"Is that a wicker chair up there on the trail?"  I look around, wondering what my pacer, Scott, is talking about.  We are climbing over the ridge that will bring us into the Elizabeth Furnace aid station, mile 95 of the Massanutten Mountain Trails 100 Mile Trail Run.  I've run all 95 miles and have been on the trails for over 26 hours; Scott has only run 30 and has just spent a moonlit night with me in the wilderness. The trail has been rocky, muddy, and very difficult.

"Nothing wicker up there, Scott.  Just more rocks and trees."

Indeed, there were rocks.  And there were downed trees.  I'd been fighting both of these obstacles since 5 a.m. Saturday and was really ready to finish the course and lie down with some hot cocoa.  But the nearest chairs I could sit in, at the next aid station, were over the ridge and down at the Fort Valley floor another 4 miles distant.  Nope, no chairs anywhere near us now.

"I must be hallucinating, then.  It happens when I get tired."

I hallucinate, too, but I don't see the benign lounge chairs or lush oases of flowing water.  I see evil.  This time around, I saw snakes on the trail all night long.  Snakes that twisted beneath my feet as I stepped on them.  Snakes that bit my ankles and caused them to swell the size of watermelons.  Snakes that were lying in wait to capture me and take me hostage, sentencing me to a lifetime of endless trail running on fist-sized rocks.  Sentencing me to hell on earth.

It must have been a flashback that I saw snakes instead of gargoyles or other hideous beasts.  Last year, at the Old Dominion Endurance Run, a snake really did cross my path and make me jump.  I knew they were out here.  I knew they were out to get me.  I knew they were the personification of the devil.  Somebody has to watch over all of the fallen angels that Satan has placed on these trails in the form of rocks.

We ended up spending the night in a half-remodeled Days Inn in West Virginia, about half-way to our destination.  It was a trucker's paradise.  The door to the hotel bar was the front end of a Kenworth. Talk about tacky!  The number of rigs in the parking lot had me wondering what they were selling in the back room.  Was there a trucking convention, or were the prostitutes really good?  (OK, I apologize. I'm stereotyping.)  I never found out about the hookers, but at least David and I were going to get some good sleep before fighting the weather one more time.

While it wasn't raining when we left the hotel, it wasn't far off, and we battled varying degrees of wet weather as we made our way to Virginia.  The forecast called for rain all weekend, not a good sign for me as I really don't care to be out in the wetness for two whole days.  But it looked like I had no choice.  The rain kept coming down. We kept driving.  The rain was so hard that our windshield wipers came out of place and we had to stop and readjust them under a highway underpass.  I got wet.  It was not fun.  It was going to be a long weekend.

Arriving in Front Royal, we stopped at the grocery store for the last essential items we needed for the weekend: some food, batteries, water, and deodorant. We headed out to the Resort, ready and willing to tackle the challenges of Massanutten Mountain.

After pitching the tent, we headed over to race headquarters to check in.  We were given the whole second floor of the building -- not an issue on Friday, but Sunday's post-race awards ceremony was to be in the same place, up a flight of stairs.  There, I met new friends and chatted with many old friends.  It was a big family reunion for me as I hadn't seen most of these people since last summer.

Gerry "Lady G" Wales, my handler for the last 75 miles of the race, arrived as I was eating the pre-race dinner of spaghetti, salad, and bread.  Even though we had never met before, it seemed like we'd known each other for years due to the internet contact that we've had.  I relayed to her my plans for the race, filled her in on my drop bag contents and locations, instructed her in the use of my camera, and showed her where my extra clothes would be.

The clothes issue was turning big this time around.  Ususally, the weather is quite predictable right before an event and it is easy to plan what type of clothing you'll need for the day.  But here, the temperatures were supposed to be around 50 degrees at the start, rising to 70 on Saturday, and falling back into the 50's at night.  There was a 40% chance of rain, it could be windy on the ridges, and we were being forced to deal with running streams and some very muddy sections of trail.  The clothing had to be right in order to minimize discomfort and to stave off hypothermia.

Hypothermia, the lowering of body temperature to pathologic levels, is actually a common occurrance in 100-mile races.  After a day's worth of running, the runnner's body is less able to effectively regulate heat production and dispersion, and he is more dependent on outside clothing to perform the job for him.  While 50 degrees at night might seem like some nice running temperatures, in a 100-miler, its downright chilly.

I decide to start the race wearing "The Hat", a short sleeve top, and my lycra shorts.  I put a change of socks in my waist pack along with a pair of light gloves, just in case my hands get cold.  I'm trying to be prepared, but I let Gerry know that many of my clothing choices will have to occur during the run.  We'll have to be flexible.

It gets dark around 8:15 p.m. and David and I head off to bed.  We need to arise at 4:00 a.m. for the 5:00 start, so the eight hours of sleep will be important, especially since we both plan to finish on Sunday, after the sun comes up.  As usual, I change into my running clothes and meticulously place the rest of my running gear beside me.  I am ready.  David is, too.  And the mountain awaits.

David is a friend of mine who began running longer distances just last year.  His first marathon, the Columbus Marathon, came last November.  He finished his second one in December, and decided soon after that to try an ultra.  The race was going to be his first attempt at any distance over 26.2 miles.  He was worried, but excited, as we went to sleep on Friday night.  I was confident that, being an Marine, he would have the drive and determination to make it through the 100 miles.  Since this is the first requirement for a successful finish, I thought he had a good chance at completing the run -- if only his body would hold up physically.

I've said many times that the mental and emotional strain of running 100 miles is much more intense and related to success than is physical preparation.  I still think that's true.  But in David's case, where he certainly had the mental tenacity to hang in there when the going got tough, his real challenge was going to lie in maintaining adequate hydration, energy levels, and in keeping free from physical injury.  Only time would tell if he would be successful in navigating the challenges that lie along 100 really brutal miles of trail.

Soliciting my advice, he prepared as I had.  Drop bags, placed in the same aid stations, contained similar gear adjusted for his slower pace.  We wore similar clothing, woke up at the same time, and carried out similar morning rituals.  While I advised him against going out and running at my pace on the first 2.4 mile road section, I knew he would still run too fast (much like I was going to do -- at least I'm honest with myself).  It was going to be a learning experience for him, an event that he would never ever forget.

It rained all night, but stopped shortly before the clock alarm woke us up at 4:00 a.m.  The trails were going to be wet, much like the air.  The humidity stuck to my lungs and the fog made the air so heavy that I could actually take a bite out of it.  I bit on a hard bagel instead, downed a cup of hot coffee, and savored a raspberry danish.  I followed my race morning ritual of adjusting my belt pack and attaching my race number to the only article of clothing guaranteed to be with me for 100.43 miles: The Hat.

Outside in the dark, the mountain was waiting for us.  The mist, fog, and warm humidity combined to make the morning a gloomy scene from a horror movie.  The villian was not a monster; it was us.  An inner spirit that we, all 100 starters, would need to conquer to finish the course set before us.  The doubt of our humanity.  Our own mortality.  The fragility of the soul.

Frank Probst is a runner.  And so is Mike Fiorito.  When I am able to run with them, I do my best to keep up.  They bring out the best in me, and even though I know the challenge to maintain a pace that they set will be hard for me, I do in hopes that the outcome will be favorable for me.  Many times, the "go hard or go home" attitude gets in the way and I suffer in the later stages of the run.  But at least I know that I am trying my best to get better, and that's what really counts.  I've been on several "death marches" as a result of going out fast, but I'm not ashamed of them.

"One Minute!" Ed Demoney, the race director calls out the time to the start.  Runners amble about, looking for the gateway to the road.

"Forty-five seconds!" I'm standing next to Marge Hickman, another awesome runner. "You know Marge, he's not making this wait any easier to handle."

"I know," she replies.  "I always get so nervous at this part."

"Thirty seconds!"

"Nervous?  Marge, you've been through this more than I have, and you still get nervous? I know Ed's not making me feel relaxed, but he's not increasing my anxiety level, either." No response.  Just a blank stare off into the mist, into the void of the countryside that contains Massanutten Mountain.

"Ten Seconds!"  I put my finger on my watch, another ritual of the 100-miler.  I have to know my time down to the exact second for some reason.  I don't quite understand it myself, but that 5 k instinct has never fully subsided.

"Ok, it's time.  Let's go!"  How unclimactic can it get?  No countdown. No shotgun blast. Not even a whistle or a round of applause.  No starting banner to jump up and hit. No music.  No extreme fanfare.  Just  'Let's go!'  We head off through the field and out onto the first 2.4 miles of county road that will lead us to the trailhead at the north end of Massanutten Mountain.

I mentioned Frank and Mike because I ran the early part of the race with them.  Chatting as we ran down the road, I knew the competitor in each of us was in full gear and enticing us to compete for the early position on the trail.  Kind of stupid in the first mile of 100, but even the most knowledgeable of us stumble into the early competitiveness of the event.  Our conversation, centered on Eric Clifton's breakneck pace to the trailhead with a guy we didn't know (we just know he did stay with Eric for long), helped us reach the first aid station on Route 619 a mere 18 minutes into the run.  A seven minute per mile pace in a 100-miler!

The early pace warmed me up, and I quickly decided that my choice of clothing was too much.  At the last minute before the start, I had decided that a long sleeve shirt would take the place of the short sleeved one and that I'd throw a light jacket on over the shirt.  While I found out later in the day this arrangement was appropriate, for the early pace and the climb ahead, it was going to be too much.

I took the jacket off at the aid station and placed it around my waist.  I drank a cup of water and headed out, flashlight in hand, up the MME trail to the ridge.

"I can't believe you didn't need a flashlight here last time, Frank."  I'm shouting ahead to Frank and Mike, just a speck of light a few meters up the trail.  "Trying to do this in the dark would be awful."

"Well, I did it."

"There's no way I'd be able to run if I tried.  I'm glad I have light with me."  The race began in the dark fog of the early morning, before the sun had even begun to reach the horizon.  In an hour, around 6:00 a.m., it would be light enough to see without artificial light, but the dense mist and fog and trees through which we were running made the scene eerie, uncomfortable, ominous.  The silence, no birds, no crickets, no nothing save the sounds of our breath, was deafening.  We continued to climb.

