1998 Haliburton Forest 100
September 1998  Jason Hodde

* * * * *

This race was going to be a different experience for me.  From the outset of signing up to race, I had decided that I had experienced enough of the crash-and-burn running style that I had been doing so well at perfecting.  Instead, I went into Haliburton with the desire to run a steady pace for the duration, and enable myself to run toward the end without feeling like death was awaiting me around the corner.

It took a lot of work and a lot of will to hold back in the early stages of the event, but the reward was worth the mental effort, and I found myself feeling good about the time that I ran, even though it wasn't the fastest of my career.  Here is the story.

* * * * *

I stopped in London on Thursday night to spend some time with running friends who had decided to go to the race with me.  Scott, who paced me at Angeles Crest last year, drove with me to Jay and Marketa's place in Ontario.  Jay was preparing to run his first ultramarathon, while Marketa was going to crew for me during the day and pace me over the last 25 miles during the night.  We left for West Guilford on Friday morning, stuffing the car with more gear than we could fit.  I ended up leaving the camp stove in London just to make enough room for the four of us.

The ride was uneventful, except that I had my first taste of Tim Horton's coffee and doughnuts and Scott proceeded to make himself look very American by making a big deal out of the Canadian money.  We drove for over five hours to get to the race site.  Traffic was everywhere, crawling along to the north at a snail's pace.  Only when we were far north did the road narrow and the traffic start to get bearable once again.

We continued to drive north.  The towns got smaller, and the traffic got lighter.  The terrain became less flat, and rocks could be seen.  We turned off the highway and headed east on a narrow two-lane road that undulated and twisted through the countryside.  Everywhere we could see, there were lakes.  We kept driving.  Sixty kilometers east, we came upon an intersection in the road and a Shell gas station: the tiny town of West Guilford.  We weren't going to be eating a gourmet meal at a restaurant tonight!

Past the Shell station, we turned north again for another 20 k and followed the signs to the start in the middle of nowhere.  We were here: Haliburton Forest: At the Edge of the Earth.

* * * * *

The whole evening was a relaxed affair; a very low-key atmosphere surrounded the event.  We pitched our tents for the night, readied our race supply bags for the morning, and set out the racing clothes.  The weather forecast called for a high of 25 and a low of 9, so I put out a light jacket, gloves, and a long sleeve shirt.  I was given a pre-race meal of lasagna and pie with my entry, and I scarfed it down before the mandatory race briefing, set to begin at 7:00 p.m.  Scott, Jay, and Marketa opted to eat bagels and peanut butter from the car instead of the pasta, but I, knowing that my staple foods for the next two days would be bagels and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, welcomed the hot meal.

During and after the meal, I spoke with many ultra friends who had joined me for the trip north.  Bill LaDieu, Peter Kronenburg, Fred Davis, Joe Hildebrand, and David Hughes were all there, and I spent a lot of time talking with them about the race.  We were called back into the restaurant building for the race meeting, and as we all gathered in the small dining room, Helen Malmberg asked us each to introduce ourselves.  My immediate reaction was one of surprise, as I'd never expect this to occur at a Western States or a Leadville race.  It was certainly part of the charm that is running in Haliburton Forest.

Introductions took the better part of the 15-minute meeting, and we left the building, ready for the task that laid ahead: we were going to run 100-miles.

* * * * *

Haliburton Forest is a private forest located just south of Algonquin Provincial Park in central Ontario.  It is a wildlife refuge with limited access, but the owner has made it widely accessible for a variety of recreation activities.  There are kilometers and kilometers of biking and hiking trails of varying difficulty, multiple lakes and streams in which to fish, and sites for camping and other outdoor activities.  At the base camp, there are washroom facilities (for the "Kings" and the "Queens"), meeting rooms, a small store, a restaurant, pay telephones, and facilities for mountain bike rental.  It is a full-service campground operation in the middle of nowhere; I was quite impressed!

Access to the forest is restricted to those with a key for the gates, which were passed out at packet pick-up so that my crew could get to all of the aid stations along the route.  Marketa, along specifically to take care of my needs, was the designated driver for the race, and was to meet me at each aid station along the way.  I gave her explicit instructions about what I would need at the next aid station so that she'd have supplies ready when I got there.

I was warned about the paucity of the food at the aid stations, so I came to the race pretty much self-contained with granola bars, SUCCEED!, sandwiches, bagels, GORP, pop tarts, and a bunch of energy foods.  I was going to have enough calories for the event; the only uncertainty was if Marketa could make it to the aid stations where I needed her help.

* * * * *

The morning dawned quickly, and as I awoke in my tent to the thick morning dew, I couldn't have felt better.  I was unable to find any water for the start, so I borrowed some from Marketa's water bottle.  I made CLIP for the first five mile stretch, which was run on firmly-packed gravel roads. It was still dark at the 6:00 a.m. race start, but as Helen counted down the seconds to the start, I could see the light of the sun on the eastern horizon.  I opted to carry my flashlight for the first five miles, but I didn't need to use it because the roads were well maintained with no potholes or big rocks around which to navigate.

As I began to run, I remembered my promise to myself that I would take the start easy and hold back in order to make the later stages of the race more tolerable for myself.  It was difficult to do because the course was easy, gently rolling, and very runnable.  I ran by myself, observing my surroundings and trying to fall in a trance to make the time pass by quickly.  I noticed the rented campsites along the lake and the addresses attached to the trees to indicate my distance from base camp.  Shortly, the road climbed a little bit around the five-mile mark, and I saw my car at the aid station.  It was 6:48 a.m., and I was running about a 9:30 per mile pace.  Fast, but not as fast as I usually do, over dirt road.  I was hoping the next section would be a bit slower.

