When the urge to celebrate your birthday arrives, welcome it with open arms.

paths meandered through the plaza, intersecting near a flowing fountain. The

marathon course followed one toward the impressive Chicago skyline. The day was magnificent: cool and dry, white clouds against a blue sky. It was the 20mile mark of the Mayor Daley Marathon—the first Mayor Daley—and the year was 1978. At that exact moment, I knew that I would finish my first marathon. Never mind the stories I had heard about hitting The Wall. This marathon was mine, and I was going to finish strong. Emotion rolled over me like fog lifting off Lake Michigan, and I picked up the pace. That was 30 years ago, but I can still summon that particular runner’s high.

Fast forward several decades. My kids now have their own kids. My young wife’s beauty is now classic beauty. I have completed 44 marathons and ran 3:34 in last year’s St. Jude Memphis Marathon—14 minutes faster than in Chicago 30 years ago—and still I’m logging miles.

Through those years the magical 26.2 has been the ultimate distance for me. Who could want or need more? It has been a manageable distance, and although I’ve never been competitive, I have been able to hold my times much as they have been through the years. As I neared my 50th birthday, the idea of running my age—50 miles—came up. It didn’t float down as a vision or a mandate but more as a curiosity of physicality. And I likely didn’t dream up the idea; probably Thad read of someone who did this. At any rate, I suppressed the thought.

Sixty months later, at 55, it surfaced again, stronger this time as in, “Better do it now before it’s too late.” I went so far as to design a training program, but the task appeared so herculean that I shied away, instead choosing an exotic marathon in some distant city. I’ve no regrets about the decision.

At 60, my time had passed, I thought, and I didn’t dwell on it. In any event, if the idea had germinated, the cancer surgery would have nipped it in the bud.

[Te October sun painted dark shadows on the stone plaza near the lake. Four

Sixty years and cancer was too much. Running a distance more than twice my PR was out of the question.

Then 65 arrived. Somehow, this birthday is more significant than the others. Perhaps it is because the government thinks you need financial assistance at that age. Or maybe it’s because society suggests that you graduate from middle to old age then. The world seems to say that “If you don’t feel old, just wait—you will soon,” or even worse, “If you are that age, you must feel old.” Society expects you to act your age. Me, I don’t go for that.

A little discouragement goes a long way

As the birthday approached, the idea gained momentum. I toyed with it and tried to block it out. I spoke with a few friends and family. They stared and wrung their hands and gave no encouragement. None. “You’re too old, and that’s too far,” was what one family member said. Then, just as decision time approached, Thad an opportunity to visit the Amazon, and I chose that. No running, just 10 days of jungle wonder, just when I needed to have the hammer down. That was that, | thought.

A The author (left) and training buddy Bill Dalton plan strategy during a break.

Then, with the big birthday only two months away, the idea burst into full bloom. Was it possible to get ready? Could I hone my body into shape in two months? Would I jeopardize my health by pushing too far?

A friend showed me an advertisement for a race in nearby Memphis. It was the 24-Hour Tour d’Esprit, sponsored by the Holy Spirit Catholic Church to raise money for its Haiti medical mission. A quick glance at the brochure showed it to be a legitimate event, in its eighth year, and it was to be held very close to my birthday.

Now, all I had to do was figure out how to run 65 miles.

My disciplined training had ended with Boston, after which my weekly average fell to fewer than 30 miles. My long runs were around 15. With only two months to train, I decided to concentrate on lengthening my weekly long run. As the weeks passed, despite the heat and humidity of August and September, I was able to push through 20, 25, 30, then a Labor Day marathon, and finally a 35-miler. I ran slowly and suffered the usual maladies, but nothing serious. Interestingly, I found this to be different, practically another sport from marathon training, and rather enjoyable.

By mid-September, I was ready for 40 miles. To avoid the intense heat of my deep South home, I started very early, well before daylight, and for safety’s sake,

Courtesy of Kenneth Williams

A The author’s little home away from home.

on the track. By the time the sun arrived, I had settled in comfortably and decided to continue on the track. Ten hours and 160 laps later, I had passed the test.

