04/04/03
On the Road in Umstead State Park, Raleigh, NC, for the "Umstead 100M Endurance Run".

Up early to be on the road and through before the lunch traffic in Montgomery and the evening traffic in Atlanta. No trailer, just the cap over the bed of the pickup. Traveling light, for time is of the essence. Stop for some sleep after crossing into North Carolina. Awake and driving by 5am near Gastonia, NC, my truck slowly slips into neutral as a strange noise comes from beneath the floor. I coast down the conveniently located off-ramp, run the "stop" sign and pull into a parking lot. All of a sudden, my cell phone and road emergency insurance become real lifelines, not simply conveniences. Full of the apprehension of a stranger stranded in a strange place, I make the call. A calm, pleasant voice, brimming with confidence calms me down and gets the particulars, assuring me that help will soon be on the way. I "hang up" and before I can start fretting a tow-truck pulls alongside. The driver is still talking to the dispatcher as he parks. Less than 5 minutes have gone by! . I remember being so surprised that all I could do was repeat to myself: "This has to be an omen of good things to come. This has to be an omen"

A quick listen to the noise under my truck and he suggests a cavitating pump. Probably caused by a plugged filter. But, how did the filter get clogged? He recommends not dealing with any of the local mechanics and going to the Chevy dealership a few exits further down on the other side of town. It will be more expensive, but he vouches for their quality and honesty. Wondering if I am being suckered, I agree. On the way, we talk, and I find out he is a very hard working young man who owns two different businesses and several trucks, all bought from and cared for by the people he is taking me to. His wife also has her own business and her two cars also come from there. When we get there around 6:30am, he hands me his card, on which he has written a short introduction to the service manager, points out the door I need to be by at the 7:30am opening time, suggests a good breakfast place, and drives off with a friendly wave. Everything becomes suddenly very quiet, and I am alone again with my apprehensions.

Very quickly, the gray of dawn arrives, the sun pops up and starts climbing (along with the temperature) and traffic noises intrude. At 7:20am,the arriving service manager waves me in and locks the door behind us. One look at the card, a few questions, and he is on the 'phone trying to locate a replacement transmission. The total cost -parts and labor- would be just short of $2,500. Ouch! There was not a single suitable factory guaranteed transmission warehoused within a five-state radius. Not knowing whether to gamble on a local "used" transmission, I am somewhat relieved when there was none to be found. Meanwhile, the transmission specialist, Larry, informs us that the filter is clogged with debris from the disintegrating clutch plates. The tranny has died of old age. At 185K miles, it was not too surprising. The parts manager has been doing some research of his own and has located the perfect replacement at a dealership in the next county. He will send a driver to pick! it up immediately if I want it. They will have to buy it from the other dealer, but my quote stays the same, their profit margin will narrow. Everybody has gotten caught up in the challenge of getting me back on the road in time for my runners meeting that evening. An hour later the new tranny arrives just as the old one is dropped on the lift. They send me off with a driver to get a bite to eat, and by the time I get back, the new one is being coaxed into place. Instead of relegating me to the waiting lounge, Larry talks me through what he is doing, explains to me how the vehicle computer will train the new transmission, and assures me that my towing procedure will not harm anything. A few hours later, it is done. As I go to pay the bill, the accountant asks if I would mind a personal question, then asks my age. With a smile she informs me that I qualify for their senior citizen discount and recalculates. The total is now almost $150 less, and I am on my way with a 3 year! , 30,000 mile warranty, good at any dealership. Nice people. Good at w hat they do. All has gone so well, I almost don't mind the gaping hole in my budget!

Hours later, I pull into the park, and find my allotted space just as the runners' meeting starts. I heave a sigh of relief. Dazed, not really understanding half of what I hear, I feel drained and have trouble focussing. The pasta-load dinner is very good and plentiful, and perks me up a bit. I struggle to tape my feet, lay out my gear, and crawl into my sleeping bag, already half asleep.

4/5/03

Awakened by Mother Nature at the usual early morning hour, I find a convenient toilet nearby, and start taking stock of the morning chores. I have one and a half-hour before the 6am start. It is a warm morning, in the mid 60s, with prediction of 80s or more if the rain possibility does not materialize. Minimal clothing, maximum fluids, electrolyte capsules and sun/rain protection. Check. Dawn grays the woods, and we are off! 200 runners (maximum allowed) including Scott Eppleman one of North America's best young ultra-runners, and Dr. Hans-Dieter Weisshar becoming an old friend, shuffle out into the woods. Scott quickly takes the lead and ends up winning the 50M as well as the 100M run, finishing forty miles ahead of me almost to the mile. Hans-Dieter and I pace each other for the first 50M, when my lack of training for this event takes its toll and he pulls away with ease.

The course is without technical difficulty. No footing problems just deceptively long, rolling hills with no flats in-between. Ten laps of ten miles, making supply logistics as simple as I have experienced. The dirt roads are hard-packed clay sprinkled with small rocks that eventually bruise the soles of all feet. When the rain does come, hard, during the early afternoon, it cools us all off and eliminates the floating dust that was raised with every step. It also soaks the shoes and the socks, and softens the feet for the rocks to do their damage The results are not official yet, but I've been told that almost half of the field eventually dropped out. The Red Cross volunteers worked non-stop on blistered feet.

My time for the inevitable depression (called "bonking"), both physical and mental, came as Hans-Dieter pulled away, as my body screamed for rest and resisted responding to my demands. It lasted for almost ten miles, and then I was able to apply more effort. Later, my splits showed that my loops became slower and slower, but I began to feel better, I was able to stomach solid food (love that potato soup!) and keep hydrated. As the night got colder, my spirits lifted and I no longer worried about finishing.

9/6/03

At the ninety-mile mark, as I paused to relish some food, one of the timers commented that if I could pick-up my pace I could break the 24hr mark. Surprised (I had not kept track of time since I "bonked",) I started pushing again. My stomach soured and all I could hold down was de-fizzed Coca-Cola. My blistered soles burned hotter, but I became obsessed. I even did some up-hill running amazing! I began to enjoy the challenge within the challenge and pushed harder. As I charged up the last hill to the finish, I was gasping for air like I haven't since the last Azalea 10K I ran more than a year ago. I couldn't stop -my blistered feet wouldn't obey and put on the brakes! As I hobbled back to the line, all I could say was: "Did I make it?"

A chorus of laughs and clapping answered back: "23:45:44! Good job! Now go get your feet fixed!" Feeling very content, I obeyed, then went to sleep. The showers were being repaired and not working. I didn't care. The omen had been good!