"I will never run a 50K."

"There's no way I'll ever run an ultra."

"26.2 will always do."

Such were the frequent protestations I've uttered for the past few years whenever someone would bring up the concept of going longer then long. The marathon muse had often called to me, enraptured me, and then broken my heart almost every time I had gone to her. Why in the world would I want to purposely go farther than that? It seemed insane. 3-hour training runs were the broccoli and brussel sprouts of my training schedule; I hated them, but knew I had to get through them if I wanted to finish whatever longish race I had coming up next.

Throughout my triathlon career I've had a close-knit group of friends who'd all started racing around the same time I'd started. We'd all grown together, maturing as all triathletes do through that awkward second adolescence from newbieness to veteran status. Over the years, some I'd considered my personal mentors grew weary of the exploding Ironman scene. The endless training cycles; races that filled up in days (or hours) as opposed to months; the explosive growth that we were all a part of suddenly became too much - the 'fun' factor was becoming too much work to maintain, so they stepped back.

They went back to a simpler time; they went running. They told me that in the early days of triathlon there was a 'grassroots' feeling in that everyone was there to prove something to themselves; there was competition, sure - but there was also a sense of community, a sense of wanting to see everyone succeed. The Ultra-running community still had that. It's you, the trail, and a small group of people trying to cover the same ground.

They wrote race reports of 50K's. Then some went on to 50-milers. Then the bravest went on to complete 100-milers. They started running distances I could scarcely cover by bike, and I thought it was sheer lunacy. Running 3 hours scared me so much my bodily functions would go haywire for 2 days before a long run. The thought of running 24+ hours across a mountain range in the dark, was well beyond the boundaries of my feeble comprehension.

Anything that made Ironman look simpler? Yougottabekiddinme.

Yet, they loved it. The energy and enthusiasm in their race reports came through bright and clear, just like it had when I'd read their first Ironman reports nearly a decade ago. I could tell they had tapped back into something long since considered gone, and they were very eager to share.

Still, I resisted. I had enough trouble lugging all 196 pounds of me through 26.2 miles. Why would I want to go any farther?

Fast forward to 2004: This year I was taking a break. Not a remote-control-and-cheese-doodles break, but the kind of break most triathletes understand: I was still training and racing, but there wouldn't be any Ironman race to dominate the schedule; it was a year to get back to simple things such as enjoying the training again * going about the year without a clear plan

2003 had been a chore for me, and racing my 'last' IM in 14 hours of endless rain had pretty much snuffed out my desire to go back anytime soon. I had a wide-open slate with no expectations, and I welcomed the relief.

I focused on running, and went back to Boston. After training in snow, ice, sleet, rain, and persistent cold for 5 months, the weather in Boston was perfect...for someone from Barbados. The thermometer read 87 for the first time since August of 2003, and I (and around 20,000 others) died a horrible, fitful, miserable, heat-stroking-death-shuffle that had me running/walking/crawling for the last 14 miles to my slowest time in 8 years (4:55). I remember joking to myself nearing the 5-hour mark, "Hell - this is almost like an ultra..."

And that, as they say, was the start of it all. In the middle of my personal Chernobyl, the concept of going long didn't seem that far away at all. I was just tired enough, just out of it enough, that the idea snuck through the usual sanity check in my head*and took root.

The timing was right - I needed a new focus. I needed to try something completely different, out there, and a little bit scary: The 50K would be all of that. When I got back from Boston I signed up for the Long Island Greenbelt 50K. I grew up on Long Island, just outside of New York City. I knew the Greenbelt trail; I'd learned to ride (crash) a mountain bike (borrowed) on (and off) the trails (narrow ribbons between trees) when I was in college (home on break), so at least if I got hopelessly lost or ran into something like, the Atlantic Ocean or Long Island Sound, I could find my way home.

I didn't waste time thinking about it. Two days after Boston I went to the website and signed up. As soon as I got the confirmation, my rookie goosebumps came back; the same cold rush I got when I signed up for my first marathon in 1996; when I signed up for the Fairmount Park Half Ironman; when St. Lynda wrote out the check to send in with my first Ironman Canada application. For the first time in eight years, I'd just signed up for a distance I'd never raced before, and the fear felt good.

