Attack at Umstead

When we stand on the starting line we become family. This doesn’t happen in quite the same way at a road race, at a big city marathon. Yes, it is true to some extent in all races. But the ways in which we take care of each other, both voluntarily and by necessity, are just different on the trails.

I have seen it at Burning River, at Mohican, at Badwater. Where crews begin to travel together and form their own bonds, and by the end of the race are supporting the runner they showed up with as much as the runners they’ve acquired. I have seen it in my own races, where someone running a blistering pace to the finish stops to inquire that I’m okay. I saw it the first time I “met” Michael Patton, crouched over a tree trunk and puking four miles from the finish of the Mohican 50K. I was about to run a ridiculous PR but made sure to stop and see if he needed “salt or sugar.”

When we stand on the starting line we become family. Never more so than at a 100 miler, where the statistics are overwhelming. Typically, only 50 – 60 percent of us will finish, and only the day will tell who has been selected. We will come to the starting line prepared to give 100% physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. We ourselves do not yet know who will get sick. Or too warm or too cold. We do not know who will twist an ankle, develop horrible blisters for no apparent reason, or encounter one of the countless other complications that can occur when we decide to head “out there” for that long.

When we stand on the starting line we become family. Some of us are family already. We are training partners, friends and established “trail families.” There are new friends to be made over the long day and night, new bonds to be formed with special aid station workers who seem to be angels sent only to us, old friends to catch up with and new acquaintances to discover. Whether runner, crew, volunteer or spectator, we are bonded together for a 30 hour adventure that holds yet untold stories of bravery, heroism and seemingly endless determination.

Many things can go wrong over 100 miles and some 30 hours. We train to limit those variables to the greatest degree possible. We train our legs to run and our core to hold us up. We train our stomachs to process enough food and liquids to keep us moving. We train our minds and our hearts to overcome our legs, core and stomach when the benefits of the training have run out and we are simply too tired, too hurt and too defeated to go on.

We do not train to be attacked. We do not train for what happens when a pathetic and wretched individual invades our sanctuary.

If we are family, the trails are our home. We gather there to share stories and experiences as we cover ancient ground. We share training plans and training runs, meeting at those sacred locations we call “Big Meadows Parking Lot,” “Class A Pavilion,” “Covered Bridge,” “Lock 29.” We marvel at the different sounds our beloved trails make over the course of the seasons, each one sounding and feeling different beneath our feet. We head out for work days and volunteer hours, cleaning and grooming these rooms we spend so much time in. And yes, many of us train to get fast. And those of us that aren’t training to get fast are still training to get faster. But as we train to get fast, as we push each other on the flats, pummel each other on the downhills and drag each other up those seemingly endless climbs, we are surrounded by stillness. Some of us laugh too loud or swear too much; we often pick on each other and go directly for the sweet spot. But when one of us slows, at least one more does. No one is left alone, without adequate supplies or support.

The trails are our sanctuary. I am hard pressed to find a runner that goes to the trails just for a run, and not for equal parts rest, restoration and healing. No matter what internal pain or dilemma we might bring to them, the trails remain peaceful and still, with only our laughter or labored breathing breaking their serenity. We are home.

This weekend at about 3:30 pm, our home was invaded.

He was wearing a bright orange hat, a blue sweatshirt and jeans. Darris and I were closing in on our fourth loop and had run exactly 48 miles. We were on long, gentle downhill that would fade into flat before a short but steeper climb.

He appeared suddenly, then charged down the hill screaming and pushed someone into a ditch. Continuing our run, we watched a couple of runners gather around, and quite frankly, I was annoyed that our run was being interrupted by some idiotic kids fighting in the park. I saw the runners ahead trying to break it up, but suddenly something felt very, very wrong.

And as the bloodied person came out of the ditch to reveal a runners’ number, the seven of us gathered - four men and three women - quickly realized that this was a far more sinister situation.

One of us had been attacked, and the culprit was ready for round two. Actually, he asked us who was next. Stuck in a grim and frightening tableau, we stopped. All of us. And what happened next would change each of us, in our own ways, for a very long time.

***

The Umstead blog started out being titled “My Two Dads,” and that’s the kind of day it was. Filled with good friends, laughter and adventure. And though we’re going to have to return to mile 48, that is, most blessedly, how the day ended.

Our flight arrived without incident, and after running a few errands for last minute supplies and dinner, Darris, Darrin and I arrived at the hotel only to bump into Dave, Katie, Michael and Jen and Shane and Lori Sampson at check in. Spirits and nerves were both high as we headed for our rooms, and Darris and I got a good laugh as we left the elevator on the third floor. A solid half of the hotel room doors were propped open as various runners loaded in coolers, drop bags and miscellaneous gear. Jocularity ensued as we joked that at least no one would be playing loud music – past 8 pm.

