Ultra (12 page)

“That’s better,” said Mom.

I teetered forward and gave her a hug. A stinky, sweaty hug that no one else would have taken.

“Let me see those feet,” she said.

“Nah, they’re okay,” I said. “I was just kidding.”

A total lie. My feet felt like they’d been dipped in gasoline and set on fire. I hated to think what they must look like.

“It wasn’t a request,” said Mom. “Let me see them —
now
.”

Just then the Dirt Eater jogged into the rest stop. The same people who’d cheered for me now cheered for him.

“Where’s Ollie?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Down at the lake with Kneecap,” said Mom.

She was still looking at my feet. I needed to distract her.

“I want to thank you,” I said.

“For what?” she said.

“For your genes,” I said.

“My genes?”

Mosquitoes dive-bombed my ankles and shins. I rifled through my pack for the bug dope I’d packed. “I inherited your good bones,” I said. “I wouldn’t still be standing after sixty-one miles if I didn’t.”

“Is that so?” said Mom.

“That’s so,” I said.

I was laying it on thick, but I didn’t care. She seemed to have forgotten about my feet.

“You got some of your dad’s genes too,” she said. “You definitely inherited his determination. But he was a plodder — terrible form. You’re different. You run with such grace — like a springbok.”

A springbok is an African version of a deer. I didn’t know that then, but I pretended that I did.

“You’re doing very well, you know,” Mom said. “At this rate, you might even beat your dad’s record.”

The bald guy in the kilt was walking toward us. I had to think hard to remember his name.

“Hey, Quinn!” he said. “How’s that bladder working?”

Bruce. That was his name — Bruce.

“It’s great,” I said. “I’m drinking a ton! My pee is so clear! Want to see?”

That made him grin. “No thanks,” he said. “Come on over. It’s time for your weigh-in. You know the drill.”

I climbed up on the scale. The screen lit up.

“You’ve dropped two more pounds,” Bruce said.

“Two
more
?” said my mom.

Bruce shrugged. “He’s only lost three, which is average. There was a fella in here earlier who was down eleven. I had to pull him out of the race.”

I thought to myself: I was in sixth place before. But if Bruce pulled one of the leaders, that meant I was …

FIFTH!

“Still,” said Mom. “Three pounds, that can’t be good.”

The volunteers began clapping. The Dirt Eater started running down the trail. Now he was ahead of me, in fifth place, and I was back to being sixth.

“Wow,” said Bruce. “He made a good recovery.”

I stepped down off the scale and said nothing. I’d show them who owned fifth place.

* * *

You probably think you’ve seen some nice sunsets. But this sunset was amazing. This sunset was on steroids!

Half of the sky was the colour of ripe watermelon, and the rest blazed orange, like a melting scoop of sherbet.

On the downside, the bugs were launching an attack. The volunteers pulled on hoodies and long pants and lit citronella candles.

I walked down to the lake, stinking of bug dope. Kneecap was skipping stones. Ollie knelt beside a bush.

“Hey there,” I said.

“Shhhh,” said Ollie.

Kneecap smiled at me. “He’s frog hunting,” she whispered.

A blood-red sunbeam shot through the clouds and stained the cedar trees a dark shade of purple.

“Is it a bullfrog?” I asked Kneecap.

“A leopard frog, I think.”

“No,” said Ollie, “it’s a
Bufo americanus
. And if you don’t keep quiet, he’ll never come back up.”

The three of us stared at the black water. A light breeze blew across the lake.

“They’re calling for rain tonight,” Kneecap said.

“Great,” I said. “Bring it on.”

Kneecap looked at the clouds on the horizon. Then she said, “I bet the Dirt Eater is in bed by now.”

“No, he’s not,” I said. “He just ran through here.”

“Not possible,” she said. “He was hours behind you.”

I told her about the truck on the highway. Her eyes went wide. She had dog-dish eyes.

“WHAT?” she said. “You saw him climb out of a
truck
? He must’ve hitchhiked from Silver Valley. What is wrong with that guy?”

Two eyeballs appeared on the water’s surface. Then a tiny nose and two webbed feet. The frog paddled slowly toward the shore. All at once, Ollie sprang into action.