I was taking on a 'new' race distance for the first time in 6 years. I couldn't wait.

My body, however, could. One week before heading to NY, I strained my right calf while riding my usual Thursday night ride. I'd shown up late, skipped the warm-up, and proceeded to hang on for 30 anaerobic miles. Of course that wasn't enough, so I had to run 3 miles post-ride. BOOM went my calf, and I got to work on my Italian swearing as I hobbled all the way back to the car. I could barely walk. Stairs were out of the question. Of course, I took it all gracefully, quietly, and kept my frustration to myself.

Sure. How long have you known me? I'm Italian. Dramatics are a second language to me.

For 6 days, Lynda had to put up with Shakespeare in the living room, every night. I cursed, I swore, I limped, I moped. I blamed fast roadies, work, the Republican Party, the SUV, the lack of music videos on MTV, sunspots, and my left leg for not doing its share of the work when hanging on for dear life on lap 20. I iced, used trigger-point massage, and took enough Advil to make me think I could speak Dutch. Above all, I rested. I really did - I took 4 days completely off. No swimming, cycling, or running. I knew this was serious; if I pushed it, I probably wouldn't finish on Saturday.

Lynda didn't want me doing anything stupid (that is, beyond the usual shambles of my daily routine), so she made a deal with me: I had to pass a "Road Test" on Thursday night. If I could run 3 miles around the neighborhood without limping, I could race. If I favored, teetered, limped, gimped, winced, or even showed the slightest sign of pain, she'd hide my shoes.

Thursday night came - Lynda stood at the end of the driveway, and off I went. Thankfully I ran my laps trouble-free, and even managed to hop by on one leg at the end of the first lap (which actually hurt like hell, but I had a point to make...granted, I don't know what it was, but I hope I made it). I had my shoes - I had my bride's blessing - it was off to Long Island, and my first date with an ultra.

On the train on the way up it occurred to me that I wasn't nervous at all, which almost made me nervous, but I let it go. By worrying about my strained calf all week, I had actually never really given any thought to running the race, let alone finishing it. Now that it was here, there was nothing I could do about it except to put my shoes on, put one foot ahead of the other, and see what happened. Even my mom noticed, saying, "What's wrong? Is everything okay? I've never heard you so calm before a race."

Dave Decker (my Boston buddy and only friend willing to take up the chase with me this time around) arrived later that night. Pizza was served. Plans were hatched. He'd been running 5 miles per morning, then another 5 at night for the past 2 weeks as part of his training for Ironman USA. I'd been limping around the house watching Dr. Phil, and drinking Diet Pepsi for a week. I told him to try and resist the urge to leave to go home if darkness fell before I got there.

When we got to the Greater Long Island Running Club the next morning, all the tales I'd heard about the low-key nature of the ultra came to life. There were only 75 entrants, and the start/finish line was a simple spray-chalk line in the parking lot. While the "official" start was set at 8:00AM, we would be going out with 40 or so people who'd taken the optional "early" start at 7:00AM. This would (1) keep us out of the heat longer, (2) put us an hour ahead of the rabbits, and (3) give us all an extra hour before the 5:00PM cutoff. I hoped I wouldn't need it all, but I also didn't know a thing about running ultras other then the fact that they were, well, really freaking long.

The RD gave us some final words of wisdom, told us to watch for the course markings, and above all else to simply have fun and be safe. Someone waved and yelled, "Go!" and just like that I was heading up out of the parking lot...chuckling. "Dude. You're running an ultra." There's only one 'first' time you do anything, so I knew I should enjoy it. The newness and sheer joy of setting out on a new course was something I'd really missed. How often have you uttered the words, "Oh my God..." followed by one of these?

"I'm racing a triathlon!"

"I'm running a marathon!"

"I'm racing an Ironman!"

"I'm making a lasagna!"