Climbing over boulders and route-finding as we reach the ridge, I get a good taste of the trail that lies before me.  It is littered with giant boulders and fist-sized rocks that are glued to the trail's surface.  Some of them fall away as I kick them, but most don't move an inch.  I learn quickly that survival on this course will mean picking up your feet and using the hip flexors to avoid the uneven ground.  My mind flashes ahead, and I'm in sudden fear of the latter stages of the race when my feet will be sore and battered and hurting and the rocks will seem like they bite.  What is merely a technical challenge after five miles becomes a daunting obstacle after 95.

"Jay back there still has his light on." The sun has begun to shed some light on the trail, and the flashlight, though it is helping me see the shadows of the larger rocks, is probably unnecessary.  Frank teases me about my light because he can navigate quite well at night even if it is black as pitch.

"What of it, Frank!  It's gloomy up here and the light makes me feel better.  But if you insist I'll turn it off.  Look, I'll even put it away!"  I stow my light in my belt pack, grab some fluid replacement drink, and trip on a rock.  "See what you caused me to do?"  We continue to ascend.

The first climb, though rocky, isn't very steep, and we reach the top at Shawl Gap and begin our descent.  The mud begins in earnest, a side-effect of all the rain.  I don't even try to keep my feet dry, as I know that keeping them from the mud and water would take too much energy that could be used for forward motion.  The descent is steep, and I recall that this section of trail is the same section that I will be passing through again after 95 more miles.  The descent, I foreshadow, will be much more difficult for me then.  The 100 starters will have slid on the muddy trail, my quads will be sore, and my feet will be raw.

We peel off the main trail to the right and continue on a steep, rocky descent to the Shawl Gap aid station at mile 8.7.  I let Frank and Mike blast the downhill while I take the descent more slowly.  I'm cautious, as I don't want to sprain an ankle, break a leg, or prevent myself in other ways from continuing along the course.  Another runner flies by me on the way to the aid station, and I arrive there in good shape, surprised that the first miles have gone by so quickly.  I'm happy so far, and I'm feeling strong.

I grab some cookies at the aid station and head out along the 613 dirt road on my way to the next major climb of the day up Veach Gap.  The road is undulating and easy running, so I opt to jog both the gentle inclines and the descents all the way to the next source of aid.  I catch up with Mike Fiorito on an ascent.  He is walking and has donned a jacket since I last saw him.

"Was the t-shirt not enough clothing?  I'm thinking about changing out of the long sleeve shirt, but the wind on top can get cold, especially on the descents.  What do you think?"

"I'm carrying the jacket and wearing it as I need it.  I got cold on the first descent."

"I guess I'll leave the shirt on and carry the jacket.  I'd rather have it 90 degrees than like this."  I'm referring to the weather conditions.  The temperature is in the low 60's, it is cloudy, foggy, and the humidity is near 100%.  When it is warm, there is no question as to how you should dress.  These in-between type of conditions are worrysome, as you really need two sets of clothing to be comfortable: one for the ascents, when you are working hard and sweating, and another for the descents, when you are coasting and not working up body heat.

Reaching the aid station, I notice that Gerry Wales has been preparing warm sandwiches for us.  I grab a grilled turkey and cheese, refill my water bottles, and head out up the trail to the ridge two miles ahead.  Even though slightly charred by the grill, they taste wonderful.  "I'll see you at Habron, Gerry.  Hope you can meet me by then."  As soon as Gerry is done with her aid station duties, she is going to be my crew for the rest of the day.  My early pace makes a meeting at the Habron Gap aid station (mile 24.5) improbable, but in a 100-miler, a lot can happen in a very short period of time.

My lungs are hurting as I try to climb Veach with a power walk.  I remember the course from having run this section at Old Dominion.  Specifically, I remember that the top is two uphill miles distant and that the last time I was here, I was swearing about the length of the climb and the ball bearings some jerk decided to use for the trail surface.  Things don't change much this time around either, though the climb goes much quicker than anticipated -- most likely due to the fact that we've only been running for a few hours.

As I ascend, I remember that on a clear day you can see the lush green valley and the meandering South Fork of the Shenandoah River in the distance.  Today, however, the fog is thick and vision is limited to just a few feet.  Even though it is well into the morning, it appears like the sun has yet to reach the horizon.  We are running through the clouds, climbing higher and higher, getting closer to heaven.  The climb up takes me about 30 minutes.

On arriving at the top, the MME trail heads south along the ridge.  I am now running alone, Frank and Mike have gone on ahead, and I concentrate on route finding and footing.  The route is very well marked, though the ribbons that hang in the trees are quite distant in some places.  As will be the case for most of the day, night, and next morning, the trail is variably rocky and takes a lot of concentration to navigate.  I try to relieve the tension in my shoulders by thinking about my beautiful surroundings, and I attempt to "roll with the terrain", opting to work with it instead of fighting against it.  That is one of the keys to a successful run: continuing on at the pace the trail allows.  Go too fast, and the mental stress that results wears out the mind way before the finish tape.

Along this section, I feel stalked.  There is sombody following me.  He never catches up.  He never drops back.  To the Milford Gap aid station at 17 miles, the trail undulates, never climbing significantly and never descending significantly.  I am able to run both the inclines and the descents, feeling strong and confident in doing so, and arrive at Milford Gap in much the same fashion I ran the last five miles: alone.  There, I grab some more cookies, a sandwich, take a look at the leader board which says that I am running in 10th place, and mix some more SUCCEED! Amino.  I hesitate to take some rocks out of my shoe, and take off from the station with two other runners that had recently arrived for aid.

As we head out up the trail, a turkey sandwich in my hand, I begin to talk with my company.  Sue Johnston, last year's winner, introduces herself.  Jim Benike, a fellow Grand Slam finisher from Minnesota, says hello, too.  They make the next mile and a half on the ridge go by quickly.  As we start to descend along Indian Grave Ridge (even though we couldn't tell it was a ridge because of the dense cloud cover), they take off, blasting away from me until they are out of sight.  I try to keep up, to no avail.  I'm still a lousy downhill runner.

"POP!"  The sound of chicken bones being pulled apart penetrates the air.  I hop on my left foot, making sure the right one doesn't touch the ground.  "That didn't feel good."  I often talk to myself when things go wrong, and it looks like they have.  I stop running and take a few cautious walking steps.  The pain is excruciating, but the ankle still seems to be working properly.  The stabs begin to subside and I take a breather to tighten the lacing on my right shoe.

I continue down the hill, slower now, paying close attention to each footplant.  Paying close attention to each rock, each root, each stick that lines the path, I'm completely absorbed in the moment.  There is nothing around me, save the trail, the ten feet of trail in front of me.  The surroundings are secondary, as I quickly realize that this ankle sprain could easily end my day much sooner than I want it to.

Picking up a bit of speed because the pain has disappeared, I wrench the same ankle again on another rock.  Take two.  Another few hops.  Another moment or two of walking.  Another few swear words.  The pain goes away.  I am alone.  I feel isolated.  I am afraid of what this means.

This trail I am on, the Indian Grave Trail, is so named because of an Indian burial location that lies right along it.  I'm thinking that I should shoot myself and bury myself along side, freeing myself from the pain and the depression that an injury can cause.  I opt to continue on, taking every step with extreme caution, and eventually reach the road that will lead me to the next aid station at Habron Gap, still 3.5 miles distant.

I don't mind the road section, as the even surface is good for my ankle and the pounding will be a good test to see how injured I really am.  A few meters ahead of me, Susan and Jim are running on opposite sides of the road, walking the gentle inclines that the road throws their way.  I am a much better climber than I am a descender, so I opt to jog the uphills.  I catch up with Sue, motion for her to come along with me, and continue on my way.

"No thanks," she politely declines, "not part of the plan."

Of all people, Sue should know what she is talking about.  She was the race's female winner in 1997, running a course record time.  The pace we are running now, if she could maintain it, would give her another course record.  But it is still early.  We are only 25% complete, it is still morning, and there are a few more tough climbs and a bunch of rocks that lay ahead between us and the finish.

I continue my gentle jog up the hill with Jim.  We are silent as we run.  Even though my mouth is silent, my mind is working overtime trying to judge the severity of my ankle problem and deciding whether or not I should continue on for the rest of the day.  It doesn't bother me to run on it, which is a good sign, and I realize that the ankle might hold out if I take it a bit slower and walk the rockier sections of the trail in the miles to come.

I reach the Habron Gap aid station, mile 24.5, at 9:30 a.m., over an hour ahead of my projected time.  Once again, I am committing the ultrarunner's sin of starting out faster than I know I should, but the company I am with makes the miles fly by faster than they seem.  I opt for the company, but at the aid station I stop to refill bottles from my drop bag -- Gerry is nowhere to be seen yet -- take on some more nourishment, and check the ankle for swelling.  Sue and Jim press on without me.

"How are you doing, Jay?"  Mike Dobies' girlfriend, Sue, calls my name and snaps a picture.

"Well, I sprained my ankle on the last descent.  Hurt really bad.  I'm kind of worried about it, but I guess I'll just keep going and see how things go.  Might just decide to take things a bit slower, especially on the rocky downhills."

"Sounds like a good idea anyway."

I've known Sue and Mike for a couple of years now, first meeting Mike through the internet and having him pace another runner at Mohican in 1995, the year of my DNF.  He came back to Mohican with me in 1996 and paced me to a sub-23 hour finish.  In the three years we've known each other, we've never run the same course at the same time -- we've always taken turns running and crewing.  Last year, Mike was my pacer at Western States; he ran Hardrock.  This time around, however, we are both out on the course, attempting to finish at the same time.

"How's Mike doing," I ask.

"Good.  He's about 20 minutes behind you, but he looks strong."

Mike is better at pacing himself through the entire distance than I am.  I have no doubt that he will eventually catch up with me and we will end up working together for a good section of the course.  I'm not going to wait, however, for I know that I can use every available minute of time.  Sue, the dedicated crew person, waits at Habron Gap for Mike.  Just as she's done in several races past.  Now an ultrarunner herself for completing a single, grueling loop of Barkley, she's pacing at Hardrock later this year for about 60 miles.

I leave the aid station alone and head up the Habron Gap Trail to the ridge, dodging the rocks and the mud in the creek that makes up the lower section of the trail.

