Big Sur California, 2013

Thousands of people had woken up early for this memorable day. Shuttles kept dropping hundreds of runners managing the cold and as little clothing for the race as possible. There was no reason to think the sun would be radiant over the ocean as the marathon runners made their way up to the coat, the first three miles then turned northwards along the majestic road to Big Sur.

“I need to hit the loo,” said Mark to his running partner. Alain was unusually silent. Around them, it was the healthy frenetic activity of lining up runners. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Today is your big day, you trained for this, anything under three hours will be great.”

“Yes,” he just offered. The Doctor entered the blue potty and walked back out his usual chippy self. “That helped, you need to go? Do you need to go?” repeated the runner.

The pair made their way to the start, their bibs were deep blue and gave them access to the front of the race fifty odd feet behind the inflated start arch. “Double ties,” offered Mark lacing once again his shoes. Alain was standing there, rather distant. Mark got up and looked at his watch. “What’s wrong?”

“I did not sleep well.”

“That’s unusual, you always sleep like a rock. Nightmares?”

“You know I don’t dream.”

“I know, you keep saying that, but as your doctor, I tell you, that’s just not the case. Look at that?” He pointed at two other runners wearing tight pants. “You love this part, the view.”

The tall runner was towering above most. He looked around, there was a haze to this entire experience. He felt like he only was partially there. “Good luck,” offered Mark. Alain ran well the first couple of miles in the heels of the first female runner of the entire race. Next to her motorcycles kept filming. Ahead, soon the ocean began to appear in the distance. But his mind wasn’t there and soon he began to slow down. In any normal race, this would have infuriated him, but not today.

The runner watched the scene almost remotely as if he had taken some type of drug. The shapes and the colors were shifting. He slowed down and his body refused to hit six minute miles. Slowly Mark his friend passed him and as any good runner knows, silence was preferable to encouragement.

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This was not a great day as he arrived at the highway hundreds of feet above the water’s edge. He turned.

By the middle of the race, he was reduced to walking most inclines. His body was covered in sweat. Hundreds were passing him. Something strange was in the air. Then, as was the custom of this famous race, there was a cement bridge between two mountains and on it, a pianist played Mozart. The notes rang and filled the miles around the bridge. The music had a strange effect on the runner.

As he began to run slowly once more, visions came to him. A young girl crying, looking at a small window. She was plain looking. The flight was in the dead of space. He also saw a tall tower, it towered over a red landscape. Images were flashing, indiscernible.

The girl had a name, a simple one, she was called Sophie and somehow she saw brightly her face.

The tall man ran up the next hill and as the music ended in the distance behind him, so did the visions. His torture of the day resumed. This wasn’t his first marathon and even if he had to trot to the finish, he would.

Over the next two hours, the visions kept tumbling around in his skull. He saw the girl, the ship, and tears, not much more. Alain barely finished the race and walked to the area behind the finish line. “You finished, same medal,” spoke Mark having found him. “We have a special tent for the Boston to Big Sur. We get an extra one, come get it. It’s hand painted.” The pair wobbled to the tent when he got two ceramic medals with leather ties.

“Hard day,” he finally admitted.

“You just made partner, that stress is gone.”

“I feel it’s something else, not sure what.”

***

Later that day, Alain returned to his small hotel room. The strange day was behind him. He got prepared and showered, the images were almost gone. He recalled the rounded window, the crying girl. For someone who never dreams, he wondered if this was how people woke up.

But the images came as he heard music, the piano. He grabbed earbuds and slid them in, he looked as his music library. Selected his favorite singer, a diva from his home country. Celine Dion began to play. The music had a powerful effect on the man who reeled back. Images returned, he saw them. The story started once more, a young girl was crying, she was strong and alone in space. He then saw more, edges of the story. Like a movie, it unfolded. Laurent, a deformed body was floating in the back of the ship under the careful supervision of a doctor. The doctor was Asian. He did not know her name, he needed her name.

He saw the ship, the colors and in the back a large plate that bounced light from a laser.

He woke up to a heavy knock on the door.

“You there?” said his friend.

“Coming,” he opened the door shirtless.

“It’s nine,” snapped the punctual doctor, you are so late. I kept a seat for you, Put on a shirt. Are you sick?” Offered the Doctor on the way down to the lobby. “What’s going on?”

“I am not sure, I am having a great idea for abook.”

“A book?”

“Yes, Science-Fiction, it’s on Mars in 2072.”

“You are French Canadian, how can you write a book in English?”

“True. It’s stupid, but I tell you, this story needs to be written down.”

“What is it about?”

“I am not sure yet, i only see pieces of it. It’s complicated.”

“That’s not how authoring works, you find a story and write it down. And it has to make sense.”