The 2003 Massanutten Mountain Trail 100 miler was a delightful contrast to my 1997 experience, but I suppose it helps that I only ran 50 of it this time, pacing my friend, Steve Burton. Being of sound mind and body for nearly the entire 50 miles this year, I was able to absorb, learn, and enjoy the experience on a completely different level, and truly appreciate what a feat it is to complete this event.

For me, the day started at 4:30 pm Saturday when my brother, Charles, and I arrived at the "Visitors Center," mile 48. Runners were streaming into the aid station looking fairly cheerful and strong, albeit mud-splattered and drenched ("drowned rats" was the analogy I heard most often). Steady rain had fallen nearly the whole day, interrupted only by torrential rain showers and thunder. The trails had transformed into stream beds or mud slides, and most runners had abandoned any attempt at keeping shoes dry or legs clean.

Steve had employed an enthusiastic and energetic crew team, Theresa, Jay and Richard, whose SUV was full enough to feed every runner on the mountain for the weekend. Under the table, sleeping bags, coolers, bags of clothes, tarps, and disassembled first aid kit, was a camping stove that Richard dug out to begin grilling hot dogs and peeled potatoes. With some time to kill before Steve was to arrive, we chatted with the runners and other crew, took a brief nap, and then jerry-rigged a tarp cover onto the back of Richard's car, thereby announcing the arrival of the most prepared and over-supplied support team.

Steve arrived at 6:45pm, happy, drenched, and looking way too fresh for having been running for nearly 14 hours. Richard refilled his water pack while Theresa held out his potatoes and hot dog. Jay found a dry shirt, deodorant, and toothbrush as requested. Minutes later, fed, dried, brushed, and smelling sweet, Steve stepped back onto course, this time with me trailing along behind, ready for my adventure as his "pacer."

For our first hour together we climbed 1000' over 4 miles. We had plenty to chat about: the big rocks, the briefly cleared skies, Steve's relationships, the little rocks. We stopped momentarily to observe in awe, as if peering out the window of an airplane together, the little town of New Market lit up over 2000' below the trail. The scenery was beautiful and the opportunity to get to know a relatively new friend without the pressures of time or interruptions was precious. This was living.

The next aid station at mile 52 came quickly. As we stocked up on oranges, Gatorade, soup, and cookies, we were suddenly surprised by a sound that was part-animal, part-train coming from the trail ahead. Looking up, we spotted a runner leaning over, seemingly expelling everything he had just eaten at the aid station, and probably the one before. Apparently our comrade was having a little trouble keeping down his soup. Little did we know that "Barf Man," as we would affectionately call him, would provide much needed comic relief for many hours to come, and it wasn't just soup that disagreed with him.

Trotting out of the station, the sun started to set, and it began raining once again. We hopped over rocks, sloshed through stream beds, and found much to be cheerful about. We laughed together as darkness fell and Steve became comically incapable of finding the trail, wandering deep into the underbrush when given the lead. We giggled as we battled each other for dry rocks at stream crossings, noting that I usually won out, leaving Steve to wade through the rushing waters. "That's really ok, Anna- I mean who's important here after all?" Time passed quickly and happily. By 10pm we reached the aid station at mile 58 where we were restocked and refreshed. Leaving the aid station we heard the loud heaving down the trail in the darkness, and we smiled, knowing our friend was ahead of us.

Climbing to the next ridge, 1500 more feet up, whippoorwills serenaded us on both sides of the trail, and the tree frogs sang loudly. The rain had stopped and we spotted the first stars in the sky. It was a lovely mountain hike on a beautiful night with a good friend. Who was starting to fade, I noticed. "I think I'm going to be sick," Steve worried, as he realized that turkey spam was probably a bad choice at the last stop. He leaned over and attempted to rid himself of the spam and all the Gatorade from the past hour.

Over the next 6 miles Steve struggled through the climb, his nausea, growing blisters, and now, self doubt. The giggles and scenery-inspired awe were replaced with the painful discovery of a how deep and utter exhaustion can challenge even the most prepared athletes. Steve had worked hard for this event, running and cycling great distances nearly every day for past several months. Last fall he had proven himself as an ultramarathoner, running 50 miles in under 8 ? hours- the 5th fastest of 180 Reston Runners? finishes since 1995. In a marathon Steve averages 7:20 minutes per mile. At midnight, 19 hours and 62 miles into his first 100 mile race, Steve was pushing hard to maintain a 25 minute/mile pace.