Each one - an emotional high-water mark you only feel once (except that lasagna one - that never gets old). I'd never be running "my first 50K" again, so I made the point of making sure I took everything in from the very first step. I could see Dave striding away from me with total ease, and ahead of him was a woman who was also running her first 50...but something didn't look right. Everyone at the line was wearing extra gear and looking very casual; comfy shorts; Fuel Belts; bandannas; bottle holsters. This woman was conspicuous by her attire: A red Speedo brief, jog-bra, and focused attitude. She looked like she could run a 5K in 17-flat, and tore out of the starting line as if she was. Arms chopping at the air, she disappeared up and out of sight at a positively suicidal pace.

I jogged up the hill behind two young girls with a copy of the directions, each of them holding the sheet as they ran. Soon we turned off the road, into the woods, and away we went: I was back on the Greenbelt for the first time in 10 years.

I liked that right from the get-go, all steep hills were walked. The first half of the race would be an out-and-back to the town of Cold Spring Harbor, and I knew that the Northern Portion of the trail would be tough - we'd be climbing and descending constantly, going from one ridge to the next. I was happy that I wasn't running alone; I'd settled into a group of 12 people of all ages. Everyone was talking * it sounded like they all knew one another. For the first few turns I just listened to the chatter, watching my footing, getting to know the personalities of the folks around me. There were several veterans, a few novices, and plenty of New Yawk At-tee-tood.

Of course, I couldn't keep my mouth shut for more then 5 minutes. Soon I was blabbering away as usual, and just having a grand old time of it. Behind me was Greg, a 63 year-old who'd just started running 3 years earlier to "get in shape." He'd run the NYC marathon in 4:30, but he liked ultras better - "Softer on the knees, slower, better food." Ahead of me was a tiny German woman in blue Lycra - about 55-60 herself. Her name was Helma. It appeared that everyone knew Helma. Helma had a shirt that said, "I'm lost. Don't follow me. Take me home."

"How much does she get lost?" I asked Greg.

He laughed a laugh that told me I was probably the only person on Earth who didn't know the Legend of Helma. "Well, she got lost at this race last year and as far as we could tell, ran 40 miles. She got lost at Mudfest this year, last year, and the year before that. She even got lost at the Central Park 5K on New Year's Eve." He moaned. "That last one was impressive, considering there are 10,000 people in the race...but she had to take a cab to find our bus to come home."

Just then as if on cue, Helma zigged left - focusing on the ground as the people directly ahead of her unfortunately followed the blazes to the right. In a well-rehearsed drill, the group sang out in unison, "HELMA!" Without missing a beat she spun 180-degrees, came back, waved, and rolled on.

"Doesn't see the blazes on the trees much, eh?" I noted.

"Doesn't usually see anything until she runs into it." Greg added.

Saving Helma notwithstanding, we moved on as a group. We'd walk up one hill, run the next flat, run the downhill (gently), and repeat. The pace was easy, the conversation was good, and the shade from the canopy of trees was luxury. I could feel the sun above slowly rising into the sky; it was going to be a hot day for sure, just not yet. Even though the temperature was in the 70's already, the humidity was high enough to let me see my breath from time to time * that was just weird.

Soon the leaders came from the other way, while our group was still about a mile from the turnaround. The Lady in Red came up the grade, panting, striding, and arms still working like mad. Behind her was a guy in Lycra, working hard to keep up. Right after he passed me, I heard the sounds of slipping, followed by the awful 'thud' of a body suffering from an unplanned and hasty onset of gravity. "C'mon * you okay?" Someone sounded miffed * it was she. As far as I could tell, the Lady in Red was in a hurry*and not waiting for anyone. She seemed out of place here, but I let it go.

A few more people passed, then Dave came steaming up the trail looking strong. I went to give him a high-five, and suddenly he stopped: "SHOOT! My wedding ring!" It had flown into space, and everyone within 4 feet heard him say it, and stopped cold. After a few seconds of frantic searching, a young lady found it * it had been pressed into the soft ground by Dave's footfall. I reminded him, "Take some more salt if your ring is that loose!" and I heard him laugh as we headed our separate ways.

Our group descended the staircase to Cold Spring Harbor, and came out of the woods in 1:44 * but for only the first 7.8 miles. I tried not to think about it, but the hills had REALLY slowed things down. However, that wasn't important right now * it was time to eat!

