My body heaves up the road, ensconced by the ominous trees and absence of light. If I died on this unpaved trail, I doubt anyone would notice for at least a couple of hours. A single beam of light pours down from the band strapped to my head. My teammate David threw it on as a precaution during the start of my final leg of the race. He towered over me and placed it on like a crown, securing the banding so that it withstood every shake and crack in the road. A few miles into the woods, I scold myself for not taking a break when the team drove by in the van with scant traces of Gatorade and water. I shooed them away like a traffic cop at the end of an afternoon shift, eager to get on with the run and hand off the baton to Diane, the final runner for our group. The light barely hits the top of my shoes and only through studying the gravel beneath me do I notice the divergence in the road – up the hill or down the hill. A simple choice that determines my fate. Kill or be killed. I am surrounded by silence. I cannot hear the slow, steady breathing of those behind me or those who passed me at the beginning. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I feel it rush down my spine and shimmy into the lining of my shorts. I don’t breathe for a moment. I shake my hands and then my arms and then my legs. I need to realign my movement. That’s it. A couple jolts to the system will help me think straight. The wind whistles in my ears and I feel heat creep into the corners of my eyes. My nose feels a little funny, as if it wants to start running like a river over the crevasse of my lips, but there is no liquid to pour out. I imagine a flame bursting under the thin skin of my cheeks and crawling up my nasal passages and into my forehead. A guttural sound of defeat sticks in my throat, unable to bubble up to the surface. Tires crumble the ground beneath me and when the vehicle approaches, the headlights sear into my pupils. I snap my eyes shut to block out the unnatural light and hold up a hand to the foreboding presence.

Why am I here? Why am I running into my own demise in Killington, Vermont when there are plenty of other activities to participate in back in Boston? Because it was a whim, a move that provided childish joy and adventure. Why am I here? Why not?

Stacie nagged me about the race for months. At first, it was casual – a name drop as we both fixed our coffees in the cafeteria, a memory from years prior as we sat around the lunch table. But then it was more consistent – an email with the link to sign up, pictures from the race and a caption that read “Do it. You won’t regret it.” Once the race neared, she spoke about her friends also running and her favorite/least favorite components of the trip. I always gave a vague excuse – “I’m not sure,” or “I’ll be away the week before,” or “I’ll get back to you.” For some reason, I didn’t want to commit, and it wasn’t a fear of the mileage or the rugged terrain. I’d run a marathon that fall in the spitting rain, out and across windy roads and busy thoroughfare. When I discovered the race was a relay, my heart fluttered and my legs instinctively bent at the knee, ready to make my body move. But I didn’t add my name to the list. Not until the night before she and the team were about to leave. 

Stacie and David stood outside our office building in downtown Boston, the breeze from the Charles hitting their backs. Stacie said something to David and he laughed, nearly choking on his old fashioned. I stood nearby, in a group with colleagues who discussed innocuous topics such as the weather patterns for the weekend. Watching Stacie and David from afar, I craved to join the conversation. Without thinking, my legs took control and tightened the gap between us. When I arrived, Stacie sipped on her Gin and Tonic, her small mouth slightly ajar, a coy smile painted on her red lips.

“Jackie-Lynn!” she said.

I laughed at her excitement. It was a nickname she bestowed upon me and, whenever she used it, I felt like a gold medalist standing proudly with my trophy. It was mine and mine alone.

“Hey,” I said with part hubris and part anxiety.

I wanted to be friends and thought we were friends, but I doubted that it would come to fruition. She was older and a colleague. There was a chance that we were only acquaintances.

“What are you doing this weekend?” she said, biting on the cocktail straw. 

David inched closer, finding the dregs of his whiskey, “Wanna run with us?” 

My face broke out into a smile as I remembered those slightly playful and then serious remarks about joining the race up in Vermont. 

“We need more people,” Stacie said, “And it will be SO much fun!”

My head swiveled between her and David, “You’ll enjoy it,” David said with a nod.

My body relaxed, letting the race seep into my bones. I was a natural runner. A collaborative run up in beautiful Vermont – how hard could it be? 

