forehead against a mossy rock.
I looked at the picture in the centre of the story. Me and my dad are holding up our finishers’ medals, and grinning.
My watch beeped. It was 7 p.m. now. I stuffed the article into my pocket.
I walked to the back of the cave. The turtle had filled up its hole and was tamping down the dirt.
“You really did it,” I said. “You buried your eggs. You buried the things you love the most.”
The turtle stopped moving. Its eyes were shiny and wet.
“That’s a pretty weird thing to do,” I said.
Golden sunlight streamed into the cave, lighting up dozens of spiderwebs. They were everywhere, strung upbetween the cave’s craggy pillars. In the centre of each one, I could see a big, fat spider. The spiders sat hunched in their webs like greasy black fists. A cloud passed in front of the sun and the webs all disappeared.
The turtle lay down on the ground and closed its eyes. I realized I was intruding. So I disappeared too.
SUNSET AT RATJAW
Mile 61
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: So how were you feeling, after that experience?
QUINN: Pretty freaked out, I have to say! I kept reminding myself that the bear and turtle were just hallucinations. By the time I got back to the main trail, I’d calmed down a bit.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: And what about your superpowers? How were they holding up?
QUINN: My muscles were sore, but I wasn’t out of breath. And I was still running pretty fast. I knocked off the next 10 miles in 2 hours.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: Is that what they call being “in the zone”?
QUINN: Yeah. Everything felt perfect. But it didn’t last long.
I rolled into the Ratjaw rest stop sooner than I expected. It’s near the tip of Catfish Point, at Mile 61. I crossed the highway and picked up the trail on the other side. I could see the parked cars and picnic tables at Ratjaw, a hundred metres down the path.
Then I heard the air brakes.
An eighteen-wheeler was cruising down the highway. The driver geared down as he rounded the curve. I thought the truck would keep going, but it didn’t. Instead, it slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder. The driver stuck his arm out of the window and waved. “You’re not running in the hundred-miler, are you?” he shouted.
I nodded.
He shook his head. “How far have you come?”
“Sixty-one miles,” I called back.
The passenger door opened and clapped shut. Someone hopped out on the other side.
The truck driver grinned. “You’re awesome!” he said. “I can’t even run to the corner store!”
He waved again and threw the truck into gear. The tires kicked up a cloud of dust.
As the truck pulled away, I saw someone standing in the dust. He was wearing a black T-shirt and neon socks.
The Dirt Eater! He was back in the race! But he hadn’t
run
here; he’d hitched a ride!
He crossed the highway, acting totally innocent. No way was I going to let that happen!
“Hey there!” I called out. “How’s it going?”
His eyes were flamethrowers. “Going fine,” he sneered.
He walked right past me, limping slightly.
“Have fun, riding in that truck?” I asked. “Was there a sleeper in the cab? Did you take a nap?”
I was being what my mom would call a brat. The Dirt Eater didn’t answer. What could he say?
“I’d love to take a nap,” I went on. “Oh, wait — I can’t — I’ve still got thirty-nine miles to run.”
The Dirt Eater spun around. “Do me a favour,” he snarled, “and shut your yap.”
He glared at me for about 30 seconds. Then he said, “You’ve got more lip than sense.”
While I tried to figure out what to say next, the Dirt Eater loosened the drawstring on his shorts.
Whoa! Time out! Very bad form!
You do not pee in the middle of the trail! Not when another runner is right behind you! You walk a few metres into the forest to do it. If that’s not an official rule in ultra running, then it should be, starting now.
I was about to say something especially snotty, but I figured I’d
I looked at the picture in the centre of the story. Me and my dad are holding up our finishers’ medals, and grinning.
My watch beeped. It was 7 p.m. now. I stuffed the article into my pocket.
I walked to the back of the cave. The turtle had filled up its hole and was tamping down the dirt.
“You really did it,” I said. “You buried your eggs. You buried the things you love the most.”
The turtle stopped moving. Its eyes were shiny and wet.
“That’s a pretty weird thing to do,” I said.
Golden sunlight streamed into the cave, lighting up dozens of spiderwebs. They were everywhere, strung upbetween the cave’s craggy pillars. In the centre of each one, I could see a big, fat spider. The spiders sat hunched in their webs like greasy black fists. A cloud passed in front of the sun and the webs all disappeared.
The turtle lay down on the ground and closed its eyes. I realized I was intruding. So I disappeared too.
SUNSET AT RATJAW
Mile 61
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: So how were you feeling, after that experience?
QUINN: Pretty freaked out, I have to say! I kept reminding myself that the bear and turtle were just hallucinations. By the time I got back to the main trail, I’d calmed down a bit.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: And what about your superpowers? How were they holding up?
QUINN: My muscles were sore, but I wasn’t out of breath. And I was still running pretty fast. I knocked off the next 10 miles in 2 hours.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: Is that what they call being “in the zone”?
QUINN: Yeah. Everything felt perfect. But it didn’t last long.
I rolled into the Ratjaw rest stop sooner than I expected. It’s near the tip of Catfish Point, at Mile 61. I crossed the highway and picked up the trail on the other side. I could see the parked cars and picnic tables at Ratjaw, a hundred metres down the path.
Then I heard the air brakes.
An eighteen-wheeler was cruising down the highway. The driver geared down as he rounded the curve. I thought the truck would keep going, but it didn’t. Instead, it slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder. The driver stuck his arm out of the window and waved. “You’re not running in the hundred-miler, are you?” he shouted.
I nodded.
He shook his head. “How far have you come?”
“Sixty-one miles,” I called back.
The passenger door opened and clapped shut. Someone hopped out on the other side.
The truck driver grinned. “You’re awesome!” he said. “I can’t even run to the corner store!”
He waved again and threw the truck into gear. The tires kicked up a cloud of dust.
As the truck pulled away, I saw someone standing in the dust. He was wearing a black T-shirt and neon socks.
The Dirt Eater! He was back in the race! But he hadn’t
run
here; he’d hitched a ride!
He crossed the highway, acting totally innocent. No way was I going to let that happen!
“Hey there!” I called out. “How’s it going?”
His eyes were flamethrowers. “Going fine,” he sneered.
He walked right past me, limping slightly.
“Have fun, riding in that truck?” I asked. “Was there a sleeper in the cab? Did you take a nap?”
I was being what my mom would call a brat. The Dirt Eater didn’t answer. What could he say?
“I’d love to take a nap,” I went on. “Oh, wait — I can’t — I’ve still got thirty-nine miles to run.”
The Dirt Eater spun around. “Do me a favour,” he snarled, “and shut your yap.”
He glared at me for about 30 seconds. Then he said, “You’ve got more lip than sense.”
While I tried to figure out what to say next, the Dirt Eater loosened the drawstring on his shorts.
Whoa! Time out! Very bad form!
You do not pee in the middle of the trail! Not when another runner is right behind you! You walk a few metres into the forest to do it. If that’s not an official rule in ultra running, then it should be, starting now.
I was about to say something especially snotty, but I figured I’d
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