342

I’ll get second place today. I always get second place when she’s in the race. And these days, more often than not, she’s in the race. I let the familiar sense of Never Enough wash over me. The sounds of failure scream so loud in my head that I almost don’t hear the starting pistol.

And just like that we’re off. Hundreds of Nikes, Reeboks, and New Balances are pounding the pavement in a comforting rhythm. By the time the surface under our feet morphs from steamy hot asphalt to crunchy gravel we’ve left the weekend warriors and fun runners behind. Only the footfalls of a few dozen are still within earshot. By the time gravel turns into the dusty trails of Bishop’s Gulch, it’s just me and her.

342. That’s her bib number today - the number that, at day’s end, will be etched into a trophy and plastered across the front page of the Western Star. A crisp white rectangle pinned to the front and back of her bright blue shirt. That’s the number that I’ll stare at all day as I chase her. Not that anyone cares, but my number is 343. Even in the random assignment of bib numbers I fall one short of her.

I keep pace with her for a good 45 minutes. Just as her back foot lifts up, my front foot lands to fill her dusty footprint. This is the longest I’ve stayed this close. Maybe today is my day.

Then we hit the incline. It's a brutal uphill climb that lasts for over a mile. Immediately, she starts to pull away. I lose sight of her as she turns around the bend of the first switchback. By the time I make the same turn, her lead has visibly increased. Two switchbacks later and she’s gone. I don’t see her at all as I make the same turn.

I’m completely alone. There’s no one behind me. She and I, locked in our own race, have left the field behind. I should feel relief. Any other runner in this position would see this as an opportunity to conserve energy - to protect the spot and secure the podium and a silver medal.

I don’t want to just make the podium. I’ve stood one step below her on more podiums than I care to count. I want the top step, so I will my feet to move faster.

I’m almost to the top of the summit before I catch a glimpse of bright blue against the brown hills. I’m so tired it could be a trick of the light or my imagination. But the blue is getting larger as I get closer. And I am getting closer and fast - faster than I should be. 

It takes me a moment to realize that she’s stopped on the trail. She’s taking in the view at the vista point of Deadman’s Bluff, the highest point on the course. It’s literally all downhill from there. If she starts her descent before I catch her, there will be no catching her. And yet, she’s stopped? Why? To sightsee? 

I don’t stop. I carry on. One tired foot in front of the other. Suddenly, the story of The Tortoise and the Hare pops into mind. She’s the arrogant Hare stopping for a rest. This is the Day of the Tortoise!

A flash of hot pink rushes toward the bright blue. The blue stumbles forward close to the canyon edge. Hot pink rushes again. The blue is hurtled off the precipice. Once again I lose sight of her. This time, I realize, it's for good.

This time, I do stop. I check my phone even though I’ve run this course enough to know that we’re miles away from service. I look behind me hoping to see a fellow runner, but there are none. We’ve left them all behind. 

I’ve left them all behind.

There’s nothing to do but continue forward and get help. So I do. I pause briefly when I reach Deadman’s Bluff - looking around for bright blue or hot pink. Nothing. I scoot myself as close to the edge as I dare and try to look over, but it's no use. All I can see is the forest canopy below and a thin ribbon of water cutting through it all.

Then it's downhill. Down to civilization, the finish line, the police. It passes in a blur. I replay the scene over and over in my mind. Hypnotized by my own breathing I convince myself it didn’t happen and she’s still in front of me. She’ll cross the finish line first. I’ll cross second, as the universe intended. Later, as we share a beer, I’ll tell her about my vision and she’ll laugh it off.

I’m jerked out of my mind as the sound of the roaring crowd reaches my ears. They see me. I see them and they cheer - loud. They always cheer. For every runner, they cheer, but this is different. This isn’t the sound of a crowd cheering a half-hearted hooray tossed off over their shoulders as they are distracted by the celebration of the winner. This is a cheer for the winner,  a cheer for me.

I feel the ribbon snap across my waist as I cross the finish line. Crying, I collapse in on myself. It's clear everyone thinks the tears are full of joy. Only I know they are of the loss that is finally sinking in. We’ve lost her. I’ve lost her.

Of course, she never crossed the finish line. The police arrive. For hours they question what I saw and when I saw it. They searched Deadman’s Bluff and the rocky terrain below, finding nothing. Was all in my head? Did I have heat exhaustion or some such thing? No. Heat exhaustion or not, I know what I saw. Sara went over that cliff. She was pushed over that cliff by a runner in a hot pink shirt that came out of nowhere. 

It is well into the evening when I finally allow someone to take me home. The light had faded and the search on hold until first light. Did I tell the police the part about the shirt? I’ll call them tomorrow just to make sure.

For now, I take my trophy and shiny gold medal home to the waiting shelf in my living room. I pick up the only thing on it, a picture of Sara and I at our parent’s 50th wedding anniversary party. How will I tell them?

I set the picture aside and place the emblems of my victory in its place. I stand back and look at it. It needs something else. My race bib! That will complete the tableau. I start to unpin it from my hot pink shirt.