Who will sing the song of Rebecca Cheptegei, forty-fourth in all the world?

Who will shake in anger and tears? Who will stumble in shock?

Runner Rebecca Cheptegei qualified for Uganda's Olympic team this summer. She ran in the marathon, representing her country. Twenty six miles. One thousand paces to a mile. One right foot, one left foot, one pace. One right foot, one left foot, two paces.

One thousand paces brought her to a place where she had twenty-five miles to go. But she did not stop.

The sky was partly cloudy. One thousand paces more and she had twenty-four miles to go. The sky was clearing; the air was warming. Even when the day grew hot, she did not stop.

She ran twenty thousand paces and still had farther to go than I have ever run at one time in this experience I call my life. Six thousand paces to go; my best was five. She did not stop.

Eyes forward, the road stretching out, leading her on to exhaustion. She pulled in more air, exhaled the fire from her lungs, declined the impulse to lay down and surrender. She ran, and she did not stop.

The road, cobbles here, concrete there, slammed up into her feet, sending shocks all the way to her hips. It was nothing like the land where she trained, away from the cities, land of earth and grass, a land of welcoming softness. Paris was hard; it fought back against her body. Her every spring was met with a shock, each stride beginning with a swing of optimism, ending with a blow as her body struck the hardness beneath her. And still, she did not stop.

Another thousand, and another. A thousand more. She did not stop.

She ran past those who could no longer continue. As she ran people passed her by. She ran until there was no more race to run, and was crowned forty-fourth best marathoner of all the women in the world.

Forty-fourth. Seemingly pedestrienne.

She ran until she stopped and found herself forty-fourth in the world. She was embraced and allowed to rest, but was she celebrated? Forty-fourth in all the world. And who knows what it is like to count the people, all of the people, who have bested you and to know that there are fewer of them among four billion women than the number of aching bones in your feet.

Rebecca knew.

Rebecca returned to Uganda, to live and train and coach in the soft earth of her home, the land she owned, the house she’d had built away from the city in a place where runners from Kenya and Uganda meet.

She came home to her partner, Dickson Ndiema. And there, in her home, he doused her in gasoline and set her alight. A thousand sparks erupted, and that was only the start. The fire pulled in more air and exhaled ash that once was hair. It did not stop.

The flame cracked her skin and baked her thews, pursuing its own heat inward. It pressed upon her more fiercely than any exhaustion she had ever felt, inviting her to lay down and surrender. And though she possessed an endurance few can imagine, it did not stop.

Rebecca’s life was a spring, but it could not douse this fire. Her body struck the hardness beneath her, and still the burning did not stop.

A thousand hell-tongues and another. A thousand more burned without stop.

They burned until there was no more left to burn.

Bearers brought her to the hospital, though she was unconscious with no eyelids to open again. She passed some, and others passed her, until she reached a place of softness. Her failing organs diminished; there was no more race to run. And then, Rebecca stopped.

Others stopped before, ones Rebecca ran by. Now we pass Rebecca, forty-fourth in all the world. Her land embraces her. She has her rest. But will she be celebrated? Rebecca Cheptegei, forty-fourth in all the world.

Crip Dyke also writes for the delightfully cussmouthed Wonkette!