During check-in I talk to Mike from Charlottesville, Va. He sat beside me on the bus at the Mountain Masochist back in October. He tells me he feels like he’s going to throw up. You’re not alone, pal!

Go! I’m off to a great start -- no knee pain, no shin pains, no IT band popping, no Achilles tendon pain. Just a whole lot of butterflies in the stomach. I’m going faster than I probably should, but last year I got hung up behind some "slowpokes" on the single-path trail and it put me too far back. Only now I’m playing the slowpoke to a woman who is right on my heels. I see a small clearing and pull off. Please go ahead. She thanks me and takes off. I never see her again until the awards.

Winding down by the lake I somewhat regret starting at 6:30 am instead of 5:30 like last year -- I miss the shimmering moon on the lake. Take advantage of the romantic interlude, bucko, cause it ain’t gonna get any prettier.

I get to the first aid station (3.5 miles) in a little over thirty-four minutes. Good pace, good pace I reassure myself. I turn and go down a gravel hill then make a sharp right up a grassy fire road. Take a walk! This is what I really like about ultras -- you can walk with impunity. I took a walking break at Marine Corps in ’96 and a flattop pulled along beside me and said sarcastically "You’re not going to walk, are you?" No sir, of course not, sir. On my way sir. Jerk.

The hill flattens out. Coffee break’s over, back on our heads. I squirt a pack of plain Gu into my mouth and chase it with a swallow of water. Wonder if one of those little mayonnaise packets would serve the same purpose? Yuck. Bag that thought.

I arrive at Aid station #2 feeling real good. I’ve gone 6.3 miles in about an hour and 10 minutes. I’m reminded of Ronald Reagan. Or George Bush: Stay the course. I swallow some Conquest, eat a cookie, thank the aid station volunteers and head on out. David Horton turns the corner. "Are you having fun yet?" He asks. Just started!

Still cruising comfortably into Aid station #3. One of the gentlemen there tells me I’ve gone 22.9 miles. 22.9 in almost two hours? Who am I, Alberto Salazar? No, no -- on the way back we’ll be 22.9 miles! Oh. I swallow a cup of Coke. Thanks guys!

At around eleven miles I pass a military-looking guy taking a pit-stop. After a minute or two he catches up with me. "We ran together last year", he tells me, "I’m Joe". Of course I remember -- we were both suffering horribly together. I’m Dale.

Joe and I cruise along, chatting about the Masochist and JFK. I mention homeschooling and surprise! He and his wife homeschool their children also! We suddenly have a whole lot to talk about. We arrive at the second stream crossing and tiptoe across the fallen tree while trash-talking public schools. Another guy just before us crashed across on some rocks on the far right of the road.

Joe and I pull into aid station #4 together. We knock back a coupla Cokes, say our thank-you’s and head out. About a half-mile down the trail I suddenly develop an upset stomach. Too much Coke, not enough water. I was plagued with this junk last year. Go ahead, Joe, I’m gonna walk off this stomachache. "No problem," he replies, "You’ll catch up to me".

I start jogging again after a few minutes. I must be going awfully slowly because a group of about 5 runners blows by me. They must be doing 10-minute miles, for Pete’s sake! "You OK?" Yea. Ugh.

I suddenly feel a twinge in my left heel. It dawns on me that I forgot to insert my heel lifts when I got dressed this morning. Great, now my Achilles tendonitis is going to flare up and kick my tail. You big dummy.

We’re back onto a single-path trail heading for the turnaround. I’m going slowly south, physically. Here comes the front runner -- a young guy from Charlottesville. He smiles and says "Good job". Thanks! A little recognition from the leader really makes a difference. I pick up the pace a bit. Second place guy does the same thing! What’s going on? Front runners encouraging the back-of-the-packers? I seem to remember front-runners at street marathons ignoring me as I struggled to the finish. Ultramarathons 2: Street Marathons 0!

I’m trying to count the returning runners as they pass by from the turnaround. I lose count around 40. Every one of them speaks to me. I’m still in the top half.

Finally, I’m in the heavy gravel at the turnaround! My mother and my three kids are there, standing under umbrellas. I don’t see my wife Susan -- she must not be here yet. "Way to go Daddy! You won!" the kids squeal as they run up to me. Hold on there guys, I’m only half-way through! They look crest-fallen. "You mean you have to run some more?"

I drink some water, pop three ibuprofen for my heel, swallow a B-vitamin, give the kids a hug and -- wait a minute! What time is it? Three hours exactly. I’m not doing so badly after all! My mother looks at me with concern. She’s watching her first Ultra -- I think she can’t believe people actually do this. "Take a short-cut and come on back if you have to," she suggests in a typical motherly fashion, "Don’t torture yourself! Do you have a rain jacket?" OK! I’m fine! See ya!