The climb up is easy for me, and my pace is fast.  I quickly catch up to Sue and Jim, falling in behind them.  It is refreshing to actually run with other people for a change.  I am normally a solo runner, running most of my races alone, in solitude, in communion with nature.  Most of my 100 mile finishes last year were earned on my own without the help of other runners -- just myself, my crew, and my pacers.

"So tell me about Wasatch, Jay."

Jim is wondering what I thought about the toughest of the Grand Slam races.  "I love the course, actually.  If I had one to do all over again, that would be it.  Beautiful scenary, challenging terrain.  I didn't care for the dirt road at the end, but after 32 hours, who would."

"It was really dusty the year I ran it."

"Not too bad last year.  It was hot, but some rain in the afternoon helped keep the dust down.  I didn't particularly care for all the cars on the road.  It was mentally difficult after running for so long."

"Congrats on finishing the Slam.  Awesome achievement."

"Same to you, Jim.  There aren't many people out there who can do that.  I think Sue should do it, though.  She'd do really well."

"Are you guys talking about me?" Sue questions, now running in third after stopping briefly to tie a shoestring.

"Yeah, we think you should try the Grand Slam."

"Maybe one of these years."

We continue to run and talk as the trail tops out and begins gently rolling along the ridge.  The surface is only mildly rocky and very runnable.  "So, Jay, what do you think about this one?"

"I think it is much harder than Western States and probably on par with Angeles Crest.  Chris Scott was right when he told me that this course makes AC look like a highway.  Some of this footing out here is awful."

"You've done Angeles Crest, too?"

"Did it last year and the Last Great Race attempt.  That's something I don't know if I would try again this year."

The conversation about 100-milers makes the trail to Kennedy Peak go by quickly.  We reach the trail junction and the trail that climbs to the tower, noticing the prominently displayed pie plates attached to the trees directing us which way to go.

"You guys can leave you pack here if you want.  We'll be back in half a mile."

The climb to the observation tower is rocky and we reach it without much fanfare.  The tower, a short, two story wood structure is not what I expected to see.  I expected a tall fire tower and all I got was this little guard-house type observation deck and a single flight of stairs made of wood.  While I don't complain about the brevity of the climb, I was kind of looking forward to looking out over the valley and seeing far into the distance.  The fog limited vision to just a few feet.

The three of us grab some water from our bottles and climb back onto the trail, down the quarter-mile out-and-back to the trail junction, and on to the next aid station near Camp Roosevelt.   Jim heads the wrong way at the trail junction. "Jim, go this way.  Follow the arrow on the plate," Sue directs, pointing to the trail heading off to our left.

"Unless you want to go back.  Then you can go that way."

The trail to the aid station is all downhill and littered once again with rocks.  The nice groomed path of the MME trail is gone and the rockiness has returned, making running on my sore ankle challenging once again.  Sue and Jim forge ahead while I bide my time, arriving at the Roosevelt aid station a minute behind them.  There, I refill my bottles, eat some strawberries, and play in the jello.  The jello is molded into the form of race cars, and I ponder what the aid station people had in mind when they made these up.

"What's this supposed to mean?" I ask.

"It means 'Put the petal to the metal and get your butt out of here'".

I'm kind of taken aback at the response, followed by hysterical laughter, but I realize that it's true, I should be going, and I walk down the short stretch of road to the trailhead that will lead me down the mountain and to all of our crew personnel waiting for us at the trailhead to Duncan Hollow.

The remaining trail down to Duncan Hollow is the same section run in the opposite direction during Old Dominion.  I really need to take a pit stop in the woods and take out my toilet paper, but I pass on the urge this time around because the thought is too eerily familiar.  That's what I did along this section of trail at OD last summer -- I can even pick out the tree.  It's amazing the landmarks that you remember from previous events, and as fast-forward down the hill, I am reminded of what lies ahead in the next few miles: mud, flies, and mosquitoes.

I reach the 675 road crossing where everyone's crew is waiting.  Gerry is yelling my name, holding my camera, and has my bag of clothes at her feet.

"I didn't know what you needed, so I brought everything."

"I'm actually fine right now.  Things are going great.  Keep the big bag with you, though because the temperature is bad -- not cold and not warm.  The balance is really fragile."  She snaps a couple of pictures.

"Sue's right in front of me.  We talked about Wyatt pacing her and she expects to see him at Scothorn around 7:00 p.m."

"Well, I'm going to pick him up this afternoon, so he'll be there."

"This next section is muddy."  I know that from Old Dominion last year.  Even when the course was dry, Duncan Hollow didn't dry out.  Some of the trail is actually in the stream bed, and the rest of it is along a rutted 4WD road that likes to hold water.  It makes a great breeding ground for flies and mosquitoes, and I have this suspition that they will be out looking for blood.  The next three miles in the hollow, before we take a steep climb up to the ridge, climb rather gently.  The effort is taxing on the mind and the body, as the trail doesn't appear to be climbing, yet as you look out over the valley, you quickly become one of the highest things around.  All totalled, the climb is about 500 feet in this distance, mostly in gradual incline with a few steep rolling mud pens for challenge.

As I take off into the Hollow, I am able to run.  The first section isn't too rocky -- that comes in about a half mile -- nor is it too muddy.  I head up the jeep road, jumping to the left and to the right in order to miss most of the mud and the standing water.  I do a decent job at keeping my feet marginally dry, though the shallow flowing stream under my feet is sometimes deeper than I expect and I get wet.

The trail continues on forever, but I eventually reach the mud-infested trail junction of the Gap Creek "trail".  I start to climb out of the mud, taking part of Duncan Hollow with me.  The climb is short and steep, but the footing is very walkable.  Here, toward the top of the ridge, I pass a group of hikers, the only non-race people I've met all day.

"Gets pretty sloppy down at the bottom," I say as I continue up and they continue down.  I get no response from anyone in the group.

Reaching the top, I take a short breather and notice the pie plates attached to the trees directing me straight ahead, down the other side.  I pause at the trail junction, realizing that I must go down to the aid station before returning to this intersection and heading south.  I don't think much of the descent, thinking that it couldn't be that bad.  Ignorance is bliss, they say.

The "trail" down to Gap creek is in a tributary.  The water is flowing.  It is muddy.  The standing water is deep.  It is practically impossible to run because of the mud and the rocks that litter the ground.  It is a very slow-going descent.  As I continue to wok my way to the bottom, I pass Frank and Mike on their way back up.

"This isn't a trail," I intone, adding a few colorful slang words under my breathe.

"It doesn't get better toward the bottom either.  Gets rockier before you cross the creek."

"How are you guys feeling?" I ask, expecting a positive response.  Frank says he's doing great, but Mike is less enthusiastic.  We pass, and I continue down the creek bed to the bottom.  Shortly, Sue passes me on her way up.

"Looking good!  How much further to the bottom?"  I'm really getting exhausted by the tediousness of the work.

"Give yourself another ten minutes."

I give myself eight, and there is still no aid station to be found.  Jim Benike passes me on his way back up to the Gap Trail, looking refreshed.

"Does anyone really run down this?  It's impossible for me to walk on."  I'm hoping that Jim will respond by saying that everyone walks.  He doesn't.

"Sue ran."

I reach the bottom without falling or breaking a leg, but I'm almost in tears as the emotion and the effort needed to keep going is taxing me to my limit.  I'm frustrated with the trail that I know I must climb again to the top.  I'm sick and tired of dodging rocks and roots and shoesucking mud, and now I have this creek to cross right before the aid station.

Wading the stream, I almost lose my balance and get a face full of fresh water, but I catch myself at the last moment and remain dry.  At the aid station, Sue & Gerry snap a couple of pictures of me, give me some food, and fill my water bottles.

"You have a drop bag here," Gerry informs me.

""Yeah, but its not going to do any good.  There's a change of shoes and socks in it, and some powder.  Use the powder now and please refill the Nalgene bottles.  I need you to move this bag to the next aid station.  I'll change socks there."

"I can wade the stream and we can change them on the other side."

"Wouldn't do any good.  The trail to the top is a mud pit.  I'll just wait."

"OK, I have to get Wyatt this afternoon, but I hope to be at the next aid station."

"If you need to leave, Gerry, do that.  Just leave the drop bag there so I can change shoes and socks."

I walk away, cross the creek, and begin the long, arduous climb back to the top of the ridge.  I've only run 39 miles.

Debbie Berner, from Pennsylvania, climbs back up to the top right behind me.  She is the second place woman and is about 30 minutes behind Sue at this point.  The climb isn't as bad as the descent, but I've stopped trying to keep the mud out of my shoes until the top when I can cleanse them in the flowing water.  Blister-forming mud is bad in a 100 mile run.  The silt grinds against the flesh, eating it raw in a short period of time.  Keeping the feet free of silt and sand is critical to surviving the race without blisters.  Some people opt to change shoes and socks whenever their feet get wet, but on this course with so much mud and water, it is almost impossible to keep dry.  I opt to keep the mud away from my feet as much as possible, opting to clean off the shoes by soaking them in streams along the way.  My feet remain wet, but they remain free from the blisters.

"Hi Mike!"  It is Mike Dobies, and he is still about 30 minutes behind me.  "Pretty women at the bottom," I entice.  Sue, his girlfriend, is down there waiting for him.
I get a faint smile in return.

"You're looking strong.  Really tough course today, though.  Toughest I've seen this one."

"Just keep one foot in front of the other, Mike.  We're doing it."

I reach the top after passing a couple of more runners swearing about the descent.  Pausing at the plate to catch my breath and celebrate my survival of the "trail that weren't no trail," I turn to the south along the Gap Trail and ready myself mentally for the next challenge a few miles away.

"Hi, Debbie.  I'm glad that section is done.  One more really bad climb before the visitor's center."

"Yeah, they say that it's really steep."

We run and talk about the climb up Waterfall Mountain, by far the steepest grade on the course.  Less than a mile long, the climb is close to 1000 feet.  The current trail we are on, the Gap Trail, is nice and gives a respite from the technical running.  There are only a few rocks here, so we run fast.  Pie plates show us the intersection where we will return in about 20 miles, and we follow the arrows straight ahead along the Middle Mountain Trail, down yet another creek bed littered with rocks, water and mud.  We descend quite quikly, and I realize that all elevation lost here will mean elevation to make up in the next climb.  The prospect is not amusing, but we have no choice.