“Gotcha!” he cried, dropping his hands over the frog. He lifted it up so we could take a look.

“He doesn’t look too happy,” I said, peeking between my brother’s thumbs.

“I’ll let him go in a minute,” said Ollie.

The frog scowled like an indignant king, angry at having his schedule interrupted.

Kneecap slapped a mosquito on my neck. “How do you feel about running in the dark now?” she asked.

“I’m a bit spooked,” I said. I was terrified, actually.

“Me and Quinn ran in the dark together once,” Ollie said.

“Really?” said Kneecap.

“You bet,” I said, winking at Ollie. “We’re a team.”

The sun dipped below the horizon. The sky looked as if it had been smudged with charcoal. Ollie set the frog down on a mossy rock. It hopped back into the water with a splash.

“I wrote another verse for the UHL anthem,” I told Kneecap.

Kneecap’s face lit up. “Sing it for me!”

“Okay,” I said.

Kneecap’s smile broadened and then slowly collapsed. “It’s great,” she said. “But the UHL’s dead.”

“I know,” I said. “But maybe we can revive it.”

She considered this. Then she said, “Nah, it’s had its day. It was a childish game, anyway.”

We followed the sound of laughter back to the rest stop. At the picnic table I found my drop bag among the others and yanked on a fresh shirt and my nylon jacket. I strapped my headlamp to my forehead. I also loaded up on banana-flavoured gels, jelly beans and a small spool of duct tape.

“What’s the tape for?” Ollie asked.

“In case my shoes get ripped,” I said.

Kneecap ran over. “I just talked to Bruce,” she said. “I asked him how the Dirt Eater could possibly be beating you.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said that Ted — that’s the Dirt Eater’s name — is an experienced runner. And they rely on the honour system in this race.”

“What’s the honour system?” Ollie asked.

“It seems to mean that you can cheat all you want and not get caught,” muttered Kneecap.

Why would anyone cheat like that? It’s not like he had a real shot at winning the race. The fastest runners were probably hours ahead of us by now. They might even be close to the finish line.

Ollie helped himself to a handful of pretzels. “When will you pass the Shrine?” he asked.

“Soon,” I said. “A little over thirty miles.”

Ribbons of campfire smoke wafted through the trees. The glow of an mp3 player lit up Kneecap’s face.

“It’s my bedtime soon,” Ollie said. “I won’t be able to tell you any more stories.”

“Then tell me one right now,” I said.

Ollie knelt down to tie his shoelace. “What kind of story?” he asked.

“A true story,” I suggested.

Ollie pressed some pretzels into his mouth and sucked the salt off them. I clipped on my hydration pack and took a squirt of water.

“One time, last summer, I had a toad,” Ollie began. “I caught him under the climbing tree behind our house.”

I remembered this. “You named him Tony,” I said.

“Yeah, Tony. I kept him in my aquarium. I put grass and leaves in there. Fed him bugs. Sometimes a cricket.”

“One day I took him out of the aquarium and let him hop around the backyard. River was there.”

River’s our neighbour’s dog. He’s big and sleepy-eyed and he has incredibly bad breath.

“Anyway,” said Ollie, “Tony was hopping around on the grass, and River was lying close by, sort of watching, but not really. Then Tony decided to hop between River’s front paws. River leaned forward to sniff him. Tony took another hop forward. River went to lick Tony, and then Tony hopped right inside River’s mouth!”

Ollie scratched a mosquito bite on his leg.

“Why was River’s mouth open?” I asked.

“Because he was sticking out his tongue! And Tony just hopped into the hole!”

It was a horrifying story, but it was also kind of funny. “What happened then?” I asked.

“River looked surprised, like he was going to throw up. Toads don’t taste very good, you know. He shook his head and Tony popped out of his mouth and rolled across the grass. He was shiny from River’s slobber, but aside from that he was okay. I scooped him up really fast, and he peed all over my hand.”

I stared at the blue light fading over the lake.

“So what happened to Tony?” Kneecap asked. She’d taken off her headphones and was sitting up on the bench.

“I set him free,” Ollie said. “He wanted to get home to his family.”

