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For a long time, I believed that if I ran fast enough, the dead couldn't catch up with me.
I was wrong.
But it didn't stop me from trying.
Feet gliding over rock, root, and earth, my body felt so light that at any moment I might lift off the earth's surface and fly. With a fresh gust of speed, I caught up to a lanky and bearded runner, his numbered race bib reading 67. As I passed him, he gave a double take, his eyes registering shock at having been passed by a woman.
The trail rose abruptly, and I heard him huffing as he scrambled to catch me. A glance at my watch timer revealed 5:36:10 ... 11... 12 ...
Crossing a wooden footbridge over a deep ravine, I glimpsed a rushing creek at the bottom.
Flash. An ancient Winnebago abandoned in a snowy forest.
A scream from within.