There were peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Gatorade, pretzels * real food. My goal was to carry nothing (I was running sans props), and simply feast on real food when I could at each of the 4 major aid stations. As I chowed down on a sandwich, one of the younger women in our group looked at me much the same way you'd look at your grandma if you walked in while she was she listening to Eminem, swearing along in harmony.

"Are you really going to eat all that?" She asked, wide-eyed.

"Fuuure!" I replied through peanut-butter-mouth. "Itf meallly good fr yooo!"

She and her partner each grabbed a gel, a sip of water, and were gone in 30 seconds.

Not me * this was breakfast! I enjoyed some snacks, made sure I was feeling good and fueled, and then headed back up the stairs after a somewhat more leisurely 4 minutes. I hit the split button on my watch, but only as a curiosity to see if I could return at the same pace I'd come out. My goal was to be as even as possible, but I wasn't paying attention to the time * I measured my pace by time of day. It was now 8:50AM * I figured I'd be finishing around 1:30PM or so*only 4 ½ hours from now. No problem.

As I rolled on down the trail, I noticed that the group I'd been running with had spread out a bit. Once in awhile I thought I heard the echoes of "HELMA!" through the trees, but for the most part I ran the second leg alone.

I was surprised I didn't see anyone mountain biking along the trail, but I soon figured out why. After I'd learned to ride here in the early 90's, mountain bikes were banned on the Greenbelt due to erosion and trail abuse. However, the cyclists worked with New York State to come to an agreement, and had a parallel trail cut for their own use. Sometimes I could hear the sounds of wheels and gears rattling through the trees, but only once did I see a helmet flash by through the brush. It was trippy to just listen to the bikes as the whistled by, trying to figure out how many were passing by, unseen.

As I descended towards the 13-mile mark, I caught a sight of three people just ahead * it was the couple in a hurry from the aid station, and Greg. They had stopped at a hot dog truck(!), and each bought a Gatorade. "You had money?" I asked. I hadn't thought of that.

Without even a hesitation the young lady nodded, and offered the bottle to me as soon as I cleared the trees. "I'm Diane. This is Tom." Tom waved to me, and Greg asked while I drank, "So this is your first? Pretty neat, eh? You came all the way from Philly?" I nodded.

"So far, so good * long way to go, though. Almost halfway, right?" It was nearly 10:00AM * three hours. As long as my longest training run, but I knew there was so much yet to come*

As a group we set off for the next major station at 15.6 miles * a mere 2 miles away. I was getting hungry * it would be good to stop for a bit and eat again. I chatted with Tom and Diane to pass the miles; this was their first 50K as well. They'd run marathons before, and he was thinking about racing a triathlon later this year. I noticed that they were running more like pure runners * hard on the hills, very little walking. Tom would lie back, and then playfully sprint past on the uphill as I walked. Diane was more steady, but still not taking it easy on the hills. I could tell the still had the 'racing' mindset, versus my 'tourist' approach*but they were still great company.

As we came to the halfway mark I checked my watch: We'd taken 1:44 on the return to reach the halfway mark in 3:28. It was slow, but I'd been steady * that was all I could ask for. Once again I helped myself to some PB&J, some pretzels, and a can of Coke. Tom grabbed a PowerGel, Diane did the same, and almost impatiently (with perfect Long Island at-tee-tood) motioned to me to hurry it up. "You coming?"

I waved to her, "Go ahead * I need to fuel up." Off they went, down into the woods again. I stood around, finished my Coke, had some M&M's, and talked to the volunteers for a bit. "Good snacks guys, thanks!"

"You're doing really well!" said one. "There aren't too many folks ahead of you." That was a surprise to me * I hadn't really thought about it, but I hadn't been passed at all since the turn in Cold Spring Harbor. All I had to do now was keep it steady for the next 16 miles, and I'd get it done. "Just another three hours to go * you can do that." The fact that I'd been running for nearly 4 hours didn't worry me at all. I was in a good place, just taking the adventure as it came, and enjoying the day. With one last handful of pretzels, I waved farewell to lunch, and headed South towards the second half.

