The Ultra

It started with a letter.

Sundays at the pub. The ultra-runner would sit beside the fireplace with his beans and chips and a glass of Guinness, still in his gear. I sat at the bar and watched him. Wishing I could be him. There was something about him that was so pure. So honest. He was a runner. It was in his blood.

I ran too, but not like that. I did races where there were water tables set up and cheer stands throughout the route. Where an entry fee would get you a goody bag of pins and gels and a t-shirt with a reflective strip down the back. He ran the trails. In the woods. He pushed passed human limits every time he went out. He had a purpose. What did I have? Cool shoes and shin splints.

He’d run the hardest race in the country. He told me about it, one Sunday afternoon when I found the courage to buy him his Guinness. 5 loops in 60 hours over dangerous wooded terrain, using only a compass and whatever supplies you could fit on your back. I want to do it, I told him. He said the only way for a newbie like me to enter was to write a letter and beg for mercy. He said I could be that year’s sacrificial lamb. So I did. Three months later, I got my condolences in the mail. I was in.

Now I’m here and I feel alive. Everyone is piling out of their cars, downing carbs and electrolytes, taping up their ankles and bouncing on the spot to keep warm. I’m one of them. They don’t know about my team back at the office who gave me a bottle of Gatorade with a card that said, “Better Luck Next Time.” They think I’m one of them. That I belong. No matter what happens out there, I’ll be a participant in one of the most secretive, most treacherous ultra races in…

“Bob? Is that you?”

I turn around, choking on my energy chews. “Simon?”

“Hey buddy! Long time no see, huh?” he laughs, punching me lightly in the ribs.

“But…what…you can’t be here,” I splutter.

“Don’t worry. Bev rules the office with an iron fist when we’re gone,” he says, smashing his fist into his palm.

“But how…”

“Hey look, I think we’re starting. Got your map?”

I follow him to the start line, where runners are laughing, praying, smacking their muscles, and checking their packs. Simon works with me. He’s about ten years younger, happily married with no kids, a full head of hair and muscles that just are. We’re side by side. He looks like he belongs here. I look like I’m someone’s idea of a practical joke.

“Let’s stick together if we can, okay?” Simon asks.

I nod. Unsure of everything. The conch blows. We start.

Some sprint ahead just to break away from the small crowd of sweat and adrenaline. Simon shuffles along beside me. “Man, this is exciting isn’t it, bud?” he says, punching me in the shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, rubbing my arm.

“You should have seen your face when you saw me,” he says, barely out of breath. “You were all like, what?!”

“Yeah. But how…”

“You were talking about that letter you were working on so much, that I thought, what the hell? I’ll give it a shot too. Lucky for us, eh?”

“Yeah,” I say. My mind is racing. He can’t be here. He can’t. What if he finishes the race? What if I don’t?

“Whoa! Watch out there, buddy,” Simon says, picking me up off the ground.

I tripped on an exposed route. We’re not even 5 miles into this thing. “Thanks,” I say, starting up again.

“We can’t have you injured before we’ve even gone one round. What’ll the ladies say back home?” he chuckles.

That’s it. He has to go. “So Simon, how did you train for this thing?”

“I’m always running,” he answers.

“Sure, but…”

“I’m a firm believer in the mind. There’s endless power in there. If you dig deep into the pain, you’ll find what makes you tick. I wrote that in my letter,” he adds. “I think they liked my attitude.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Damn it. That is the kind of crap that works here. Every ultra-runner has some mantra about pain. “I notice your pack is looking a bit light.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got bars, gels, chews, you name it.”

“Water?”

“A bit. But we’re in a forest. We’ve got the stream.”

“Right,” I smile. “Nice and fresh.” Maybe I won’t have to do anything after all. One bout of stream-related diarrhea and he’ll be crawling back to the start line.

“I’m kidding!” he knocks into me. “Don’t go drinking stream water and telling people I made you do it.”

We finish round one. I’m dying. Literally dying. My heart feels like it’s about to explode and my calf is acting up. I smear muscle cream all over it, which I’m informed will attract the mosquitoes, but I don’t care. Round two begins.

Simon keeps grunting and smacking himself in the chest. The pain in my body is nothing compared to his company. We finish round two. Somehow we finish. I try to start round three without him, but he catches up.

The sun is setting in the forest and it’s getting even harder to navigate these trails. I’ve never been good with a compass, and low light and wobbly muscles are not helping. Simon flicks on his headlamp. There’s no one else around us now. All the other runners are on their own somewhere along the loop. I envy them. Simon checks his compass and smacks me on the back. “This way,” he says, and runs off ahead of me. It’s like he’s gaining energy as we go.

We get to the section we’ve nicknamed Five Tree Alley because five different trees are strewn across the only path that will allow you to stay on course. My hands and legs are torn to shreds. I climb over the first tree and stumble towards the second. I allow Simon to help me over the third, and listen to him grunt his affirmations on tree four. We both look at tree five. I can’t do it. I can’t climb this thing again. Simon is standing beside me. Are we both going to give up? We’d still have to make it back to our cars. I wonder if helicopters can make it through this dense bush.