Debbie and I work together.  I lead for awhile, then we trade places and she leads.  Although we don't talk that much, I still learn that this is her first attempt at 100 miles.

"Picking an easy one, 'eh?"

"I don't know.  How does this compare?"

It is a question that I have received and will receive many more times this weekend.  "Well, I don't think I'd consider it as hard as Wasatch, but it is certainly on par with Angeles crest, is much more technical than Western States, and leaves the course at Leadville looking like a walk in the park.  The course at Leadville is easy; they just make it tough by putting it at 10,000 feet."

No response.  I assume that Debbie is wondering what she got herself into, but I reassure her that if she can finish this one, then she can finish them all.

We reach the intersection to Waterfall Mountain, and we bear off to the right and uphill.  This is the trail that Courtney Campbell and Mike Morton missed a couple of years back, running left instead of right and heading out along the lower loop of the course in the wrong direction and adding six miles to their run.  Even with the error that forced a lot of extra mileage, Mike still won the race that year.  Such a trip off course is mentally and emotionally devastating, and is a cause for an early retirement from the race.  I've never has much trouble finding and following course markings, and I am glad that I have a good sense of direction on this course.  Extra miles would be no fun.

The climb up Waterfall Montain sears my lungs.  There are times that I can only take a few steps before I must pause for breath.  It is a steep climb, and is every bit as bad as the stories of previous runners have said.  But it is short.  I reach the top in 20 minutes and can run the gentle descent down the other side to the unmanned aid station.  Debbie has pulled ahead by a few meters, but we are still essentially running together.  We reach the aid, and I grab some Mountain Dew, the nectar of the Gods.

The brief stop allows me to catch my breath, refill a water bottle, and get mentally prepared for the road section which follows.

"I hate road," Debbie exclaims.

"I don't like it either, but it is a nice mental break from the tediousness of the trail."  I try to make the best of the situation.  I pull ahead, running the gentle descent to make up some time; Debbie bides her time by mixing walking and running.  As the dirt road gives way to asphalt, I know that I am reaching the visitor's center, the place where if I stop I can be given a "Visitor's Rock".  The rock sounds good right now, as I've really had enough of the course for the day, but I realize, terrifyingly, that if I quit now, I'd have no choice but to return and finish next year.  That thought forced me to decide that I would not quit and be forced to run the first 47 miles again.

Gerry is nowhere to be seen at the Visitor's Center, just as I suspected.  But she dropped off the bag as I had instructed.  I have a cup of soup and change socks while the aid people refill my water bottles. Debbie is in and out of the aid station is a couple of minutes; I take longer.

"I just realized that we got your bag at the wrong aid station." The bag says that it is supposed to be at Gap Creek.

"No, this is right.  I ask for it to be brought here.  How many people are ahead of me?"

"You are tenth right now.  Mike Fiorito dropped out after sitting here for a few minutes."

"Did he say why?"  I get a few heads shaking.  I knew that he was looing kind of grim earlier in the day, so I wasn't extremely surprised by the news, but it is always disappointing to hear that one of your friends decided to go home for the day.

Having refueled, I head out for the out-and-back to Bird Knob along a rocky trail with downed trees.  I am not having fun.

The first quarter mile of trail passes a field of lady slippers in full bloom.  It is gently wooded and the trail eventually gives way to the out and back section that is uphill as we head yet further south along the MMS Trail.  Since I am running in about 10th place, I can only expect to see a few runners ahead of me on this section.  I hope to see most of them, as that would mean I'm not too far from the lead.

I'm sure, however, that Eric Clifton, the leader and likely eventual winner, wouldn't be passing me anytime soon.  At this point of the race, I'm sure he's close to two hours ahead of me, maybe more.  Talk about home court advantage!

I continue to climb, and the trail gets steeper.  I wasn't expecting this combination of ascent, rocks, and uneven trail, but I am learning to expect nothing but the worst.  After a short, steep stretch, the trail climbs over some rocks, dodges a few trees, and meanders full of twists and turns.  I pass Sue and Frank, now running together.

"I don't think she's ever run 100 before," I overhear Sue telling Frank.

""That's right," I reply, knowing full well what she was talking about -- Debbie is only 30 minutes behind her.

"Not you, Jay.  We're talking about the competition," Frank adds.

Well, I know that, and I press on with the knowledge that I answered the question in Sue's voice -- whether she realized it or not.  And I don't care if Frank considered me out of contention at that point or not, as I had no intention of trying to catch up with him.

I continue to run along the out-and-back, passing a couple of other runners ahead of me and trying to figure out when Debbie and Jim would be passing me.  I knew that I would be close to the turn around when that happened.  While much of this section was runnable -- it was only sparsely populated with rocks, the overgrowth often got in the way and made for some challenging terrain and an extra amount of tediousness that sapped the mental fortitude from your brain.  After 30 minutes or so, Jim and Debbie come at me in the opposite direction, and I run around a few more turns until I see the bright awning of the aid station: Bird Knob Turnaround, Mile 49.54.

I quickly grab a sandwich and some water and turn around, hoping that the next three miles to the 211 East aid station will go quicker than the last 2.5 miles.  On my way back, I pass several other runners, including Mike Dobies, about 30 minutes behind me.  We are keeping our distance, much to my surprise, and there are several others coming at me who look strong.  I run slowly, starting to wince at the steps off the boulders now, and break myself as well as possible on the steep descents.  I'm still worried about my ankle, as every now and then I feel a twinge of pain, but it has made it this far and I am confident that it will last, barring any unforeseen twists of fate.

I pass a couple of runners going out toward Bird Knob.  "How much longer do we have?" they ask.  I'm sure that they aren't happy when I reply that I've been out of the aid station for about 30 minutes, but since they asked, who am I to lie??  I run all the way down the hill and meet up with the trail junction that will take me to the 211 East Aid Station.  I pass a picnic grounds on the left, and I'm suddenly reminded of my hunger.  Even though I feel like I've fueled myself quite well, the pangs of hunger creep into my system and I yearn for a good hamburger.  It is almost 5:00 p.m., time for dinner.  And only an hour before Scott can join me as my pacer.

"Way to go, Jason!!"  I'm startled at the noise, but I take my eyes off the ground and I realize that peaking through the dense tree cover that lines the road, Gerry is waiting for me.  The last seven miles have been hell, and I walk the short and steep uphill to the road.  Taking my place on a chair at the aid station, I get this intense desire to quit and call it a day.  My eyes are tired, my feet are tired, and my body has had enough.  Since it is only 5:30, Scott can't run with me yet, and I will be forced on another 6-mile section by myself.  I take my shoes off to clean the silt and sand from the outside of my socks, a ritual designed to keep blisters at bay.

"Guess what I've got?"  Gerry is looking me straight in the face, camera and McDonald's bag in hand. She snaps a picture.  "Two double cheeseburgers and fries."

"Great!!  Let me have one of the burgers, and I'll eat it while you get my bottles ready."  The burger tastes great and I wash it down with Mountain Dew.  The aid station personnel try to pamper me by giving me all sorts of food, but all I want is a pacer and better section of trail.  The rocks are really getting tedious, and I know that rocky stream bed trails impede my way to Scothorn Gap.

"Where is number 42?  Has he been through yet?"  The ham radio operators are calling out my number.

"Yeah, he's right here!!"  Gerry screams across the parking lot to a guy in a truck.

"He's got some guy at Scothorn looking for him.  What should I tell him to do?"

I walk up to the truck and inform him that Scott should stay there, that I'll be along shortly.  It is too early for Scott to start pacing me now, and I don't want to wait for him to get to me.  As I am talking, King Jordan reaches the parking lot, asking if anyone has a flashlight.  While it is getting dark soon, there is no reason for him to be alarmed at this point -- he and I will both make it to the next aid station way before sundown.  The aid station volunteers try to communicate with him, but they aren't having much success.

King is deaf.  He is the president of Galludet University, a school for the deaf, in Washington, D.C.  He's a great runner, one who seems to always beat me over the 100-mile distance.  I go over to him and try to tell him not to worry about the light.

"But my wife's not here and I don't have a light in my bag."

I shake my head and very deliberately announce, "You ... will ... make ... it ... to ... the ... next ... aid ... station ... before ... dark."  Normally, King reads lips extremely well, but in the middle of 100 miles, he isn't quite as acute -- and neither am I.  I finally get my point across and tell him that I don't have a light with me either.  He feels much more at ease.

Unlike King who placed with light in his bag at the next aid station, I made a tactical error in my drop bag selection that could have been costly if I didn't have crew with me.  All of my night clothing and lights were here, at mile 53.74, and it was only 5:30.  We had another two and a half hours of light before we needed flashlights, so the better place for clothes and bags was at the next aid station, Scothorn Gap, at mile 59.  I had actually been warned that this would be the case by Frank Probst, who very accurately predicted my location when the sun was going to go down.  I failed to believe him, realizing that the course was tough and that I wanted to take the first half of the race easy, hoping to run some of the later half.  It didn't happen, and I should have listened to what he told me.  Fortunately, I didn't have to carry my warm clothing or my lights with me from this point on: Gerry shuttled them ahead and had them waiting for me when I needed them.

Leaving the aid station and crossing the road to the MME trail, the trail that would eventually lead me back past the bottom of Waterfall Mountain and up the rocky stream bed, I feel much better for having a 12 minute break, some Mountain Dew, and a half a double cheeseburger.

The first part of the trail out of the aid station is a very gradual climb on an old jeep trail that is very runnable.  Lush, green meadow flanks me on either side, and I have a great view of the mountain in front of me.  I recognize the mountain on my right, as I've been through this area in the opposite direction, and I know that I will be climbing up in the valley between the two parts of the hill very shortly.

The jeep trail deteriorates into narrow single track that climbs more steeply and quickly meets the trail junction to Waterfall Mountain.  I think about doing the climb again, just for fun, but I realize that I am stupid for being out here on the trail among the mud and the dirt and the rocks: I'm not stupid.  I'm back on the shared trail, the section that climbs rapidly in the creek.  The water flows over rocks and roots, making each step either slippery or wet, or both.  On my trip back up the mountain, several runners pass me, heading to the Waterfall Mountain climb.  I look at my watch, noting that each of them is pressing the cutoff time to the limit.