Darris and I nibbled on dinner while we portioned out snacks and arranged drop bags for the next day, and were in bed a little after nine. Being so close to the start, we had the luxury of almost seven hours of sleep the night before the race. I closed out my day by reading an article in the latest Runner’s World about Barkley (which was a surprisingly good read), and then attempted my pre-race sleep. It was in fits and starts, but slowly it came.

We headed to race headquarters just after 5 am on Saturday, and COTR (Central Ohio Trail Runners) had staked a random section in the center of HQ. After many hugs, well wishes and attempts at photos, it was quickly time to make last minute adjustments to drop bags and head to the start.

I loved this starting line. It was like a giant family reunion all around us. There was no countdown, a seeming absence of any nerves at all. Runners and crew alike literally milled about, hugging, joking and good lucking. And then this really cool pistol got fired out of nowhere and people literally said “oh, we started!”

So we started.

Darris, Darrin and I all intended to go out right at 20 hour pace. We kind of varied our conversations on for how long. Sometimes it was until 50, sometimes it was until 75, sometimes it was “at least 62.” Nevertheless, we had three muskateers on a mission.

The Umstead course consists of eight 12.5 mile loops. I had said from the start that my first loop was purely exploratory – I wanted to see the course, begin to learn it, start to plan. If it was a little slower than 2:30 (our per loop pace), so be it. Lindsey Brokaw and Mike Keller joined us, and before we could say good luck or be careful, Terri Lemke, Dave Huss and Michael Patton were gone.

The course shocked me with its beauty. I found it hard to believe that we were less than three miles from the Raleigh Airport and the longest strip mall I had ever seen; the trees were thick and green, the wisteria fragrant and a beautiful shade of purple. I had asked Jay about gaiters and he said if I didn’t need them at Highbanks, I wouldn’t need them here. He was right. A little sand maybe, but no rocks or scrim. It was good. It was really good.

We chatted. I gave Lindsey and Mike a few more tips as I knew we wouldn’t be together all day; Darris and Darrin and I talked about random things. We settled in. We made an amazing discovery – Darris was having FUN. For the first time ever, he was SMILING and having FUN. On TRAILS. I’ve asked him for a couple of years now if he even likes doing this all that much. Well, give him a course without multiple obstructions (read: rocks and roots) and suddenly, he’s clicking his heels and doing an Irish jig ahead of us. Hell, I didn’t even know he could click his heels OFF the trails! We hit the first aid station right on time and moved into loop 2 after dropping our long sleeve shirts and going down to tanks and armwarmers. Mike and Lindsey were playing it safe and had pulled back a bit, so it was down to the three of us.

This was my favorite loop of the day, covered with my husband and a dear friend. We laughed and joked and studied the course on the side. We giggled at how Darrin, still newer to the ultra world, had worried before the start about the Barkley conch. So the story goes that as Darris and Darrin walked to the starting line from the restroom, they heard a voice in the wilderness say "They blew the conch at 12:07." Darrin worriedly asked Darris "what does that mean?" Well, friends, it means that Gary Cantrell was in one hell of a sadistic mood. We explained Barkley.

We began to hike up the long hill that pretty much stretches from mile 4 to mile 5. Darrin remarked to me yet again what an amazingly fast walk Darris has. How he wished he could master it. How maybe he should train to do it.

"Hey Darris!" he yelled up the hill.

"What's your inseam?"

Which of course just led to fits of laughter.

"Well, I don't know about his inseam, but I just finished the gear order for the pace team, and I can tell you he has the largest foot of all 21 pacers," I answered.

Darris shot his fist in the air.

Believe it or not, it got worse from there.

Now at some point, we discussed something about how silly we must all look in our COTR shirts, because people kept asking us "what's a COTR?" So Darrin says, "hey, you know how we could really confuse people? We start telling them how proud we are of our daughter."

I was really happy the aid station was approaching, so they would have food in their mouths and not be able to talk for a few minutes. The hot dogs were ready at the mile 7 aid station and as I took a nature break, the boys loaded up on food and Darris had his first hot dog, the goal having been to have one per loop.

We moved on, enjoying our time together as the sun continued to rise. At some point on the back half as we continued theoretically plotting the rest of our day, Darrin jokingly reminded us that it was all about him. "Sorry," I said, teasingly referring to Burning River. "I already ran that race."