The South Shore of Long Island is flatter then the North Shore, so that meant the big hills were behind me for the rest of the day. There would still be some climbing (including the highest point on Long Island at Jayne's Hill), but not the endless up and down of the first half. There was some relief, but I knew there was still plenty of trail to go yet * no need to get happy.

The packed clay of the North soon gave way to the sand of the South, and I could feel my legs getting heavier and heavier trying to make each step. I spent a good part of the next 3 miles alone, and only the water bottles and cups at mile 18 let me know I was still on the trail I was supposed to be on. The arrows and trail-blazes had been easy to follow until now, but that was going to change very shortly.

Approaching what I thought was mile 20, the leaders from the second start came trucking on by. I could hear the footsteps, and did my best to move to one side as they passed. All polite, all happy to be there, and moving much faster then I could even imagine. While making sure I stayed out of the way, I nonchalantly pulled a Helma, and missed my first major turn of the day.

"HEY!" I stopped in my tracks * the guy in 3rd overall now had stopped, and whistled to me, pointing at the blaze I had totally missed. As I shuffled back, I hung my head. "Oh, dude. Thanks!" He waited until I got back, and made sure I knew where I was going. "We're on the red trail now * easy to miss!" With that, he was gone.

"Thanks!" I yelled. "My first 50. My first mistake!" He turned and smiled, "No worries * happens to everyone. When you miss a turn, we're much nicer here then in your typical road race, eh? Enjoy the day * Good Luck!"

The sun was getting higher now * it was after 11:00AM. I wasn't quite sure what mile mark I was near, but I was hoping I was past 20. While looking at my watch and trying to figure out where I might be, I missed another turn. "BOB!" It was Tom and Diane, just up the trail. "This way!"

Despite putting 3 minutes into me twice at breakfast and lunch, here I was again * the constant, well-fed tortoise to their team hare. "We missed it too * we're just coming back. Good thing we saw you!" I had no idea how I'd missed it * I had just checked*

"These blazes are tough!" I piped. Diane seemed puzzled, "You mean these?" She pointed to a red blaze, or at least, what was some blaze-shaped patch on a nearby tree...then it hit me. I'm red/green color blind, but only certain hues are really tough for me to see. Sadly, the red on the trees was in that band, and invisible to me. Bummer.

Tom and Diane took off once more, so I didn't have my rabbits for long. That meant for the next hour I would run, stop, look around, find a dark patch, run up to it, and make sure it was paint and not bark. One tree at a time, every minute or so. I had gone from controlled pace making to Mr. Magoo's school of trail running in one switch of color. When we finally exited the red trail and switched to blue, I breathed a huge sigh of relief*until I saw Helma come flying out of the same loop I was entering. "Good job!" she chirped as she shuffled off the other way*

*while I stood there and tried to figure out how she'd gone from well behind me, to nearly 3 miles ahead. At least this time, her navigation boo-boo was in her favor!

By now I knew I was getting tired, but even as I thought that I told myself, "Dude * you've been out here for nearly 5 hours. Of course you're tired! Just keep moving." As I made my way towards the next major aid station, there was a long stretch of deep sand-running; it was like running on a beach. It was frustrating, but what could I do? I had already slowed down * this just added to the adventure. I could feel new hot spots on my feet as the sand worked into my shoes, but there was no point in stopping to shake it out * I knew I might be running in it for the rest of the day. I just adapted, slowed down, and took my time.

As I plowed through the sand, I could see a figure coming down the road towards me. It was the Lady in Red from the early part of the day, but now something was wrong. Her stride was labored, and as she drew close I could see her right knee was bloodied from a fall. As she got within earshot, I could hear her. She was growling * making noises of sheer anger, then swearing * just rearing her head back and yelling F-bombs to the woods, randomly.

It freaked me way the hell out.

I asked her, "Are you alright?" She glared and just swore at me, trundling on. I kept moving, but then after we'd passed and separated by 50 yards, she just curled up in a crouching position and screamed at her feet. I stopped and stared, but what could I do? I was afraid if I ran back, she might eat me.

I could see an aid station just ahead, so I'd report her case when I got there. "Guys, is she okay? I mean, what happened to her?" In his best New York accent, the volunteer at the table summed it up for me: "Dat broad is just nuts, man. She's been cryin' and cursin' since she came tru' here bee-for. Quick broad, but crazy." At least it wasn't me. Time to eat!