"Be sure to take a right up the hill in a couple of minutes.  Don't get confused and go the wrong way."  I realize a navigational error would mean the end of their race, so I try to help as much as I can.  I get some thinks in return, a couple of odd glances, and questions about trail.

"Are we going in the right direction?"

I reply that all of us are, that this section of trail is still shared, but that they will be entering the south loop very soon and should be looking for the trail markings.  The pie plates are well placed, but some runners are still able to miss the intersection.  "Do you guys have enough water?"

I'm concerned for their climb, knowing what lies ahead, and I want to make sure that they'll have enough water to make it to the top.  "You've got about 2.5 miles to the unmanned aid station.  It's right next to the road, about a mile from the top of the climb."  I feel confident in my own water supply, and feel like I can give half of it away.

Nobody takes my water, so I press on up the creek.  There are some very steep ascents on mud, and I slide as I climb.  Using my hands to grab tree branches, I am able to pull myself up over the worst grades.  I meet the Scothorn Trail at Scothorn Gap and begin the descent to the aid station at mile 59.  Scott, my pacer, awaits.

I've put off crapping in the woods for a long while now, having the first urge to commune with mother nature nearly 25 miles and 6 hours ago.  I decided that I couldn't pull of the trail back then because it would have been too odd for me, taking a bathroom break behind the same tree I used during Old Dominion last year.  I guess I just have my quirks.  The Scothorn Trail is also on the Old Dominion course.  It is a wide path that is very well groomed, with only the occasional few rocky areas.  A steep descent with occasional flat places to control water runoff and erosion, I pound hard on the downhill before the trail levels off and starts meandering near Passage Creek.  I remember that I cross the creek right before I arrive at the next aid station, and I decide that instead of making Scott wait for me to take a dump shortly after he begins to pace, I'd better get my duty out of the way now.

I pull off the trail and hide behind some bushes, doing my thing as quickly and efficiently as possible.  I am still able to control my squat, which is a definite benefit for me.  The legs aren't too far gone yet.  I pull off my belt pack and my coat, open the toilet paper bag I carry in the center pocket (a necessity for any experienced 100-mile runner), finish things up, and get ready to move on.  I pee very little, which always concerns me a bit because lack of urine production has been drilled into me as being evil, a sign of dehydration.  To this point in the race, I've only stopped to pee once.  This second attempt, feeble at best and dark yellow in color, indicates to me that I am either dehydrated or that I've been taking my buffered electrolyte capsules on a very regimented basis.  Every 90 minutes without fail, the buffered electrolytes seem to be woking, slowing the production of urine and allowing my body to use all of its available fluid for cooling.

I notice, however, that my hands are swelling slightly.  Even though many people tend to swell in an ultra, this finding surprises me, as I don't normally have any noticable fluid accumulation.  When this happens, I am secure enough in my body (out of experience) to note that I need to cut my fluid consumption slightly and switch to plain water for a short period of time.  This I begin to do at the Scothorn Gap aid station, just a creek crossing away.

Gerry and Scott are ready and waiting for me.  It is about 7:30 in the evening, and I'm still running about an hour ahead of my prediced arrival time.  I sit down for a short break as Gerry and Scott refill water and help me change my shirt.  I've run in my black, long-sleeve Dri-Fit all day, and I am now changing to a similar shirt, blue in color, for the next leg of my journey.  The temperature is still around 70 degrees, so I just keep my coat on my waist; I haven't used it since the start, but I feel much more comfortable having it with me.  I'm given some soup, and I drink it down.  It is a nice change of pace form the turkey and mayo sandwiches.

"Want some more of the burger?" Gerry asks.

"I'll have it at the next one, Gerry.  I feel fine right now."

Scott gets me ready for the trails ahead, noting that much of the next 22 miles is going to be slow-going and tedious work, especially at night.  I don't believe that it can get much worse than some of the trail I've already covered, but I take his warning to heart.  This is his home territory, and he knows the route quite well.

We head off down Crisman Hollow road to the Turkey Pen Trail, a trail that is quite well groomed and looks like the Forest Service had just recently groomed it.  While there is a lot of mud, the shoe-sucking kind that is deep and black, and a lot of standing water, rocks right now are napping and letting me pass quickly.  It is starting to get dark.

Turkey Pen parallels the base of Kearns Mountain, and I keep thinking that we have to climb Jawbone Gap and come down the other side of the mountain before reaching the aid station at the base of Short Mountain.  I am wrong.  We never climb a steep ascent and the relative ease of the trail makes this section a quick run.  Having muddied my shoes in the goo along the trail, I am forced to stop on Rte 730, a two-mile road ascent, in order to free the stones and sand from behind the tongue of my right shoe.  It's the only way that I will be able to run on the road.

"This is really boring."  We've run for what seems a long time on the road.  It has only been 10 minutes.  "The aid station is around a steep, ascending turn in the road.  I remember that this section was a long, slow ascent during Old Dominion, too."

Scott remains silent, telling me only that I am moving adequately and am looking good.  The sun has yet to set completely, and although sections of the road could use a flashlight, we don't turn them on.  The sky is clear, and a nearly-full moon shines enough light on us to see where we are going.  Occasional cars blind us, but the gentle walk-run, though boring, is a nice respite from the rocky trails.

"So tell me, Jay, when do I need to tell you about the capsules?"

"I'm on a 90 minute schedule, and I've been taking them quite regularly.  I just took one on the trail back there, but I don't think you even noticed.  Next one is at 9:30 p.m."

Scott is interested in my food and drink plan, as he has had some problems with fluid retention and swelling during his previous ultras.  I've seemed to fix all the problems that I've ever had without much ado, but Scott's complications haven't been so easily solved.  For me, eating and drinking during an ultra has become second nature.  For all runners, it is a means of survival, a critical component to the race.  Those with stomach problems that don't abate quickly during the course of an event quickly DNF.  I've done it myself.

The hum of a generator in the distance tells us that we are about to enter the Rte 730 aid station.  My feet and quads are really burning now, and I'm more than ready to change socks once again.  Gerry meets us and gives me the rest of my burger as I quickly change socks.  The shoes will stay with me -- they've been working extremely well today -- but the silt-infested socks need to go.  "Just water this time, Gerry," I add as she works on the water bottle refills.  "I don't know if I have a bag here or not.  I remember putting another one out here, but I don't remember where it is."  It is 9:00 p.m., 90 minutes ahead of my estimated arrival time.

Before leaving the aid station, Kris and Randy Whorton arrive and quickly push through the aid station.  I've taken my time in getting ready for the next trail section, but they are in and out in just a minute or two.  Scott is not pushing me out of the chair, allowing me to sit and relax way too long.

"What can I get you?"  Scott is asking me if there is anything else I need.

"Scott, you need to get me out of here.  I think I could sit all night, which wouldn't be good."  He pulls me up to a standing position and points to the trail at the back of the tent.  "You mean we don't go on the road for a mile??  That it's trail instead?"

"Right.  But you just told me a while back that the road was boring.  The trail is much nicer, don't you think?"

I take a few cautious steps over some erosion bars.  My quads cry out in pain.  "Scott, just give me some time to get moving.  I sat there way too long, and I need to stretch out by walking a bit."

"You can walk all the way to the next aid station, if you want.  You have plenty of time.  This section is going to be really tough, so I don't want you over-exerting yourself.  You need to keep your strength for later, when it counts."

We run-walk along a gentle incline that is only moderately rocky.  Kris and Randy are right ahead, and although it is still way to early to be competitive with other runners, keeping them in sight is a goal of mine.  It keeps me moving and gives me some motivation for the trail ahead.

"This is where the really awful section starts.  It took us over two hours to run it this winter, but of course, there were a couple of feet of snow on the ground at the time."  Scott is trying to prepare me for the toughess of the MMW trail over Short Mountain.  "They call it Short, but it's going to be long.  These Virginians, they aren't very smart when it comes to naming things. They call one of these mountains "North", when it should really be "East".

"The trail can't get any worse than the stuff I've run on already, can it?  That Gap Creek Trail wasn't a trail at all."

"Well, we'll see."  Scott is hedging.  I can tell that he knows more than he is telling me, and that this section will take us a while to complete.  I overheard him telling Gerry to give us a good 2.5 hours to make it to Edinburg Gap, a mere eight miles away.  That sounded quite generous to me, but I didn't think much of it.  If I could run at all, I'd be there in the allotted time.

We cross the Edinburg Gap Road, Rte 374, and head up a steep mountain, Short Mountain, on our way to hell.

If there is any such thing as hell on earth, it would be the MMW trail over Short Mountain.  Unrunnable for me from the south end of the mountain to the north end, it climbs steeply, then follows the ridge in gently undulating fashion, all the while forcing fist sized rocks into the bottom of your shoes and making a safe, secure footplant impossible.  Giant boulders litter the trail, making route finding in the dark difficult and sometimes impossible.  The boulders form cliffs of the trail surface, forcing deliberate steps off of slippery rock onto trail pock-marked by embedded stones.  Tripping over stones and rocks is natural here; falling is almost expected.

Scott warned me about this, but I didn't listen.  I was obstenate, confident that the trail couldn't get any worse than Gap Creek.  I was wrong.  Way wrong.  And I was wrong in thinking that I could finish this eight mile section in under 2.5 hours.

"Are we almost there yet, Scott?"  I think I've asked that question a dozen times now.  "How long have we been out of the last aid station?"

"Just over two hours.  We should be getting close.  The trail peels off down the west face before turning around and climbing slightly to the aid station.  You'll know we're close when that happens."

"How fast are we going?  I feel like I should be running."

"I told you that you don't need to run on this.  Save your ankles for later when the trail isn't so bad."

That conversation keeps recurring.  I feel like I am getting nowhere and that I'll be passed by the entire field before I reach Edinburg Gap.  In reality, while I'm not moving very fast and have not passed anyone in this section of trail, I am not getting passed either.  I'm sure others are going just as slow as I am, and I find a gentle relief in this knowledge.  But knowledge doesn't make the trail go any quicker, and the undulating nature of the trail on the rocks is getting old.  I'm frustrated, ready to quit.  My feet hurt, and the constant twisting is wrenching my already-injured right foot.  "Scott, I really feel like I want to run, but the surface won't let me."