And we were back on the pine needles, steps from the aid station. I was stripping off my arm warmers and gloves, ready to grab food and get back out there. I grabbed the english muffin with honey butter, shoved food into pockets, thanked volunteers and headed back to the trail.

This is where I came undone for the first time. Early yes, but it happened. Allow me to describe the course for you a bit to help you better understand our story.

The runner leaves race headquarters on a soft bed of pine needles. You first descend half a dozen trail stairs, then climb about half a dozen. You run half a mile through some very rocky Laurel Highlands type terrain until arriving at a metal park gate where you turn right onto the “Airport Spur.” I renamed it “the dreaded Airport Spur.” The Airport Spur is a mere mile out to a hairpin turn around an orange safety cone and back. It is the l-o-n-g-e-s-t mile imaginable, in spite of the “excellent view of the RDU airport,” as described in the race’s official course overview. From there, you rejoin the primary loop, which is quite fun as you see runners headed back to headquarters in the other direction, plus runners turning onto the airport spur.

Miles 3 and 4 both offer some luxurious downhill stretches with only a few short climbs. Mile 4 to mile 5 is one of the longest climbs of the race, not always steep, but continuous. From mile 5 to the aid station at mile 6.85 is completely runnable with even more downhill. The second full-service aid station is at mile 6.85, and we tended to walk out of it for about a quarter of a mile while we ate. There's about a mile of runnable terrain before you hit a pretty gnarly climb and begin the "sawtooth," a section of about 2 miles where you run well, then climb hard; run well, then climb hard. The race director refers to the hills in this section as "real stinkers."

After a nasty climb right after mile 9, it's runnable through mile 10. You have a hint that mile 10 is coming because you see the first power line wires overhead; you run a gentle downhill to the power line towers and then climb out. The remainder of the loop through mile 10 has a couple more quick climbs, but nothing that rises to the level of "stinker." At mile 12, you turn right at the same metal gate that leads to the dreaded airport spur, and re-enter the area with the rocks, then the pine needles, then the stairs.

We are now on loop 3, just past 25 miles, headed out on the dreaded airport spur. And I am crashing hard and comatose. They both know. We see Michael, who gleefully announces that he knows he out way too fast but he's going with it. We see Terri and Dave, about four miles ahead of us, running well and looking fantastic.

I try to convince us all that it's okay, that it's just low energy, a bad patch. We're all going to have them I say, as the spur stretches on and on and on. I become annoyed with both of them because they're talking and running the uphills. You should note that the airport spur is pancake flat without so much as a roll.

I allow the negative self talk. What did you expect? You don't train for a 100 miler in 35 days. Sure you have a base, I think. But to run 20 hours? Seriously?

Darris breaks my revelry to ask what I've eaten. I tell him that I had the honey/english muffin and some of the napkin too. (It had gotten soggy and affixed to the muffin, and I had forgotten that the OCD in me had actually packed a napkin because the honey would be sticky). "It just hasn't kicked in yet," he said. So calmly, and so lovingly, that I almost cried.

And by the time we finally got to that long hill at mile 4, it had kicked in. My energy was back, but something else had kicked in. My baby toes were pinched and raw.

This had me downright fluxommed. In three previous 100's and Laurel Highlands, I have never had a blister. Never. My feet are really good. I wear socks. I change them if they get wet. This is the extent of my footcare and it has never failed. I reviewed. Were the socks wear tested? Yes. For 28 miles. Were the shoes wear tested? Ummm, yes. A PR at Burning River, my long runs and the Wednesday night runs at Highbanks. Time for Plan B.

I decided that if I could get bandaids wrapped around the pinky toes, that should prevent them from rubbing against the other toe, which I theorized was causing the problem. I ran a little bit ahead to the midway aid station (called "Tom and Jerry's") and did some quick bandaid action on the feet. Darris had another hot dog, Darrin had a burger. Again we continued, all agreeing that we would feel so much better mentally if only it were the fourth loop. We worried a bit at how fast Michael was out, but Darrin was convinced he could - and likely would - run close to 16 hours. As we approached the top of the stinker at mile 9, I announced that I had good news and bad news. The good news was that the bandaids had worked. The bad news was that they had fallen off and were now floating in my socks. This was the point at which we had the opportunity to see Jay, lapping us for the first time. He slowed a bit as we sped up a bit to share our days so far. Jay was running well, but concerned about his IT band. It was really aching and ... well, that was about all he said, but more didn't need to be said. Jay was facing 50+ more miles with an aching IT band, and while I didn't know what was happening in Jay's mind, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he was worried about which percent of the runners he would fall in that day. Jay didn't go to Umstead just to run, he went to perform. To race. But ever upbeat, and ever caring, he still checked on each of us before he continued on, with damn good spirits for a guy who might not have been sure how his race was going to turn out either.

