Day Seven – The Pyramid Sprint

Day Seven – the Pyramid Sprint (the 5.2km)
Stage 6 on 1 November - 5.2 km


We arrived in Cairo at 11am and re-donned our packs (much lighter now) for the last leg of the desert race. The final sprint up to the finish line was so quickly over it seemed incongruous to the effort of the previous five days and a bit anti-climactic with everyone’s thoughts on the shower at the hotel.


The bulk of the leaders, minus the phenomenal Ryan Sands went off course and ran an extra couple of kilometers. That fiasco aside, the course up to the pyramids was filled with trash and bad smells. (For one of the biggest tourist destinations on the planet, I was shocked that the government did nothing to clean it up.)



The medals were presented as we crossed the finish line, but it was the beer and pizza awaiting us that got us up that last embankment.







Here are my final stats:

Place Name Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 7 Overall
56/157 Liptak Peter N. 05:13:24 05:35:47 06:19:00 06:09:20 20:12:05 00:32:50 44:02:26


And those of my Korean compatriots:




Back at the Movenpick, there was more trouble. The hotel decided to sell our rooms (which had been reserved and paid for a year in advance) to members of a Saudi Prince’s party. So they summarily put us three to a room and the staff of Racing the Planet, were nowhere to be found, leaving us to fend for ourselves. Most competitors acquiesced and quickly found roommates. After finding the room, we realized that there was only one bed, to which they would add a cot. Not feeling particularly amenable with the situation, I waited with others for a free room and let the other two get settled. A few drinks and a few hours later, I continued to get the run around and finally dove in the pool. In the end, I had a room with one of the volunteers.

Man, what a difference a shower and a shave make! Do I clean up well, or what?



In the aftermath, we began the revelry, which was to last well into the night. The final surprise came only moments before goodbyes, something ended and something had begun. Nothing ventured, nothing won!

Day Six – The Long Laze

Day Six – The Long Laze (a day in camp)
31st of October - 0.0 miles


Having finished, I found it unsettling to be still, and could neither lie down, nor rest. I wandered stiff and awkward around the camp, aimlessly looking for someone to commiserate with. I found the internet tent open and checked email. A message from mom and I started to well up. After a good emotional cry, I was able to hobble back to the tent and rest for a couple of hours.

Everyone was up by 8, the sun already steaming up the stench in the tent. Rest was not a big part of the equation – It was to be a day of socializing with a hint of lazy celebration in what we have just accomplished – at least it felt as if we should rejoice.




We wandered around, shared stories, and learned how others had fared during the long night. We greeted the latecomers as they came in through the morning and into the afternoon.





And when the locals came around with bread, chips and soda for sale, the feast began. I had no Egyptian money with me, but the others in the tent bought food for the group. In fact, much of the camp was doing it. I knew it was against the rules, but having finished 250km in 5 days (the last 5k held back for the seventh day), we felt that the race was done and began the party.



The day ended with gifts of paper, pencils and Frisbees for the local children, and a Bedouin honey cake for all. The chairs and tables gone, everyone gravitated towards their tents and again went to bed early. I decided to sleep under the stars with Anna, Alex and Andreas as it was the last chance to see the Milky Way in all its glory before the trip back into Cairo at 4am. (One of the other Korean competitors caught a deadly scorpion only 30 meters away from where we slept in the open sand.)

Day Five – A Body in Motion

Day Five – A Body in Motion (The Black Desert March)
30th of October - 100.2km / 62.6 miles

Pray for rocks! Sand sucks the life from your feet.

I begin today with a thought and a recitation of a poem about a place all too distant in time, location and environment. The poem recalls a wistful moment amid a snowy landscape, but the last two lines are as appropriate here as any that might be said: “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.” (Robert Frost’s Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening)


Having never attempted more than 42km in a day and already tight with aching muscles, feet full of taped-up blisters, and black toenails, I couldn’t fathom what lay ahead, so I bowed my head and just began. Feeling surprisingly good, I raced ahead one stage at a time with no thought of saving energy for the next, only to end sooner – thinking, “I’ll rest when I’m dead!” – the tortoise may beat the hare in the end, but it’ll have to be the hare for now.


