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

2. Adam

Friday 4:35 a.m.

“It’s cold,” I mutter from the back seat of the rented SUV. I crack an eye open to peek out the window, even though I know it’s still completely dark outside. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but here we are. Three guys on our way to a race that’s going to kick our asses.

And we’re paying to do it.

I’m ready to say goodbye to the mornings. Training for an ultramarathon is a huge time commitment, and I feel like I’ve spent more days being awake hours before the sun than not. Ultramarathon training is easier for people who love waking up at 3:00 a.m. I am not one of those people.

“Don’t be such a baby, it’ll warm up,” Mateo says as he drives down the dark Utah roads. Caleb laughs in the passenger seat beside him.

“I’m not a baby,” I mumble.

This is my first time in Utah and so far, I am not a fan. For starters, it’s cold when it’s supposed to be the desert. Even though Vancouver has mild seasons, I’m not a wimp about the cold—I grew up spending winters skiing in British Columbia, so I’m not unprepared for it. Plus, my head isn’t completely buried in the sand. I know Utah has proper winters, with snow and all that. I just don’t want it to be cold when I leave Canada. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable ask.

I also didn’t have any coffee this morning, so I probably am being a bit of a baby about it. Definitely a grouch at the very least. I’ve never been a morning person, preferring to stay in bed as long as physically possible.

This particular trait may have something to do with my brothers waking me up when we were kids. In the mornings they would turn on the lights, run in, and jump on me before rushing out, the door still wide open. Assholes.

I drag a hand down my face and try to get comfortable, but the seat belts are digging into my back.

“Turn the heat up,” I growl at Caleb, and I swear the fucker makes it colder just to spite me.

Caleb laughs at me, used to my hatred of mornings. He silently hands me a bottle of water.

I probably shouldn’t drink too much because I’ll have to pee too early on the course, but I down the whole damn thing. I’m nervous and grumpy, and I want the sound of that gun to go off so we can start the race. I also want to cross that finish line and get this over with. It’s not that I don’t love running, simply that ultramarathons really aren’t my thing.

What’s wrong with the good, old-fashioned, 42.2 kilometre marathon? If Mateo hadn’t cashed in his long-standing IOU, there’s no way in hell I’d be doing this. But I sucked it up for his sake, put in the work, and did the training ... I’m just dreading the inevitable consequences to my mind and body during the race. It’s going to be hell.

Caleb and I have planned to do as much of it together as possible. Mateo is so far above our athletic level that I would actually die if I tried to keep up with him. But it’s good to have a partner when it comes to a race like this—someone to watch your back and keep you motivated. Caleb is an ass, but he’s a person insane enough to do an ultramarathon in the desert.

He’s been one of my best friends since we were in diapers, our mothers having been best friends since kindergarten—it’s a legacy friendship. And while I probably wouldn’t be friends with him if I met him now, asshole that he is, he’s been a constant in my life. Constant pain, but still. Constant.

“Hey, Adam?” Mateo calls back, disrupting the almost-sleep I was sinking into.

A groan is my only reply.

“You’ve done harder things. You’ll be okay.” Ever the motivator.

I groan again.

I met Mateo after I injured myself, ending my career in the sport I had worked my entire life for. I made it to the NHL, much to the disappointment of my father.

Yes, disappointment.

After three years of being bounced from team to team, I had finally been traded to my home team in Vancouver and signed a five-year contract. Call it fate, or whatever you want, but I blew out my knee in the last game of my first season with the Whales. I had no idea what I was going to do—no plan, no education beyond a generic Bachelor of Science from the University of British Columbia, which I only got in order to play hockey on scholarship.

I began doctor (and mom) ordered physiotherapy. Not knowing what I was going to do with my life and with my father breathing down my neck to get my act together, I sank into a deep depression. Mateo was a physiotherapy student at the time and put me in my place when I came in unwilling to get better.

During my rehabilitation I saw the good he and the other physiotherapists did on a daily basis and thought maybe that was what I was meant to do. After I enrolled in school, my dad told me he was proud of me for the first time in my life.

Seriously. I made it to the NHL, but starting physiotherapy school was what made him proud.

Mateo and I have been friends ever since, and now he’s my boss. He’s also the reason I’m doing this ridiculous race. He pulled me out of my darkness and forced me to start running. To pay him back, I promised years ago that if he ever needed support from me, no matter what, I’d be there.

I should’ve known it was foolish to give him an open-ended IOU for helping me through that rough season in my life. He bided his time until asking me to do this 240-mile race with him. Bastard. He had tried to make it sound better, using miles instead of kilometres, but he couldn’t trick me. I did the math.

240 miles is 386 kilometres .

I hate that I feel the need to keep my word. I should work on being more of an asshole like Caleb—it would serve me better and keep me out of situations like this in the future.

I swear I will never do a race like this ever again. It’s not the race itself, although I know I’ll be cursing him and everyone around me soon enough. It’s the training.

To train for a race like this is practically a full-time job and it’s exhausting. The mental load is half the battle, and it feels good to finally be here. No more 3:00 a.m. wake-up calls back-to-back-to-back. No more gels, no more electrolyte supplements, no more chafing. I’m doing this one for Mateo and then never again.

Ever.

I don’t need to be an ultramarathon runner. A simple, sane, regular runner will do just fine. I’d like to build my muscle mass back up, especially since my mom keeps telling me I’m too skinny. Just wait until she sees me after the race depletes literally everything I have. I have this sick feeling she’s going to try to overfeed me for the next few weeks while I’m in recovery.

Dragging a hand down my face, I ask, “Are we almost there?”

“About thirty minutes,” Mateo answers, turning up the music.

I close my eyes and let the sound of Mateo and Caleb’s Taylor Swift car karaoke wash over me.

Race day.