* * * * *

I head out of the aid station after refilling both water bottles, up the narrow and uneven single track of the Krista Trail. The trail is much more technical than the road sections and a lot steeper, too.  I climb with purpose, walking, not running.  It seems like I climb forever, but eventually the trail evens out and I find myself running along a heavily wooded ridge overlooking a lake.  The trail dives toward the lake, and suddenly I am at its banks.  I notice the misty fog that has settled over the water.  Dead trees stand up from the center of the lake, keeping sentry over the quiet waters; the sun is just beginning to rise.  All is quiet.

Rounding the lake, the trail pitches upward once again.  The footing is very uneven as the trail shows signs of erosion from mountain bike use.  I'm sweating heavily now, and the coat I am wearing is starting to be too much for me.  I remove my gloves in an attempt to cool off, and place them in my pack.  I want to keep them with me for later on, and since they add very little weight to my pack, I opt to run with them all day.

I reach the top of the hill and begin a gradual descent on uneven ground.  While not exceptionally rocky, the trail does contain a wide variety of stumps and roots that could easily cause a tumble if I choose to zone out too often.  I meet up with Fred Davis, a veteran of many ultras, and one of the few black ultrarunners I know.

"How are you feeling, Fred?"

"Pretty good.  Checking my watch to see if I'm on pace for a 24-hour finish.  I've planned my splits this time based on how I slow down."

"Well, we're cookin' along right now.  Much faster than 24-hours."

I continue to follow behind him, opting to let him slow me down just a bit.  I know that I am not holding back as much as I should be.  I feel great and the cool Ontario air makes running hard very easy to do.  Forcing myself to stay behind someone is a challenge, but I do it anyway.  Fred pulls away on the descents, and I catch up of the flats and the ascents.  The Krista trail is rough and undulating, and there is plenty of altitude variation in its few miles.

We pass along side a boggy lake, where we encounter some mud on the trail.  I suddenly realize that I've not asked about water and mud on the course, so I don't know what to expect.  Here, the mud is easily avoided and we pass down the hill toward the road which will lead us to the next aid station.

The road is gently downhill, so Fred and I run at a gentle pace.  We parallel Marsh Lake, off to our right, and notice a little gazebo and picnic table at a scenic overlook.  While the fog is still thick, we can make out a big change in elevation from the road to the lake; an overlook could be very pretty.

"I think I'll wait to stop at the overlook until later.  I could need it."  Fred is already planning a rest break for later in the day.  I silently agree with him, and we make our way down the road toward mile 10.

I'm running in a trance-like state, but a low-level pain in my hamstring keeps me from entering the "zone".  I can't get my rhythm, and I'm not feeling very good.  Mitch Harper saunters up beside me, and I know that I'm hurting bad.

"You're running well today, Mitch."

"I feel good.  And you?"

"Not too bad.  I've got a long way to go.  You realize that if you keep this up, you could run an 8-hour 50 miler, don't you?"

I don't recall any response to my question.  Mitch changes topic and we chat at length about the GLUGP, my Grand Prix series of races in the midwest.  Mitch is the RD for the HUFF, which serves as our awards run in December.  He asks my opinion on some race-related issues.  The talk makes the rest of this section of the course pass quickly, and we find ourselves at the 10-mile aid station after a total of 93 minutes.

I'm running too fast for my own good, so I opt to force a break at the aid station.  I take off my coat and hand it to Marketa.  I choose to refill my own water bottles, and eat a part of a sandwich.  I'm feeling strong, but the pace I am running warns me of impending pain later in the race, and I remind myself of my promise to maintain a pace for the whole race.  I head up the trail, sandwich in hand, and tell Marketa that I'll meet her in another five miles.

* * * * *

The Lookout Trail climbs abruptly from the aid station.  I lose Mitch on the climb and find myself running alone once again.  The trail is wide and meanders through the forest, passing a cutoff to The Lookout, at 481 meters above sea level, one of the higher points in the Forest.  We bypass the climb to the top and follow an uneven trail as it undulates through the forest to a creek crossing that is spanned by drainage tunnels.  The footing over the creek is fist sized rocks loosely planted on each other; real ankle-biting material that makes walking a necessity.

I cross the creak and end up on a nice road that is passable for cars, but overgrown with weeds in spots.  The Sprucetree trail is flat and easily runnable.  We pass by an area where logging is occurring, skirting the clear-cut area to continue on the road that has become clearer and firmer than before.  Within a kilometer, we pass a road junction that indicates we are 8.6 miles from base camp via the road; we cross the main road and climb on a less-well defined double track that eventually gives way to a single track trail.  The King and James Trail reminds me of the fundamentalist version of the Bible by its title, and I feel a sense of regality in the air as I pass along the course.  The single track trail is gently rolling and meanders through the forest on relatively decent footing.  I eventually descend a long hill and cross an intermittent creek bed full of mud.  It is the only real stream crossing on the course.

Meeting the trail junction with the Red and the Green Trail, I follow the Red, down another steep hill, to a poorly maintained jeep road around another lake.  I have been running for over an hour since the last aid station, and while I am happy to discover that I might have slowed my pace to a more reasonable level, I'm concerned that the aid station is still nowhere in sight.  We were told that the aid stations were five miles apart, but we were also informed that the five mile figure meant that "it is just close to five mile intervals."  I don't think that this section is very close, and as I run around the lake, I meet Karin, who agrees with me.

"I think it's closer to 16 than 15," she says.  I reply in agreement.

We pass a table near the lake, climb a short hill and turn left, descending slightly as we go.  Around the corner, I can hear voices, and as we round the bend, we see cars.  The last "five" miles has taken us 75 minutes to run.

I meet with Marketa, who has refilled my bottles and prepared a bagel for me.  The bagel is sliced in half, and has a bunch of peanut butter on it.

"I don't think that was 5 miles, M".  I often refer to Marketa by her first initial.  "It took an awful long time to run."

"I think it was closer to six.  The 50k turnaround is back up the trail about a half-mile, so this is around 16.  What do you need?"

