See You at the Finish Line (Run, Love, Repeat #1)

1. Paige

Friday 3:55 a.m.

Damn it, my shoes still feel different. Lifting my left foot onto the kitchen chair, I retie the cursed thing for the third time.

“Paige!” my sister yells from down the hall of our small two-bedroom house.

“What?”

“You know I can hear every grunt and groan you make, right?” Leah says, scuffing her feet as she emerges from the dark hallway.

As far as sisters go, people think one of two things about us: We look identical or like strangers. It’s completely understandable when you compare her caramel brown chin-length bob, bedhead currently making it stick up all over the place, with my deep chocolate brown hair tied back in a tight ponytail.

“Sorry.” I grimace with what I hope is an apologetic look, but right now I can’t find it in me to feel anything but nervous. Butterflies are using my stomach as their personal playground.

Leah yawns loudly, not suppressing a single noise as she opens her jaw as wide as it can go .

Chuckling, I tease, “It’s a pity Ian is missing out on this attractive display.”

Leah scratches her head lazily, creating further chaos in her already messy hair.

“Nothing he hasn’t seen before. There’s only so much mystery left after living with someone for five years. Let’s see if marriage changes anything.” She glances down at the huge rock on her ring finger as it glitters under the fluorescent kitchen light—a small frown tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“You okay?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah, it’s just the usual. Don’t worry about me.” She shakes her head and looks up, plastering a wide smile on her face. “It’s race day!” She gives a little shimmy of her shoulders and wiggles her butt with all the enthusiasm of a night owl forced to wake before sunset.

I laugh as the butterflies manifest again, this time churning the peanut butter toast I forced down my throat.

Race day.

Rubbing the phantom pain in my right knee—an ache from an old injury—I mentally prepare for the race that’s taken me three years to train for.

I haven’t always been a long-distance runner. Running sprints on the high school track team won me a scholarship to the University of Utah for the 200-metre race. Eventually, I got bored with the short distances and the repetitive terrain of the same old track every day. I wanted space and freedom. The year after I graduated, I signed up for a half marathon on a whim.

I don’t recommend doing that .

That race destroyed me. And I fell in love.

I thought my muscles would never recover, thought my heart might explode when I crossed that finish line. So, of course, while lying in bed, ice packs covering my body to ease my aching muscles, I signed up for the next one.

Cue me making a running wish list that feels infinitely long, adding races faster than I can finish them. As soon as I cross one race off, another takes its place. It’s a never-ending cycle and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Which brings me to today’s starting line: the Moab 240. An ultra runner’s bucket list race. A 240-mile loop through the Utah desert with a 117-hour cut-off. Just under five days. Rough terrain, unforgiving elements, and the challenge of a lifetime. I’ve wanted to do this race ever since Leah and I—and Ian—moved to Moab.

My running buddy of ten years entered us in the lottery, and we won our places. She then proceeded to get knocked up, something she assured me she and her husband were thrilled about. I’m happy for them.

But that means I’m now running this beast of a course solo and hoping to find some people my own speed to tag along with. I’ve never done more than one hundred miles by myself before.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Turning to the course map spread out on the table, I study it for what feels like the thousandth time while Leah turns the coffee pot on, reaching into the cupboard for one of my many, many mugs.

“Earth to Paige.” She snaps me out of my trance, waving an empty pink mug with a flower-shaped handle in front of my face .

“Sorry. I’m just nervous.” I close my eyes and try to take a calming breath. Those damn butterflies laugh at the effort.

“Are you sure you don’t want to defer?” She wrings her hands while waiting for the life-giving coffee to brew, a frown marring her face. She’s asked me every day since Sadie told me she had to cancel. That was three months ago.

“I’m sure,” I say with much more confidence than I feel. “I’ve put in way too much work to drag this out for another year. I have to do it.”

She nods and draws in her own deep breath. “Make a friend early on so you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I check my bag ... again. Shoes, poles, shorts, extra shirt, water pack, electrolytes, gels, candy, compression socks, sunglasses, hat, sunscreen, ibuprofen, acetaminophen, buff, jacket, headlamp, headphones, watch, hat, gloves, emergency blanket, bandages. Everything is still in the same place it was when I checked thirty minutes ago.

“You’re crazy,” Leah says, sighing.

“I know.” I smile.

She’s not wrong. It takes a special kind of person to want to put themselves through this kind of hell, and while I’d say want is a bit of an exaggeration, I’m doing this thing.

Which proves I’m crazy.

I check Leah’s bag again as well, making sure she has my replacement supplies. She and Sadie will be at each aid station and following as close to the trail as they can get in case I need Leah to kidnap me and never let me sign up for anything like this ever again.

