Running Like a Girl by Alexandra Heminsley Page B

where I was. Six months of training, most of them entirely alone, for this: the biggest crowd I had ever been part of. As I had pounded my local pavements alone, run across ox droves and through grassy valleys circling my parents’ home, and around the lanes of Tobago on holiday, I had never considered the glaringly obvious fact that on the day there would be other runners alongside me. How had I not thought of that? How would I find my place among the bodies? How would I deal with the relentless lava flow of runners?
    My heart hammered in my chest, and I stared down at myshoes, hoping to contain the rising panic. The feet around me began their slow shuffle toward the start line. I looked up; the red start banner was so far away that we could barely see it. We moved forward, the chatter rising and falling, people wishing one another good luck. The pace quickened as we turned the corner and suddenly saw the arch, with its familiar clock sitting above it. The crowd began to jog, slowly, apprehensively, at first. And then a real run as we crossed the mats that triggered the timer chips tied to our shoes. People around me cheered and whooped as they set off. I let out a nervous, fluttering laugh. I was running a marathon.
    Five minutes into the first mile, the crowd had eased into a steady pace. I was able to overtake a few slow joggers. We were heading through Greenwich, streets of smart residential houses with families outside—many still in pajamas—wishing the runners well and cheering them along as they hugged morning cups of tea. Their smiles lifted me as my heart rate leveled out and my feet found a regular rhythm.
    Half an hour later, my attitude to the crowd had shifted. I felt dependent on the steady thud of others’ feet as we curled gently round corners as one, our pulses quickening in unison as we headed up the occasional inclines. I looked around and started to recognize faces, numbers, and names from earlier in the day. We were like a family now. I would not complete this alone after all. A surge of confidence bubbled up in me, and I began grinning and waving at the spectators. I felt like a rock star, as though an occasional glance from me could inspire a watching child to a lifetime of athletic prowess. Yes! You can be whomever you want to be! I felt like shrieking it to each and every one of them as I sailed past, legs strong and heart pumping.
    We turned another corner, and I spotted a line of childrenwith their hands outstretched, hoping to catch high fives from the passing competitors. They went largely ignored, as the crowd was shuffling for positions, teddy bears jostling among Smurfs for superiority on the road. Occasionally, someone would run by and slap the children’s hands, leaving a little ripple of grins behind them. I decided I wanted to do that. I spotted a gap in the sea of people and took a couple of steps toward the edge of the road, stretching out my arm. I was yearning for a bit of human contact, and these small hands seemed like the perfect comfort and acknowledgment.
    I leaned forward, reaching out for one of the hands and continuing to run as I grinned down at the child. I felt the ground rushing up toward me. Before I could work out what was happening, my left hip struck the pavement, and a rush of heat seared across my thigh as I skidded along the road. I had not spotted the curb; in reaching for those hands, I had lost my footing and fallen, my legs a rag-doll jumble. I stared at the tarmac, sweating under the disappointed gaze of the children, painfully aware of the inconvenience I was causing other runners, as they had to step around me. Gasping, I sprang up, pushed my hair off my face, and carried on running.
    I longed for the debilitating shame of tripping and falling alone, when all that is left for you to do is glare at the guilty pavement. I had done that many times and almost developed a technique for coping with it. This shame was a hundred times worse,