More pretzels, my first ever taste of Mountain Dew (woosh!), and away I went. I had no idea what mile mark I was at, but it was now noon. I had to be around mile 23 or 24. Perhaps another 1.5 or 2 hours to go?

Imagine my dismay when 2 miles up the trail, I arrived at the mile 20 aid station. Say what? The sand had to be slowing me down. My legs had to be slowing down. The fact that I'd been running for 5 hours, yeah, that was probably slowing me down, too. The race director was there to meet people, and beaming. "How do you like the course? Tough, huh? Just wait * you've got the hardest miles coming!" He smiled. "Jayne's Hill, the road section * you'll love it!"

Road section? I filed a mental post-it note, and took on some extra salt.

"Don't worry * don't panic. You're fine. Just another 2 hours." I told myself. I knew this might happen * I just had to roll with it. No expectations, no problem, or more appropriately, no brain, no headache.

As I made my way through the Rhododendron shadows towards Jayne's Hill, I knew that each step was bringing me closer to the finish. I knew that so long as I kept moving, I'd finish this thing well before the cutoff. I also knew that I was starting to get sloppy. I was stumbling over roots, even when I was sure I'd clear them. A few painful kicks woke me up, and reminded me to pay attention to where I was going.

"Just get over Jayne's Hill, and then you're headed for home." Jayne's Hill was where Walt Whitman used to hike, meditate, and write. At 400 feet, it was the highest point of the day. The gentle slopes soon turned to a steep grade, and then turned to steps; I knew I was getting close. My legs were heavy, but I knew this had to be it. I longed for the view at the top * I knew that I'd be able to see the Long Island Sound and the Atlantic from the top; I'd told Dave the same thing to give him something to focus on.

My eyes were stinging with sweat * I could feel my heart pounding. How long to the top? How much more can this go on? How long have I been out here * 6 hours? 6 Days? I finally spied a clearing * a boulder marked the top * the summit! I took the final strides to the top of the highest point on Long Island, triumphant.

I looked around. No Atlantic. No Sound. I was face to face with a water tower, with cell phone masts on top. There wasn't anything else I could see that was higher; so much for the view.

"Bummer." At least that was it for the big climb.

I worked my way carefully down the backside, closed the loop that I'd seen Helma come out of days earlier (I still have no idea how she that short of teleportation), and exited the trail. With Jayne's behind me, there wasn't much left to go now.

It was here that I stumbled into the Road Section the RD warned me about * a cruel detour off-trail, down an 8% grade for ½ mile fully exposed to the sun, only to turn around at the bottom and head right back up to the trail.

It hurt. The sun was broiling. The pavement was new. It was like exiting Sherwood Forest, and entering the lava fields in Kona.

As I hit the station at the bottom, Tom and Diane were there, taking their time (finally!) and eating. I reached for a Coke, and Diane said, "Good idea - Give me some of that." Tom took some as well, and we all loaded up for the final push for home. It was good to see they were no longer in a hurry * maybe they'd finally seen that saving 2 minutes here and there in an 8-hour day didn't really matter?

I looked at my watch * it was 2:00PM. I couldn't believe it. I'd been on the course for 7 hours * 30 minutes longer then I thought I'd be out there, but I still had 4 miles to go. "About an hour*" I thought, since there was still some sand to cover. Tom and Diane hanging in there, but I could tell they were ready to get this thing done. "Amazing how 'just 5 extra miles' makes a world of difference, huh?" I asked of no one. A passing runner heading downhill heard me and answered, "Welcome to ultra running on trails!"

We got cooked as we climbed back towards the trailhead, but walked it because getting baked on the road hurt less then running uphill on pavement after 7 hours. Entering the welcome relief of the trees once more, I knew we were on the final leg for home, and that was all I could think about. I knew where I was * I knew when we were closing in on the finish. Tom and Diane weren't sure, so I kept their spirits up when I could; "You've covered half the island today. You guys are doing great! Hear that? That's the Northern State Parkway. That means we're 2 miles from the end." We did a lot of walking * if one person stopped running, we all stopped. We'd be together to the end, the three rookies.

