As my body relaxes into the pace of our run and the course’s hummed soundtrack, I loosen the slack just a bit. I remain close to Garrett, but without the death grip hold on my rope. We fall into an easy pattern of me tightening and then loosening the slack each time we pass cheering crowds at the different markers, or an expected change in the terrain. For the most part, we run on paved streets with no curbs or drop-offs outside of random ruts that Garrett calls out and guides us around.
By the time we hit the fourth mile, my legs burn. This is the furthest I’ve run with Garrett without slowing to a power walk. Muscle memory seems to protest that I should slow down. Teeth gritted, I push just a little harder. It’s a tug of war inside me. My heart wanting one thing, and my body another.
“Walk?” Garrett calls, his breath heavy.
“Nope,” I pant out.
His only response is two gentle tugs on the rope.
We continue in silence. My breath is now unsteady, but my fingers are still gripping tight as we run beneath what I assume are trees that convert sunshine into shadow. With it comes a momentary sense of discombobulation. For runners, like Sonora, who are totally blind, this isn’t as much of an issue. They’re not as impacted by sudden light changes as those with some usable vision. The glare-to-shadow fluctuation disorients, but also hurts. My eyes sting and, if prolonged, it can cause migraines. My hat helps with the glare but intensifies the shadows when passing beneath trees or overhangs.
Despite the distraction by the change in lighting, my body is crying out to slow down. We’re so close to the fifth mile marker. The increasing volume of the spectators as we move close makes me feel as if I could just reach out and take hold of the fifth mile marker. After that, it’s only another 1.2. I’m so close.
“Walk?” Garrett booms over the roaring crowd.
“N—n—no,” I stammer through my gasping breaths.
“Jensen.” Somehow, my name comes out both a scold and a plea.
“Garrett.” My brow puckers.
I know he’s worried. The tether telegraphs so much between us. The slowing of my pace, followed by the forced pushes, are all told with each tug or tightened slack. It doesn’t allow me to hide how I’m struggling.
“It’s okay,” he says.
“Mile six,” is all I say.
“We’ll still get there…” he pants, “…whether we run or walk a bit.”
I know he’s right. My body knows he’s right. I just wanted to run this entire thing. I know I won’t be able to run the entire marathon, but I wanted this. I wanted this victory lap.
“Three miles,” he puffs out.
My face scrunches. “What?”
“I only jogged…three miles of my first…10K.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” His reply is slightly strangled.
It’s hard to imagine Garrett struggling with this. Like Anker, he’s run for years. Just as nervousness about this surged in both of us, this is another thing we share. We’ve both started somewhere and had to be okay with that.
Nodding, I start to slow my pace. “Okay.”
He tugs twice on the rope. “Okay.”
We slow to a brisk walk. Relief sighs through my muscles. I loosen the tension on the rope but remain a step behind him.
“I wanted to run the whole thing,” I say, emotion thick in my throat.
“I know.”
“It’s not failing, because I’m doing this, but…”
“You’d only fail if you stopped. You didn’t stop. You’re still doing this. Run. Walk. Piggyback. All that matters is you crossing the finish line, and you’re doing that.”
My lips curl. “Piggyback?”