I look forward to the trail descent on the west face of the mountain, the incline, and the turn back toward the aid station.  It can't come soon enough; we've been out for almost 3 hours now.

Gradually, the trail takes the promised turn and crosses the Edinburg Gap Road.  We cross onto an ATV trail, full of mud and standing water.  Our flashlights don't allow us to separate the dry mud from the wet, and my feet get muddy trying to dodge and avoid the standing water.  I'm slipping and sliding, trying to run off the trail cross country in order to make things easier.  I know the aid station is close, that soon there will be respite from the mud and the rocks and the evil trail, but the fatigue is wearing on my brain, and I'm on the verge of tears.

"This sucks, Scott.  And they tell me the next section is the hardest!"

"After what you've just gone through, the next trail will be cake.  You'll see it as being very runnable."

We venture into the aid station, and I promptly take a seat on the nearest chair I can find.

"OK, your clock is running.  You've got 10 minutes."

Scott is making sure my aid station time doesn't get too long like it did at the last aid station.  I decide to massage my feet for a couple of minutes, as the rocky trail has gotten the muscles tied in knots.  I remove the socks, massage my soles with my hands, and put on a fresh pair of socks.  I have no blisters to this point in the race, which is positive.  I usually have a couple of them starting to bother me by now.

I have Gerry fill my water bottles, this time with SUCCEED! Amino.  I grab some soup and another sandwich, but I opt to wait on the other cheeseburger until we reach Woodstock Tower, another 8 miles down the trail.  It is now close to 1:00 a.m., and I am running right at my predetermined time.  Short Mountain took a long time -- much too long -- and I'm back to where I had predicted I'd be.  The last trail was a lot more difficult than I had planned, and I had not given myself nearly enough time to complete it.

Kris and Randy show up at the aid station right before us, swearing about the trail and complaining about their blisters.  Kris takes off her shoes, and I notice the raw skin on her feet.  I'm glad that my feet have survived better than hers have.

"How long do I have, Scott?" I ask, knowing that I'm taking a lot longer than I wanted to.

"Under 30 seconds," comes the reply.

My shoes are on and I'm close to ready to go, but first I need to curse at Ed Demoney, the RD, for making the new trail less of a trail than a cross-country orienteering event.  "Ed, have you been talking to Charlie Thorn lately?"  Charlie is the RD for Hardrock and really enjoys minimizing roads for forays into the backcountry -- at the expense of the participants.  "We've been on two sections that hardly qualify for trails!"

"Wait 'til next year," comes the reply.

Rumor has it that a new trail will be buit to sidestep the two miles of Rte FR730 at mile 60.  I can only look forward to another climb and descent, another couple of feet of elevation change.

The ATV trail leading out of Edinburg Gap is impassible, so we walk up the hill through the brush.  Even though there is no trail, it is much easier to climb and the footing is much more secure than on the ATV-rutted mud.  The mud is wet, and every step forward is met with 3/4 of one backward.  That, and balance wasn't easy to come by!

The ATV road is about a half mile long, but it seems to take us forever and a day to get anywhere.  So far, I'd just as soon prefer the rocks to staying on this surface right here.  Every now and then, I'm able to find enough "dry" sand to feel comfortable with the footing.  I venture out into the mud only to be forced back to the side of the trail, where I have trees to hold onto and where I can pull myself up.  The standing water in the ruts is deep in places, and I have visions of myself falling in face-first.  I try to survive as best as I can, but I really want the trail, rocks and all, to resume.

As we reach the trailhead, I look to my right and the steep ascent on the ATV road.  A very big truck with three boys is coming straight at me.  "They can't be doing anything legal out here at this time of the morning," I tell Scott.  We press on, up the trail to the top of the last giant climb of the race, Waonaze Peak.  The MMW trail goes right over the top and follows the ridge for few miles before turning toward the west under the Woodstock tower and meeting the road from Woodstock at mile 82.

Scott is right.  The climb over Short Mountain was much worse than the climb over Waonaze and the subsequent meandering trail along the ridge.  The moon is out, obscured only by some light mist, and the silence of the night cuts through us like knives.  It is the heart of the night.  We are in the heart of the forest.  In the place where no wind blows.

The solitude that I feel makes any sustained effort at running difficult.  I am really tired, and it is taking all my strength just to keep moving.  Even though the distance between the aid stations is only 8 miles, I feel like the trail goes on for eternity.  We don't talk about much, only the occasional light of Kris and Randy in the distance behind us.

"You are doing fine, Jay.  Just keep moving."

"You're just telling me that.  You are really frustrated with my slow pace, aren't you?  I want to move faster, but I can't.  My foot hurts, the rocks are still hard for me, and I have no energy left."

The tree cover makes the woods dark.  The moon peaks through the trees.  The dampness in the air hangs heavy, making the threat of evil come my way.  I'm seeing snakes now.  Giant ones lying across the trail in wait, ready to strike as I move over them.  The sticks from which they are made move under my feet as I kick them.  I jump.  I am being attacked.  I am hallucinating badly, and it is evident to me that my blood sugar has hit rock bottom.

"Do you have any idea how far it is to the tower," I ask, actually wondering how much farther I need to travel without food.

"Just a bit longer."

"But you told me that going over Short Mountain, and it was over an hour.  If I have that long to go yet, I need to know.  I'm really getting hungry."

"I have a Gu, if you want it."

There a couple of things I really don't like when I'm running an ultra.  The first is a pacer who uses vague wording for distances, especially if he has no idea how long we have to go.  While I know that Scott was familiar with the trail and probably knew where he was, there aren't many times in his training that he's been out here moving at twenty-six minutes a mile.  Time and distance get obscured at such a slow pace, and while the pacer can feel the pace grinding to a halt, the runner really feels like he is working hard.  At least, I know that I was.  The second thing I don't care for is Gu.  I just have a big aversion to eating that gel-like paste for some reason.  I try to avoid the stuff, expecting my stomach to revolt and throw it back up as soon as it reaches the bottom.  But there are times when boys need to be men, and now was one of them.

I twist off the top and stow it in my pack.  I eat the gel, washing it down with a bunch of Amino.  It's chocolate.  But it's not chocolate.  Another thing I dislike.

I am a chocaholic.  I love the rich flavor and the consistency of real chocolate, but the energy bar market has concocted these chocolate-like confections that look chocolatety but contain no fat.  The consistency varies from running water to a brick, but in all cases, the bars and gels don't taste like real chocolate.  Give me a Hershey's any day.

Surprisingly, the gel is not bod tasting, and I can't lie and say that the stuff makes me throw up.  Yet.

I get a real surge of energy that I wasn't expecting.  The change was very noticeable and it was almost immediate.  I'm now stepping over down logs and whole trees like they are standing still.  The trail eventually crosses the ridge to the west face of the mountain, and we can see Woodstock off in the distance.  Scott has informed me that the trail dips low on the west side, rises a bit, and pops out on the road beneath the observation tower.  Shortly, we see the light of the aid station and hear Gerry asking who it is.  We have been out on this last section of trail for 3.5 hours.  Over three hours to cover another 8 miles!  Talk about a long night.

The aid station scenario has almost become a ritual for us.  I sit and take off my shoes one last time, massaging the bottom of my feet before I change the socks and put my shoes back on.  There are very few races where I will opt to run in the same shoe for the entire distance, but this pair is doing fine on this trail and there is no reason to change into something that may cause me problems.

I eat everything I can find, including another half a cheeseburger.  It tastes really good.  I ask for soup and sandwiches, some Mountain Dew, and some water.  The Mountain Dew tastes almost bitter, a sign that my senses are not quite as acute as they should be.  I sit and relax for a few minutes as Kris and Randy join us at the station.  They comment on the slow pace, too, so I am less disappointed in myself than I was earlier.

My aid station times have gotten slower, but I really need the reprieve from the trail.  I need the energy provided by the food.  I need the mental break as much as the physical one.  I know that the trail ahead gets easier, at least until the descent into Powell's Fort Camp, and I feel like I can run.

"Let's go, Scott.  I want to try to run some of this."

We head out along the trail into the forest.  It is still dark, and will be for about another hour.  The next aid station, 5.5 miles away, is realistically a two hour run over the mountain for me right now, much slower than I wanted it to be.  But you take what you can get, and as long as I keep moving forward, I know that the finisher's buckle will be mine.

I can actually run most of this.  As the sun comes up, I am refreshed, and even though my pace is somewhere around three miles an hour, I feel like I am flying.  Kris and Randy left the Woodstock Aid Station before us and were slightly ahead of us.  But even as they can run the downhills, I find the uphills much easier to run.  I set out a goal of beating them to the next aid station, and I work my butt off trying to make it happen.  The exertion is intense, even though it is slow and rocks still litter the trail in places.  I remember some of this trail from Old Dominion last year, but at the time, I was running in fifth place a scant ninety minutes into the race.  Now, I'm running close to twentieth, which really doesn't matter, but I've completed about 85 miles.

The trail twists and turns, and shortly before the steep and rocky descent into Mudhole Gap, the sun comes up and I am able to turn my light off.  Kris and Randy pause to adjust their shoes, and I fly by them without saying a word.

"That's right, Jay, let them know you mean business and don't talk to them until the finish."

Well, I don't think of it in quite those terms, but there is a fierce determination in my run to make it to to the finish in under 30 hours.  My goal, 28 hours, is way out of grasp, so I must concentrate on the next milestone instead.

My exertion in climbing the hills quickly leaves me exhausted, and as the trail begins to descend, Kris and Randy pass me by.  "Scott, I need to let them go.  The climb just wore me out."

Depressed, I walk a bit, then pick up a jog, only to slow again.  The rocks have returned, and my motivation to run is completely gone.  I walk down to the road, jogging when I can, remembering what Ian Torrence told me about this section of trail at Old Dominion.  "It's a lot worse at the MMT when you are trying to run it in the dark."  While I missed my opportunity to show him truthful -- by about 10 minutes -- there is not a doubt in my mind that the dark would have made the trail a walker.  It did it to me in the daylight.

