Winning

Moira McPartlin

He said I was useless. He said I was slow. He said I lacked determination. He said I was 'too f****** nice to get anywhere'.

Breakfast porridge bubbles in the pit of my stomach as I turn into the tent strewn event ground in the guts of the Scottish Borders. I scan the field for a distinguishing feature to pitch beside and grab a spot, not too far, but not too close, to the row of blue Portaloos standing sentry at an open farm gate. What am I doing here in the middle of nowhere? Silly old woman, I should be at home making soup.

'Come on you.' My club captain gasps as she bounds towards me. 'You're staggered start time is in 30 minutes.'

My throat cramps as I pack my bum bag with regulation gear, water and jelly babies. The last trip to the loo leaves me with the horrible sensation of needing to go again. On the starting line my heart pounds as my eyes devour each contour to figure out the best way to my first checkpoint.

At last the starter pats my arm. 'Good luck,' he says, handing me over to the mercy of the mountainside, alone, with my map clutched in my sweaty hand.

My calf muscles object half way up the first hill; I put my head down and imagine my arms as pistons, pumping energy into my legs. I scrabble to find the first check mark, then I spot a girl in a white hat run from a stream junction; there it is, tucked under a stone.

Peat hags obstruct the direct line to the next checkpoint, but I know where I'm headed and I will my legs and lungs to stay with me.

The midday sun hammers on my back. The bandana round my head is soaked, as are my shorts and running vest. My shoes strangle my swollen feet. The water bottle in my bum bag sloshes in time to my louping gate. I drink on the hoof and refill my bottle from the streams which I run straight through. Cold water kisses my toes.

As I top a gully the girl in the white hat crests the lip of the hill. I catch her at the edge of a wide river, where she waits for me.

'Would you take my photo?' she smiles, handing me a disposable camera.

'Sure.'

She's wasted minutes waiting for me, but I realise this is more than a race to her.

She passes me her route card and a pen.

'I'll take you; write your name and address, I'll send it to you.'

Stones and muck invade my shoes after the last checkpoint but I ignore the discomfort. Half a dozen runners struggle to ascend a steep traverse, but no sign now of the white hat. I slam some jelly babies into my mouth, and dig in.

I think of my ex-boyfriend who pushed me too hard, but I'm not doing this for him.

I think of my teenage sons who, like their dearly discarded father, think I am only good for skivvying after them.

I think of my dead-end job and the wee fat bully boss who believes that fear motivates staff. What's wrong with being nice anyway?

By the time I reach the summit I've overtaken five sweaty, gasping runners. Below in the valley, guarded by the line of Portaloos, lies the sea of green tents stretched out in ovation. I disengage my brain and take off. Knees bounce off my chin and arms flap wildly as I fly into the finish. The photo arrives the next week.