"New feet.  My right one is already killing me, and I just took some Aleve to try to deaden the pain.  I sprained my forefoot a couple of weeks ago on the training run, and it is really beginning to hurt now.  I'm thinking about running out to the 25-mile mark and seeing how it feels; if it's really bad, I'll just stop for the day."

"Now, you know I won't see you again until the turn-around, right?  I can't make it to the next aid station very easily."

"That's OK.  I'll just eat from the aid station table out there, and fill up on water for the last section.  I'll see you in about 9 miles anyway, so the lack of CLIP in here won't be too long."  I pick up the bagel to take with me.  "And peanut butter just won't work on these.  I can't swallow it very well, so it needs jam or something else if I'm going to be able to eat it."  I pry the bagel apart and eat the half without peanut butter.  "See you in a couple of hours."

I head out along a dirt road that skirts another lake, another flat and fast section of the route that makes running easy.  Even though my right foot is sore from the injury, I find that the even surface of the road is much more forgiving than the uneven footing of the trail.  I find myself in a meditative state, ahead of Karin, whom I left back at the aid station, and alone with my body and with nature.

* * * * *

I follow the road for ten minutes and find the yellow plates and ribbons that indicate I am supposed to take a hard right hand turn up a single track trail.  A sign indicates that the road I am accessing is "too rough for vehicles," and is named the Osprey Trail.  As I climb, I think to myself that a four-wheel drive could easily make it up the road, but as the trail begins to twist and turn and undulate through the forest, the footing becomes rougher and very uneven.  Areas of rocks litter the trail and make running some of the downhills a challenge.

Karin passes me on one of the downhills, and I let her race past, comfortable with my pace and my internal signals that tell me not to speed up.  There will be plenty of time for speed later on in the race.  It is still early.

A steep downhill is marked with signs indicating danger for snowmobiles, and while I think the ground is certainly rough, once snow covers the trail, things can't be too dangerous.  I am wrong, as the pitch steepens and the trail ends up at a road junction.  I'm beginning to wonder about the aid station again, as I seem like I've been running for a long time with no aid.  The watch tells me differently, though, and I resign myself to think about running a while further before the aid station appears; I *know* that this one is at mile 21, so while I was miffed at the long stretch prior to the last stop, I know that I'll soon be back on track.

I cross the road with Karin still in my sights, up along the continuing trail that leads through some more forests between two additional lakes.  The forest seems more dense in this area than along other sections of the course, but even this area is not as dense as the forests found in the Rocky Mountains.  The trees are small and the ground cover is thick in places.  I am reminded of the short growing season this far north and that the trees, though old, will never reach gigantic sizes.

The trail becomes more road-like, and signs point to Kelly Lake, to our south, and Johnson Lake, to our north.  I cross a bridge and climb to the next trail junction, the aid station at mile 21.

The aid station is buzzing with activity, and as I arrive, the leader is just taking off in the direction I've just come.  He's eight miles ahead of me right now, on his way to a very fast finish.  I'm humbled by my mediocre performance, but I'm well aware that my body is not in to shape to run a 16-hour 100-miler.  I'm still kind of hoping to finish in 20 hours, but after seeing the course, I know that such a time is a bit ambitious for me.  I'm thinking that it'll take me closer to 22 hours, if I continue on past the 25-mile mark.

I'm still concerned about my foot, even though the Aleve has kicked in and the pain is non-existent.  I refill my bottles with water (since Marketa is not here), grab a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, drink a little cola, and head out along the last section of course, a dirt road with some monster-sized hills.  Karin is taking her time refueling at the aid station, so I leave her behind, confident that she'll soon catch up with me once again.  I turn onto the Stocking Lake Road and head east along the shore of Johnson Lake.  There, I'm passed by Joe Hildebrand and a couple of other runners.  The road gradually becomes less maintained and more overgrown, and as I continue, some of the rocks in the road begin to bang my feet.

There is only one large hill on this section, almost 2k from the turnaround.  Karin passes me on the uphill, jogging along taking baby steps.  I climb the rock-laden hill with purpose, dancing to the left and to the right to avoid the rocks in the middle of the path.  A sign tells me to beware of logging activities, and I know that I'm close to where we'll turn around and head back to the base camp.  I'm almost out of water and I'm ready for some more CLIP.

"Karin, do you know Chrissy Ferguson?" I ask.  Karin's desire to run the uphills reminds me of Chrissy's approach to the 100-miler.

"I've heard of her, but I've never met her.  Why?"

"Well, she runs every step of her 100-milers, including the steep uphills."  I've ground to a walk on this one.  "She keeps motoring along just like you do."

"I'm so short that I don't gain anything by walking.  It's just as easy to run."

I don't comment.  Although I'm short, I'm taller than 5-foot 3-inches, so I figure I have no right to judge her running style.  "Whatever works," I think to myself.  "We'll see later, after another 50 miles or so."

I pass by signs of the logging and head along a double track road that is passable by cars (even though the signs say that it is too rough).  This last stretch of trail is easily runnable, and I chase after Karin all the way to the turn-around at mile 25.

* * * * *

I don't see my car.  I don't see Marketa.  While I'm concerned, I know that I can continue on without her meeting me at this point.  I'm disappointed because she has my energy drink and a change of clothes -- I wanted to put on a short sleeved shirt -- but it's nothing that I can't handle.  I kick myself slightly for forgetting to put out my drop bags last night, thus the reason that Marketa has the powder and the clothes in the car.  I got too involved in talking to other runners and forgot all about the drop bags until it was too late to have them shuttled to the aid stations.  Now, the reason I drop bags instead of relying on crew to meet my needs is coming to fruition.

I don't have my CLIP.  I'll have to make due with water for another 9 miles.

I remember back to late last night when I discovered that I hadn't dropped off my bags like I'd planned to.  I kidded to Marketa that I'd be relying on her more than I had ever relied on anyone during a race before.  I joked with her, telling her not to get lost, lock herself out of the car, or drive off the road.  Now, in panic, my worst fears are overcoming me and I wonder where she is.