We could tell Darrin was getting hot, and he made mention that if we pulled ahead, we shouldn't wait for him. We had to have that conversation where you affirm that at some point, it's every man for himself. As we approached headquarters, Darris and I sensed that we were leaving alone.

I ran in to the most incredible group of support people/crew that a runner could ask for. Suzanne was smiling brilliantly and asking what I needed, and I announced that my socks were misbehaving and needed to be punished. I grabbed a different pair, the pair that had given me the religious experience at Covered Bridge at Burning River this past year, and ran over to the medical table to grab bandaids and do a quick but more serious job on those pinchy toes.

Suzanne was immediately behind me. I told her and the aid station worker that I knew exactly what I needed to do and could do it quickest myself. Suzanne was a godsend, taking care of all my food and beverage needs while I did my feet, ensuring that I lost the least amount of time possible at the aid station. She brought me cokes and turkey sandwiches so that as soon as I was done with my feet, I was walking out, food in hand. Love her.

Sweet, blissful relief. I felt like I had pillows on my feet. I had energy. I had the softest socks imagineable. My poor little toes were bolstered by cushiony bandaids. This was going to be a good loop.

Mark Carroll sprinted by us, looking for Jay.

He was going to catch Jay with some tape, he said.

Darris was worried. I end to run a few steps ahead, and it was annoying him to no end. He said if I was going to pull away to just do it. It was far too early to pull away, especially considering the crash I had had just ten miles earlier. I committed to staying with him, and when I would realize I was pulling ahead, I would call out "coming back," to let him know I recognized it.

Goals? Darris wanted to PR. Which was roughly going under 20 hours for him, but he really just wanted to be under that 20:46. Me, I had a goal from the start of 20 - 22 hours. Anything under 22:10 was a PR for me; I was certainly hoping to break 22. From 22 it was all gravy, but on this particular course, I really did want to see if I had 20 in me. And in the past three years, a sub 20 would have netted me a top 5 finish, which would be nothing to scoff at after the past six months.

Yet I knew it was a lofty goal, relying so heavily on my leftover base from the summer and Burning River. Yes, I had loaded it in over the past 35 days, but let's be realistic. This was not an optimal training program, and I was not expecting miracles. I was truly grateful just to be there, and planning to run the smartest race I could to optimize my chances of success.

We were running our fourth loop, which would put us at the halfway point. Still too early to make any decisions, but with fifteen minutes in the bank and both of us moving well, we were very cautiously optimistic. Darris seemed to struggle a little, but so too had I, and I reminded him that we should each expect two or three really bad patches over the course of the day.

Much like our 40 mile training run, we often ran silently, with a smattering of jokes or a "proud of you," thrown in. We were at the sawtooth section and starting to discuss our plans for the day - one more loop together to 62.5? Or stay together until 75 and figure it out then?

I remarked that I thought the reason it always took so long to get from mile 9 to mile 10 was that mile 9 was entirely runnable, without a single walk break. We passed the mile 9 marker and turned right onto a solid climb. "Well, except for this part," he laughed. "Yeah, except for this stinker," I replied.

We passed the girl in the blue "Team 413" tank I had been keeping an eye on all day. Because Umstead is loops, you don't know where you are if you have an outside goal of placing, because you don't know if the woman you're passing is on the same loop as you. You could be lapping someone, or someone could be a lap ahead of you. She was running well, but we passed easily.

We came to the set of power wires overhead that signified "almost mile 10." We were on long, gentle downhill that would fade into flat before a short but steeper climb.

He was wearing a bright orange hat, a blue sweatshirt and jeans. Darris and I were closing in on our fourth loop and had run exactly 48 miles.

He appeared suddenly, then charged down the hill screaming and pushed someone into a ditch. Continuing our run, we watched a couple of runners gather around, and quite frankly, I was annoyed that our run was being interrupted by some idiotic kids fighting in the park. I saw the runners ahead trying to break it up, but suddenly something felt very, very wrong.

And as the bloodied person came out of the ditch to reveal a runners’ number, the seven of us gathered - four men and three women - quickly realized that this was a far more sinister situation.

Walt was wearing a white tank and covered in blood. A runner in a red short sleeve shirt and a runner in a gray short sleeve shirt were both trying to help him and jockeying for position with this heathen creature. He lunged at each of them, yelling "Who's next? Who else wants some? You? You?"

