You know when you are drifting off to sleep at the end of a particularly stressful or exciting day and you have vivid flashbacks from that day?  The images and thoughts of one of the most amazing and important days of my life were not only burning in my mind as I lay down in my bed on race night, but they still come to me today, over a week after my first JFK 50 Mile:

An endless trail of jagged rocks (sharks!) and roots coming up at me.  Did I take a wrong turn?  Because I'm all alone out here.  How did those 5am starters do this in the dark?  Hell, I'm tripping just walking.  I don't care how long it takes to get off this mountain. I'm going to come off it calmly and unscathed.

I'm off the mountain.  My watch reads 4:03.  I ask Jill and Steve (my crew), "How is my time?" Am I okay?"
Jill says something like, "Oh yeah, you're fine!  Doing great!"
Steve says something like, "Well, as long as you keep moving from now on, you'll be okay."  Is there a tad of concern in his voice?  Uh oh, I'd better get a move on!

Hitting the C&O Canal towpath at a clip.  "7:1" repeating in my head. (Thanks for that idea, Susan Defrees!).  I'm fresh as a daisy.  I'm going stick to the 7:1 pattern and see how far it gets me.

Passing runner after runner, warrior after warrior.  No one is passing me.  Going slow on the mountain is making my race.  7:1, 7:1.  I can't believe I'm not bonking yet.  

Mile markers 66, 77, 82...How did I get from 66 to 82?

Jill, Steve, my friends, Kyle (my guy :)), coming towards me at aid stations.  I'm so proud and elated to see them!

A reflective vest being placed on me by a teenage girl at the end of the towpath.  OMG, I'm almost done!  I can't believe I'm not bonking!

A long, intermittent trail of runners in yellow and orange vests plodding their way ahead of me down the winding country road at dusk.

6 miles to go.  I throw up my hands in despair and yell to my friends who are sitting in chairs on the other side of the road watching the race, "There's too much left!"
"Suck it up!" Joanne calls back to me.  (She's a JFK veteran but had to drop out at the last minute because of an injury.)  I suck it up and keep going.

3 miles left.  I know I can run the rest of the way strong and have enough for a final kick at the end.  

Out of the blue, threatening, sharp pains stab into my Achilles.  Where did this come from?  I don't want to risk it.  I have to walk from now on.  I don't know if I will break 11 hours now.

Some guy pulls up next to me and cheerfully tells me he just decided to do this race last week, "This is my first marathon and my first ultra.  I didn't train.  The longest I ran was 5 miles."
Bullshit.

1.5 miles left.  I will try to run the rest.  Miraculously, no pain in my Achilles!  I suck it up and keep running.  But, I just can't manage my "signature" final kick.

Half a mile.  I choke up and let out a little cry.  I can't wait to cross the finish line and start bawling.  I have to hold back the tears now, though.

It's dark.  There are bright lights and loud cheers.  I cry the tears of joy I've been waiting for.  I cross the finish line.  The race clock says 10:57.  A metal is placed around my neck.  I see all the important faces.  All of them.  Mom, Dad, Kriszta, Kata, Kyle, Jill, Steve.  

Coming to and smiling silly after fainting (from the hot shower and dehydration) into the arms of Kyle in the gym.  My daughter Kriszta tells me she heard someone say, "How embarrassing that must be for her."
No, I'm not embarrassed at all.  Just happy.  I'm on top of the world.