“I’ve got to use the little boy’s room,” Simon says.

“Sure,” I say, glancing at him. He hasn’t gone once since the race started. I was beginning to suspect he was wearing a diaper. I’ve peed so often that when the sniffer dogs finally come rescue me, they’ll have no trouble finding my path.

“Hold this for me will ya?” he says, handing me his pack.

“Where are you going?”

“I need privacy, okay?” he says. “It’s a number two.”

“You can’t do that with your pack on?”

“I don’t want anything getting near my food.”

“Uh, sure.”

He heads a little way down the hill and out of sight. I’m alone. With his pack. I climb over tree number five, finding an inner strength I didn’t know I had. I look behind me, but I don’t see him coming. I make a break for it, turning off my headlamp and heading way off course, deep into the woods. Then I start digging.

It’s not like he’ll die without his pack. We’re already halfway done this loop. He’ll find his way back to the start, locate the medic and drop out, just like so many other runners before him. I drop the pack in the hole and cover it up with dirt. He’ll be fine.

I check my compass and pull out my map. I turn my headlamp back on. I must have run farther off course than I thought. I start walking in what I think is the right direction, with my map in one hand and my compass in the other. I turn and start in the other direction. I stop. And turn again. I look up, then back down at my map. I don’t see Five Tree Alley anywhere. How far did I go?

I hear something snuffling behind me. I turn and my headlamp shines directly into its beady black eyes. It stomps its hoof and I see something attached to its leg. It’s a torn piece of reflective cloth from a running backpack. My heart jumps into my throat. Don’t run. Don’t run. I repeat, as I slowly back away. The hog grunts and shakes its shaggy fur. It lowers its head and charges.

I duck behind a tree, wondering if feral hogs can climb trees. Not that there are any branches low enough for me to grab. I reach into my pack and tear open an energy bar. I wave it at the hog, blinding it slightly with my headlamp and throw it as far as I can. The hog stops and turns to see what went sailing over its head. It sniffs the air. I open another and throw it too. The hog, curious now rather than angry, starts edging towards me.

“No! Shoo! Shoo!” I hiss, waving my hands at it from behind my tree.

It comes closer and starts sniffing at my back. The compass falls out of my hand. I try to kick at the hog, but it grunts and bares its teeth and I’m still once more. It leans its front hooves on the tree and starts pulling at my pack with its teeth. I slowly take it off, holding it just over its head. Then I throw it. All of it. The hog races after its prize, and I hear the shattering of broken glass. My compass lies crushed on the ground. The hog tears into the nylon pack as easily as if it were cutting through a spider’s web. The compass is ruined. My food and water are gone. The only thing I have left is a headlamp and a map I can’t read.

I walk. I can’t run anymore. Even if I knew where I was going, which I don’t. I can’t. I look at my watch. The time doesn’t make sense. I can’t have been out here for that long. The hog is gone. There are bats in the trees up ahead, but they don’t care about me. I’m not a bug. If any other wild animals would like to eat me, they have not made their presence known. I lean up against the side of a tree and slide to the ground.

“Hey. You alright?” Someone is nudging me with their foot. I open my eyes. “Jesus, you gave me a fright there. You out?” He reaches his hand out towards me and I grasp it, getting to my feet.

“What?” I ask, delirious.

“I said, you out. Out of the race,” he clarifies.

“Oh. No. No. I just lost my way for a second,” I say, and start shuffling again.

He grabs my shoulder. “No. You are out,” he repeats. This time he drapes a foil blanket over my back. “Come on, friend. I’ll get you back to your car.”

“No!” I say, pulling away from him. “I can do it. My mind is strong,” I say, repeating one of Simon’s oft-used mantras.

“Yeah, but your body is weak, and you missed the cut-off. The race is over. I’m just out here looking for bodies.” He shoves a juice box in my hand and a packet of licorice.

My legs are so stiff it’s hard to walk. I’m shivering now and glad of the blanket. I take some licorice and shove it in my mouth. It’s easier to accept my fate with sugar. “Did you find anyone else out here?” I ask, wondering about Simon, and if there will be police cruisers waiting for me on the other side.

“Nah, just you. Everyone else is accounted for.”

“Oh.” It’s good he didn’t die. I know it is. But it will make the team meeting on Monday awkward. “Did anyone finish?”

“Two people this year,” the guy says with a whistle. “The favourite,” he says, and I know who he means. Everyone does. He’s a hero. A god. Someone I can say I ran alongside - even though I didn’t see him except once at his car. “And a newbie.”

“A newbie?” I repeat.

“Simon something. Guy even lost his pack. When he came back to base, everyone rallied around him, and dude. It was something to see.”

I stop and grip my throat.

“You okay?”

I hurl the multicoloured contents of my stomach all over the trail. Some splatters on my shoes.

“Come on,” he says, helping me straighten up. “Time for you to go home.”