I start jogging, re-tracing my steps the 15-or-so miles back to the starting line. Torture myself? Isn’t that the point? I feel lousy. I seem to get more nauseous with every passing step. I pass some more runners. There’s Faye -- I met her at the Masochist. She’s limping. Good job, Faye! And here comes Mike from Charlottesville. Uh oh, I don’t think he’s gonna make the cut-off. This is the last time I’ll see Mike. Great job Mike, hang tough! Buurrrppppp.

Oh my gosh I’m sick. I stop, bend over and put my hands on my knees, daring myself to throw up. Will it help? As I stand and start walking I hear thundering hooves behind me. I stop and turn to let a group of no less than seven young bucks go by. They all look good -- smiling, laughing, having fun. Why can’t I be in that group? They look like 1999 Corvettes on an open ocean highway on a sunny California spring day. I’m a 1973 diesel dump truck loaded with medical waste on a frigid morning in Buffalo. I lurch to a start and continue my death march.

Around miles 17 and 18 I strongly consider bagging this race. It’s raining, it’s muddy, I’m deathly sick, my calves are cramping, my heel hurts, my knees hurt, my hands are freezing -- I have an awful lot of reasons to quit. Yep, when I get to the aid station, I’m stopping. I know when to cut my losses.

At rock bottom -- when I could have stopped in my tracks and sat down in the mud and waited for a medi-vac -- I hear a voice call me: "Hey Dale!"

Coming up behind me was Andrew Thompson. I had met Andrew last year and run quite a ways with him. He’s capable of running this race in 4 hours flat, but he chooses to jog it and enjoy himself. I glimpsed his wife Amy at the turnaround but she did a turn-&-burn and I lost her. She has become quite an ultrarunner herself.

Andrew pulls beside me. "Feeling bad? Need something to eat?"

Oh my gosh, no thanks, Andrew. The thought of food makes me want to pop breakfast into orbit.

"You think you can finish?"

Now what am I going to say? How will I explain to this man who ran 40 miles a day for almost 50 days last year attempting to break David Horton’s Appalachian Trail record, that I am planning to drop out? Summoning all my PR skills I answer as diplomatically as I can: At this point Andrew, I can’t say.

He takes off at a trot. "Well," he says over his shoulder, "You know what it takes."

I know what it takes. The sentence cuts through me like a runaway dentist’s drill. I suddenly thought of my friend Bruce at work. This past week he was diagnosed with lung cancer. 35-years old, never smoked a day in his life. His wife is expecting their first child in 5 weeks. 5 weeks. He started chemo already. Bruce told our chaplain "I will be back to work. Period."

A fighter, for sure. Do I possess those fighting skills? After all, I’m only running a 32-mile race. Bruce is fighting for his life. I know what it takes. I pull my Kelty pack around and take out a picture of my spiritual running guide. His name is Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati. An avid outdoorsman, he lived in Italy in the early part of this century. Born into a wealthy family, he gave up all his money, clothes and possessions and devoted his life to the poor. He contracted polio from his work and died at the age of 25. While his family expected only the aristocracy to show up at his funeral, they were stunned to see literally thousands of Italy’s homeless silently line the streets, paying their final respects. He is now a candidate for sainthood.

I put the picture back and pray. Lord, please give Bruce all my strength. But if there is any left, save it for me so I can at least finish this race.

There’s the aid station. If I want to quit, this is it. There’s a young man and a young woman there. "You’re doing great!" she says. Thanks. I stand there. I know what it takes. I shakily pick up a cup of water and three saltines. What am I gonna do?

I have no idea why I crossed that road onto the trail. My legs are working independently of my brain. I’m choking down the saltines and chasing them with water. I’ll be seeing these again. A blur of three guys go flying by me at 4 miles per hour. "Don’t stop!" You can do it!" "Almost there!" They’re a group of Richmond Road Runners. Thanks guys.

My stomach settles a bit. Slowly, life seems to return to my legs. I have read about walking out of bad patches but had never experienced it. By golly, I believe I’m emerging from this one! God be praised!

I look at my watch. It took me over an hour to go about 3.6 miles. I do some math and figure I can power walk the remainder of the course and make the 7-1/2 hour cut-off. Or can I? My brain is so hazy I can’t think straight. I add the minutes up four times and get four answers. Remember what David said about the 5-1/2 hour cut-off at 22.9? Uh oh. Better hustle.

I start jogging. Hey, it’s not so bad now. I pick up the pace a little. I can see a runner ahead of me. He has a Cho-pat strap on both knees. He and I pull into the next aid station together. He’s chowing down on cookies, M&Ms and fruit. I avoid watching him eat and grab a couple more saltine crackers and refill my water bottles. I feel better but I don’t feel that good. Wait, there’s a cut-off here! I look at my watch -- 4:52! I’m in great shape! Hey I made the cut-off by 38 minutes! "Yep, you did!" the man tells me.