A burst of laughter erupted behind us. The volunteers were drinking beer and telling stories around the fire. Mom was standing apart from the other people. I glanced at our car, the silver hatchback, and for a moment I imagined myself sliding into the passenger seat. I’d ease the seat back and rest my head against the window. I’d probably turn on the fan, and warm air would blow in my face as I slept …

Kneecap saw what I was looking at. “Don’t even think about it,” she growled.

I took a deep breath. “Right,” I said. And then I ran into the forest before I had a chance to change my mind.

“Don’t forget to keep singing!” Ollie shouted after me.

“Scare away the bears!” Kneecap added.

SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS:
What was it like, running in the forest at night?

QUINN:
Weird.

SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS:
Scary, I’ll bet.

QUINN:
Definitely. And really, really dark.

All my life I’d heard stories about the Sasquatch. Not to mention Freddy Krueger and the Blair Witch. I’d always thought that those stories were lame. But now, they didn’t seem lame at all.

I had gone night running with my dad before. But I’d never done it by myself. In those first few minutes after the sun went down, I was pretty freaked out. I wanted to dig a hole at the side of the trail and lie down and cover myself with leaves. I wanted to bawl my eyes out until I felt better.

I admit it. I was so scared that I wanted to cry. I wanted my mom. I wanted to go home.

I didn’t give up, though. Instead, I kept running. Just like
I’d been doing for the last 15 hours.

Just keep going, I told myself, and maybe you’ll forget that you’re scared … I never forgot, though. I always felt scared. The terrified feeling never went away.

For the first few miles, the trail followed the shoreline. A full moon came up and coated the lake in silver light. Chimney Top, which was now almost 40 miles behind me, glowed pale blue.

Thousands of moths flew toward my headlamp. A cloud of mist swirled around my legs. There were lots of stream crossings, and I had to be careful not to trip over fallen logs or tree roots. Somewhere, far off, a firecracker exploded.

I took Ollie’s advice and sang my lungs out. I sang the commercial for Albert’s Pancake House. Then I sang “Lose Yourself” by Eminem, and songs by Troutspawn:

My dad went to see Troutspawn in concert once. He said the lead singer wore a traffic cone on his head and a sparkly suit made of tinfoil.

“Me and my buddies loved them,” Dad told me. “Their songs sounded like they were from a different universe. We thought they were such a weird band, we used the word
Troutspawn
as an adjective. When something was really sick, we’d say it was Troutspawn. When something was bizarre, we’d say, “That’s so Troutspawn!”

My favourite Troutspawn song is called “Rope to the Sky”:

The song’s rhythm is perfect for running. It’s got 180 beats per minute, the same speed my legs like to go.

I sang “Rope to the Sky” for an hour or so, until the temperature dropped and I started to feel cold. I checked my watch — it was 10:37 p.m. I kept my eyes peeled for the tiny pink flags. They were planted in the ground, 200 metres apart.

Suddenly, right behind me, I heard a loud
crack
! I spun around. Saw the flash of a headlamp.

“Who’s there?” I demanded.

“Your worst nightmare!” someone shrieked.

The headlamp blinded me and for a second all I could see was a yellow-green halo. Two invisible arms pulled me into a hug.

“Hey there, Lucky Number Thirteen!” said the voice.

My heart was a jackhammer and my hands were curled into fists. “What the heck are you doing?” I shouted. “You scared me to death!”

Kara laughed. “Sorry about that. I would’ve shouted earlier, but I was enjoying your singing.”

I was still half-blind from the glare of her headlamp, and embarrassed that she’d heard my lousy voice. “What are you doing behind me?” I shouted. “You should be at the finish line by now.”

“I got lost,” Kara said. “I zigged when I should have zagged. Did an extra loop around Ratjaw.”

“An extra loop?” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I lost the trail somehow. I figure I ran five extra miles.”

She laughed to think of it.

“When did you figure out you were lost?” I asked.

“When I noticed that I was running through a lot of spiderwebs. They were catching me right in the face. The only way you should be running into spiderwebs in a race is if you’re in first place, which I knew I wasn’t. So the only other possibility was that I’d gone off the trail. It took me about an hour to figure that out.”