Is she safe?  Is the car OK?  Did she just make a wrong turn and not make it here in time?

"Is there a road intersection up there around the corner?" I ask the aid station volunteers.  I think maybe Marketa just didn't drive in, opting to meet me at the road instead.

"About a kilometer up the road."

I quickly decide that I'm not walking up there to see if she's waiting.  Instead, I grab a sandwich and refill my bottles with water.  I'm disappointed that she missed me, but I hope that the repercussions won't be too severe.  I turn around and head back toward the base camp, leaving Karin at the aid station once again.

* * * * *

As I travel back over the road, my mind keeps wondering why Marketa missed me at the aid station when she had almost two hours to get there. I keep trying to answer all the possible scenarios, but all I know is that she didn't make it where she was supposed to, and now I must go on alone.  I let my mind wander, hoping that I can eventually block the incident out of my mind; I can't have it interrupting my performance.

I continue on, back past the logging operations and onto the road that gradually becomes passable by cars.  Karin passes me once again on a downhill, and I let her go, knowing that I'll catch up at the next aid station.  The road to the aid station is a steep uphill in this direction, and I climb it slowly, ready for a brief break before the single track trail gains my attention.  I'm kind of preoccupied by personal issues right now, concentrating hard on my body, checking and checking and checking to make sure things are all right.  I haven't missed a CLIP stop in several runs, so the forced layoff in favor of water has me a bit concerned as to how I will react.

I need to use mother nature's toilet, but the woods is not favorable for privacy or ease in this matter.  I make it through the aid station before Karin leaves and I know that I'll have to wait until she passes me to do my duty in the woods.  I mean, it's only right, isn't it?

Back on the Osprey Trail I head, up the rugged climb from the road and onto the gently rolling terrain that I've passed once and stand to pass twice more.  I suddenly realize that the pain in my foot is gone and that the real reason Marketa didn't show up at the turnaround was because I told her I was thinking of stopping without giving my body any chance of recovering on its own.  Once again, the female mind wins out and the ultrarunner's mind justifies almost anything.

I'm forced to stop aside the trail to do my business before Karin passes me.  I'm so uncomfortable that I can barely walk anymore, though I continue at a slow jog looking for a good spot to leave my mark.  It's not easy in these woods.  The underbrush is too thick, or the trees are not thick enough.  As I search for a spot, I realize that I can no longer run in my current state and I pull off to the up-side of the trail, behind a couple of trees, and through some moderately-dense vegetation along the trail.  Doing my business, I see Karin and another runner pass by me, unaware of my presence.

* * * * *

Back on the trail, I feel 1000% better and am able to run again.  Leaping over rocks and roots in the path, I quickly make up for the lost time and pass the unidentified runner who passed me while I was taking care of nature's things.  While catching Karin is useless at this point -- we still have 70 miles to go -- I bound after her as we traverse the Osprey Trail.  The sudden burst of energy is uplifting to me and I'm happy that I made it through the discomfort of the early miles to reach this point.  My hamstrings, very tight in the early miles, have loosened up and have allowed me to spread my legs a bit.  My mental confidence is strong, and I'm not concerned with the uneven terrain.  My foot, sore in the early miles, feels OK right now with no pain being felt.  And my overall state of consciousness, though still the slightest bit concerned over Marketa's absence at the turnaround, is disconnected and in focus at the same time.  I'm experiencing the ultramarathoner's high, a time when the body, the earth, and the universe are in total harmony.  Everything is going well.

I descend the trail to the road that will take me back to the aid station.  My water bottles are almost empty and I know that I have close to a mile to go on the road before I can refill.  I see people sitting on a picnic table at the trail junction, and as I approach, one of them gets up to meet me.  This is an unmanned aid station, with water only.

"Sorry I missed you up there. I made a wrong turn and got to the aid station after you'd gone.  I'm trying to keep an eye on Jay and Scott, too."

Marketa is there, explaining to me why she missed me at the turn around.  "That's OK.  I was just concerned if everything was all right."

"Do you want a refill on the bottles, or anything to eat?"

"The aid station is just down the road, so I should be fine until I get there.  I've been rationing my water, so I have just enough left."

"They moved the aid station in about a kilometer, to the 50k turnaround.  Did you know that?"

"No.  They didn't tell us it was moving.  I just thought it was going to be at the same spot as before.  If I have to go further, I won't have enough water, so I'll take a CLIP bottle now and then you can give me two full ones at the aid station."

"So you want me to walk in to the aid station, 'eh?"

"If that's not a problem, sure."

I know that it won't be a problem.  Marketa is a triathlete, and she's running 25 miles with me later on in the race.  I begin to walk up the road to the aid station with Upper Wolf Lake on my right.  I know that the aid station is at the far end of the lake; it looks like miles from where I am now, but as I continue to run at a decent pace, the far end quickly approaches and I round a few turns to see the cutoff to the trail, the spot where the aid station was earlier in the day.  There, I catch Karin, and since the aid station tables are still sitting out, I reach for food and drink.

"Feel free to take what you want, but the real aid station is about a kilometer up the trail," the volunteer informs us.

"I think I'll wait until I get there then," I reply.  I head away from the table and toward the lake on the dirt road.  "How long will it take me to get there/" I ask, knowing full well that a kilometer equals about 6 minutes for me right now.  Karin follows along side me.

"It took me ten minutes to walk it," comes the reply.

Six minutes later, I realize that the picnic table next to the lake, the one I saw earlier, is the aid station.  A bright orange cone sits in the middle of the road and Marketa is sitting on the table, awaiting my arrival.  I quickly exchange CLIP bottles, grab some water and cola from the table, eat a sandwich, stretch, and prepare mentally to traverse the King and James Trail once again.  Karin takes her time at the aid station, and I leave her behind once again as I begin to walk while finishing my sandwich.  "Only 25k back to the base."

As I'm leaving, I hear Marketa tell me, "Jay was an hour ahead of Scott at this point, and Scott just left when you got here.  He's only a half-mile ahead of you."