My family and friends, afraid I would pursue my original idea of a solo 65miler, were delighted that I chose instead Tour d’Esprit. A phone call with race director Tom Lewis eased my concerns about support (excellent), trail surface (varied), and course (certified). But his final comment, “You’ll enjoy the margaritas,” was puzzling.

Race day arrived too soon, but the day was magnificent, very similar to that day 30 years earlier in Chicago. My long, monotonous track runs were perfect training for the one-mile loop of the racecourse. I was accustomed to going in circles.

Arriving early, we staked out a perfect spot on the green behind the church, adjacent to the racecourse, and erected a tent and an awning. I immediately recognized the drawback of being near the racecourse: it would be necessary to run past that warm, comfortable, homey setting time after time, always having to stifle the temptation to stop.

Taking the final inventory of necessary ultra stuff

As the clock ticked toward 3:00 p.m. and start time, I began the too-long process of dressing out: sunscreen, long-sleeve shirt, iPod, cell phone, jacket, towel, backup MP3 player, flashlight, Tums, sunglasses, Band-Aids, heart rate monitor, extra batteries, timing chip, handkerchief, Advil, Powerade, energy drinks, and food. Everything was either hanging off me or lying ready to be grabbed when I ducked in for a quick stop. I was ready.

I made my way to the starting area. With over 800 registered, I was surprised to see not many over 100 at the starting line. Many participants were running as teams, and others would arrive after work to dutifully support the event and its worthwhile charity, walk their three miles, and then go home for other weekend priorities. Not many of us were “through-runners,” those driven souls trying to put out some fire burning deep within. One such soul was the guy next to me. His goal was to finish 50-mile runs in all 50 states, and he was looking to mark Tennessee off his list. No doubt we all had a story.

As the countdown approached, it was obvious this was not a normal race start—not much laughing or chatting, and everyone seemed rather content to remain fixed at that spot, enjoying the warm sun. Conversations were light and subdued. After standard announcements and, in my case, the much-needed prayer for safety and strength, the gun went off, and so did we. A few quickly sprinted out of sight, but the pace of those near me reflected the time and miles ahead.

The one-mile course sloped away from the church and into an adjoining park, where it snaked through a thick forest. The massive oak and gum trees, leaves

with only a suggestion of early-October color, canopied the trail. Three-quarters in, the trail crossed a deep but narrow creek on an arching pedestrian bridge decorated with Christmas lights. Huge portable floodlights, as high as the tupelo gum trees, stood as silver sentinels. FedEx sponsorship logos signified yet another good deed by this local corporate citizen. The trail contained almost every surface imaginable—asphalt, concrete, cinders, dirt, and grass—a mixture pleasing to the feet and helpful in keeping us runners awake for the next 24 hours.

As I completed the initial loop and stepped on the red timing mat for the first time, it was reassuring to hear the faint electronic “ping” announcing that the computer had recognized me. Eight fifty-four; too fast. I had gotten caught up in the euphoria of the start. | walked a few steps to compensate. I glanced at the computer monitor at the scoring table, and it showed my name, number of laps completed, and elapsed time. Now to do 64 more.

Shortly after, my friend Dalt showed up ready to run. He joined me, and by 4:00 p.M., [had completed five miles with several short stops. I was settling in just fine. All the aches and pains I had imagined during the past 24 hours had miraculously disappeared. Funny how that happens. I have limped and whined the day before many marathons, but when race day arrived, the pains disappeared.

Ah! The arrival of the first dose of super fluid replacements

We duck in to the tent and see Tom, the race director, heading toward the tent with asilver tray of luscious-looking lime-green margaritas in frosted glasses. Anything that looks that good certainly can’t be all bad, and I sampled one. Delicious! Am I strong enough to survive 23 more hours of this?

