“You got this.”
She was waiting at the bottom of the hill just short of the finish line. The steep hill. The hill some genius thought would be a good idea to put right here, blocking the view of the end of things, but not the sound of people clapping, music playing.
“F*%@,” I said before I knew I would say it, the word escaping with my breath.
“I know.” She nodded. “Come on.” And ran me up the hill.
The YOSA 10k, my favorite 10k, the only race I really try to place in. The course usually meanders through a neighborhood, across somewhat rolling hills. But this year it was moved to the River Walk, along a series of hills hugging the San Antonio River just south of the city, on the Mission Reach.
The 10k was a double out-and-back. I hate double out-and-backs. Races are mentally challenging already without having to repeat the same scenery, the same steep hill just short of the finish line.
Not that it’s all bad, experiencing the same thing twice. The tuba player standing on the hill near the halfway mark belting out songs I’d never before heard done in tuba. The wildflowers studding the tall grass, waving in the breeze.
The breeze that blew at what felt like 25 mph, both ways.
My plan was to run hard but not too hard. I was running a half marathon the next weekend over the truly rolling hills in Luckenbach, Texas, and I wanted to save my legs.
But I ran hard anyway. I couldn’t help it. Once the clock started I was off. At the first turnaround, halfway through the first 5k, I found myself counting the number of women ahead of me. The second time around I was determined to pass as many as I could.
By the last half mile my legs were throbbing low and hard, like a tuba singing for me to stop already, or at least slow it down. I ignored them, kept my eyes down, and ran. Prayed that I would just make it to the finish line, just up over this low grade, long rolling hill, and around the bend. Then I would be there. Done.
Except I forgot about that hill. The steep hill just short of the finish line that some genius thought would be a good idea to put there.
When I looked up again, I saw the sharp incline first and knew I couldn’t make it. I was out of steam.
But I saw her second.
“You got this,” Stephanie said.
Just a few steps and we were up the hill. “It’s all you.”
She skipped back down as I ran toward the finish, knowing. It’s never all me.
