The start is a riddle I cannot solve. A wonderfully narrow single-track filled with plenty of rocks that I thoroughly love, and enough up and down to tickle my fancy. But, the fates inflict retribution on this fool who runs downhill very fast with an opposing and equally pathetic uphill ability. So, the start of the Zane Grey 50 miler is this downhiller's nightmare. So many slip by on the ups. I'd have crash through as many on the downs. And even if I did, they'd pass me again on the next up. The madness of the moment is that I slowly slip further and further back. My strength completely cancelled out. I hit the breaks on every single step to avoid colliding with those in front of me. I don't like to use breaks. This is killing my quads. The same ones I save by sprinting the downhills without ever using a single break step. Arrrrggggggggg!!!! Cut me lose and set me free...please! If it was possible for each of us to have our own private trail, I'm certain I'd be much further along, but that is how the game is played here and now. I settle in instead to enjoy the ride and forget about any time goals. The crowd of runners are a lively bunch: full of laughter and teasing. The morning air is cool and the day seems almost perfect. I know many who go past me and have a few words with each as they go by.
 
The first aid station at mile 8 is where I unload my flashlight. I didn't really need it at all. It's been shoved down into one of my front pockets for many miles. I have a few bags of Sharkies that I chew through, not waiting more than 15 minutes before I have another. I start with a 100oz camelback that is very lightweight but for the water weight, as there were enough warnings about water to remove me from my preferred water bottle or two. I sit for a few wedges of PB&J and oranges and then continue on with Jim in tow.
 
The trail rolls into and out of one drainage after another, traversing not far below the rim. The shrubbery tends to grow directly out onto the open space that is the trail. Add to this fact that the trail surface is canted and littered with rocks. I try to lean left, compensating for the inclined slope, but the branches are stout bastards and refuse to move. Actually, I think they push back and some even cut my skin. Doesn't take very long to collect quite an assortment of jagged little cuts. Initially they're all on my left side, but I quit leaning left, choosing to spread the gruesome wealth to other body parts. One surprising bloody body part is the back of my right hand. My running motion is shoving it into harms way. I pull my hands in to save them at the expense of my forearms. Pick and choose, something will lose.
 
Every new turn seems so unique, each climb different, the descents each different from the others. The variety similar only in the look and smell of burnt wood. As beautiful as a stand of Ponderosa Pines are, it really is so very sad to see so much destruction here in the middle of these lovely pines. It not only hurt my eyes, but my nose and throat as well. There are miles of Manzanita brush with its red bark growing back into the burned out areas. Many of these had also been cut down to the ground and I noted that it was not just red bark, but red clean through. I seem to be running from one section of burnt forest to the next.
 
I would not have thought that 7000ft of elevation would make my legs so sluggish, but it certainly seems to be the case. My breathing is not sharp or hyper, but also is not natural either.There also seems to be a certain pitch of climb that arrests my forward momentum time and again. Some climbs seem effortless while others force my transmission into granny gear. The granny gear summits are each traumatic too. I like to get going again immediately, but instead stall out on top to a stop, pause, them continue: the oxygen dept cycling through while I wait impatiently.
 
Hell's Gate is appropriately named in-between all these burn areas. I sit on a log to inhale some soup while they refill my water bladder. A fellow offers me a bear, which tastes so very good. Somebody here says it's not really 8 miles to the next station, but more accurately 10 miles. I ask if that means its at 33 miles or 35 miles. Oh no, it's still at 33 miles, but it's 10 miles from here. So does that make this 25 miles or 23 miles. No answer. I'm so confused. Another PB&J wedge and I escape, with Jim again in tow,
 
I leave Hell's Gate expecting... well, Hell! But it aint so. One long climb for sure, but then a very long downhill slide. The long climb bunches up 2 dozen or so of us. Seems odd to be in the middle of so large a pack half way into this beast. But the downhill separates us out. After a good bit of steady roll, I find only one of the many who remains with me on my wild freefall. So I meet Duane Griggs: an Arkansan from Missouri by way of Alaska. We while away the miles and the hours while surprisingly slipping into the 33 mile aid station much quicker than expected. Duane and I spin through quickly for the last long section that seems to be worse than the last one. heck, I liked the last section. But then, good company tends to make things go fast and easy.
 
Couple of big nasty climbs makes this section immediately more difficult. The mid-day sun adds its share of misery but really, it never seems to get too bad. A cool breeze comes and go and provides a small share of delight. Duane and I hang together for a ways but he had run out of water near the end of the last section, and is struggling from it now, so he slips back. A bit later, I also experience a power outage and even after several doses of Hammer and a few Advil, the resurrection fails to occur. As sluggish as I feel, I do mange to keep leaning forward. A large Horny Toad sprints across the trail and stops dead center. Not that I'm moving all that fast, but I stop to have a look. The guy behind me also stops. Don't see too many of those anymore. I didn't realize they lived up here on the Mogollon Rim. At the speed I'm moving, I now have more time to look around and study the land. Pine cones provide a mosaic groundcover in shades of brown and green. Appealing to my eyes and too many to avoid, they smash under my feet. Amusing at first, until they act as ball bearings, sending me surfing. No sooner do I right myself when a low branch snags the bottom lace of my shoes. Lassoed and tied, I hit the ground and stop, held in place, stretched out for slaughter. A few runners just behind witness the whole thing, trying not to laugh until later. They stop to untie me and continue on while I remain on the ground to retie the shoe. The lace has been pulled taut from the bottom, such that I have to pull it all back into its natural position. Sitting on the ground with my knees in my ears, I see for the first time all the lacerations across both my legs. Nice war wounds! Trail tattoos to show the gang back home.
 
"Its only 4 miles to the next station" yells the guy with the clipboard as he writes down my number and time. This makes me realize I am now at mile 40. They also offer me some water, but my camelback has what I need to go the next four and I suspect others behind me might be in more need. An hour later, I pass the radio crew chief who tells me its only 2 more miles. It doesn't add up... or subtract either, my mind screams, but all that escapes my lips is a dry throated epithet. My thoughts spin into chaos, internalizing, stumbling... I start to walk and then get angry at myself for walking. It is a downhill and with no good reason to walk a downhill, I pick it up again and am pleasantly surprised to see the aid station in no more than 3 minutes. I have to quit believing anything told to me out on the course. Lies. It's all lies! Maybe I'm missing the sarcasm, the inside joke. Maybe I just ran 2 mile in 3 minutes. Whatever it is, I aint asking any more questions. My new mantra becomes... 'Ask no more questions - Tell me no lies' Has a nice ring to it.
 
I'm not thinking much about the time until I near Christopher Creek. I begin to wonder if I need to worry about that cutoff and I wonder if I need a light before I get there and I wonder if I have enough water to last until then. It's all small matter until Bud Phillips comes by and says 'Put your wheels back on or you'll miss the cut'. Its very nice though here, running along a long natural ledge. When I arrive at the station, Bud is still there and tells me "Relax, we can walk it in from here".
 
Leaving the final aid station, we have one more good stiff climb, before it becomes a long easy cakewalk. We talk about running a few times but are content to just stroll in. It gets dark on us about an hour into our hike and then soon after, Duane comes rolling up on us. We pick up our walking pace just a bit so we can stay with him all the way to the finish.