By 5:30, Dalt is off to watch John McEnroe harass the linesmen at the Memphis Racquet Club, but I am not alone. All those 800 registered participants are now present and accounted for. School is out, the workweek is ended, and indeed a microscopic slice of America is represented. The path past the bridge, the dirt portion of the trail, is being pulverized by thousands of steps. The runners and walkers come in all ages, shapes, and sizes. Even at my 10-minute pace, I am a speed demon passing this crew.

The sun is now over Arkansas, heading toward Arizona, creating deep shadows. Just before I enter the tree-canopied tunnel for the 11th loop, I see a spiderweb floating southward across the sky, silver against deep blue. It reminds me that the north breeze will soon cool things off.

Early evening and hunger pains arrive simultaneously. The course crosses a grassy knoll near the church fellowship hall where the strong smell of garlic reminds me that I have been promised a pasta dinner. Fortunately, I’ve never had a problem eating and running. In fact, Ihave more problems when I don’t eat than when I do. So, with a little encouragement from my wife, I stop to eat pasta. After

Race director Tom Lewis delivers his delicious margaritas.

all her work in helping erect the tent and in supporting me in this and other crazy ventures, didn’t I owe her that? It is easy to rationalize when you are hungry.

As we enter the dining room, it is apparent that this is not your usual race pasta dinner. There must have been 250 people eating, drinking, and having a party! A Dixieland band played lively music. As we sat down bearing plates bent under the weight of the sauce-covered pasta, salad, and garlic bread, I saw a large, hand-lettered sign: “Free Beer and Wine.” Should I? Certainly not more than one . .. two at the most! The carbs will help replace those already lost. Margaritas before dinner, beer and wine with dinner; would they be offended if I asked for an Irish coffee?

Later, I questioned my judgment. The memory of that dinner resurfaced throughout the next few hours.

By 7:30, a gigantic harvest moon had risen so bright and clear that I could see craters on the lunar surface. There was no twilight between day and this bright, moon-filled night. The temperature dropped as fast as the setting sun.

As the trail enters the forest, a little imagination inspires visions of a bat cave, but a few hundred yards inside, the giant floodlights pierce the darkness. Even

Courtesy of Kenneth Williams

Frost’s words echo: “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but | have promises to keep, and miles to go…”

farther on, the brightly lit areas make a nice contrast against the dark ones. We plod on. A diesel generator belches strong exhaust, and the odor brings memories of deep-sea fishing from Gulfport and Biloxi, in boats that left trails of foamy seawater and diesel odor. This, of course, was before Katrina pulverized boats, harbors, Gulfport, Biloxi, and everything else in that area.

Joy has arrived. She is one of my running buddies, and she had promised to share the middle miles with me. She is accompanied by ““Myfriendpenny,” the way Joy always refers to her crony. Apparently they arrived earlier, but we had not bumped into each other. Funny, with only a one-mile loop, how that can happen. Later, well after dark, when I stopped for fluids, she and Myfriendpenny show up at the tent. Joy, after several marathons and with even a SOK under her belt, has no idea how strong she is. Tonight she has already logged double-digit miles. Joy and I set out and leave Myfriendpenny resting at the tent.

By 9:30, I have passed the 26.2-mile mark, a significant point, but there is much that lies ahead. I become more solemn. There is a short stretch of cinder track where a minute clinker can invade your shoe, and you must coax it to the toe box so it won’t cause a problem. The alternative is to stop and empty the shoe, a time waster or an excuse to rest, depending on your frame of mind. The dirt portion of the course has now become powdery, each step creating a puff of

Courtesy of Kenneth Williams

brown dirt that coats shoes, socks, and the lower part of the legs. My white New Balance shoes are now tan, along with everything else south of my knees.

As we pass the camping area, the smell of the campfires beckons. Someone is cooking beef, and from the smell, it appears to be heading toward well done. Am I hungry again? After several hours of regretting the indulgences of dinner, it is good to again have a favorable outlook about food.

By 10:30, I stop for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and quickly locate everything but the bread, which I realize I left at home. Bad news. I had run all my long runs with PB and J, and now to survive the long night without this? I substitute cheese and crackers.