We pop out onto the road and follow the dirt to Powell's Fort Camp, mile 87.74.   I am able to jog most of the road, and I'm really interested in having some hot breakfast at the aid station.  The aid station is not set up where I thought it would be, so I forced myself to run a little bit further down the road.  It is lined on both sides with cars and trucks belonging to runner's crews.  The tent covering the aid is kind of obscured by a truck, and I walk around it with Gerry taking pictures of my face.  In spite of all the cars on the road, the aid station is almost deserted.  We are just in time for breakfast.

I saw Peter Mitchell on the road behind us.  He had made up about an hour on me overnight, but looked exhausted as he came into the aid station.  The aid station, where I was hoping to see a nice breakfast, had nothing substantial, and everything that was there was covered and in disarray.  I couldn't find a thing to eat.  This was very problematic for me because I knew that I had been on the "E" in my fuel tank for most of the night, and I needed to try to replenish my supply.

But repleninshment doesn't happen in a 100-mile run.  It is impossible to do with the level of exertion, the exhaustion, and the few calories that are taken in over the course of the two days.  In training, I adjust my Caloric intake to replace about 100 Calories per mile.  In a rocky 100, such as this, I figure that I am expending much more, as much as 200 Calories per mile on the climbs.  I would guess that expenditure increases with distance, too, so that what I am using now is higher than what I started at.  All told, I think that my Caloric expenditure in a 100-miler is between 20,000 - 250,000 Calories.  This amount is impossible to try to get back during the run.

So we try to get a bit of it back, and I do that by eating a breakfast at the morning aid station.  "Gerry, you better get me the rest of that hamburger," I say sarcastically.  I didn't really want to eat it yet, but I am forced to keep my energy level up with my own food.  I sit on the bumper of the aid station truck because the only chair is taken by another runner.  Gerry snaps another couple of pictures.

Of all the aid stations out there, this is the one that really sticks out in my mind.  It was a real disappointment in comparison to the others, as there was little food, nowhere to sit, and everything hidden from view by wrappings.

"Scott, how's my time?" I ask, wanting to minimize my down time as much as possible.

"Been here for three minutes."

"I need to get going.  Let me get some Mountain Dew while Gerry puts my bottles in my pack, and we'll be out of here."

I fumble around looking for a glass in which to put the Mountain Dew, and the aid attendent runs around to the front of his truck, presumably looking for a glass.  "Well, I can't wait.  That's OK.  I'll just drink from my bottle instead."  The sound of frustration is in my voice.  Here, I want to get moving and I've decided to do so -- a big decision at this point in the event -- and things are not readily available for me on my way out.  I thank the volunteer and walk out, up along the dirt road that will send me to the top of Meneka Peak on the Big Blue Trail before dropping me at the Elizabeth Furnace aid station at mile 95.

I leave the aid station alone.  Scott is still fumbling with his Camelbak, a 72 ounce bladder of fluid that he carries on his back.  He has some orange stuff in it, and it looks kind of full, especially for being out in the woods with me all night.  "Scott, why aren't you drinking?"

Scott has had his share of problems with fluid and electrolyte balance in his own ultras, and after seeing his full water bladder after running for 27 miles and 11 hours, I guess I can see a contributing factor.  "You know you need to drink a little bit more to make up for your normal sweat rate.  You lose fluid at this pace, too, you know."  He's worried about drinking too much, one of his problems in a recent race where his hands swelled up extensively.  Some swelling in the extremities, it seems, is normal in events such as this.  I notice slight puffiness in my hands on and off during the run, but it is very minor.  My correction is to reduce the amount of water that I drink for a while and make sure that my electrolyte intake is adequate.

"I'll let you catch up with me."

I head out and up the road, running my excessively fast pace on the relatively level and flat surface.  The stones in the road are minor in comparison to the boulders that I have been running on, so the reprieve from the unevenness is nice.  I try to take advantage of it.  Even now and then, streams invade the road.  Instead of trying to avoid the water, I plow right through to cool my feet and get rid of some mud.

I know that we need to turn east at some point, as we've been heading north now for close to 12 hours and are nearing the north end of the mountain.  After a couple of miles on the road, however, the trail heads off to the west.

"Are you sure this is right, Scott?  It's awfully well marked if someone was playing a game with us."

"Just follow the markers and I'll double check on the road.  I'll catch up."

The trail meanders through some low-lying vegetation and turns north once again, passing beside a water retention pond while getting muddy and rocky.  The mud is deep in spots and my shoes suffer the wrath of the icky muck.  Shortly, we are back on the road, now much less defined, with water running down the middle of it.  As I walk ahead, I use all of the stream crossing that I can in order to clean off my shoes, hoping to salvage what is left of my bruised and battered feet.  We finally turn right acros a stream and the trail begins to climb to the ridge.  I am able to see the end to the climbs, as this one and the climb back over Shawl Gap are the only two hills remaining to be traversed.  Another three hours, and I should be done with the course -- actually, the course will be done with me.

"Is that a wicker chair up there on the trail?"  I look around, wondering what Scott is talking about.  We are still climbing Meneka, climbing over downed logs and ascending the switchbacks.  The trail has been rocky, muddy, and very difficult, but knowing that it is almost done brings a relieve to my mind.  And a wicker chair wouldn't hurt me either.  Unfortunately, there's nothing there.

"Nothing wicker up there, Scott.  Just more rocks and trees.  I know what you are talking about, though.  You have this zombie-like aura about you.  You don't run in the morning very often, do you?"

"Normally, things are worst around 4 a.m. and get better."

"Well, you saw what I went through at 4 a.m.  I'm glad you didn't crack.  I needed help combatting those snakes."

"I must be hallucinating about the chairs.  It happens when I get tired."

I hallucinate, too, but I don't see the benign lounge chairs or lush oases of flowing water.  I see evil.  This time around, I saw snakes on the trail all night long.  Snakes that twisted beneath my feet as I stepped on them.  Snakes that bit my ankles and caused them to swell the size of watermelons.  Snakes that were lying in wait to capture me and take me hostage, sentencing me to a lifetime of endless trail running on fist-sized rocks.  Sentencing me to hell on earth.  Scott was my protector at 4 a.m. when things really got intense, when I was on the verge of pathologic hypoglycemia, and when he saved my life with a Gu Chocolate Outrage.

It must have been a flashback that I saw snakes instead of gargoyles or other hideous beasts.  Last year, at the Old Dominion Endurance Run, a snake really did cross my path and make me jump.  I knew they were out here.  I knew they were out to get me.  I knew they were the personification of the devil.  Somebody has to watch over all of the fallen angels that Satan has placed on these trails in the form of rocks.

The rocks are still bad, but the trail is passable.  I'm concentrating on the trail, thinking about nothing more than reaching the next blue marker painted in the next tree in front of me.  We are on the big blue trail.  I feel like I'm moving fast -- well, at least better than I was earlier -- and am ready to break the 30 hour tape in just a few more miles.

"I'm running faster now, aren't I Scott??"

"Well, maybe a little better."  There's nothing like a pacer who will tell you that your sorry ass is barely crawling, but can encourage you to keep up the pace at the same time.  "Look at this nice downhill.  It is very runnable."

"Duh.  It is runnable trail.  Ok, Scott.  I will run."  My brain is so overcooked that I believe him and pick up the pace, running the gentle downhill of the Big Blue to where it meets the White.  Arriving at this trail junction means we have about a half mile to the aid station.  We continue our descent on a nicely groomed trail, reaching the highway crossing at Elizabeth Furnace.

"SMILE!"  Sue is there, holding a camera and looking bright and chipper.  It looks like she was able to sleep some last night.

"Where's Mike?" I ask.  "I expected him to catch up with me way before now."

"He's having a tough race, but he's only about 30 minutes behind you."  Hmmm, sounds like he hasn't picked up any ground since yesterday morning.  "You need to cross the bridge on the road, then there's a trail that brings you right back to the aid station."

Scott and I cross the road, and I notice that the trail along the creek is a monsterous 40-foot drop off the pavement.  I hold Scott's hand and the guard rail as I take the step down.  It's only about a foot down, but it seems like forty feet.  We jog the short section of trail leading to the aid station, and I feel good, knowing that this is my last stop before the end of the journey and my arrival back at the Skyline Ranch Resort, 5.3 miles distant.

I have some soup and a sandwich, and opt to change my socks one last time.  The mud on the trail next to the reservoir went through my shoes and into my socks, and the change will ensure that no blisters will form.  My feet look especially good, with no blisters to this point.  I want to keep them that way if I can, because recovery is much quicker after a run when you don't have open wounds to contend with.  Quickly, I change and am ready to go.  I've been here for about 6 minutes.

"Oh my God, what is that?"  I'm staring at my ankles, and I notice that I've picked up a parasitic friend.  He's still crawling around, right at my sock line, but it looks like he's intrigued by my leg and is readying himself to take a bite.  I had never seen a tick before in my life, so I thought that they were tiny little critters that were difficult to see with the naked eye.  This guy was a monster.  I brush him aside, happy that he hadn't latched on for the ride.  I check the rest of my legs, making sure that he didn't have any friends looking for breakfast, stand up, and begin to move away.  It is shortly after 9 a.m., 28-plus hours into the event, and I am placed 20th on the leader board.  Only 5.3 miles to go, and about 100 minutes to get there before my self-imposed deadline of 30 hours.

The Big Blue follows us over Shawl Gap, and as we climb, Scott tries to make a game of it.

"Look, the trail is topping out.  It looks like we're at the ridge.  All but one way goes down.  Which way will we take??"

"Yes folks, you are the WINNER of ANOTHER CLIMB!!!"

Either he's really bored with my pace, or he's so tired that he's no longer thinking rationally.  I think there's a combination of both going on, so I once again apologize for not being able to go faster.  I "powerwalk" the rest of the way to the top, jogging the relatively flat sections of trail as my body lets me.  The top comes fast.

"Now, you WIN a DOWNHILL TRIP to the FINISH LINE!"

"Actaully, Scott, I like the uphill better.  The downhill hurts my right ankle and the top of my left foot."