I had decided to take Carlos’ advice on my stride and attempt to run normally, not stretching out my feet and trying to run ‘flat’ as I had before. This seemed to work quite well, and the sand on the plateaus was better-packed and even a bit rocky to aid in the speed. I pulled up to one friend and then another, but my energy and enthusiasm wouldn’t let me slow down to pace with them, so I pulled ahead. By the first checkpoint I was miraculously in second place (bearing in mind that the top 25 runners had a late start – 10am to our 8am).

Then shortly into the second stage, the front runner faltered and we ran together for a bit. We talked about how odd it felt to be in front and not have tracks to follow or other runners to sight on. Then he slowed and said, “now you’re in the front.” It felt good, no great! I knew that the best runners would pass in a few hours, but being in “the lead” was a thrill, somehow giving me more energy.


I came into the second, then third, then forth checkpoints still in front. I felt unstoppable, invincible at times and then variously hit by lows. I was pushed along merely by the fact that I was in front… I felt that I had to hold on as long as I could. And when I’d slow and walk, I’d look behind and see Eberhard (a 58 year old German who has finished Badwaters 5 times, and Marathon de Sable 7 times) just behind. He trailed me endlessly, following like a hunter, I still had some rabbit in me and was able to stay ahead for a time, he’d pass me with his steady pace on the flats, but somehow I’d burst past him on the sandy hills as he had trouble slipping in the deep sand. We had switched to a game of cat and mouse. Soon, I was to pass the gauntlet, allowing him and two others to out-step me.


The miles somehow slipped away and I didn’t slow down till I met a muse some 53km later. The siren’s song sung… the next stage would be my downfall. I stumbled past the pink banners speaking incoherently and collapsed in exhaustion (65km 9:59:59 7th place). Carried into the tent, I spilled onto the floor and drifted in a daze much less than sleep for 3 hours, rose refreshed (at least enough to get my spirit back for as I heard the voice of the people overtaking me, I nearly lost hope and debated quitting), ate beef jerky, triaged blisters and started off alone into the dark night just after taking a couple of minutes to give Simone, who had just arrived and seemed in need, a back massage.

I listened to music in the dark and focused on stretching my legs and keeping my stride swift and steady. I felt somehow pure, my body purged of pollution and cleansed by my rest; I felt awake and alive like I had not felt for many years before, stopping from time to time to shut off my headlamp and look at the stars. The word amazing, just couldn't capture it, nor remarkable; I think some combination of surprising, mind-bending, surreal and astounding might come close. I would stagger along in the deep dark of it, but half looking up and half squinting to see the rocky road ahead, fearful of a twisted ankle or a stumble and a roll down one of the steep embankments, I would be forced to return to my reliance on the light, but those short stumbles would stay in my mind for a long while… I so miss the stars.

The remaining hours were lonesome along the plateau without any other competitors in sight, and with the final 14km stage spilling down into the sandy valley below I trudged on in a kind of half sleep. I managed to pass a few more people along the way, but could never get a run going. This last 14km was easily the most frustrating of the entire race. Every time it seemed as if it should be near the end, the course would stretch out again, it was profound, deep of sand and hilly as hell. My toes crumpled against the wall of sand that had found its way through the pores in my shoes, making them so sore that they felt like there was no nail or even skin to protect them; my legs aching with the joints so swollen I didn’t want to look; the bottoms of my feet twinging with every step as the blisters on my insteps had grown together to make pools of pain.


Finishing in the early morning at 4am (20:12:05), I cursed the sand and Pierre, the course designer, swearing I’d never do anything so stupid again. (I’m now foolishly planning my next race.)

