Just Deserts (23 page)

“How long were we out?” I asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” Larson answered.

“That was longer than the last time,” I mumbled.

“That was longer than all the times before, but you needed it. You all needed it.”

Dreamily I nodded my head. We'd been moving along in the darkness, hardly exchanging a word, and then Larson would stop and tell us to sleep for a few minutes. Then, again without words, we'd slump to the ground, pull out a sleeping bag and go to sleep. Deep, instant sleep. Funny, but there were no dreams when I was actually sleeping, even though I felt that strange, dreamy quality when I was awake.

“Everybody grab some food,” Larson said.

“I'm not hungry,” I mumbled.

“I wasn't asking if you were hungry. Eat.”

He passed around a package of cookies and we all pulled out a few. Almost instantly I felt a rush of chocolate and sugar and carbs go surging through my body.

“How long is it before the sun comes up?” Connor asked.

“About three hours,” Larson said.

That meant it was about three-thirty in the morning. That meant we'd started walking almost
twenty
hours ago.

“How far?”

“Tunis is somewhere between fifteen and twenty kilometres away.”

“Can we do it?” I asked.

“You could go to sleep right now and sleep in until two in the afternoon, and we'd still be there before sunset, right on schedule. Of course you can do it.”

“No, no, you don't understand. Can we do it before sunrise? I don't want to be there when we're supposed to be there. I want to be there
before
we're supposed to be there … that would be something.”

Larson let his light pass from person to person, illuminating their faces. It was almost scary to see. Each looked so drawn and drained, with only their eyes animated, looking wild and bright.

“Well, can we do it … do you all want to try?” Larson asked.

“That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” I said.

Andy chuckled. “Friedrich Nietzsche.”

“This won't actually kill us, will it?” Kajsa asked.

Larson shook his head. “You might not be able to walk again for a week afterwards, but it won't kill you.”

“I'm not going to
want
to walk again for more than a week,” Connor joked. “But … but I'm in. I'm not ready to stop. We all came here to push our limits, so why stop now?”

“I agree,” Andy said. “Fifteen kilometres is nothing.”

“I'm in, too,” Kajsa said.

I turned to Larson. “So we all want to try.”

“Okay, then that's what we're going to do,” he said. “Except for one thing.” He paused and we all waited. “Do or do not … there is no try.”

“Hold it,” Andy said, “isn't that from
Star Wars
?”

Larson looked embarrassed.

“Great, we've gone from Nietzsche to Yoda in less than one minute,” I said.

“Both very wise philosophers,” Larson remarked. “But there is one more thing you have to do. Take off your packs.”

We all hesitated for a second, and then we peeled them off our backs and let them settle to the ground. I felt—literally and figuratively—as though a weight had been taken off me. I almost felt taller.

“There's nothing in those we're going to need tonight. Tomorrow I'll send somebody back to get them. We've finished the marathon … we've finished more than
two
marathons. Now it's time for the sprint to the finish.”

AT FIRST
, not carrying the packs had been like getting a massive burst of energy. I'd felt so light, so free, that I was practically flying. In the beginning I almost had to fight the urge to run or skip, but those feelings quickly drained away. Then, without our packs, we were left with no choice. We couldn't stop even if we wanted to. There were no sleeping bags to provide warmth, no tents for shelter, no pots for
cooking, no nothing for anything. After a while, not having a choice was probably the only thing that kept us moving forward.

Andy tipped back his water bottle and drained the last little bit, even tapping it with his finger to get that last drop. “That's the end of it,” he said.

“I have a bit left.” Kajsa held up a bottle with no more than a few ounces of liquid.

“I'm dry,” Connor added. “Ethan?”

“Gone. Larson?” I asked.

“None left.”

I thought about it and realized that he'd been telling us to drink and watched as we'd consumed the last of our water, but I hadn't actually noticed him drinking anything.

“When was the last time you had any water?” I asked him.

“I've been drinking.”

“And your urine … is it good?” I asked.

Everybody burst into laughter.

“Don't you think that's a little personal?” he asked.

“Kajsa?” I asked. “I think he needs the last of the water.”

She passed the bottle to me and I passed it to Larson. “No arguing.”

“Yes, sir,” he said and gave me a little salute. He hesitated for a second, and then put the bottle to his lips and drank down the last few ounces.

“It's getting lighter,” Connor said.

“The sun will be up soon.”

“But we're not there … we're not going to … what's that sound?” I asked.

“I hear it too,” Connor said. “It's like the ocean or the wind.”

It sounded so familiar, but it wasn't the wind. “It's traffic,” Larson said.

“There's no traffic in the … is there a road?” I asked.

“Just over this dune is the main highway … the one that leads right into Tunis.”

Without another word, we all started moving. The dune was big and the sand was soft and sliding backwards. I tripped forward, and both Connor and Kajsa grabbed hold, hauling me back to my feet. Together we scrambled higher and higher, and just before we reached the crest, the first rays of sunlight peeked over the dune.

We clambered up to the top and stopped, frozen by the sight.

The sun was rising up out of the ocean, bright and red and blazing. In its light, stretching out before us, was a city. There were houses and tall buildings, roads and highways, stores and cars and people and … we'd done it. We'd reached Tunis!

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

WE WERE ALL SITTING
under an umbrella at one of the endless sidewalk cafés that lined the main thoroughfare of Tunis. The road was filled with traffic and the sidewalk crowded with pedestrians, and it reminded me a lot of the Champs-Élysées in Paris. It was a big, modern, beautiful city, home to hundreds of thousands of people, filled with cars and restaurants and stores, with paved roads, electricity and running water … water … I took another sip and finished the bottle.