Itis 11:30, and 35 miles are behind me. Nine hours on the course and I am only at 35, but as I take stock of my condition, I am fairly pleased. Certainly things hurt, but I am in better shape than I would have anticipated. Thirty-five miles is more than halfway, and I am looking forward to the remainder. Contrary to my usual habits, I have stopped to stretch from time to time. Maybe this has helped.

Midnight appears, and spectators and family members huddle close to campfires, with L.L. Bean down vests tightly zipped or draped in blankets or sleeping bags. The runners are still in shorts and singlets, oblivious to the temperature. We are fewer now, mainly through-runners steadily trudging along. Then there are relay-team runners who blow past at a six-minute pace. One dude, slick bald, makes a point of passing and then cutting back in, just missing a collision. Joy rolls her eyes, and I learn that road rage can divert your mind from pain.

Assessing mileage totals to date

By 2:00 a.m., Joy and Myfriendpenny are catching 40 winks in the warmth of her SUV. Joy is at 32 miles, a PR for her, and Myfriendpenny is at 11. Her lifetime PR was three miles; she will be lucky if she can walk tomorrow.

At 3:00, I have a situation with a hip joint. There is no problem as long as I run, but after even a short stop, the pain is excruciating and it takes a few hundred yards to work it out. Likewise, the cold is not a problem as long as I keep moving, but after a brief stop, I shake uncontrollably. Down South, we call that a “rigor.”

When I pass the SUV, I see that Joy has begun running again. The next time I see her, she is at the tent, having completed 35 miles, and preparing to head home. She has attained her goal and set herself a PR.

At 3:45, and 50 miles, I am too emotionally and physically drained to appreciate the milestone. The gigantic moon has crossed the sky, following the sun and heading for Arizona.

lam a lone runner in the dead of night. It is very quiet. Fatigue makes it easy for the mind to deceive, imagining scenes in shadows and people who are not

there—spooky. Guards silently stand in the shadows at two dark sections of the trail, watching and listening. I speculate that they are thinking about the soft packs of filtered Camels in their shirt pockets and wondering whether it is possible to catch a quick puff. Perhaps they are retirees supplementing their Social Security or maybe good-hearted church members assisting in this unusual fund-raiser. I think they are staring at me, a runner nearly their age, and wondering what possesses me to pursue such a foolhardy stunt. The same question currently plagues me.

These hours are the worst—the in-between time, too late to be night, too early to be dawn. I felt the same in college cramming for an exam, on maneuvers in the Army, and when up all night in crisis times with family and friends. We are fragile creatures, and missing even one night’s sleep seriously compromises our physical and mental well-being. I keep at it, listening to music, watching the progress of the moon, and praying for daylight.

The blues-harmonica ringtone on my cell cuts through my thoughts. It is my wife, Nancy Ann, checking on me from her campground inside the Embassy Suites. She has called every hour and cannot be getting much more sleep than I am.

Batteries and energy drinks

I found out a short while ago that the advertised 18-hour battery life of an iPod Nano is actually 13 hours when used sparingly. But I was prepared, and with a quick stop, I switch to my faithful, AAA-battery-powered Rio. Runner-friendly MP3 players are one of two recent developments that have made ultras more bearable. The other, judging from the stashes by the camping area, would have to be energy drinks, those colorful aluminum cans packing a wallop of stamina-enhanced ingredients. Me, I have been slamming Tab Energy, distributed in female-friendly pink cans but containing a man-sized kick. It’s easy on my stomach.

Iam pleased and surprised to have run continually. Sure, I’ve had plenty of stops, and certainly I have run slowly, but I have not walked. I had imagined that after 30 or 40 miles, I would be in a run-walk-run-walk phase, but the opposite is true. Sometimes I’ve had to talk myself into stopping. Who would have guessed?

It is 5:30, and I am dumping a troublesome cinder from my dust-brown New Balance shoes. At 55 miles, the jacket stays on, even while I’m running. I have uncontrollable chills even after a short stop, and it takes more than a half mile to warm up enough to quit shaking. No wonder I do not want to stop running.

Do I notice a slight pink in the eastern horizon? Can the long night be ending?

