I'm Running for Their Lives

I’ve never run ten miles in under an hour before. But now three lives depend on it, and I’m determined to cover the distance in a six-minute-per-mile pace before darkness sets in. I’m about a kilometer into it, and I feel warm and settled. And with a slight downhill on hard-packed gravel, I throw down the first mile in 5:55.

I had not started my day planning on doing this run. My day began with a sunrise yoga class at an assisted-living facility where I volunteer. Shortly after breakfast, I began driving three of the elderly residents through the Arizona desert on a sightseeing tour. Late in the afternoon, we stopped at an overlook and saw the giant fiery ball of sun hanging above the distant mountains. “About a half hour to sunset,” I said. “Do you want to stop here and watch it and then head back?”

Just then a car pulls up alongside ours. A man gets out, opens my door, and throws me on the ground, stealing my phone and wallet. He ordered my three passengers out. He took the car—and all the food and water with it.

“I’ll go to the park office and get help,” I said to the women. “Stay here, stay together. I’ll be a little more than an hour.”

There is a slight breeze on my back, but the people I have left behind are what really propel me forward. The temperature is 40 degrees—great for running—but dropping quickly below freezing—not great for idle humans.

Wearing old racing flats I use for daily shoes, I’m clipping through my second mile also ahead of pace—5:57. The sun will set in about 25 minutes, with darkness coming in about an hour—just enough time for the park officer to drive the ten miles and bring my guests to safety.

Mile three is perfectly flat and straight. My turnover is synchronized to my breathing, my foot strike creating a mellifluous scratch on the hard-sand surface. Three miles in less than 18 minutes. Right on pace.

Mile four has a slight incline, but my gait is steady, my arms pumping extra power as I propel forward at 6:02 pace. My shadow is lengthening in front of the bright sun. My goal is six miles away and still out of sight.

I begin mile five, still slightly inclined, calm but determined to reach the park office at five o’clock. The only guard, the only car, the only hope. If he goes, there is no help for miles. My three elderly passengers stuck in the cold night, with no food, no protection, no chance of survival. My watch chimes, and I look down: a 6:01 mile. Halfway, and still ahead of pace and feeling good.

The sun is getting low and will set just as I complete this latest mile—flat ground, wide path, smooth surface. I have no food or water, but the cool air holds off my thirst. Three elderly women are sitting by the roadside, seeing darkness set in, fearing for their lives. Mile six, an impressive 5:51.

My shadow is mostly gone, with the sun below the horizon behind me. The temperature is noticeably cooler. Visibility still ok. My turnover steady and smooth. My breathing settled. Keep it going. You’re going to do this.

I run these roads regularly. I know the park schedule like my own phone number. The personalities change, but the routine does not. He shuts off his computer at 4:55 pm, making his final log entry shortly thereafter, and switching off the light to the small post at exactly 5 before walking the 50 feet to his nearby car. Off he will go—the last hope, the last vestige of humanity for miles. Mile seven is a firm six minutes. Three more to go. It’s 4:43.

Darkness is overtaking daylight, but I can still see the ground in front of me. The sky too is clear, so the early stars should help my visibility. The guard’s hut will likely be visible from a mile away—as true darkness sets in, his shelter the lone light on the flat desert landscape. Mile eight done in 5:57 pace.

If this were a race, I would be propelled ahead by adrenaline, the competition, and the energy of other runners. But I’m all alone, with no one else to push me forward, no crowd to cheer me on. What keeps me focused are three women, widowed, in their 80s and frail. They don’t have much strength to survive the cold, the fright of darkness, with nowhere to sit but on the hard, dusty ground.

I charge ahead through mile nine at a blistering 5:45 pace, and within thirty seconds I see a dot of light. Don’t leave early, I think. Less than a mile to go, as I think of the women fearing for their lives behind me, the guard minding his watch ahead of me. Half way into the mile, I pick up the pace to a near sprint, as the glow of the sky lights the road ahead. Sucking up all the wind in my lungs, I extend my gait, and propel myself toward the hut. My watch chimes mile ten. My pace reads 5:22.

The light shuts off in the hut 150 yards ahead. I hear the squeak of the door, then the slam of the latch, and I can hear the patter of the guard’s boots over my labored breath. “Hey,” I shout, now less than a hundred yards away. “Don’t leave.” I can see him, stopped in his path, turning toward the sound.

Within a minute, I am in his passenger seat, as his headlights bathe the path ahead in light. I hit Save on my watch, and my 59-minute, 10.1-mile run winds its way through Garmin Connect and on to Strava, soon to receive a dozen or so kudos in the time it takes us to reach the three women.

We travel the ten miles in about eight minutes. Two hundred yards from the women we can see their three shapes—one lying down, two others smartly sitting back-to-back, creating natural backrests.

Everyone is ok. Within 30 minutes, they have food and water. And within the hour, a staff member from the assisted-living facility is driving the four of us home.