He was possessed, strung out, clearly mentally ill or on some psychotropic drug. He wanted to hurt people. And Darris was moving forward.

"STOP!" I yelled at Darris. "What are you doing?"

"COME ON!" he yelled at me. "We have to go through together."

I am turning around on the hill, running backwards. Darris is angry with me. "STAR, STOP! COME ON!" he pleads. Erika, the girl in the blue tank, comes up behind me. "He's been attacked," I say. "This guy is attacking runners."

There is an older woman in a green running jacket and pink lipstick. "No," she says. "No. We can't go there."

"STAR!" Darris pleads.

"I'm hurt," says the woman in the green jacket. "I'm slow. I'll get left behind. I have to go back."

And then he leers, this creature in the orange hat. He rips the hat off and leers, still lunging and jumping around. I do not know who he leered at, me or Erika. But now, as a woman, an even worse thought began to cross my mind. I begin stepping further back. We will go backwards for help. How fast can this kid run? Yes, we will go backwards.

Something is about to happen. He's getting angrier. He's yelling again. Darris steps back, drops down.

He comes up, clad in his SPAM t-shirt, with a very large stick.

"YOU will do the honorable thing," he says, brandishing this stick. "No one has bothered you."

The creature starts screaming again. Darris is screaming back, and it is no longer PG rated.

"You will let us pass!" he screams.

I break down. Did I grab Erika, or just start sobbing? "That's my husband. Oh my God, he's going to hurt him. Oh my God, oh my God. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Oh God. GOD!"

My husband may have a stick, yes.

He also just made himself this psycho's number one target.

Have you ever asked yourself "what if?" Or "how would I go on?" Or for any reason had to think the unthinkable?

I have.

I did.

"NOW," he shouted at us. "GIRLS, NOW."

Erika and I went. We ran. I knew better than to look back. At some point, the psycho had retreated to the woods on the right, but still visible and not nearly far enough away.

Two cyclists approached over the hill, and for the first time, I thought I felt calm. But the words collapsed out of me as if I were drunk, slurring and crying at once.

"Please! Please help us. He's attacking people! There's a guy back there, he's in an orange hat, he's attacking the runners! Please, please, get help!"

The women on horses are next. Again I think the horses bring me peace, and again, I am wrong.

WHERE IS DARRIS? WHY ISN'T HE COMING? WHY CAN'T I SEE HIM?

Buoyed by the cyclists, by the horses, I stop. I go back just a few steps, terrified at what I might see below.

There is my husband, his hand on her elbow. She is wearing a green jacket and pink lipstick. He slowly leads her up the hill, talking to her quietly, brandishing his stick like Moses.

About 400 yards later, he angrily threw the stick in the woods.

We begin introducing ourselves. Walt is badly bloodied but moving. We feel safe enough now, knowing that people are going for help. We can't help worrying for our friends still out there, still to pass through. I think about Darrin, not far behind us and possibly alone. My heart breaks as I think of Lindsey and Terri, also possibly alone. Will he be caught? Or will he just hide and lay in wait?

The words I said to my husband remain between he and I. There are many more left to be said. This is a separate blog post, one too emotionally dangerous for me to touch quite yet. Like any other couple, we do not have the perfect marriage. When faced with that moment in the woods, I realized how little the perfect marriage means.

I cannot breathe without him.

***

My race ended there, at 48 miles. Erika was finishing, and the woman in the green jacket announced that she was done as well. We began to separate as we moved closer to the metal gate, and the "running" that we did was a shambles. Darris told me to slow down, that we didn't have to make it all up in the next two miles, and I answered that I was just trying to finish.

I would not go back out there, I told him. Would not face those power lines four more times. Alone. In the dark? Hell, no. Done. DONE.

We moved quietly, hearts beating rapidly.

"It does suck," I said.

He knew to wait. He let me finish, because he knew I would get there.

"When I quit, he wins," I finished.

"He wins," he answered quietly.

Erika was ahead. She stopped at the timing table and said she was done; she was only running the 50 miler. I came up behind her and gave my number at check in. We embraced, tightly.

"Finish, finish!" they said to her. She had not yet actually crossed the finish line. I'm not sure it mattered at that point.

Head spinning, I quietly asked who the head volunteer was. I didn't want to alarm our crew, who still had runners on the course. I know they knew something was wrong.

Joe was on the phone, when he finished, we spoke. He began taking details as the seven of us filtered in. We made them aware Walt was coming and pretty messed up. The culprit had been apprehended. Walt had a first aid team dedicated solely to him as he approached.