Scott and Jay are running the 50k.  Jay could come close to winning, and Scott will be lucky to finish in a run instead of a walk.  Right now, the 50k has been going on for about 3 hours, so most of the runners are far ahead of me.  I kind of hope to run into Scott plodding away down the trail; I'm curious as to what he thinks of this trail, compared to previous courses he's run.  He's run a couple of very difficult midwest ultras, both of which have more technical footing than the Haliburton course.  I really wonder if he agrees with that assessment.

* * * * *

I climb the hills of the Red Trail and meet up with the King and James, crossing the muddy spot and heading to the wider, more heavily traveled double track that brings me the rest of the way to the road intersection.  I run this section alone, but as I look out down the Sprucetree Trail, I see a spandex-clad runner inching his way along the route.

From behind, it doesn't look much like Scott.  I briefly wonder why he's wearing so many clothes, especially since it's near 80 degrees and sunny out.

"Scott!" I yell, coming up from behind him.  "How's it going?"

"I need to train more.  At least I might beat my Owen-Putnam time."

"Other than walking a bit, are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah.  Just tired.  And you?"

"Not too bad.  Some foot pain earlier today, but things are good now."

I trot away, down the Sprucetree Trail and onto the Overlook Trail.  It seems like I remember each and every hill along the way, even though I'm travelling in the opposite direction from earlier in the day.  Scott is nowhere to be seen behind me, and while I can still see Karin running along ahead of me, I'm in no hurry to catch her and talk.

I'm used to running alone, and since there were only about 30 entries in the 100-miler, I'm finding that my ability to run in solitude helps keep my spirits high -- I'm not depressed by being in the woods alone.  While there may be wild animals in the forest, I am unaware of their presence, and except for an occasional bird here and there, there seems to be a lack of wildlife along the path.

I reach the trail to the overlook and meet a few people walking along the path.  They step aside to let me pass, but as I'm running by, they ask me how far we are running today.

"Well, we've gone about 40 miles, and we have about 60 miles to go."

"How long does that take?"

"I hope to be done by 3:30 a.m."

"I could never do that!"

The response is typical of the hikers that I've encountered over the years.  The short conversation helps me catch my breath and take a short break before the aid station comes into view.  That way, I can look fresh and strong when Marketa meets me in another 300 meters.  My fitness level often amazes me because while I run with the "race on my face," I quickly recover with just a few seconds of rest.

I round the bend and see the aid station in the distance.  I slow to a jog and grab the bottles from my pack, giving them to Marketa in exchange for two full ones.  "What do you want to eat?"

"I'll just grab a sandwich from the table.  I'm feeling good, but I'll change shoes and socks when we get back to base camp."

"OK.  Do you need anything else?"

"Just some more flexibility.  I can really feel the left hamstring today for some reason.  Do you know how Jay did?"

"I think he's just finishing up right now.  He was smokin' the rest of the guys, though.  Third place, I think.  Did you pass Scott out there?"

"Yeah, he's trotting along at Scott-pace.  Slow.  He needs to train a little bit harder, that's all."

"I'm going to wait for him here, then I'll meet you at the next stop in five miles."

I turn down the road and head back to Marsh Lake and the overlook gazebo where I think about taking a break.  The fog from this morning has completely burned off, and as I reach the picnic table at the shelter, I can see the marsh below in full view.  A small stream courses along the lake bottom, and grassy plants and bushes spread out in an ocean of low-level marsh.  The fen is one of the most beautiful scenes from the course, and as I turn away to the roughness of the Krista Trail, I can hardly wait to turn around and come back out here to enjoy the view once again.

* * * * *

I climb over the footbridges and tiptoe through the muddy spots before ascending the steepest part of the course.  I step aside momentarily for two mountain bikers careening downhill at me.  The climb seems to take forever, and as the trail undulates through the forest, I begin to wonder when the aid station will finally arrive.  I pass the two lakes to my left, descending steep grades with poor footing to gain the privilege of running along their banks.  I kick myself with a rock, sending a spike of pain through my right ankle and into my right leg.  I look down to see bleeding, and although I try to shrug it off, I find myself checking and rechecking to see if I'm losing a lot of blood.  A quick look confirms a big red mark and a laceration over my medial malleolus.

Eventually, I pass Bob's Trail, an offshoot to my left, and I know that I only have a few minutes more to run before making the final, steep descent to the aid station.  The forest trail widens gradually, and I'm forced to zig-zag along the trail right before the aid station comes into few.  The section took me just under an hour.

* * * * *

I meet Marketa one last time before she heads back to base camp, the next aid station.  I've arrived back at the road, where the next ten miles will be run.  Gently undulating terrain makes it easy, but fast.  Karin is still exchanging places with me at every aid station, but she is performing admirably in anticipation of her first 100-mile finish.  I refill my bottles and grab more food, quickly telling Marketa that I will change shoes and socks at base camp, and that I would like to use the blue ones.  I also inform her that I'll take a short break before heading out again, and that I need to evaluate my foot and my feelings to see if returning for another 50 miles is the right thing to do.

The road section goes fast, and I cover the section in under an hour, passing the sunbathers on the dock with hardly a glance.  Karin passes me on the road in her effort to finish the first 50 miles.  I take it easy, knowing that the last 50 is where the fun really begins.  I crest the final hill and cruise to the bottom where I can make out the start/finish in the distance.  It is really hot out now, and I'm sweating really hard.  Even though I'm wearing a long sleeve shirt (I never changed because Marketa missed me at 25 miles, and I never considered it again), I don't even consider changing when I stop to change my shoes and socks.

I reach the 50 mile point after 9:30 or so, and spend a lot of time here refueling, resting, and using the "King's" room.

"How'd your run go, Jay?" I notice that he's showered and changed.

"Good.  I finished in third, only about 100 meters from second.  My knee is killing me, though."

"Nice run.  I think I want to call it a day and go home.  I got in a good run."