One interesting phenomenon about this ultra thing is the ingress and egress of fluids. After hours without eating, with nothing in my stomach, fluids move through as fast as they go in, hardly staying around long enough to warm up. I drink 10 ounces, and in that many minutes I have trouble making it back to my

favorite port-a-john. And the volume seems to double. I always try to use the same port-a-john, as it seems like an old friend. Never mind that 10 others have despoiled the smelly, molded-plastic canister since I last stopped.

By 5:45, I see the first signs of community life, individuals here as they are each morning. One man, wearing a long London Fog coat, has a pair of fat black Labs on a leash, straining and panting, back legs bowed from excess weight. And we think obesity is a problem only with humans. Dogs need to run, too.

The first hint of daylight appears. It is 6:00, and I am at 57 miles. There is no excitement about this. My brain, functioning as slowly as my legs, computes that I will make 65 around 8:00. This is a matter-of-fact computation. One of the workers, weary looking, says the temperature is 45, but with the fatigue and the exposure, it feels colder. My hip pain is absent as long as I continue my slow pace.

Shortly after 6:30, I cross the 60-mile mark. Lately I have been checking my position on the computer screen and attempting to gain ground on a thin woman dressed in gray who has a couple of miles more than I do. I have passed her twice, but she passes me while I am making a pit stop. Speeding up at 60 miles is difficult, so I determine to take fewer breaks and move up on her, but she matches me lap for lap. I remember that my competition is only with myself, and I let her go.

Courtesy of Kenneth Williams

The author after the finish: 65 miles? No problem! Just take one step at a time.

By 7:30, I am almost there. The morning is as bright as any morning in memory. Dew covers the green grass, and the slightest mist in the air divides the sun’s rays into brilliant colors. It seems to exist just for me. I feel good that I’ve survived the long night. I toy with running past my 65-mile goal, perhaps saving myself from having to do this again in five years, but I am concerned about the long-term effect of all this. I have never been here and have no clue about problems I might incur next week or next month. Anyway, my first job is to finish the 65 miles.

Dalt reappears fresh and rested, gamely returning to help me wind up. He reports that McEnroe conducted himself well—for McEnroe—and that the match was enjoyable. Shortly before 8:00, I step on the timing mat for the 64th time. One more. Dalt wants to dwell on the significance of the moment, but I have only the remaining lap on my mind. We slowly run the familiar path, mostly in silence. We pass the camping area, still fragrant with camp smoke, past my well-used port-a-john, into the bat cave, across the vaulted bridge, up and over the dusty dirt hump, and across the lawn behind the church. A few more feet and the electronic beep signals my 65th lap. A small group gathers to congratulate me, including my loyal wife, Nancy Ann. I feel calm, pleased, and satisfied. Time now to rest, refuel, and reflect over pancakes and bacon in the fellowship hall.

It is midmorning, and I awake from a short, troubled nap. I am in the tent, ona cot and inside my sleeping bag. My feet, at the west end of the tent, are freezing. My head, on the east end where the bright sun is bearing down on the thin wall of the tent, seems to be on fire. I contemplate reversing my position but do not have the energy. I unglue one eye to see that daughter Nan, along with granddaughter Meg and son-in-law Stuart, has arrived. Stuart is dressed for running, and I know what that means: more miles.

After gamely trying for half a mile, I discover that my get-up-and-go has got up and went. Walking is great, but my running for today is over. There are too many aches, and my break was much too long. But walking feels great, and Stuart stays with me for a couple of miles before settling into his 16 miles.

A month later, there are no lingering negative affects from my first ultra, no physical issues nor any emotional letdown. I’m training for a warm-up marathon in December, then Boston in April. I continue to be intrigued about ultras and the idea of testing my new limits. I am as excited with running as I was that sunny day in Chicago 30 years ago.

Are there more ultras in my future? I don’t know, but I will admit to possessing a brochure for Comrades, the famous South African 56-miler. I hope this year is

a “down” year for Comrades. I hear that is much easier than the “up” year. Me