As we slowly made our way through those last few miles, I started to realize just what I was about to accomplish. One step at a time, I was running into my own personal no-mans land, covering mileage I'd never covered before. I'd been on my feet nearly 8 hours * almost enough time to run 2 complete road marathons*but this had been far more epic. As I pondered the tapestry of memories I'd collected through the day I started to let my mind drift.

I thought about all the times I said I'd never do this, and yet, here I was. I was going to run 31 miles, and actually enjoy it (except for the road part * that was just hellish). I started smiling * almost giggling. Unfortunately, mile 29 of an ultra is a pretty bad place to let one's mind wander, especially when shuffling along with one's feet barely skimming the surface.

As if being warned by the Ultra-Gods, I snagged a vine with both feet, and started to topple forwards. I tossed my arms ahead of me, and thought * "Don't get hurt NOW!"

PLIFF. I landed. It got very quiet.

I opened my eyes.

Through a combination of luck and luck, I'd landed in a perfect Yoga pose * the "Downward Facing Dog." Diane stopped and looked back, and turned her head sideways. She'd probably never seen someone as big as me balance like that. "You alright?" I looked up at her * "Does it count as a fall if I don't hit the ground?" My hands had landed in dry leaves * they didn't have a scratch. I stood up, untangled my feet, and made a mental note to STOP daydreaming. My friend Art had warned me, "Don't start writing the race report before you finish!" Now I knew what he meant*

*but the finish was just ahead * I could think about it soon enough!

While Tom and Diane walked the last climb out of the woods, I couldn't contain myself. I ran ahead into the clearing, and left the woods behind for good. At 6:30AM, Dave and I had driven down DuPont Road not entirely sure what the day would hold, and here I was, albeit 8+ hours later, writing the last chapter of a day like none other. 8 hours. I'd been running for 8 hours! Okay * maybe running for 5, walking for 2, and eating for 30 minutes or so, but as far as I can tell, that's the idea in an ultra.

I turned off the road towards the clubhouse, and that simple white line that I'd left so long ago was finally there for my eyes to feast on, and I couldn't contain my smile. All the previous finishers came walking out of the shade, applauding for me. I heard Dave shout his traditional greeting, "BOB-BAY!" and just like that * I was done, and relieved. I didn't have to move anymore*and that felt GREAT.

7 Hours, 55 Minutes, 36 seconds. 31.07 miles. Holy sh*t. I said I'd never do this, and I just did it. As soon as I crossed the line, I looked over at Dave and smiled, "NEVER AGAIN!" I was lying * Dave knew I was lying.

I had loved it. Every single step of it.

When we got back to my mom's house, I wasn't moving all that well. All the sand in my shoes had worked into my socks, and basically given me some world-class blisters. I wobbled towards the front door, gingerly. She asked me, "How was it? Are you okay?" I replied, "I'm fine * it was great. A total adventure!"

I could see her worry, instantly. The answer she was hoping for was, "That was fun. Never again." She'd given me that same look the first time I raced a bike, run a marathon, raced an Ironman*

"You're not going to do that again, are you? This was it, right? You can go back to just marathons now?" She pleaded. For a moment I was amused that my mother now considered a marathon a reasonable choice.

All I could do was smile the smile I've used since I was a little kid when trying to get out of trouble * complete with dimples and all. I didn't have to say a word. She knew it.

"Oh, why, why, why?" She moaned, looking towards the heavens. At least now my triathlon habit would seem 'normal' to her. That had to count for something, right?

This week I headed back to the pool, and got back on the bike. I know I'll probably always race triathlon * it keeps me from doing too much of one thing; helps keep me balanced. But I also know that whenever I get that 'burned out' feeling again; when I can't stand the thought of another set of 100's, another 5-hour ride, or a track session, it'll only take 50K to put things right.

If you ever find yourself where the training is a chore, step back from the pool and the track, sign up, and go for it. I guarantee you'll love it. Just don't rush through the aid stations, okay?

Now 50 miles? That's crazy. Don't even start with me...

Hurricane Bob
* Seriously. 50 miles? Lunacy. *