I need to state unequivocally that this was not the fault of the race. This is a state park, and on any given day, any person has access to it. Had we not been there, there would have been runners there, training on the course. There would have been hikers and families there on vacation. There would have been cyclists and horseback riders.

Sadly, there would have also been a very disturbed young man in an orange hat, and someone would have been hurt that day. This had nothing to do with the race, its organization, its volunteers, its staff. This was about a deranged and disturbed young man bent on violence.

It took us less than half an hour to return to camp after the incident. In that time, the culprit had been arrested and taken into security. No other runners were hurt, in part because those nearby were warned by the cyclists and horses. The race acted that quickly.

When Walt arrived at camp, they were waiting for him. They had first aid volunteers specifically assigned to him. They took down the numbers of all who had witnessed the attack and asked that we submit witness reports after the race.

I will absolutely return to Umstead.

As I did that evening, a little before 4 pm.

I got my food, filled up my water bottle, and joined my husband on the airport spur. Here we go again.

We were still a shambles. We had no rhythm, our pace was erratic, our breathing off.

I apologized. I just didn't have it. Just didn't have the will to go on.

We kept running. When we talked, it was mostly about that. And the fact that he was a hero. We were a weepy, emotional mess.

We decided that we would continue. We didn't know what would happen to our races, but we would take back the night. We would finish.

I thought we would end up running the whole thing together, and I thought it would be some beautiful and apt metaphor after all the infertility garbage and everything.

But Darris was fading a little on the back half of the lap. We made it through the power lines. We made it to mile 11. We started talking.

It was time, we decided. I said I was going to stay with the 2:30 laps, but he needed to do his own thing. It was getting too hard to run together, he said, and I had to agree. 62 miles into the 100, and it was time for us to go our separate ways. "I'm proud of you," he said, as we approached headquarters.

"I love you," I said, with it sounding insignificant after the past three hours.

After a long hug, I moved to the aid station and left.

The funniest thing is that I struggled getting out of camp. They made me take a long sleeve shirt because it was going to get cold, but I was in such a rush that I hadn't tied it around my waist. Then I had all my food to manage, plus I was trying to drink some coke, and now I had to use the bathroom too. Not working out.

I popped behind a tree to take care of all this business. And suddenly, I see Darris go by. Hauling ass, no less.

"Hi Pup," I yelled from the woods.

We were on the spur, so I knew I'd see him on the out and back. When I did, he said "I might regret this, but I feel good, so I'm going with it!"

Blowing my mind again.

I am trying to hold back. I have decided to go all in, which means this lap, loop six, must remain at 2:30. With two loops to go, I have a marathon left. I can race a marathon after 70 miles, I know I can. I have done it twice before. But it means not being stupid now.

Slow down, I begin saying. "Too much, too much," I say out loud.

I am proud of myself. I know the course. I have studied well and feel prepared for what's to come. I reach Tom and Jerry's at just the right time and greet them gleefully. I take my two ibuprofen, pleased to have held off on it until mile 70. A wonderful volunteer with short curly gray hair tells me how well I'm doing, how upbeat. Tells me how fantastic I look. Asks how I feel.

"I feel good for where I'm at," I say. I love this woman's aura. I already can't wait to see her again. "Two and a half hours," I say, thanking the volunteers and referencing when I'll be back.

My first trip through the power lines is not alone; numerous runners surround me. I feel safe.

I return. I have run 2:25 for this loop, good enough. I have 15 minutes in the bank on my 20 hour finish. I have two loops, 25 miles to go.

It is time to race.

My ipod is ready, having been specially programmed with exactly six hours of songs that were to force me to run. My iced coffee and chocolate cupcake are in my hands. The volunteers are still harassing me put on more clothes. Michael Patton is sitting in a chair, having cleared the contents of his stomach. He is taking a 45 minute nap, he says, then resuming the race.

My race begins now.

As I head down the pine steps, I hear "runner coming through, make way!" It is Jay Smithberger, Skinny Beast. I look at my watch. 14:52. He has beat his previous time soundly, broken 15 hours. "SMITHBERGER!!!!" I scream, utterly elated.

The spur is no longer endless, but simply four songs. Two out, two back. Meet me Halfway. Ride the Storm. Dynamite.

I see Terri Lemke, and I must pass. Terri is the one woman I didn't want to pass in this race. I still don't want to, but I know I must.

I see Steve, but not Dave. I realize that Dave, too, is now behind me. I have a sinking feeling.

"He's coming," I say.

I am caught singing the Jackson 5's "Want You Back" out loud by runners on the other side of the spur. They laugh with me, not at me.