“When do you leave?” I said, taking a sip of a summer IPA.

Stacie’s brown eyes sparkled in the fading light.  The wind off the Charles picked up speed and we shuffled into the bar covered by a simple tent and overhang. In only a thin tshirt and skirt, goosebumps peppered my limbs. I held onto my torso and drank my beer quickly, wanting the alcohol to warm my bloodstream.

“Tomorrow at 3,” she said, beaming, “Don’t be late.”

When I arrived at the bus the following afternoon, Stacie shook her head with a smile as she sipped on an iced latte in the passenger seat. 

“Didn’t think you’d actually pull the trigger on this thing,” she said, “It’s been a long time coming.”

I laughed, throwing my bag into the trunk and diving into the backseat.

“You know, you could’ve just accepted the invite on the first go around,” she said, her chin resting on the seat back, her hand draped around the head rest.

I settled into my seat and threw a sweatshirt on my lap, knowing the ride would inevitably grow cold, “Yeah, but that wouldn’t have been any fun.” 

David appeared a few minutes later, clad in athletic attire as if we would be running the race as soon as we arrived in Vermont. He plopped into the front seat and adjusted the seat and steering wheel. Diane was the next to arrive, a bundle of energy wrapped in irony. She was small, but powerful, tough, but compassionate, friendly, but private. She introduced herself and claimed the spot next to me in the back. Laura was the last to arrive and she immediately jumped in the third row, launching herself into the conversation as if she had been there all along. It wasn’t until an hour into the ride that I learned her name or how she knew the others. David and Stacie knew each other from work. David and Diane knew each other from their undergrad years in Texas and Laura knew Stacie through mutual friends. David had become friends with Laura after she joined the relay team last year.

Stacie curated the soundtrack as we drove North. During a few of the songs, I asked her the names and took a mental note to listen to them later. As we battled traffic, we talked about the upcoming race and exchanged general background information. I explained how I knew David and Stacie and we fed off one another’s energies. The hours felt like minutes and, before I knew it, David turned the van into a populated restaurant off to the side of a Vermont backroad. We popped in and were immediately greeted by small families and adults in their mid 20s to late thirties. A line snaked along the back wall and we took our place, figuring out our orders from the expansive chalkboard over our heads. When it was our turn to order, we fired off items and waited impatiently for the food. The meal was a blur. We sat there, waiting, and then it arrived and we wolfed it down like we were in training. Then we piled back into the van and sped to a ski house shrouded in darkness. After ten minutes of stumbling around the yard, looking for the key, David found out under a rock and we busted into the living room, throwing our bags on the sofas. Once we assigned rooms, we sat down at the wooden dining room table and discussed the logistics of the race. I claimed the run with the most mileage, partly because I enjoyed the terrain, but mostly because as the youngest, least experienced runner, I felt I needed to prove myself to the group and take on the challenge. 

The van encroaches my space until all I can see are impenetrable, unbearable headlights flooding into my closed eyes. Shielding myself with both hands, I open my lids partially to make out which path the van drives. The light pours down the path to the right, the one less wooded and more straightforward. I let out a long, deep sigh and jumpstart my run with a burst of energy up into the sky. My feet hit the gravel beneath me and I hear shouting in the distance. I run faster, refusing to let my limbs give way before I see Diane waiting in the finish area, anxious for the baton. Loud cheers settle in my ears and, for the first time in hours, a smile emerges on my face. David is waiting for me. He pumps his arms in the air and claps wildly. I give the baton to Diane and place my hands on my thighs, glad to finally see my section of the race come to a close.  David finds me in the crowd and puts an arm around my shoulder.

“How do you feel?” he says as we walk back to the van. 

My eyes grow wide as I re-live the past hour in my head, but in the darkness, he can’t see my expression. I let my arms hang loose around my torso and I step lightly through the warm, slightly damp grassy parking lot.

“Perhaps the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done,” I say, not looking at him.

He turns and guffaws, not sure if what I’m saying is a result of the exhaustion, the darkness, or the murky, fickle weather.