She’s sworn on her coveted signed Backstreet Boys poster that she will not let Sadie talk me into continuing if I give her my safe word.

Seeing 3:00 a.m. on the clock this morning was not pleasant, but now that 4:00 a.m. has rolled around, it’s time to get going.

Leah has no problem leaving the house like the beautiful mess she is, eyes bleary and in her pajamas. We make our way out to Leah’s car with our bags in the dark chill of the morning. I grip two perfectly barely ripe bananas in my hands as Leah passes me the keys.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” she asks around another yawn.

I shake my head. “I need the distraction.”

Sliding behind the wheel, I shift the seat back to make room for my long runner’s legs while Leah mutters something about giraffes and genetics as she ungracefully climbs into the passenger side. I smile wickedly at her, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

“Isn’t twenty-eight too old to be this petty?” I ask, pulling out of our driveway.

“Isn’t twenty-six too old to be peer pressured into doing something stupid?” she shoots back.

Fair point.

“I think thirty is the cut-off for that—you’ll have to tell me when you reach the wise old years.”

“Whatever. At least I’ll still be alive to turn thirty. ”

I know she’s only joking, but my big sister is a worrier. Though she knows I’ll be careful, this race is not a joke. Racers can get lost, severely dehydrated, and injured on the course. I don’t think anyone has died, though. Not that that would stop me. While Leah is an overthinker, I underthink everything.

“I’ll be okay, Leah,” I say gently.

She reaches her hand over the middle console to grip my leg.

“You’d better be.” She squeezes until she gives me a charley horse, causing me to yelp in pain.

“Um, excuse me! Are you trying to injure me before I even start? You’re lucky I’m driving.” I throw my water bottle at her with one hand, but she catches it before it hits her.

“Eyes on the road, missy.”

“You sound like Mom more and more every day.”

She clutches her chest. “You take that back!”

“ Never .”

We love our mom—she’s amazing. She raised Leah and me on her own after our dad died. In an uncharacteristically impulsive decision, she moved us out of Salt Lake City on a whim to a small town in the mountains that was not very accepting of her single-mother lifestyle.

She could only accept so many “come to church” casseroles dropped off by guilt-tripping neighbours before she bought a sexually explicit demonic blow-up Santa to put up in our front yard at Christmas time. That got them to leave us alone.

Leah and I know we’d be lucky to turn out half as strong as our mom. But it’s a classic insult as old as time .

“Did you call her?” she asks as I take the long winding road towards the most difficult days of my life, attempting to force one of the bananas into my churning stomach.

I cringe. “No.”

“Paige!”

“I know, I know.” I wave off her angry mom voice.

“She’s going to kill you.”

If I survive the race, she will definitely kill me. Hiding that I’m doing this ultra from my mom has been one of the most difficult parts of training. I’ve basically had to hide it from everyone since she would have been suspicious of me blocking her online. Luckily, Leah and I moved a few hours away, too far for her to drop in unexpectedly and find my training gear everywhere.

Do you know how hard it is to sign up for a race like this and not talk about it constantly? There’s a joke that says, “How do you know if someone has run a marathon? Don’t worry, they’ll tell you.” It’s 100 percent true. And even more so for ultras.

The first time I ran a distance longer than a marathon, I couldn’t shut up about it. I want to shout it from the rooftops, but I’m also a coward and don’t want to deal with the lecture and constant worry from my mom.

I look over at Leah, eyes pleading. “I was hoping you could tell her for me.”

“Ha. Chicken.”

“Excuse me, I’m about to run 240 miles through the backcountry of Utah. I’m pretty sure that makes me a lion or something.”

“Yeah, the cowardly lion. ”

“Okay big, strong woman, have you told her you and Ian decided to change your wedding date?” I pause. “Again.”

Leah gasps. “Rude.”

Smiling, I stick one finger in the air. Point for Paige. I sigh and look up at the stars still sparkling in the early morning sky. I know exactly what Mom would say if I called her. She’d tell me that this is not worth the risk. That I don’t have anything to prove. That I’ve already accomplished so much—why not stick to marathons?

I know where she’s coming from. Our dad traded one dream for another during our childhood, and his obsession with motorcycles took his life. Since then, Mom has been extremely risk-averse. As much as we joke, my sister does take after Mom while I’m more like Dad. He couldn’t sit still, always wanting more, and he passed the same restless energy on to me.

The stars continue to taunt me with their unattainable heights as I drive towards another goal, knowing that crossing that finish line in four days still won’t be enough.