She considered how much to say. They were moving through the dark, with the wind at their cheeks and several hours of miles between them and the parking lot, and there wasn’t much point in being cagey about something that was public record anyway, thanks to an interview she’d done last year.
“When I first heard about it, I thought it sounded completely insane,” she said. “Subzero temperatures. Wind. Snow that goes from fast and firm to soft and soul-sucking. No pacers. Aid stations so far apart they barely count.” She paused. “Sounded like a total pain cave. Which is exactly how I knew I had to do it.”
“That tracks.” He chuckled. She liked the sound of it. Not like he was teasing her, but as if he was agreeing with her.
“I’ve always loved winter events. My club makes a point of meeting every Wednesday year-round. In six years, we’ve never missed a week. I’ve missed a few when I was out of town, but someone always keeps it going and picks up the slack for me.”
“That’s great.”
“But I’ve noticed for organized winter running events, there aren’t a lot of them. The ski world has them, but running and fat bike events are limited.”
“But The Frozen Divide does it all.”
“They do. And I wanted to support that.” She reached for another piece of mango. “And I wanted to see what I was made of. I did the thirteen-mile course the first year. Out and back. Still tough because of the conditions, but doable.”
“How’d you do?”
She paused to chew, thinking back over that first event. “Finished in under two and a half hours.” She tried to keep the pride out of her voice but knew she failed. It had been a big deal when she did it, and it still was. “It was a total shock. I went in just wanting to finish, and I finished faster than I planned.”
“What’d you do next?”
“The twenty-eight-mile the following year. Another good showing. That’s when I started thinking about the 100.” She was quiet for a few strides. “To qualify, you have to prove you can handle the conditions. Race directors don’t just let anyone in.” She tried to keep the snark out of her tone but knew she failed.
She cleared her throat. “So, I started looking for winter ultras that would build my resume. Found a 30K in Idaho. Did that. Then a 50K in Alaska. Went back to Idaho for a 60K.”
She didn’t add the obvious—that being an almost-Olympian in a winter endurance sport had apparently been a sufficient qualification for some people.
He didn’t say anything. She had the distinct sense he understood exactly what she hadn’t said.
“They let me into the 100 after that,” she continued. “The first year, I didn’t make the cutoff at the first checkpoint. DNF.”
“What happened?”
“I wasn’t prepared for running through the night. Simple as that. I knew about it, I’d trained for it, but knowing and doing are different things.” She gestured vaguely at the dark around them. “Same reason I’m out here.”
“And last year?”
“Finished. Barely.” She kept her voice even. It was the truth, and there was no reason to dress it up. “Came in with twenty-three minutes to spare on the cutoff.”
The wind gusted briefly, and she adjusted her pace into it, leaning slightly forward.
“This year I have a goal,” she said. “Under forty hours. I really need this to happen.” The words came out more weighted than she intended, and she kept moving, eyes on the road ahead. “It’s probably my last try.” She stopped talking.
She hadn’t meant to say that. It was an idea she’d been turning over for months, a date she’d marked on her calendar. But it wasn’t common knowledge, and it had no business coming out here in the dark, to Jack Swisher of all people.
“Why’s that?” he asked.
The hill saved her.
It came up fast where the road curved, steep and immediate. She felt it in her quads the moment her foot found the grade. She shifted her weight forward, slowed to a power walk, and focused on the road directly in front of her headlamp.
Her breathing climbed with the hill. Beside her, she could hear Jack making the same adjustments, working hard, not complaining. The wind was stronger on this exposed section, coming at them cold and brutal, and the snow was less predictable here—wind-packed in some spots, unconsolidated in others. Her foot sank unexpectedly on the left side, and she caught herself and moved right. Moved closer to Jack.
“Watch the edge,” she said between breaths.
He moved closer to her without hesitation.
They climbed. Her lungs and legs worked, and the sled pulled at her harness on the grade, and she didn’t think about anything except the next ten feet of road. That was what this hill required. Not the whole hill. Just the next ten feet.