“Waiter!” I called out. “Another round for my friends!”

“Are you sure you need anything else to drink?” Connor asked.

I burst out laughing. “I've had people say that to me before, but never when there was nothing but water on the table.”

“You know you can get drunk on water,” Andy said.

“Then I am totally drunk!”

“I'm serious. The condition is called hyper-hydration. If a person were to consume gallons and gallons of water, his electrolyte levels would become dangerously low and—”

“I'm not going to drink
that
much water!” I protested.

“I know,” he said, and smiled. “Just giving you a hard time … the way you were giving me a hard time about my knees. I knew you were just joking around.”

“That's me, always joking,” I said.

The waiter put down four more bottles of water.

“I propose a toast,” I said.

I lifted up my bottle, as did Connor, Kajsa and Andy.

“A toast for making the walk, beating the time and being a great team!”

“Team?” Kajsa asked. “I don't see any
uniforms.
”

“And I didn't sign up to be any part of any
team,
” Connor joked.

I smiled. “You guys aren't going to let me forget what I said, are you?”

“I don't think any of us are going to forget any part of this,” Andy said. “But let's give the guy a break. He
is
part of the team.” He paused. “Sort of like the mascot.”

“To the team!” I called out, and we all clinked bottles and took a sip of water.

Kajsa got to her feet. “Water in, water out.”

She hobbled away on sore, bandaged feet. We all had sore, bandaged feet. Even the Terminator … even
Larson
had blisters. That walk—that hundred and ten kilometres in twenty-four hours, our ultra-double marathon—had worn down even Larson a bit.

“So what are you going to do with all your money?” Andy asked.

“Isn't that obvious? I'm going to buy lots and lots of water.”

“And after that?” Connor questioned.

“After that, I can't tell you for sure.”

“Well, one thing you'd better do is keep in touch. You got that, buddy?”

“I got that, buddy,” I agreed, and I meant it … both parts. I would stay in touch, and he was my buddy. They were all my buddies. “It's a promise.”

I reached out to offer my hand to shake. Connor took it, and then Andy put his hand on top of both of ours.

“You'd better keep your word,” he said, suddenly looking serious and scary, “or
I'll be back
.”

His Arnold impression—as always—was perfect, but it wasn't the impression that I was thinking about so much as the words:
I'll be back
.

I caught sight of Larson as he came out the front door of the hotel where we were staying. He waved and then yelled. “Andy! Connor! They've made the
telephone connections … we have a line to both of your families!”

Kajsa had already spoken to her family, but then there had been problems getting through and neither of the guys had had the chance. They both jumped excitedly to their feet and then hesitated.

“Why don't you go?” Connor said to Andy. “I'll talk to my parents after.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I think I'll be fine on my own for a few minutes. Remember, I was lost in the desert by myself and I survived.”

“Barely,” Andy noted. “You have to promise not to wander off.”

“Promise. Besides, here I have water. In fact, don't expect
your
water to be here when you get back.”

“I'm not sure you want mine,” Andy said. “Lots of backwash.”

“Great. I'll order another.” I paused. “Say hello to your parents, and tell your father that trip, that bike trip you two took, that was really … really something.”

Andy smiled. “I'll tell him.”

Andy left, and Connor hesitated again.

“Get moving. Say hello to your parents as well, okay?”

“Okay, I'll say hello, but I'm expecting you to say that in person before too much longer. You are coming for a visit, right?”

“Wouldn't miss it. I just can't promise right away.”

He nodded and, of course, smiled. Then he raced off to catch up to Andy. Both gave Larson a high-five as they ran by.

Larson started toward me. It would be just the two of us. I'd been looking forward to that. And dreading it. He pulled up a seat.

“How are you doing?”

“I'm doing well. How about you, how are
your
feet?” I asked.

“They're still sore, but thanks for asking. And thanks for pushing us all to do more.”

“Yeah, right, like you needed to be pushed,” I joked.

“Maybe pushed isn't the right word. How about inspired?”

“That makes even less sense. I've inspired a guy who's climbed the highest mountains and run across the whole desert?”

“What you've done at your age is pretty remarkable.”

“Most of the things I've done I'd like to forget,” I said.

“No!” he exclaimed, and the intensity of his response caught me off guard. “Forget nothing, regret nothing, because it's all part of who you are.”

“That is way too long for a bumper sticker, you realize that, don't you?”

“That's a wraparound,” he said, gesturing in a circle. “Right around the whole camel. But I mean what I said. You've already got some things figured out that I didn't understand until I was decades older than you.”

“But I don't know where I'm going to go or what I'm going to do, so how is that understanding anything?”

“The fact that you know that puts you miles ahead of almost everybody else. You were lost.”

“I'm
still
lost.”

“Nope, you're not lost,” he said. “You just haven't found what you're looking for … yet … but you will.”

“I wish I could be so sure about that.”

“I'm sure. Just don't make the mistake I made,” he said.

“Don't worry, there's no danger I'm going to have my toenails removed.”

“Don't you ever stop joking around?” he asked.

“Not usually. Besides, I'm drunk on water, or maybe high on life. So what mistake
did
you make?”

“I thought moving was progress. For years, for decades, I didn't realize that you can run in place, run in circles, run away or run in the wrong direction. It's only true progress when you're running toward something.” He paused. “Right now, you don't know what you're running toward.”

“Not yet, but I do know that life isn't a destination but a journey … that one's going on my car for sure, now that I can afford a car.”

“Ah, yes, the money. Enough for you to do whatever you want, assuming you know what you want to do.”

“I'm pretty sure I'm going back to school in the fall.”

“And I'm pretty sure your father will be happy about that,” he said. “Don't you agree?”