Although I had been entertainment, fair company, and a good distraction for the past 5 hours, I knew it was now time to start earning my keep. Recalling my own MMT, I knew that blisters, not exhaustion, would be a deciding factor later in the race and so we stopped to take care of his feet. We wiped them down with my shirt and applied Compeed to the worst toes. Remembering my own battle with sleepiness and how only conversation or connection to another could pull me out of delirium, we walked hand in hand and I and promised him the sun would come up and he would discover a new energy with the new day. "Do you think I could finish in time if I walked the rest of the way?" Steve began to ask. "Absolutely," I always told him, and that I knew he would break through this wall.

When we reached mile 65 the crew jumped into action, refilling Steve's pack, changing his socks, feeding his face. Charles did the same for me, then donned his own headlamp, ready to join us for a few hours of night work. Steve was falling well behind schedule and the crew looked visibly worried. Although Steve never said it out loud, I knew he wanted to be done with this event and was seriously questioning his desire and ability to continue. The three of us pulled out of the station in time to hear the familiar post-aid station heaving ahead. Barf Man was going strong, and Steve giggled just a little.

Charles and I visited together as we hiked up the next ridge following ribbons and wading through streams and over rocks. Steve seemed to fade in and out of consciousness, all the while marching forward in the dark. He spoke little and occasionally weaved, stopped, then started hiking again. "I'm just so tired." Weave. " I've never been this tired before." Pause. "Is it normal to feel so awful?" Sigh. " Do you think I can make it if I walk the rest of the way?" Marching on. Marching on. The suffering was lifted momentarily when we heard the post-aid station howling-heaving of our companion ahead, and we knew we would see our crew shortly.

At mile 68, 2:50AM, Jay joined us in encouraging our runner over the next mountain ridge. This was to be an 8 mile stretch of rocks, boulders, roots and wet leaves which I remembered being the most physically and emotionally challenging section of the course. Steve was in no mood to chat or visit, and he seemed less and less impressed with my assurances that this truly was the toughest part. "You said that an hour ago," he reminded me and staggered on.

Time passed slowly and when Steve spoke it was often preceded by expletives, then apologies for his language, then more expletives. Steve's frustration, pain, and exhaustion was growing and no amount of hand holding or story telling was going to pull him out of this one. Runners had been passing us steadily over the past hour, while ours continued to fade. I mentioned to Charles that I thought pretty soon Steve was going to have to make a conscious decision to fight back and take control, and all we could do was wait. I only hoped it would happen soon, since I was getting worried about making the time cut off at the next aid station.

And then it happened, albeit in a most unlikely fashion. Passing under a low branch I worried that Steve would not see the tree and I turned to point it out, blinding him with my lamp. Turning away quickly to allow him to use his own light to see, I heard a loud crash followed a long stream of angry obscenities. Glancing back I saw Steve rubbing his throbbing head, and then I watched as he transformed into a man in action. Steve had had enough, and he was getting off this *&^% mountain. At 4:30am Steve began running down that rocky trail, and it didn't look like he had any intention of stopping.

For the next 2 hours I jogged helplessly behind the team, hopeful that Steve would be careful running downhill over what appeared to be a 2000' pile of rocks. Charles stuck with me, urging me on, while Jay followed Steve. Dawn came, Charles and I passed all the runners who'd passed us, and then we began to see new runners, but no Steve. Pulling into Edinburg Gap at mile 76, we found Steve being buffed, fueled and retreaded by his crew. Tired and sore, for sure, Steve was ready for the new day, and the race was on.

For the next 5 hours Steve was flanked by a series of changing runners who had traveled to these mountains to share in the experience of his first 100 miler. I lagged along behind but caught up with the band about every 40 minutes when his pace would wane. I began timing these energy cycles- 40 minutes on, 20 minutes off. 40 minutes running, 20 minutes walking. 40 minutes of focused concentration, 20 minutes succumbing to the reality of a depleted and worn body. During those down-times I inevitably caught up to Steve who had urged the others to go on while we walked. "Do you think I can make it if I just walk the rest of the way?" he would say, forgetting we'd been over this before. "I know you can, Steve," I always said, but I knew his walking would be over soon.