Day Four – Snowy Landscape

Day Four – Snowy Landscape (The Spring to Nowhere)
29th of October - 38.9km / 24.3 miles

The Tale of the Water Bottle and the Solar Plexus…

The dawning day – another 7am start, so up at 5 and an attempt at a dim-lit breakfast. The descriptions of today’s four stages are Difficult, Difficult, Difficult, and Difficult. Oh Joy! The bag was less full and slightly lighter today, but this was not a benefit as, without the volume, the Racing the Planet backpack couldn’t be sufficiently tightened around the waist so the water bottle on my front pack was hitting me squarely in the solar plexus – thump, thump, thump! I adjusted the straps again and again as I ran, trying to get a handle on it. I hardly noticed the surroundings as I struggled through the pain. I remember little – think I blocked it out.


Beyond stage one, I started to get used to the thumping and find a rhythm. I concentrated on my footfalls, attempting to lay the foot soft on the sand, projecting it forward, skimming the surface and trying not to push off, as I would normally on pavement, so I wouldn’t sink deep and slip out. (Later that night, Carlos would tell me that my technique was too costly, so I changed my strategy for the long day, running normally.)

I kept pace with the Danes for a while, their banter and camaraderie infective and inspiring. They passed me sometime in the third stage long before the white mounds of stone and the sandy rise to the upcoming oasis. You could see the oasis from miles away, and the sight of it was deceiving. I suppose the desert is like the sea, the lack of landmarks makes things seem closer than they are.





The Third Checkpoint is the Charm
Finding myself still in the mid-thirties (place in the race), I came into checkpoint three with beautiful smiles of volunteers bearing water and an oasis of cartoon-like perfection. Stunning! I rested in the shade, partook of those welcome ratcheted mists from the heavens and ate.





Snowdrifts in the Desert

After collecting myself for the final 14km stage, I caught sight of Ricky just ahead and worked to catch up. We slogged along over the white rocks that looked like snowdrifts in the desert ahead and spilled out onto another vast and endless field of sand, deep and unforgiving on the aching legs. From here it was a thirsty and everlasting walk, hence the title for the day: “The Spring to Nowhere.”


Ricky and I stretched our legs across the sand, jogging then walking along this endless plateau dealing with each step as it came. My thoughts were of my mounting thirst and the sand in my shoes with the tender toes purple and swelling in the heat and pain. Somewhere around 10km in, we turned a corner and came over a dune. We could barely make out the white of the tents deep in the distance just beyond some pillars of stone at the foot of some rather impressive peaks, but that goal was to be far more elusive than we expected. These last few kilometers were an unimaginable grind, a taxing task of total irritation, a toil nothing short of an incitement to rebellion (ha! ha!). “OK, if I just finish today,” I thought, “I can rest and quit before the 100k day – after all, I’ll have finished four marathons in four days, in the desert… that’s enough isn’t it?” The justification for quitting, I made moment by moment as the thought of the next day’s distance would make me give up for sure. Just make it through today… when I finished, I wasn’t singing, but I was happy it was over.

The first part – “the training daze” was over, and there was only one day left to go. I felt confident that I could start, and allowed for the possibility that I could run for a while and if I felt sick or my knee (with 30% of the ACL left) hurt too much. I could stop and ride into camp. Though it might seem like a negative outlook to think about quitting, it was the most positive way for me to attack the problem that seemed so insurmountable. It allowed me to start, to assess and to continue. (6:09:20)

That night there was dancing, and a strange sort of elation ran through the camp – the day of atonement was close at hand, the four hard days of training complete, we just had one day of running remaining. Camp Mars they called it. With dunes rising above and great pillars of stone all around, it was at the same time harsh and beautiful!



