Tromsø was one of my last races of the season and a dream opportunity. I had never been to that part of the world, and the competition gave me the chance to test my running in a way I never had before. It was also a way to explore a new place, by foot—my favorite method.
When race day came, I was motivated, inspired, and physically in top form. The odds were in my favor not only to complete the race, but to win. The weather that day was perfect. I felt great, and for the first three hours, I performed great. But as I climbed the most technical ridge on the course (pictured above), a rock gave way. With one step, I felt the ground give way beneath my feet—and the horizon turned upside down.
I was falling off the edge of a cliff.
I felt the first impact, then the second, then the third.
I hit the ground again and again and again. With each impact, I felt bones breaking, skin ripping. I grasped for something, anything, to stop my momentum, but I didn’t know which way was up, and as soon as I hit the ground I was spinning and airborne once again. I heard my own voice, floating somewhere above my head, declaring to me, calmly, “Hillary, this is it. You’re dying.”
This was my death.
Relax.
You’ve got to relax.
Breathe.
It will all be over soon.
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