"Did you pass Scott out there?"

"Yeah.  He's walking pretty slow.  I'd say he's on the road by now, though.  He'll make it."

"Yeah, he wasn't looking too good when I passed him out there.  You can't worry about him, though.  You have to decide if you're going to continue.  We'll stick around for ya if you want to keep going."

I don't even think about quitting as I take my socks and shoes off, quickly examine my feet for signs of blisters (noting the knob and the black-and-blue mark on my ankle bone), and put on fresh socks and shoes.  I pretty much decided that I couldn't wait around for Scott, so since I beat him back to base, I have to keep going.  He'll have to wait for me! Marketa refills my pack, gets me some food, lets me stretch, and tells me to get off my butt.  I stand up and start walking away from the aid station in somewhat of a trance.  I don't remember leaving, except for telling Marketa to make sure that the score keepers have me leaving for another loop.

"We'll meet you in five miles," I hear as I pick up the pace to a gentle jog down the road.

* * * * *

Except for a snide remark from Scott which had the tone of "what's taken you so long to get back out here?", the next five miles goes really quickly.  I cover the distance in an hour, and I feel strong.  Both Jay and Marketa meet me at the aid station, which they will continue to do for the rest of the race.  Karin and I again play leap-frog from the aid station.  I continue my quest to run even splits.  I pass other runners going the opposite direction, either finishing their journey of 50 miles, or finishing their first loop in their quest to run 100.

I pass by the 55-mile aid station, head out over the Krista trail, take in the beauty of Marsh Lake, and cruise into mile 60 feeling tired, but physically strong.  I pull down my sock to examine my ankle bone while I refuel.

"What's that?" Jay questions.

"I kicked myself with a rock and it just hurts a bit."  I take my shirt and wipe away the dirt. "It'll be OK."

"Let me get you a band-aid.  We can clean it out and cover it up."

"No.  That's OK."

The aid station volunteer looks interested.  "Yeah, it could use some cleaning.  I have a first aid kit right here, and I can take care of it.  That's what I do."

"That's what I do, too," I reply, nicely.  "And I'm saying I don't want to put anything on it right now.  The cleansers make it burn.  It's not deep, and the dust will only get in it again, anyway."

Jay returns with a bandage.  "Here, let's put this on."

"Jay.  No band-aid." I give him a glare, and my sharp comment scares him.

"Sorry.  No band-aid then."

"Jay, it's nothing personal, but you know why a band-aid is a bad idea right there?  Because it's over a joint that is constantly moving.  I get up the trail, it falls off into my shoe and I end up with a blister from the band-aid.  I'll take care of it when I finish."

I take off up the trail feeling pretty crappy.  I didn't want to raise my voice with my crew, but I had to be firm with them because they were trying to be firm with me.  If I was in a less-desirable mental state at the time, I could see where their judgement would have been important, but since I was able to make decisions on my own, I felt like I had to take control.

As I run, the feelings of despair dissipate, and I spend my time running alongside Karin, the runner I've been trading places with all day.  We chat briefly, exchanging a few words of encouragement.  I note that she's still looking very strong, and I tell her that it only gets tougher from here.  I find out that she made it 75 miles last year only to sit down by a fire and go to sleep -- instead of finishing -- and I tell her that as long as I'm with her, I won't let her near any fire.

"You really are running a strong time, Karin.  Did you have a goal in mind?"

"Not really.  Just want to make it this year."

"Well, remember that it gets tougher after dark.  If you can make it to 75 miles before the sun goes down, you should have no problem with finishing in under 24 hours.  That's nothing to be ashamed of for a first timer."

"Have you done this before?" she asks me.

"Yeah.  I've finished a few different courses."

"How many?"

"Well, if I make it to the end of this one, this will make my 14th finish on 13 different courses."

"Wow.  What time do you plan to run?"

"Well, I only set a target goal, and if I finish near it, I'm happy.  I kind of want to be done in 21 hours, but that's gonna be cutting it awful close on this course -- it's not as easy as I'd figured it would be, and once the sun goes down, I'm gonna have a terrible time with the footing on the trail sections.  Could be between 22 and 23 if I have problems."

We continue to run together, giving each other encouragement, for the next 20 miles, to the turn-around aid station at mile 75.  They have a fire burning and I tell Karin to not even look at the fire.  I notice that it's weak anyway, providing little warmth.  "Look, they waited to build the big bonfire until after you get out of here this year."

Jay, Scott, and Marketa are at the aid station.  It has just gotten dark, about 9:00 p.m.  This was the plan from the beginning, 15 hours for 75 miles, a pace of 5 miles an hour, and a projected 2 a.m. finish, if I hold my pace.  I know that my pace will slow, as the sun has gone down, so I settle on trying for a 3 a.m. finish instead, just so I won't disappoint myself when I'm not breaking 20 hours.

"Jay, I'm sorry I snapped at you back at the 60 mile mark.  You just weren't listening to me, so I had to speak up."

"No problem.  I didn't realize that you didn't want help.  I thought the guy was getting things cleaned out for you while I was away."

"Well, regardless, I'm sorry I snapped at you, but I've been through this before.  The ankle will be fine."

Marketa is dressed and ready to run.  I refill my pack, pick up an extra light and batteries, and begin to walk down the road with Marketa in tow.  I leave Karin behind at the aid station, wishing her luck on the rest of her race as I leave the light of the aid station behind.  The long, dark night has just begun.

* * * * *

The trail is less friendly now that the sun has gone down and some of the sections really wear on my patience.  I've slowed down considerably because of the dark, and while I still feel strong physically, I am mentally drained.  The night doesn't help keep me awake, either, as the warm, still air makes me sweat profusely.  Marketa runs by my side when the road is wide enough, and takes turns leading and following me when it is not.  We work together well as a team, her prodding me along when I want to walk on some of the easy sections, and I bounding away from her in other spots.