I look over at the airport. It is now night, pitch black. It is beautiful.

I look up at the stars. They are stunning tonight.

And now I just run. I rip out the headphones as I approach Tom and Jerry's and the angel with the curly hair says "Already? Do you have any idea how fast you're moving?" I want to hug her. Instead, I get a styrofoam cup full of canteloupe. It was my one bad decision of the day.

I should have hugged her.

I force the canteloupe down listening to Fergie and get my butt running again. I am walking up one of the stinkers when Cry Me a River comes on.

It is the only time I think about the baby.

It is a cruel song, perhaps, when looked at that way. And I was listening to a very dark version of it. But it was my apology. To myself and this phantom child. I had to say these things. I didn't give up on you, I haven't given up on you. But yes, I've cried a river. I have cried a river over you. I think about the night I had to stop running because the injection site in my quad was so sore that every pounding step was agony. I think about the constant disappointment and the unending loss of hope. I think about the mornings cried away in bed, the afternoons hiding behind my office door with bright red eyes.

I'm not crying tonight. Until the bandaids come off my left foot. YEOW. Oh God. White hot.

Russian Roulette.

When I signed on the dotted line for Umstead, I had exactly 35 days to get ready. I immediately had buyers remorse. How could I train that much that fast without getting injured terrified me.

I started doing speed ladders at the gym again, two nights a week. I listened to Rihanna. Over and over and over again. If you saw me on the treadmill, staring at the clock, it was Rihanna.

And as I approach the power lines, the lyrics can't help but take on an even deeper meaning.

A little Katy Perry, my dirty ipod secret. Some old school Janet Jackson, and I'm back on the pine needles. I hear Skinny Beast. He beseeches me to put some clothes on. It is probably in the 40's by now; I am still just in a tank and shorts. They tell me it's going to get really cold. They tell me it's going to the 30's. I take my lined mittens to appease them. I've got just 12 more problems to solve, plus a little nausea.

I head to the medical table at the aid station to slap something together on my foot. A lovely man with a long goatee and a killer British accent really gets on me about my clothes as I quickly wrap bandaids around my toe. Tells me they are just looking out for me, trying to take care of me. Asks me how many more loops.

"One," I say politely. "Here's the thing." (Swig of Coke). "I have a long sleeve shirt and mittens with me. I grew up in Buffalo. My birthdate is 10/25/75. My childhood address was 559 Busti Avenue. I'm just not cold."

He smiles at me, pats me on the shoulder.

"Be safe," he says. I am in the aid station for less than 3 minutes.

I am about to throw up canteloupe. I must have eaten too much of it at the last aid station, because there seems to be a piece of it stuck in my throat. It won't go down and it won't come up. With one loop to go, I'm fine to puke. I'll take a gel after and be good. I'm burping canteloupe. I'm choking on canteloupe. It is all wrong.

I say goodbye to the spur. The mile 3 downhill doesn't seem as long. My quads are starting to ache. Move, I think. MOVE.

Stereo M.C.'s. Don't think, Star. Run.

God I'm tired. I'm awake, but so tired.

Move. Move.

Brown Eyed Girl. It's our song, the song we seemed to hear everywhere we went that summer in 2000. Darris! He's still ahead! He's DOING IT!

Move, Star. Move, move, move.

Almost at Tom and Jerry's. You have to take a gel there.

(Canteloupe. God no, all I can taste is canteloupe).

Ugh, how did this James song get on here? That was an accident.

Get the gel out. Stop thinking about canteloupe. Oh, curly haired angel!

I can't do this gel. I don't want to coat the canteloupe with chocolate-cherry gel.

I force the gel down. The volunteers are ecstatic for me. "You've been amazing," I tell them. They return the compliment. I stand there, looking for her.

She is gone. I should have hugged her.

So I run.

I run the stretch out of the aid station for the first time and immediately regret it. I am just so tired.

Wide awake, but asleep at the wheel. I forget about the canteloupe.

Fetal position. Fetal position. Oh God, I just want to be in the fetal position.

It is almost too painful to think about, the idea of being in the fetal position. Anywhere. Ground, bed, bathtub, I no longer care. I decide that immediately upon finishing, I am curling up on the ground at the COTR camp in the fetal position.

I begin running up a hill. My legs are like jello. I feel my quads collapse underneath me.

I walk as hard as I can. I wanted to run the hills this time. They are so steep now. They are so much steeper than they were an hour ago and I am so tired and I'm close enough, right? I mean, I have time, right? Right?

"Suffer well," Sandi wrote to me.