In addition to the ankle sprain early in the race, I've also developed some forefoot tendinitis on my left foot, right at the spot where the extensor digitorum longus bifurcates, distributing tendons to each of the toes.  Descending is extremely painful because of this, and I'm finding myself guarding the area as much as possible.  All of the holding back on the descents has lead to some tendinitis in my left hamstring, right behind my knee, a tendinitis that is only mildly bothersomeat this point.  The foot hurts like hell.

We descend the muddy and rocky trails of Shawl Gap, Scott running ahead in playful glee, me running slowly with painstaking, deliberate steps.

"Can you please hold up for me, Scott.  I know you are trying to help, but all you're doing is making me really depressed that I'm not running any faster."

"But you have a deadline to make.  If you don't finish before 11 a.m., you will get rained on.  And if you don't finish by noon, lightening will strike you dead."

"That makes me feel just wonderful, Scott, but the time is really ticking away and we only have 20 minutes left before 11:00.  I think I need to forget about the 30 hours and just work on getting in as soon as I can."

We continue to run, Scott jumping around like a little puppy to entice me to run faster.  "It's not going to happen, Scott."  I keep my steady, deliberate pace going.  The trail evens out slightly and meanders through the forested base of the mountain.  I feel like I'm getting close to the finish, but I also remember how far in the distance that mountain looked from the campground, and I keep thinking that there are miles to go before the finish line.  Ahead, we see a girl on a mountain bike, walking it through a giant mud and water bog.

"Any idea how much farther to the resort,"  Scott asks, knowing that we can't be too far away.

"Just a couple of miles," comes the reply.

I'm in shock.  Total disbelief.  Those few words, 'just a couple of miles', eat into me because I realize that if they are true, there's no way I'll break 30 hours.  "Well, Scott, if it's that far, there's no way we'll make it in time.  Just let me walk for a couple of minutes."

I do, but I finally get my emotional energy back and pick up the pace a little bit.  The trail is soft and runnable and I feel good about the progress I am making.

"Scott, that woman can't be too bright.  She brought her bike into a bog."

He smiles and looks ahead at a runner heading in our direction.  "How much farther?" he asks.

"Well, I have 8 minutes on my watch, so it can't be that much farther.  You're almost to the trail head, then there's a short road and the cross country section to the Resort."

I'm relieved.  Sort of.  I'm angry that I let the first girl get me down.  I'm angry that I decided to walk for a few minutes.  I'm angry that I won't break 30 hours because I put too much stock in someone else's words.  And I'm angry because Scott's premonition is coming true.  We are out on the road, and the first few drops of rain begin to fall.  I can see the finish in the distance, past the woods and the campers, only about 4 minutes away.  "What time is it, Scott?"

"My watch says 10:58:45.  I failed to mention that my predictability has an error of plus or minus 75 seconds."

The rain is gentle and doesn't bother me as we cross the field and into the woods on the grounds of the resort.  "I want to run the rest of the way in, Scott.  Stay by my side and run with me."

We see the row of motor homes lining the last section of grassy field.  I note that my tent has blown over as a result of the wind and the rain over the last day and a half.  I see the finish ahead, and hear my friends calling my name.  Both Gerry and Sue are there, ready to greet me as I cross the line and earn another belt buckle.  I am happy that I am done, even though I am a couple of hours slower than I wanted to be.  I am happy that Scott's premonition of lightening striking me dead if I didn't finish before 31 hours would not be tested.  And I am happy, as I look out across the field, that the downpour that just started was late by 3 minutes and 15 seconds.

Most people would say that the race ends there, with the crossing of the finish line, but in my experience, the race is not fully complete until the shower is taken, food is ingested, and a nap has been ordered.  Then there is the drive home on the same day, an ultra adventure of its own.  In this event, since David was still running his race, I would be able to eat and drink and recover for a bit before I started the voyage home, before I would need to tend to David's wounds and help him feel comfortable.  Knowing the intense pain associated with running your first 100-miler, I didn't think he would be feeling very well when he was done.  This premonition turned out to be true.

But before he was to meet me at the finish, I had some things to take care of on my own.  My friend, the Tick from Elizabeth Furnace, had returned and engorged himself with my vital fluids. The blood-sucking hog was on my lateral right leg, pretty much out of my reach.  I sat down on the porch and worked at getting him off.

"Vaseline usually works well, if we can find some."  Gerry asks around, along with Ed Demoney, who is smiling.  I think he's laughing at me, happy that he gave me a course that I didn't like.  Sue is helping out, too, and is the only one of the group willing to touch the thing.  I'd do it myself, but the pretzel-bending it takes to reach him causes my muscles to go into spasm.  I am not amused.  I'm downright frustrated.

Smearing the guy with vaseline only makes him dig deeper.  I feel a pinch in my leg and look to see him burrowing in.  At least I'm attractive to something, even in this state.  I'm stinky.  I can smell myslef, which is a bad sign.  I can only imagine what others are thinking about it.  No wonder they want to stay away.

"Well, I think its needle time.  Can anybody get me a safety pin and a lighter?"  Finding a lighter in a group of runners is a lot harder than you would expect.  It takes a few minutes, but someone brings one to me.  "Let's heat this sucker up."

Gerry heats the pin and touches the tick's back.  His feet move, but he doesn't come out.  "He's not wanting to budge, Gerry.  Let me try it."

I heat the needle again, touch his back, and his legs move.  He digs deeper.  I have two concerns at this point.  The first is lyme disease, the second is getting the guy to let go without having to kill him (even though this isn't the type that carries Lyme).  If I have to kill him, I also need to dig out his mouth parts from under my skin.  Given his positioning on my leg and my lack of free movement, I don't want to try that either, but I'm limited in my choices.

"Gerry, just touch his head with the needle.  It'll kill him, but we'll get this taken care of.  I don't want him to get any deeper."  Given enough time, ticks tend to burrow.  That's something I don't want to be a part of.  Gerry does as I instruct, killing the beast, then pulling him off my skin.  The mouth parts are left behind.  They appear as two red dots in my leg.  I take a tweezer and the pin and try to pry them out as best as I can.  They aren't too deep, so they come out with little trouble.

The tick escapade complete, I can now turn to more pressing matters.  Like taking a shower and getting some food.

The shower and the food go relatively uneventfully.  I can walk, I don't have any blisters, and I'm feeling really strong.  I am very tired, though, but I decide before taking a nap that I should put away the tent and get ready to leave town as soon as David finishes.  The tent is a mess.  It is completely blown over, and the shower that went through the area right as I was finishing left it wet -- along with everything inside.  I fold it up as good as I can, leaving it out of its bag, and put it in the car along with the rest of the wet sleeping gear.

I venture back into the lodge and travel (yes, it's a journey) upstairs to see what's going on.  There are a few runners who are awake and others who are sleeping.  I decide to take a nap on the couch for awhile.  I check to be sure that David is still out there making progress, and I hear that he has cleared mile 87.7 and is on his way toward Elizabeth Furnace.  He has about three hours before the official cutoff, but Ed has told me that the cutoff has been extended.

Because of the course change, the added trail over Short Mountain that took me three hours to navigate in the dark, and the overall general condition of the muddy trails, he has extended the cutoff for a finish to be "whenever the last runner finishes."  Some runners have been pulled from the back of the pack due to medical reasons, but others are still making slow and deliberate progress on their way to a finish.

I take my nap, but I don't sleep well.  I find it very hard to sleep at all after one of these runs, and this one is no different.  I've been awake since 4 a.m. on Saturday morning, but my body won't slow down enough to rest.  I face the prospect of driving home with no sleep, something I didn't want to do, but it seems as though I may have no choice.  I'm sure David, still out there on the trail somewhere, won't feel much like driving; it will all be left up to me.

I hear the news: DNF, mile 95.  I wonder what happened out there to make David stop so close to the finish.  One of my cardinal rules is that a runner can't decide to DNF after 70 miles.  He must be pulled.  To be out there there for so many miles, yet to voluntarily quit, is an act that the runner will regret.  Since I know that David, being a Marine, has the will-power to finish in spite of the circumstances, I assume that something is terribly wrong.  I go out to meet him.

"I can't walk.  Uphill is OK, but I can't walk down.  I was moving at about one mile an hour."

He certainly is moving slow.  I've been there and I know how he feels.  "A shower and some food will feel really good.  After that, we'll get heading out of here and you can sleep while I drive."  His response time is slow, and each step looks painful.  He has blisters lining the bottom of both feet, a swollen right quad, and ankles that look like small water balloons.  I've been there, and this is no fun.

We get him showered and cleaned up, take his "Visitor's Award" for completing over 50 miles, and prepare for the long ride home.  While the ultra on the trails is complete, the voyage home and the journey to recover have only just begun.

1. Scott, Lady G, and Corey will be working together on this.  Lady G will be at the Shawl aid station until it closes, but even if cleanup takes a long time, there should be time to meet me at Habron Gap.

2. Times are estimates only.  I know the area, but not the trails.  Unless the weather is awful, these times should be close to what I will run.  Continual feedback during the run is critical, so let me know at each station the mileage until I next see you.  That is, I can be quite accurate between each individual checkpoint while I'm out there; the ETA I will give you during the run supercedes the ETA on the sheet.

3.  Right now, I plan on having Scott run the whole 41 miles to the end with me.  If you want to do something different, just let me know.  The critical thing is to have company with me from Scothorn Gap to Woodstock Gap.  I'll be OK in the other sections.

4.  How the aid stations work:  You will have fluid replacement drink for me in already-divided packets.  I carry 2 bottles, which I will hand to you when I enter an aid stations.  As a default, both bottles get SUCCEED!  I will ask for water if that is what I prefer at the time -- this is more likely after the Visitor's Center at mile 47 than before.  If there is a drop bag at the aid station, it will contain SUCCEED! and other clothing that I might want.  Bring it to me, and I will tell you what to do.  There is no reason to get things meticulously prepared before I get there.  I will not sit down unless I need to change socks or shoes.

5.  VERY IMPORTANT: Once I pass through an aid station where I have a drop bag, THE BAG STAYS WITH THE CREW until the end of the race.  The only reason I drop bags to begin with is that I don't have to worry about you being there or not -- I can continue even if you get lost, have car trouble, or get stuck in line at Wendy's.