Karin doesn't catch up to me before the next aid station, and I decide that I probably won't see her again if I hold my pace.  We are now in the last 25 miles of the run, where the true test of fitness and endurance comes.

Marketa and I stop at the 79-mile aid station, and she refills my bottles as I take in a sandwich, some cookies, and a few slices of potatoes and salt.  My nutrition plan has worked beautifully today, even with the 10 miles of water that was forced upon me early in the event.  I've been taking SUCCEED! Buffered Electrolyte Capsules every 90 minutes during the run, drinking close to two bottles of CLIP per hour, and supplementing with solid food at the aid stations.  My energy level has been high all day, and as we run into the night, it shows no signs of abating.  In the back of my mind, I really want to finish before 3 a.m., my "pumpkin" time -- the time when my body just tells me to go to sleep, no matter where I am or what I am doing.

The aid station personnel at mile 79 ignore us as we refuel, opting to spend time chatting among themselves around the fire instead.  Some kids are busy singing songs from Titanic; I stop them and ask them if they've purchased their copy of the movie yet.  "Of course," comes the reply.

I ask Marketa if she's ready to go, and I yell a quick "thankyougoodbye" to the aid station folks.

"I'm sorry.  We didn't help too much, did we?" comes the reply.

"That's OK," I reply.  "I have my pacer with me."

I hear one volunteer tell another, "He's got his girlfriend with him.  They don't need help."

I ignore the comment, but I turn to Marketa and laugh, indicating that she would make a wonderful girlfriend if the circumstances were different and she weren't getting married to another man in 8 weeks.  We head out to the Osprey Trail, and I opt to run the slight down and up on the road prior to the climb.

"You can walk the uphills, you know."

"Yeah, but I know what's coming."

We climb the steep and uneven footing at the head of the Osprey Trail.  I take my time with this section as the forest holds in the darkness and my feet cry out at the uneven rocks.  Muscularly, I feel wonderful, but my feet are taking a beating -- the pain is back at the ankle and in the forefoot now -- and I opt to walk briskly to give them a short break.  Marketa pushes me in the back, telling me to keep moving.

I'm a terrible walker, so it really is in my best interest to keep up even the slowest of jogs.  When I walk, I tend to wander aimlessly from one side of the trail to the other.  I lose my forward mobility and dawdle as I look at the shadows cast by my flashlight.

"Is that Bill?" The light coming toward me lights the trail enough for me to make out the running form of Bill LaDieu.

"Yeah.  Hi. Jay, right?"

"How are you doing?  Your still moving great!"

"Slow, but I'm still moving."

"Well, don't give up.  You've got a finish in the bag, no problem!"  One of the things so nice about an out-and-back course format is that you get to see friends along the way.  It always serves as a nice pick-me-up, and I find myself running again after our short chat.

Coming off the trail and onto the next road, I turn my light off and run in the dark.  The road sections are graded and smooth.  They are easy to run on in the dark because there are no potholes to avoid; there is only an occasional rock to avoid (or kick).  The aid station is about a mile away, and as we make our slow way around the lake, I tell Marketa what I will need at the next aid stop.

"The shoes are doing well, but I need to sit for a minute and get the dirt out of them.  I'll keep the socks and the shoes, though.  While I'm doing that, I could use another sandwich and a potato, and something to drink.  Cola works well if it isn't flat.  A glass of water would be good, too.  Clothing-wise, I think I'm fine without a coat.  It's really warm most of the time."

Marketa takes in all the instructions, and as we reach the aid station, she hunts for the car.

"Is that them up there?" she says, pointing to my vehicle.

"Yeah, go get 'em."

She arouses Jay and Scott from the car as I take a seat to work on my shoes and socks.  Marketa drags Jay from the car.  He's carrying my drink bottles and drop bag, and he asks me if I need anything else.  I tell him that everything is going well and we should be at the next stop in 75-90 minutes, since it is over six miles away.  "This is the last of the powder.  What should I mix up next?"

"In the blue cooler, there are two more bags of powder.  One is labeled 'CLIP', and the other is labeled, 'AMINO'.  Please use the Amino for the rest of the run."

"OK, Amino for the last ten miles. I think Scott's still asleep.  He's going to drive home.  He's slept since he finished earlier today."

* * * * *

Marketa and I head out around the lake, to the Red trail and the King & James.  Passing the 25k point, I see the table from earlier in the day and notice a few cups still on it.  Attached to the table is a sign that reads, "Please do not drink.  For last 50k runner."  I think to myself that if someone is still out there running 50k, they'll never finish before the 100-mile gun goes off, signaling the end of the race.

We climb from the lake and my stomach disagrees violently.  I almost throw up from the exertion, but catch myself by taking slow, deep breaths and stopping the climb for a minute.

"Are you OK?" Marketa asks.  It sounds like I've become violently ill.

"I'm fine.  It just takes some time for the food and water to settle in the stomach.  The exertion does it later in the race.  I'll be fine in a few minutes, then we can run again."  I continue to walk up the trail, to the junction of the Red, Green, and King & James Trails.  "We have a couple of climbs coming up, then the trail widens out and gets a bit flatter."

We traverse the King & James, run-walking as the surface allows.  I'm feeling better and am able to run most of the way, slowly, as the rocks and roots in the trail slow me down extensively.  Reaching the Sprucetree Trail, I am able to jog down the road.  "You know, Scott walked in from here."  I'm thinking that it's a good option right now.

"You know that you should try to make this last 25 miles in a shorter time than he ran his 50k, 'eh?"

"That's what I was thinking, actually.  Just so I can tell him that I did it."  I pick up the pace.

Making it to the Lookout Trail and the steep descent that will lead us to the 90 mile aid station, I tell Marketa that I need to walk the steep descent.  "My quads are starting to hurt a bit, and my knees are aching.  But only on the steep downhills.  I can run no problem when the terrain is flat.  The aid station is right up ahead, and I'll need to change socks for the last time."

