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

5. Paige

Starting Line 0 mi/ 0 km

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Here we go.

Cheers and claps ring through my ears as two hundred runners set off on this incredible adventure course. The sound of so many loved ones sending us off fuels our racing adrenaline as we try to not sprint out the gate.

Since I started my running journey as a sprinter, this has always been one of the hardest moments for me. Rather than pushing the pedal to the metal and blazing through that starting line, I’ve had to learn to pace myself—to allow the adrenaline to fuel me for longer, to save this pent-up energy for when I need it.

And with four, maybe five, days of racing ahead of me, I’m definitely going to need it.

Headlamps bounce as runners jog down the opening stretch, and cameras flash in the blue light of the early morning. I make my way to the side of the course so Leah and Sadie can get a good picture of me starting my journey.

“Run for the three of us!” Sadie yells, one hand resting on her tiny little bump. I give her a thumbs-up and make my way down the paved road that leads to the trailhead.

Car horns beep at us as we run down the middle of the road. There’s excited chatter all around me and energy coursing through my veins. Behind us, I can still hear the shouts of spectators and the wonderful citizens of Moab who came out to cheer us on this morning.

The start of a race is intoxicating. It’s thrilling and daunting, the world stretched out in front of me. I feel the potential accomplishment at my fingertips—or more accurately, my toes. There is so much excitement that that first mile flies by, I have to bring myself back down to earth, and focus on the rhythm of my pacing.

“I’m making magic,” I whisper, repeating my mantra to myself as we turn the corner, the trailhead finally in sight. A cheer goes up through the pack as runners pass around high-fives. The woman beside me raises both hands for me to high-ten, putting a huge smile on my face.

Runners are my favourite kind of people.

The three men from earlier sneak up behind me and the blue-eyed one flashes a wide smile.

“Ready?” he asks, coming to run at my side.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

He snorts. “Absolutely not.”

My smile must shine in the dark morning. He raises his hand, and I give him the hardest high-five I can muster. He laughs, shaking his hand out. My own palm stings .

“Just remember,” I say coyly, “you’re a stalker. That means you’ll always be following behind me.” I shoot him one last smile. His laugh chases me through the crowd as I sneak through an opening between runners.

We all settle into our training paces when the trail opens up. It’s truly amazing how quickly the start of a race mellows out. One minute you’re high on a mountaintop, people clapping for you and cheering you on, the energy built to the max.

And then it’s just a runner and her course.

Quiet.

I listen to the soft footfalls distancing around me as the clump of runners slowly spreads out. The three men managed to get in front of me somehow—their reflective jackets visible up ahead. My heart races and my feet move a little faster of their own accord.

“Now is not the time to race, Paige,” I mutter to myself.

Leah always tells me I’m too competitive for my own good, and she’s right. My instincts are telling me to run faster, push harder now that I have someone to race against other than myself.

But that’s not why I’m doing this race. I’m doing this race for me. I’m doing this race for my dad.

Banishing the thoughts with a shake of my head, I focus on being present. I’ll have 240 miles to dwell, so I want to enjoy the first sunrise of the race with a feeling of peace, not despair.

I breathe in the crisp Utah air as the first hour slips by. The sun yawns as it stretches its morning rays, waking up the colours of the landscape. Even the dust regains some of its natural hue as it swirls with each passing footstep .

The fading light of my headlamp is no longer needed, a reminder that I should conserve the batteries, not wanting to change them at the next aid station.

My strides are short and quick, and I revel in the feeling of my body moving forward, my lungs expanding easily. That will probably be the only time I think the word “easy” over the next four days.

The sun kisses the horizon and the world hums to life with colour and light. Orange skies complement the rusted colour of the Moab cliffs, a stark contrast to my electric blue shoes, which are already coated in a light film of red dust.

I’m grateful that my compression stockings provide a layer of protection. The trail is rocky with dips and turns, but I’m able to maintain a good pace as I make my way through the first leg of the race.

To keep me focused and soothe the rising tension in my body, I run through the course map and my race plan in my head again. Now that the early energy is wearing off, the butterflies flutter and I remind myself that I’ve studied and trained for this.

The course is separated into seventeen segments. Each segment ends with an aid station stocked with hot food, places to rest, medical aid, and any other supplies racers might need. Racers have also arranged to have drop bags at certain stations so we can replenish our packs, and our crew awaits us at some of the stops to help us.

Incredible volunteers wait to feed us, help refill water bottles, and basically make sure we can continue on safely. The first aid station is at 8.2 miles, and my goal is to make it there in under two hours .

I’ve never been great at math, so calculating how much distance I have to cover in a certain amount of time is a coping mechanism that helps keep me occupied. I try to train with headphones as little as possible for ultramarathons since we’re not allowed to have them on the course—distractions can be dangerous on such a treacherous trail.

It’s also an added level of difficulty. A test of mental endurance to push your mind to the brink without the aid of an audiobook or music.

Because a 240-mile race in the desert needs to be harder.

I keep up a great pace and can’t help but notice that I’ve lost track of my new friends. I don’t like the pang of disappointment I feel.

Maybe I won’t see him again.