Over the river and through the woods I go. I get to a big open area where the road cuts an "L" shape across it. I’m able to run the whole way, right up to the gate. When I duck under it knocks my cap off. Wouldn’t that be a kick? Come back to life in the race only to be knocked out by a metal gate. There’s another runner bearing down on me. When I was a teenager running cross-country, this would have alarmed me.

I pound down the road to the next aid station, walking 1 or 2 minutes for every 3 or 4 minutes I run. The sign on it says 6.3 miles to finish. Are you sure that sign is correct? "Actually, its 16.3 miles" the guy says laughingly. I’m so thankful that I am now in the mood to enjoy that joke! "You’re doing great!" the young lady tells me. Why does everyone keep telling me that? Why is everybody here so maddeningly cheerful? The guy behind me catches me here. We look each other in the eye and instantly know what the other is thinking. We laugh out loud at the same time. For an instant two total strangers share an identical bond. Hang tough!

I hang a right onto the hard-surface road. My partner must have been late for a buffet because he screamed out of the gates and vanished. A red Mazda truck comes zipping towards me. It’s Horton, and he’s smiling and waving so enthusiastically at me his truck is swerving. I put on my best face and wave back. Am I in first place or last place? It doesn’t matter. Everyone’s treated exactly the same.

Back onto the trail, the wind picks up but the sun comes out. I fetch my clip-ons out of my pack and snap them in place. As I arrive at a large field I’m reminded of what happened last year -- a gust blew my cap off, across the field. I had to chase it down, saying, "Wasted steps! Wasted steps! Wasted steps!" I pull the same cap tight and bare down.

I stomp down the last steep hill to the gravel road. It was on this hill last year that I felt a sharp pain in my knee that stayed with me all year. I turned left at the bottom. No pain this time! I’m again walking up a hill with impunity.

At the top of the hill I arrive at the final aid station. I refill my water bottle, eat some pretzels and chat for a minute with the three guys there. "3.5 miles to the end! You’re doing great!" If enough people keep telling me I’m doing great, then yes, maybe I am doing great.

I leave the aid station and lumber on down the trail. Back in the mid-1970s I could cover 3.5 miles in about 18 minutes. Yea right! That was 23 years, 10,000 cigarettes and 42 pounds ago! I’m shooting for 40 minutes today. Forty is a big number to me right now. I think about running 40 miles on my 40^th birthday next week. Actually, I’ll only be 39.95! How about doing a 40K on my birthday instead? Or doing the 40-yard dash, like the football players used to do? I cross the dam and get an attack of vertigo. 10,000 cigarettes? No fooling? Let me think -- I smoked from 1979 to 1985, about 2 packs a day, sometimes filtered sometimes not -- well, it was a lot, anyway.

Back on the single-path -- almost home! I wind around and wind around before reaching the ropes course. I’m now walking about one minute for every one minute I run. What’s going on? Why is it I can run a 4:10 street marathon but only manage a 6-1/2 hour 50k? Doesn’t matter.

There is a young lady sitting by the ropes course. "Great job!" she yells. Is she real or an apparition? I walk the hill to the hard-surface road. Just before leaving the woods I stop, take off my cap and bow down, thanking the Lord for helping me find the strength, and especially the resolve to complete this journey. Now Lord, please concentrate your efforts on Bruce and his family.

I round the turn and see the finish. My wife, mom and kids are waiting there. As I approach the line people start clapping. Thank you! Susan is holding a camera up, ready to snap a picture of me crossing under the banner. "Way to go Dale!" I look over to my left and see Andrew Thompson cheering for me. I raise my hands, acknowledging his cheers. If only he knew what an important role he played in this run. I struggle under the banner. 6:55. My kids run to greet me. My 4-year-old daughter ran 8-1/2 laps around a high school track several weeks ago. Susan looks down at the camera. "Oh shoot -- it didn’t take. Go back out there and cross the finish line again."

I left Holiday Lake with some apprehensions. My time was 20 minutes slower than last year, I obviously need to see a sports nutritionist about my recurring nausea. There were some athletes there who can really make me feel inadequate -- 10 double ironman finishes? 442 marathons run? Over 300 ultras completed? Finished third in the Trans-America race?! For Pete’s sake, how do these people do these things?!

Back at work Monday someone asked me how the race went. I gave the usual, just fine, had fun, blah blah blah. I mentioned it took me almost 7 hours, and someone within earshot exclaimed "Seven hours?! I can’t imagine running for 15 minutes!!" Crash!! Just came back down to earth! Perspective alert! Hey, maybe I really did something after all!

Back next year? You better believe it. After all, I can run for seven hours.