I ambled around camp, and decided to climb above to attempt a yoga pose in the sand, take some pictures of the camp laid out below, and was inspired to a recitation of a Langston Hughes poem (the one that had inspired my world travels back at 21):

Tonight, I slept with a new sensation, on less of fear and more of accomplishment. I also am finding that my body has changed. I feel different, and not so tired, but somehow more young – if this is possible. I think it might be all the sweating and the 9 liters of water a day I’ve been drinking.

Tonight, I dance in dreams… gentile night, whirl, whirl!

Day Three – Letting the Turtle out

Day Three – Letting the Turtle out (Sandy Field)
28th of October - 40.3 km / 25.2 miles



It’s hard to eat breakfast in the dark, in a hurry, trying to get ready for the effort ahead, but we dutifully rose at 5 am. Headlamps aloft, we ventured to the now stenchful toilet tents, artful boxes, once used for water now full of something entirely different, though no less natural – thank god for the early morning wind, however chill it might be. Then back in the tent for a quiet ruffle in search of food and out to the fire for hot water and a bit of talk, subdued and sleepy-eyed.




The hare might lose to the turtle, but I would transform. Well, today my strategy was not so effective. I lumbered a bit as I tried to catch my breath and find a rhythm but stomach problems whittled away at my determination. The long flat stretch of runnable desert had me nearly beat. I made it to the first station and got something for my unease, but it seemed that my turtle was determined to come out early. I’d attempt to run, but then the whittling would again begin. Here, I linked up with Eric Chang, of Australia, living in Hong Kong, but born in China (if memory serves). He helped me along in my momentary endeavors, as I did him… we would egg each other on. Walk for a bit, then count down: five, four, three, two, one, to feign a jog for a few minutes before quickly running out of steam. I suppose we had done well in the first part as we pulled into the second checkpoint in decent position – somewhere around 30? – the beautiful faces of the volunteers cheering us in.

“Would you like a spray?” A volunteer asked, “Would I…!” I responded with enthusiasm. And as the mist tickled my overheated skin, I closed my eyes and started to think of the sound of the spray: a ratcheted whir of pure delight. Just the sound gave me goose bumps! “Could you spray me again?”


The rest at the tent brought on a round of song as we searched for our theme for the day. “A Horse with no name,” I believe it was Ricky who said it. And suddenly, we broke out in chorus:
It was simple but somehow magical. Again, the joy arrived at stage two…

“No rest for the wicked!”



We started off again, Eric, Jung ha, and me, (and we stuck together like the glue I never had a chance to put on my nonexistent Racing the Planet gaitors) from the reprieve of the tent into the sandy field. “Sandy field” they called it! “Sandy f*cking field!!” It sounds like that Beatles song – Strawberry Fields Forever… Forever was right, but not as pleasant as the name sounds! It was somewhere in stage three – the forever of stage three – that desert delirium began to set in… the theme song still in our heads… the desert dancing before us, the mirages to the right and left, and sand smooth as silk, extending out as far as the eye could see. Oh it was beautiful all right, but dangerously so!


Somewhere along the path we found this tree, this single lonely tiny tree in the miles of empty desert. It was ruggedly stunning – a real survivor. Would we be so strong? I took a picture and gave it a moment to sink in…







“Aint no sunshine when she’s gone”


I recall the sun, but I also recall the blue of the sky, an azure amazing, clear and cloudless. Then I thought of all the cloudy rainy weekends that people around the world were complaining about and thought how lucky we were to have such nice weather – I told you delirium!! Singing as we ran then walked the highs and lows were like a rollercoaster of the spirit.
(The lows lower than you can imagine… full of self-doubt, depression, anger and physical pain, somehow attune to the feeling of lost love and just as dangerously unpredictable.)


Then after eons of sand, we came at last to the dunes, I was slow here and my companions were patient as I stopped to bare my aching feet and attempt the ascent in socks. The temporary reprieve from the cramped quarters of my trail shoes with their porous mesh to let air (no sand) in, helped for a bit, but the experiment failed as the blisters, black toenails and aching arches impelled me to once again don those bedeviled shoes.