“I thought I was gonna die out there,” I say with a laugh. Inside, my heart is beating out of control. My legs wobble as I keep pace with him.

I open up the sliding door and find Stacie lounging across the first low and Laura in the second row. They’re both in limited clothing, a spare pair of shorts and a sports bra. When I appear out of the darkness, Stacie lights up and shifts in her seat to make room for me.

“How did it go?” she says. 

I press my lips together and shake off the remaining thoughts from the race, “It was rough,” I say, “Honestly thought I was going to get murdered. I almost started crying.”

She moves towards me and touches my arm, “Oh jeez. I’m sorry.” She reaches for a sweatshirt on the floor and throws it over her head, “Well at least it’s over. Right?”

I nod and lean back in my seat. Laura doesn’t say much and it’s not until I turn back around a few minutes later that I notice she sleeps effortlessly.

David whirs the engine to life and we trudge out of the parking lot.  He leads the van down uncharted territory. Street signs remain hidden behind overgrown shrubbery and uninhabitable moon light. We don’t speak as we drive to the finish line. The parking lot is thinning out, as groups who finished earlier yearn to head back to homes and hotel rooms for well-deserved sleep. David finds a spot in the first section we stumble upon and he sets the van into park, leaving on the air conditioner and the low hum of the radio. No one controls the music anymore and David tinkers around the stations. He eventually chooses classic rock and the group is either too tired or too ambivalent to argue with his decision. We finally make out Diane’s profile in the distance. As she picks up speed in the final sprint to the finish line, the four of us jump out and join her in the pursuit. We cross the finish line in a straight row, our hands clasped together over our heads. A race volunteer, a middle-aged man in a baseball cap and rugged Killington sweatshirt, puts medals around each of our necks. He smiles and says congratulations. We nod and thank him. As we walk over to the food line, I’m thankful for Stacie’s continual nagging. If it wasn’t for her persuasion, I would be back in Boston, participating in something far less impactful and exciting. We fill our plates with barbecue, baked beans, salad, and small various desserts and take a seat in a large open warehouse lined with tables. Against the backwall is a canvas with the race logo and slogan.

“We’ve got to get a picture before we go!” Stacie says.

We turn to one another and nod, but we are too interested in the food on our plates to give her an actual response. Relay teams talk amongst themselves, rehashing the long day of running. The five of us eventually bring up the adventure we just experienced together.

“What a day, huh?” David says. 

Diane nods in between bites, “Seriously. One of the toughest things I’ve ever done.”

Stacie shakes her head, “Oh please. That was so easy for you. You barely broke a sweat.”

Diane laughs, covering her mouth with a hand, “Just because I didn’t sweat doesn’t mean I didn’t struggle.” 

Stacie shrugs, diving into her plate of food. My head spins from one person to another, assessing their level of fatigue from the race. David’s face is strained, his eyes droopy from the early morning wake up. Stacie is defeated, but cheerful, excited to finally have food back in her body. Laura seems like she only wants to curl up and go to bed as she works hard to keep her back straight enough to consume the food she wiggles around on her plate. Diane is quiet, chewing her food thoughtfully, but her eyes display pride.

Before we leave the warehouse, we meander over to the canvas and ask another race volunteer to take our photo. Stacie insists on multiple poses, as she intends to post one of the images on social media. After she finds one suitable for her followers, she sinks her phone into her pocket and we crawl back to the van. 

David leads us to the hotel on the Killington base mountain. We curl up into our beds and turn on the television for background noise. I don’t say much as I settle in for the night, the low hum of a show lulling me into sleep. My body sinks into the plush mattress. As I drift into dreaming, all I can think about is the new friendships cultivated over the weekend and the amazing journey that emerges when faced with running 100 miles across the state of Vermont.

Jaclyn Torres lives in Somerville, Massachusetts where she works in the Education Technology space and strives to always learn something new. Eager to spread the power of storytelling, she co-produces Grown Up Story Time in Boston, running monthly writing workshops and events for the community.