* * * * *

I sit down and change socks, grab a quarter of a sandwich, and get chilled.  The aid station sits in a valley, and the dampness of the air is really making me uncomfortable.  I start to shiver and shake while I have my clothes off, but I can't keep myself warm.

"Marketa!" I yell, "I need the heavy blue jacket.  Now.  Please hurry!"  I'm afraid that I'll go into shock if I don't put on something warm right away.  Scott comes over with the jacket and looks into my eyes.  Even though he didn't tell me at the time that I looked like death, I knew I felt like it.  I was scared that my race was finished, my only hope of finishing resting in the warmth provided by my jacket.  I was tired, extremely mentally and physically fatigued, and aware that I needed to stand up and move on.

"I need to get going, right now."  I quickly put my shoes on, stand up, and begin to walk.  I know that if I don't generate body heat, I might as well call it a race -- with less than 10 miles to the finish.  I leave the sandwich behind.

* * * * *

Marketa follows me up the road.  I'm still shivering and shaking violently.  "Marketa, can you get me my pants, please?"  She returns to the car and grabs my pants.  I quickly put them on, and feel instantly better.

"That's better.  Now I can move again."  The chills have abated and I can take a deep breath in order to relax.  My brush with a DNF is over with, and I'm ready and willing to run.

I pick up the pace as we run the road that will lead us back to Marsh Lake and the Krista Trail.  Quickly generating heat, the pants become way too hot for me, and I ask Marketa to stop and let me use her to lean against while I take the pants off.

"Where are you going to put those?" she asks.  Marketa has never run an ultra, and her only marathons have come at the end of a triathlon.

"I'll just tie them around my waist and carry them with me to the finish.  Then they're there if I need them again."

We pass the Marsh Lake overlook and turn up the Krista Trail to the next aid station.  The route seems much longer than it did earlier in the day, but following my brush with death, my state of fatigue, my lack of sleep, and the dark, I guess it's only natural that the trail will seem longer now than it did earlier in the day.  I've long since given up on a 20-hour finish, like I mentioned earlier, and my 21-hour goal, following the hypothermia incident, has long since passed, too.  The darkness has really eaten into my finish time, and I'm hoping only to be done in under 23 hours right now.  I don't think that I can make a 22-hour finish, especially with this last trail section standing in my way, so I opt instead to keep a positive attitude and take the single track trail safely before pushing the last five miles to the end.

Up ahead, I see a flashlight, and I am given new life.  I pick up the pace to see who it is, who I can catch before the next aid station.  The chase is really what I needed in order to wake me up and get me motivated again, and as I gradually catch up to the figure in front of me, I realize that the only person it could be is Ron Gehl, who was about 3 miles ahead of me when I picked up Marketa at the 75-mile mark.

I quickly pass him and head down the trail to the aid station on the road.  It is 3:18 a.m., and I have only five miles to go.

* * * * *

"Hi, Ron.  How are you feeling?" the volunteer asks.

"Ron's about 200 meters behind me.  He'll be down in a minute or two."

The volunteer scratches the time off of Ron's name and asks me what my number is. "Number 39."

Everyone seems concerned that I've passed Ron, but I reassure them that he is still moving, slowly, and that he'll be here in a couple of minutes.  I grab some water and tell Marketa that I don't want to spend much time here.  "Why don't we try this, Marketa.  In the blue cooler, I have some GU.  Can you please bring me two packets?"  I'm extremely hungry, and I know the GU will give me a quick boost of energy.  "Flavor doesn't matter."

She runs to the car as I sip some water.  Ron arrives and quickly departs as I'm standing there.  I eat a Chocolate Outrage and a Tri-Berry, follow the packets with some water, take two full bottles from Jay, and run down the road toward home.

* * * * *

As the GU kicks in, I pick up my speed.  We decide to run in the dark in order to help hold off an attack by Ron.  If he can't see me, he can't be motivated to catch me.  I run almost every step of the last five miles, taking periodic breaks to drink some Amino and climb the short hills on the road.

"I don't want him to catch me, Marketa."

"I don't think you have to worry about that.  He was walking pretty slow back there."

"Well, at least I know he's back there.  I can use him as a tool to keep me running.  I really feel like I have a lot of energy now."  I feel great.  I can't remember the last race I was in where I felt this good after 95 miles.  We continue along the road, passing houses to the left and to the right.  I keep checking the addresses, knowing that they indicate the distance from base camp.  As the numbers gradually get smaller, I pick up speed, hoping that I'll finish in under 22:30.  We climb the last hill at a fast walk, then coast downhill in the dark to base camp.  It is 4:25 a.m.

Mitch Harper is waiting for me at the finish line.  He congratulates me on my finish, then tells me that he'd told all the workers to keep an eye out for me because I'd just pop up out of the dark with no warning.  He was right; I ran in without a flashlight on.

I sit in the chair and ask Marketa to get my after-race bag from the car.  Since I know I'll get chilled if I sit too long, I quickly get up to take a shower, dry off, and put on some warm clothes.  Instead of waiting around and getting a nap, we all decide to drive right back to London, where we can get brunch before Scott and I go back to Michigan.

* * * * *

Haliburton Forest was a victory for me, not because I ran my fastest time for 100 miles -- I didn't -- but because I was able to run a fairly steady pace for the entire distance, only slowing down at night because of the uneven trails in the dark.  My last five miles on the road, a 65-minute effort, was a very positive outcome after running 95 miles, an effort that I would like to repeat in the future.

As I grow in my knowledge of the 100-mile distance, I am finding that the challenge of the race lies not on the terrain over which the course is run, but that the true challenge of the distance lies within the runner himself.  The challenge lies in overcoming one's doubts and fears, in adapting to the conditions of nature and the body, and in being victorious over the little struggles that make us want to quit.  In pacing oneself over the entire distance, it is more likely the quick adaptation that must occur in order to formulate a finish will happen in a fashion that ensures a safe and enjoyable trek to the finish line.