The Last Checkpoint
A free C1-level English story for language learners, readable online in 7 languages, with an option to listen via the free Storyteller app.
Four checkpoints from the finish of an overnight city race, blistered and badly behind schedule, Tobias has to decide whether finishing last still counts as finishing.
That was the preview! Hear the full story in the free Storyteller app. Get the app
Audio isn't available right now.
By checkpoint nine, Tobias's blisters had stopped hurting in any specific way and started hurting everywhere at once. He had read somewhere that this was either a very bad sign or simply the body giving up on being precise about it.
The overnight city race had thirteen checkpoints scattered across neighborhoods he'd never had a reason to visit. Teams connected them by whatever route they chose: running, biking, or, in his case by this point, limping between. He had started strong, near the front of his age group, before a wrong turn near checkpoint six cost him forty minutes and something harder to name than time.
His phone showed three other teams had already finished. Two more were somewhere ahead of him, close enough that catching them felt, in his exhausted arithmetic, almost possible and completely impossible at once.
What kept surfacing, uninvited, with every step now, was a single unhelpful question: did finishing last still count as finishing? He had never actually asked anyone this directly, mostly because he suspected the honest answer might talk him out of the last four checkpoints entirely.
A volunteer at checkpoint nine, stamping his card without much ceremony, glanced at his face and seemed to read something there. "You've got four left. Most people who make it this far finish."
"Most people aren't in last place."
"Somebody has to be." She shrugged, not unkindly. "Doesn't change what four checkpoints is."
Tobias sat with that for exactly as long as it took to drink half a bottle of water. Had he quit at checkpoint nine, he suspected, the blisters would have healed within a week and the four unfinished checkpoints would have stayed with him considerably longer.
He got up. The last four checkpoints passed in a kind of fog he wouldn't fully remember afterward, each one blurring into the last. His pace slowed to something that could charitably be called a walk and less charitably called a stagger.
He crossed the final checkpoint two hours after the last other team, to a nearly empty finish line and one bored volunteer checking names off a list. Nobody cheered. Nobody needed to. He sat down on the curb, pulled off both shoes, and found that the number on the finishing list mattered a great deal less than he had expected it to.
