stumbled across a minute behind me. “You’re fourth,” the race director told me while crossing my name off the sheet. “Nice job out there, Benny.”
“That river crossing was hell,” I told him.
He grinned at me. “Lots of rain last night. The current is stronger than usual.”
Our camp was in a clearing adjacent to the beach; there was a nice breeze, and the calming sound of waves. Like a zombie, I limped across camp. The showers were nothing more than hoses hanging from tree limbs, but it felt like a luxury after five hours in the sweltering jungle. Still wearing all my running clothes, I stood under the cold water until my body temperature came down enough for me to move around again.
My stomach ached as much as my legs, so I next went to the camp kitchen and made myself four peanut butter sandwiches with honey. After wolfing them down—and thinking about more food—I collected my duffel bag of belongings. The tents were arranged in neat rows like a war camp, and I found mine somewhere near the outer edge. Good; I would have a breeze from the ocean at night.
My brain was fuzzy, but my body knew the routine. I changed into fresh clothes, then laid out my running gear, shoes, and socks in the sun to dry. I unfolded my sleeping pad and plugged my phone into a portable battery in my tent. I laid down for half an hour, not sleeping because my body was still too tight from the run, but savoring the feeling of being horizontal nonetheless.
After a visit to the medical tent to have some foot blisters popped, I wandered back to the food tent. Most of the other runners had come in by now, and called out greetings and jokes. Dinner was being served, so I fixed myself a plate—rice, beans, and chicken—and sat down to methodically refuel.
The race director stood up and briefed us on tomorrow’s run: twenty-nine miles beginning at five o’clock, with two river crossings and seven miles running on the exposed beach. That was the final day, followed by the awards ceremony and celebrations. Making a note to take extra sunscreen, I got up and limped to bed with all the other runners.
As I settled into my tent, I allowed my mind to shift away from survival mode. My phone had chimed with a dozen notifications when I reached the beach, but I was too busy staying ahead of Viggo to worry about it. Now, I opened my phone and winced: over a hundred text messages. Ignoring all the people I didn’t care about, I scrolled until I found the ones I cared about. The first ones from her were sent last night:
Melinda: How’s the race going? You’re supposed to have signal tonight, right? Send me a photo of your tent!
Melinda: Aw, Andrew just told me they changed camps and you don’t have signal. Oh well! Text me when you get this. Hope the race is going well. Andrew and I are sitting down to talk about books. Hope you’re still alive!
After scanning a few more texts from other people, I sent a reply:
Me: Got into camp. I’m still alive.
Melinda: YAY! Just one more day, right?
Me: Tomorrow is the finish, correct. I’m ready to be done.
Melinda: Friendly reminder that you chose to sign up for this dumb event where you run all day and then sweat all night in a smelly tent.
Me: We’re on a beach, and there’s a nice breeze. It’s actually comfortable for once! I might be able to sleep tonight.
Melinda: You haven’t slept yet?!?!
Me: A little. But not great. How’s everything back at the island?
Melinda: Everything is good. The race website says you’re in fourth place. Do you think you can catch the guy who’s in third?
