My legs throbbed, my chest burned with the cold air and my tears blended with the rain falling on my face. My view was blurry in the dark, wet night, but my mind was as clear as ever.

Through years of practice, I knew how to focus on the road ahead, so I kept my pace despite the pain, 9 minutes per mile, one leg after the other. Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to take me to the next aid station, perseverance would. And the next station wasn’t any trivial little station. I was headed to the inter-race 500, the first one in a series of five qualifiers for the ultimate inter-race 1000, the most important aid station of my career so far.

In each of these qualifiers, athletes get access to shorter routes towards the ultimate goal. The younger the runner, the shorter the route (and the bigger the advantage). I was expected to be the first athlete to reach this aid station before reaching 25 years of age. It paid to be fast!

Eventually, I settled into my pace again, and I always preferred running in the morning. The orange sun burned the sky as it peeked out of the horizon, the ground crispy with the white remains of the frosty dawn. My mind drifted off to another time, nostalgia invading my body as I thought of the day Robin decided he wanted to be a ballet dancer.

We were playing rugby in the sand and he started doing pirouettes every time the ball flew his way. It was silly and so funny. All the kids joined in, giggling and rejoicing at the sight of each other mimicking their imaginary future selves. Rafe did some football tricks, kicking the wrong-shaped ball in the air with impressive dexterity, Harriet started back-flipping, catching the ball with her feet in the air before landing on the soft, hot sand, and Sofia grabbed her tennis racket and hit the ball so hard we all had to race after it, fearing it would land in the sea. We laughed and ran around, in a time when running back and forth was not only allowed, but encouraged. “Children must learn through play”, we would hear the adults say.

I had always wanted to be a runner. My handler wound frequently remind me that running was the only viable way forward, that the other choices were just unrealistic kids' dreams, and that sooner or later everyone would end up at The Race. So, if I wanted to do well and have a guaranteed future, there was no point wasting time running around, I better focus on running forward. I did.

I finally reached the inter-race 500! I couldn’t contain my excitement as I saw my handler running towards me, a smile across her face and pride in her eyes. “Sweet or savory?” She asked, efficiently. “Sweet”, I said while I changed into the clean clothes she brought over. I was still wrestling the collar of my new shirt when she placed a plate with peanut butter and jelly pancakes on my hand. I scarfed it down while I answered the following questions. In a matter of a few minutes, I was heading out again, completely changed, dry socks and new shoes on my feet, a fresh mindset and legs quick and strong, fuelled by the energetic music blasting through gigantic speakers and the growl of the crowd, cheering me on. My handler kissed my head lovingly, as she always had, and off I went.

As I progressed through the next stretch of The Race, I started noticing a change in my peers. Their eyes were glassy, fixed on the path ahead. Their smiles creepy and disingenuous, their arms and legs motioned synchronously, machine-like. I tried to make conversation, and they all shared, still smiling, how happy they were, at ease, not tired, looking and progressing forward, content. I felt like such a fraud. For the first time in my life, I realised I was tired. I was, in fact, utterly exhausted. Suddenly, this world I had been so passionate about, my whole life, just didn’t seem so appealing to me. I missed my old friends, the feeling of power in my rested legs and grace in my soul, the energy and encouragement of the aid stations, which became more infrequent the more our bodies and minds matured. The more experienced I got, the more I got to run stretches of The Race I had looked forward to my whole life, and the more lonely I felt, the less running seemed to matter. All everyone wanted to do was reach the next aid station, and the next, and the next. A veil of embarrassment fell upon me, for thinking this way, for being the only one, so ungrateful and weak.

Just when I thought I had left all my friends behind, I spotted a familiar gait a few meters ahead. With a slight outward splay of the right leg and excessive torso rotation, but balanced cadence and relaxed arm swing. It was Anthony, it had to be!

I lifted my head and shoulders, engaged my core and swung my arms and legs as fast as I could, heart threatening to bounce off my chest and eyes watering, perhaps due to the wind blowing furiously on my face, or maybe for the deep joy I felt for, finally, feeling like I might enjoy running as much as I once did.

My all body relaxed when I reached Anthony and saw he looked pretty much the same as I remembered. With extra muscle on his limbs and minus the chubby cheeks, sure, but the same in every other way. My relief was short-lived when I saw his warm smile that wrinkled the corner of his eyes blend into the same expressionless face I had seen in other runners. I didn’t want to be awkward, so I did my best to pretend everything was ok.

“Anthony! How amazing it is to see you here, so far down the line. Congratulations!”, I said, meaning it. “How are you doing?”.

“I’m doing great! He replied, still with the smirk everyone seemed to have now. “I’m managing a great pace. My handler says that, if I continue like this, I’ll make the inter-race 1000 station before I’m 40!”. He didn’t know, but how well he was doing on The Race wasn’t actually what I wanted to know.

“Oh, I see, I’m happy for you, you’ve always been a great runner. How are you feeling?”, I tried again. “Aren’t you a little tired of all this?” My face burning and my stomach tightening as I said these words out loud, he’d think I’m a freak or worse, tell our handlers. But I couldn’t hold this feeling inside me any longer. Anthony would be the only reminder of my old passion for months, and I needed to connect with someone, so I could hopefully re-connect with myself.

“Of course I’m tired, everyone is”, Anthony replied, sickening smile still on his face. “But what else do you want to do, you don’t want to just sit around at aid stations forever, do you?”. Pause. “You’re doping right?”

“Doping?!” My ears rang, the world suddenly turning white, my legs trembled and I had to focus hard not to throw up. “I’m not, no.” I said, and I picked up my pace, never wanting to see Anthony’s face ever again, what he had become, threatening to infect me. Over the next few months, a darkness invaded my soul, I moved on auto-pilot, I didn’t want to continue but I didn’t want to stop either. No dreams, no motive, I didn’t care about anything anymore.