Although I had already been on my feet for 14-15 hours, I remember this time as the most precious of the whole event. Steve had worked hard and suffered long, but had clearly proven that he would be ok. His own self-confidence was intermittently challenged by waves of exhaustion, but he seemed to be gaining in resolve as the day wore on. He was actually getting stronger with each step, or at least wiser, and the angst of the night before was replaced with pure and simple pain. Foot pain, chafing pain, head pain. But pain is a lot easier to manage than self-doubt, and Steve was trained for this.

At mile marker 89 the new running team consisted of two of the most gorgeous, fit, and fresh-legged brunettes I'd ever seen, looking as though they just stepped off the cover of Runners World. As this was my 41st mile and 16th hour, I offered a sharp contrast: mud and sweat-covered, red faced and puffy eyed, I was looking, smelling and feeling pretty skanky. Entering the aid station just as Steve and his babes were preparing to leave, I felt a bit anxious about keeping pace with the team. My judgement undoubtedly hampered by my own tiredness, I neglected to eat or drink much. I left the station quickly with only 20 ounces of water to carry with me for the next 7 miles. Steve looked quickly over his right shoulder as they sped off, as if to say, "Thank you for everything, Anna. I have to go now." And off they went.

Not knowing that Steve was about to set a blistering 8 minute/mile pace up the gravel road, passing nearly 20% of the field in the next 2 hours, I shuffled off behind him, hoping that by running up all the hills I could I would catch him around the next corner. I continued to pass others along the way- runners on a death march who looked like they had just run 90 miles in a day. I ran up hills I never would have considered running in any other ultramarathon, no longer tiptoeing around creaks, but running straight through them. If Steve could be caught, I was going to do it.

An hour into this push I was nearly finished with my small bottle of Gatorade and still 2 hours away from the next aid station. The course had gotten ridiculously steep, the sun had come out and I realized I had stopped sweating and peeing. My focus turned from catching Steve to simply avoiding the need for a most embarrassing search and rescue mission organized by the race directors and culminating with the discovery of a delirious, leaf-covered bandit runner wandering aimlessly through the underbrush hunting for water and muttering, "I'm right behind you, Steve, but don't slow down on my account."

Fortunately for me and the race directors, I was soon passed by two mountain bikers who allowed me to drink their water and generously filled my bottle before bouncing down the trail over the boulders ahead of me. Almost immediately I needed to pee and began sweating profusely. Once again, all was right in the world, and I started trotting down the mountain. If only all of life's troubles could be solved by a nice cool drink of water, I thought, and felt that deep satisfaction that I believe is reserved especially for ultra runners on the brink of finishing their goal distance.

As I expected, Steve had left the next aid station at mile 96 long before I reached it, and was half way up the next mountain. His crew drove me to the finish where I walked backward on the course until I met the team jogging down the mountain. We exchanged a quick hug and then continued down the trail for one last mile together. It was 3:00 Sunday afternoon, 19 hours after I had first joined Steve, and he was an entirely different person. A runner once said that crewing for a 50 miler was like watching your friends age before your eyes. Throughout the MMT I couldn't help but think that crewing for a 100 miler was like watching your friends decay before your eyes, until I saw Steve a mile from the finish. As it turns out, he had neither aged nor decayed during his 34 hour trek. He had simply grown up.

Steve had faced 12 mountain climbs, traversed miles of stream beds, overcome nausea, and continued through the pain of blisters, chaffing, and exhaustion. But the greatest challenge he faced that weekend was that of self-doubt and discouragement, some of life's greatest barriers to success. After 34 hours and 10 minutes, Steve had arrived victorious, free of doubts about his ability to conquer whatever challenge put before him, all with a little help from a tree, some friends, and a lot of blind determination.

As for me, I finished my 50 mile training run relatively sound and immensely inspired by the team's accomplishment. Having witnessed the feat up close and very personally, and having been intimately reminded of the enormity of the task, I am now seriously questioning the wisdom of my own goal to run the Vermont 100 miler in July. If this event is any predictor of my own story, I fear it may be titled, "A Girl, an Empty Bottle, Found Wandering." Stay tuned for part II of the tale.