A few dunes later, we arrived at the third tent, the final destination barely visible off in the distance. We started off, but our footfalls were too tired and close together and we lingered in our self-imposed misery. Yes, it was nice to get in – especially with my comrades close at hand, and yes I managed to smile, but no I don’t want to talk about it right now. (6:19:00 47th place)

After a rest, and in much better spirits, there was the climb to the top of the sand dune at the back of the camp. The sun setting, the whole camp came up for a picture and did the wave for the video camera before we turned to watch that great heat source fall. Something magical seemed to begin around that simple sight, the elation of an end, bright thoughts of a new beginning, fresh and full of joy.

The rest tonight would be perfection.

Day Two – The Hare

Day Two – The Hare (The White Desert)
27th of October – 38 km / 23.8 miles


Compelled by nothing more than the excitement of the people around me and the overriding desire to get some miles behind me before the heat settled in, I once again leapt out of the starting box. 8 am this time, and the heat already ticking up degree by degree from the morning cool. The course briefing had warned of a difficult first stage with undulating terrain and soft sand followed by moderate later ones, but the rabbit in me was to come out no matter what. Today, I opted to go for music, I brought along two ipods, the old one would only last a few hours and I’d save the new one (meant to give 24 hours of sound) for the final misery of 100.2 km. The music was in me and the first 10 km stage was a whir of excitement. I felt free – free of the long night, free of the low back, free of the fetters of email and cell phone – and no I was not listening to Free Fallin’.


Just before the end of the stage, I noticed that we had gone off path, seeing the little pink flags down below and to the right, I ignored the footprints in front that directed me straight ahead and chose to dive back down the hill and catch the “real” path. It was hard to do, but I thought that even a little bit off-course will only rob me of the full experience. The guy I was running with didn’t see the point in diverting from the straightest path so I made a point of catching up and passing him just before the checkpoint on a very steep hill. Somehow, it was worth every wolfy huff and puff.


By the end of stage one I was in 12th place, but my blisters were hot and twanging from the sliding so I stopped at the tent to get help with blister application. This took a while and then I opted to cool off with some spray and a rest, snacked a bit and was off. For some reason I was joyful, even delirious, pulling out my camera and taking pictures as I ran.



In stage two, I came upon two great pillars of stone, it was here that I recalled the tale of Ozymandias as the sun blazed down on me to the tune of some 45C (113F). I could not remember the whole poem, but those two lines repeated in my mind. 
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Then that wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command. I felt for a moment his greatness, and then the fleeting nature of his strength in his frailness – his humanity. I held back to ask an Italian to take my picture between two great pillars of stone that stood towering above us, then raced to catch him and retrieve my camera. I thought of the Romans and what other armies of men had passed through those immense pillars, but sped off despite the urge to rest and reflect.


Then I imagined Shakespeare and the line about food for worms – are there worms here? No it’s dust to dust, I suppose with the help of some local fox, whose tracks were easy to spot in the sand, with no wind to wish away their existence. Would my existence be profound? Would I be left trunkless in my desert stand? Would my life mean something to those who followed? Or would my existence be swept away with the wind as my footprints soon would? The hope came and left as the heat closed in on me. “Beat the heat,” I chanted to myself, “beat the heat.”

By the second station I was in 17th place, but I was beginning to end. The end of stage brought an extra joy, and I started off in decent form, but within minutes, was agonizing as the plantar fasciitis had returned with full force, every step heated and hurting. The afternoon cook had begun in earnest – feeling as a firewalker on a sandy blaze. Just 18 km left.


About 2 km into the stage, I found a cardboard box, half buried in the sand. I felt an urge so I trudged back, grabbed a pen out of my pack and picked it up. On it I wrote: “Swimming Pool 18 km” and included an arrow in the direction of the path. 18 km to see if anyone was willing to go the extra two km after the finish. I posted it next to a pink flag, set in the sand so it could not be blown away. No one mentioned the joke, though I hope it gave someone a boost. I plodded along to the end of the stage, cursing every step as the pain in my foot made me limp and wince.