When I reached the inter-race 600 I collapsed onto my handler’s open arms. I started sobbing uncontrollably, the type of sob that drowns your voice and your breath. Soon, my handler realised these weren’t happy tears. Her embrace melted away as fast as her smile, as if she were a wax doll and I was a heat lamp pulling the liveness out of her. Her face came back with a tension I had seen before.

Brought back to reality by her authority, I stopped crying. “What’s wrong?”, she said in a worried but firm voice.

“People here don’t enjoy running anymore, they are doping, did you know that? They are not like me, they are not living, what if I become like them? I am not doping ever, you can’t make me!” I spiralled, sounding like a little girl again.

“Stop! You are not like them indeed, you are better than them, you have always been. So no, you will not start doping and you won’t need to, just pull yourself together and keep working hard, harder than everyone else, like you’ve always done! What is this now, do you want to just quit? Jeopardise everything we have worked so hard to achieve? Have you seen where we are? I am so proud of you, just keep going and you will feel better soon.”

I went on my way, moving forward and focusing on my next station. “Left, right, left right”, for miles and miles on end. But my newfound drive was weaker than ever, and it faded with every step. Eventually, it ran out and I collapsed. That was it, I just couldn’t run anymore.

As I lay on the muddy bog, the cold wind blowing through my wet body, unbearable now I had stopped, I thought about all the moments that had brought me there. I thought of my handler, how invested she had always been and how disappointed she would be in me. The thought of what would happen then gently paraded on my mind. But there I lay, drained of all life and energy, living my worst nightmare but unable to keep caring.

I was woken up by the brightest light I had ever experienced in my life, and I wasn’t sure if I was delirious or if I had died and this is what the afterlife looked like. The sky opened up like a stadium roof, and I became closer and closer to it as my body levitated effortlessly. On the other side, I was placed on a white, sterile-looking table, in an equally light, sterile-looking room. Three people approached me and, without speaking, sympathetic looks on their faces, they began washing the dirt off my tanned skin, disinfecting the blisters on my feet and massaging my tight muscles.

Life outside The Race was outer-worldly. People sat down, drawing and writing and playing computer games, they moved their bodies and played sports like in children’s dreams. They had families and didn’t seem to grasp the concept of a handler. In this place, one could be without having very well-defined goals. “You can be whoever you want to be”, they would say.

Only, I didn’t know who I wanted to be. I finally stopped running, but a runner is what I had been all my life. I was trapped by the grief of my handler, her care and sense of direction she instilled in me. I was lost in this new, fascinating, scary world, and this so-called freedom.

On an ordinary day, I woke up and stepped into the shower as I always did, head clearer as the warm water soaked through my hair, sunlight weaving through the lazy steam and the sweet smell of my shampoo bar dancing in the air. I left the house and headed to no. 33, the Danish breakfast place around the corner. I asked for the usual, a black filter coffee and a slice of rye bread with the toppings of the day. Pickled carrots on cashew cream cheese and pumpkin seeds that day. I savoured each bite as I opened my notebook to journal my thoughts and plan the day, a practice that helped me navigate this unpredictable, but beautiful new world. I was still pretty different from most people I met but I was told that’s a strength. I tried to believe them.

As I sat there, ruminating on my contrasting feelings of inadequacy but hope in this new reality, a man entered the cafe. He was in his forties, speckles of grey peeked through his black, thick hair, his collared shirt embracing his wrinkled neck a little too tight. I lowered my gaze as he looked at me, but he walked in my direction nonetheless. “Indigo”, I heard him calling, and I shuddered, hearing my name for the first time in so long. “Would you mind if I sit?”. I nodded, finding the strength of his cologne nauseating. “I’ve been your fan since you started The Race! Such an incredible runner, I’ve always bet high on you getting far”. I stared at him then, unsure whether I was dreaming or if the lovely lady had put weed on my toast. “We were so disappointed to see you stop, you were always so passionate, so strong. What happened?”

“We?”, I mumble.

“Yes, from the Eagles Select Club. We’ve always supported you, remember? We love you, and invested a lot in your gear. You were so close to the inter-race 1000!” As I listened to his excited, hopeful voice, I suddenly pictured the plump eagle sign all over my kit and on the course’s banners, the cups, everywhere. I remembered the excitement I, too, used to feel about The Race. I smiled, faintly, visions of my old dreams passing through my head like a View-Master toy.

“We can get you back in!”, he whispered. “We’ve got contacts, Indigo. You can go straight to the inter-race 1000, you won’t lose one second and can still get all the toys and perks and continue your race, no one will know.”

I thought of the support, guidance and predictability I so longed for, all the places and people who knew my true name, my upbringing, and everything about who I was supposed to be. I thought about my handler, whom I knew would have been struggling ever since I left, her life purposeless and lonely now, and whom I missed with every inch of my body. Leaving all of this behind was abandoning a large part of who I was, as well, a grief so powerful it sucked all the energy out of my body anytime I let it seep through my mind.

For the first time in my life I had a choice, and to choose all that was to say yes to the disgusting facade, to the suffering of all athletes I knew and cared for, who didn’t know they were being played, put on an arena for powerful people to relish upon, like pigs being sent to slaughter by the very same people that stroked them and provided them with food and mud baths. Saying yes to the comfort of routine was saying no to my true self, the one that was still unknown but that I craved to become closely acquainted with.

The shudder extended from my legs through to my skull, my whole body feeling painfully alive. I stood up and ran, as fast as I could for as long as I could.

For the first time, I ran for my life.