It is too hot to do anything.
I get through the day, groggy from the heat, my mind a continuous rave of flashing lights, snatches of voices from conversations I had and images upon images I have yet to file away in my memory. I can’t read, can’t think, can’t run. Before I begin the day, I wish for the cool of the night. Scorching heat draining my reserves, I resign myself to lying around and doing nothing of consequence.
‘Do you want to join me in the Gobi March?’ The Sister asks over dinner.
‘Wha… huh? What did you just say?’ I rise a little from my stupor.
‘It’s a walk-run-jog thing, however you can manage 250km within 6 days across the Gobi desert. I think it sounds cool,’ she takes a drag on her cigarette. ‘It’s about completing the course, not winning. I think we should do it.’
‘Are… you… mad?’ I mutter, reaching for my sweating glass of water, the ice long melted. The Sister shrugged.
‘Think about it. It’s an experience worth going through,’ she smiled. ‘You get to see culture, meet people and most of all, if you complete it, you know you did something amazing.’
I was hooked. For about a minute… before I slumped my head on the table. I couldn’t even imagine leaving the comforts of my own home to go out. My first race is in two weeks’ time. I am so unprepared.
Just before bed, I looked at the race pack they handed out a few days ago. My number, tag and shirt are all there. Ready. But I’m not. I traced my number and sat there, thinking…
Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?