I caught up with Andreas again and continued along with him. His energy and talk kept me going (as he did again and again in the race – his passion for his family and the race was infectious). He made a video message to his family and I followed suit. “25 km in” I said, “and I wonder why am I here?!”


I finally arrived at the third checkpoint, a little bitter, but not too bad and sat to massage my feet. A few short minutes and I was able to work out some of the kinks. Onward! I rose and marched along. Soon we were joined by Alex and Lee. The four of us crossed the finish line together. The last kilometers tolling away slow in the heat – we finished in 28th to 31st positions (5:35:47). Today was our day.



At camp, I stretched and gave massages (in the end I had given some 30 short massages to other aching competitors and volunteers). Jung ha, my constant friend and sometime course companion, worked on my back. (Thanks Hyung – you did Wonders!)

Today, I talked with Anna and Alex – the photographer. And though darkness descended, the talk was bright and beautiful. Again, I stepped lightly into the tent over the near dead bodies of sound sleeping runners in recovery. The back again an issue, today I opted for a sleeping pill, then lay in my sleeping bag on the sand late into the night working the tension out with two pair of rolled up socks. Sometime near midnight, I finally managed to ease the muscle spasms enough to adjust the sacral iliac. The smile stretched across my face. I knew it would ache for another day or two, but the pain would finally subside.

At last, I slept a stretch!

Day One – The Sahara Sands

Day One – The Sahara Sands (The Hamada Trail)
26th of October – 35 km / 21.9 miles – Flat, rocky and sandy (moderate)



OK, I’ve never been one to start out slow, and even with the thought of my back pain mounting as the weight of my pack bore down on my poor disc, at 8:30 am I was overtaken by the adrenaline, the resounding thump of Bedouin drums at the start line and the horde of competitors bursting forth under the green banner, a standard that would become our jade oracle, our emerald aspiration, and a more welcome sight at the end of each day than any lush oasis could offer.

I normally run with music, but decided to forgo the tunes for the time being and save the ipod battery life for a time when I really needed melodic inspiration – and the lows were sure to come, as the quiet of the desert on the lone road could quickly close in and become unbearable.


We spilled down the sandy hill, diving in with determined effort and stretched our legs across the open expanse of the Hamada Trail leading to the great rocks that studded the landscape of the Bahariya Oasis some 300km west of Cairo. The leaders had already sped across the open sands and disappeared amid the pillars of beige stone that curved around the edge of a ridgeline of beige and cream in a moonscape rising above the constant sands.

Today would be my test market, the chance to see how I fare without concern for place or time. “Just a jog,” I kept telling myself, “a training day.” For what in essence was a philosophical experiment in a distance unimaginable. As I ran, I took note of the host of packs and water systems and styles of clothes that the others had chosen – this having been the mysterious aspect of the race that took up the bulk of my time in the three months preceding, namely what do I pack, which foods, what is the lightest headlamp, which bag do I buy, etc. This actually distracted me for a while until my stride settled in.

The discussions went on the night before in the tent and continued throughout the week about thinking of it as two races, or better yet, four hard training days leading up to a single hundred kilometer race. Thinking of this on the first day did not seem helpful, though it would gradually appear to seem appropriate as the days passed. For today, however, I must only think of today. I could always quit tomorrow…


Jesse (a nine-time Korean competitor of the 4deserts) had coached me on strategy back in Korea, advising me to power through the morning before the heat had a chance to settle in. “Run to the first two stations,” he said, “and take your time with the rest as the heat turns up around 11 AM.” Sure enough, the day would get a crank in heat factor at 10:30 or 11 each day as if someone had fired up the sauna for a good sweat. (I recall thinking that my time in hot yoga really helped with my heat coping capabilities.)