Suffer well, I think. I think of Sandi and Rachel, what inspirations they are to me. I ask if Sandi and Rachel would slow down because they were "close enough." I think of Shaun and Steve pushing them through the woods, bringing my thoughts full circle to Darris (Darris!) who is still ahead of me!

Suffer well, I think.

And I let out a howl as I begin truly suffering.

My legs are like jello on the uphills, and steak knives are being hurled at my quads on the downhills.

What am I saving it for? WHAT?

Five miles, Star. WHAT are you saving it for?

Suffer well. Fetal position. Suffer well. Fetal position. Fetal position. Fetal position.

I have never felt this before. The caffeine has me wide awake, but I am so utterly exhausted. Literally bone tired.

Suffer well, Star.

You're really not that scared to hurt, are you?

So I take a deep breath, and for the last four miles, I run.

I haven't heard the music since I left the last aid station. When I look at the playlist later, I'll realize there were eleven entire songs I never heard.

I see the gate in the distance and suddenly there is music blaring in my ears.

It is Groove Armada. The song is "Easy." The lyrics are "looking back it was easy."

I have a single lucid thought remaining, and it is enough to make me laugh out loud at the irony.

At mile 12, there is a man at the gate.

"Last loop?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

"Great job," he says. "I'm going to run you in."

"God it hurts," I moan, on the verge of the tears.

"I imagine it does."

I'm on the pine needles. I run up the steps.

Breathe, Star. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

"Fishie!" I hear a cry from the darkness.

We embrace.

***

We head inside to the fire, to warm clothes. I peel off my socks and make a nasty discovery about my toes. We both try not to pass out. The first aid people hover, bring us chicken broth, cokes and ginger ale. I am in the fetal position on the dirty floor of a large park cabin. It feels like heaven.

Darris gets really sick, so they take him to the fire. I am on a bench before the fire, in the fetal position.

There is carnage all around us when Lindsey and Mark Carroll walk in. Lindsey is at mile 75. She does not look good.

She is tired, she is cold, she is slowing. She has a long night ahead and I am worried for her. She needs resolve. I'm not sure I hear it.

I tell her she is strong. I tell her I am proud of her, I believe in her, and that she can do this. I do not sugar coat it. It is cold, she is tired, and it will suck. I feel guilty laying there in hooded sweatshirt and pajama pants, finished, and telling someone else to go back out there. But she has no choice. I won't be the one to give her one.

I call Mark over after I hear her tell her husband she will at least do the airport spur, and then decide. She is giving herself an out now. I won't have it, but I don't want to meddle too much.

I watch her. She is getting warm, comfortable. It worries me. It would be so easy, I think. It's going into the 30's, it's late, it's cold, she's tired, she's run further than she ever has in her life.

Lindsey starts digging in her bag for dry clothes.

And through my blurry haze, I see it.

Lindsey resolves it.

They go back out.

***

Darris can't make it to the car, so a volunteer takes me. Darrin and I drive back to headquarters so we can pour him into the car. We are a sad lot. We stumble to the room. I sleep in 30 to 40 minute increments and suck on Skittles. All I can taste is canteloupe.

When I'm awake (or rather, can't sleep) I keep track of what and who I can on Facebook. All that's left to do is wait.

***
Sadly, Darrin and Dave both discontinued their races due to injury.

Jay Smithberger finished his race in a fourth place time of 14:52, soundly breaking 15 hours. I have no doubt that the ministrations of the sensei (and not just the tape he delivered) played a large role in this.

Michael Patton recovered from his early gamble (and his nap) to run a sub-24 hour 100, and still got his one day buckle. Terri Lemke finished just a minute behind him, also recovering from a fast start, still making her time goal, and breaking 24 hours for the first time.

Mike Keller suffered well but ran a smart and methodical race, escorted for 50 miles by Rob Powell, fighting his own blisters and knee pain through the cold night. Mike earned his first buckle in just under 28 hours.

Walt Prescott, 57 years old, received first aid after a brutal and senseless attack in the woods and continued his race, finishing in 22 hours and reminding me of all our sport stands for.

And Lindsey Brokaw, one of my newest inspirations, bravely continued for two more laps after her sojourn to the fire, escorted by the sensei, Mark Carroll. Lindsey finished early Sunday morning as well, just over 29 hours, earning her buckle and her title as a 100 mile finisher.

***

Darris and I finished within 30 seconds of each other, running 19:23:51 and 19:24:21. We had no idea we were that close to each other.

It was a significant PR for both of us, and good enough for 2nd place woman for me.

I witnessed many acts of tremendous and selfless heroism this weekend.

Running a great race was hardly one of them.