The first station reached, I basked in the spray of water from a volunteer, filled my water bottle, added an electrolyte tablet then headed off feeling, “10k down… I guess I’ll continue.”


I started to slow a bit as several then many began to pass me by – obviously finding their pace as I had not yet done. We came up around a turn and fell into a valley below. It was along this patch that I paired up with the Brit, Alex. Alex has a lot of experience with doing such races and we talked continuously about strategy, past experiences, etc. We seemed to be a good match and I kept pace with him on to the second station. They said here that the temperature was 38 in the shade and 45 in the sun. I opted to take off my pack, change into my long sleeve shirt to avoid an early sunburn, and then had a quick snack.

Alex pressed on and I had to jog down the steep embankment to catch up with him and Andreas of Barcelona. We talked for a while, but then fell to silence in the heat, which by now had turned dirty, baked sand dirty, and the miles seemed to stand still as we plodded along. I had to jog every now and then to keep up with his heavy pace and at 6’ 2” it was quite a stride – he claimed he could walk at 6 km per hour, which would save energy without losing much ground.


No one passed us for a long while and this third 10 km was filled with sliding sand, which was like walking uphill in snow (for those Minnesotans and other cold weather folk reading this). Occasionally we’d be greeted by a cloud – such a welcome reprieve from the sweltering sun that we’d embrace it like a long lost brother. With about 2 km left in this section, I had to stop as my shoes were so cramped with sand I could no longer feel my toes.

The other two quickly covered the ground ahead as I struggled with my gaiters, a gift from fellow competitor Dean Karnazes, who had come with three pair and mine had not arrived in Korea before my departure. (Thanks Dean!) A few others also passed before I could empty the tanks and head off again. I reached the third station and thought about stopping to rest and take care of blisters – yes, already. With the heat, I felt faint and miserable, but with only 5 km to go, I decided to forge on trying to convince myself stoically and half jokingly, “I’ll rest when I’m dead!”



The last few kilometers were long and rather unpleasant, but made more bearable by the upbeat attitude of Alex, who’d rested a bit at the last station and took off with me as I pulled through. In the end, I didn’t look pretty, nor did I feel like talking to anyone. I was upset, angry even, not necessarily at the heat or the sand or the race – though I wondered what the f*ck I was thinking when I signed up for it – but angry out of pure exhaustion, or more appropriately just damn crabby – as I get when I’m tired and hungry. Anyway, the stage was over and my dogs were barking!!


I came in 55th place (out of 150 competitors) at 5:13:24 and really didn’t care much about anything. I was second into the tent. I dropped my water bottles and lay on the floor. I was hot and fever-like, but my body couldn’t cool off all night. After an hour or two, I was much more amiable and managed to get out and socialize. I even ran over to take a picture of my friend and sometime training partner, Ji Hee. She seemed as crabby as I had been, and I heard that one competitor, upon arriving at the finish, had taken off her backpack, stared at it for a minute and shaking her finger at it, very sternly (and in all seriousness) said, “I don’t like you!”



Dinner tonight was corn soup, spaghetti with meatballs, and a bit of green beans (I don't eat this well when I’m at home.) Then I experienced the magic of the stars – I’d seen them the first night, but after everything I’d been through today, somehow they were more brilliant and captivating than before – the Milky Way like a river across the sky.


The people began bonding much deeper tonight, now we were in it together and we really knew it. It’s funny how the simple commonality of purpose can bind a group of strangers, ones you might pass on the street and never notice otherwise. The people in my tent (every one of them!) were asleep by the time I got in from checking email (and for those of you who sent messages, they meant the world) and getting ibuprofen. And it was only 7 pm. I tried but could not fall asleep: the intense body heat, the aching back that I had somehow barely felt when running, now magnified by the stillness. What little rest I got in the dark and surprisingly cold night was fitful at best.

Morning met me with a heated gaze.