Free Ultramarathon Man by DEAN KARNAZES Page A

two continuous marathons without stop proved to be much tougher than I’d imagined. The first half of the race went smoothly enough, despite the driving wind and mounting cold.
    But during the second half, things started to deteriorate. The trauma to my body was much greater than I had anticipated, and the trail conditions worsened. As I stepped over tree roots and across icy puddles of mud, there came a point in the run, at about mile 38, where every muscle in my body was in pain. My fingers hurt, my forearms hurt, my shoulders ached, and of course my legs screamed in agony.
    Early in the race I’d been downing solid food—peanut butter sandwiches, cheese, crackers—but now I was subsisting on cut fruit alone. My appetite was gone, but I forced myself to stomach the fruit to keep the energy level up. Pain has an odd way of suppressing hunger; when you most need the calories, food is entirely unappetizing.
    For the first 43 miles, the run was entirely in the realm of the physical, and pain was the dominant sensation. But then my mind started scurrying off on its own. Instead of being one continual impulse, the pain began to come and go like lightning. In between the jolts of pain were blissful, almost euphoric moments.
    There was no way for me to control the onset of either sensation, no way to shift the balance from pain to pleasure. I tried holding my breath until I turned blue, tightening the muscles in my forearms in an attempt to pull the pain from my legs, running with my hands over my head—nothing worked. My body was on autopilot, and I was just along for the ride.
    Despite this quasi-out-of-body experience, I kept trudging onward, ecstasy flirting with pain. The last 2 miles of the course were more about survival than running. I just shuffled along, step by step, barely able to lift my feet. After eight hours and twenty-seven minutes, I staggered across the finish line, 50 miles completed. “Victorious” is probably an overstatement. But it was a glorious moment nonetheless—I’d just qualified for the Western States 100!
    On shaky legs, I stumbled to the finishers’ tent and received a ribbon and a few handshakes and slaps on the back. Then I lumbered painfully to my car. When I plopped down on the leather seats, my legs went strangely cold. Something wasn’t right. Then, without warning, the quadriceps and calf muscles of both legs seized in wicked cramps. My torso swung violently left, and then wildly back to the right. My legs were pegged to the floorboard, completely rigid. All ten toes were locked in place, forcefully curled against the soles of my shoes. My calf muscles were tight as baseballs, and my thighs were like solid planks of wood. The pain was mind-bending, pounding, entirely owning every drop of me.
    Sweat poured down my face, and I screamed at the top of my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye I could see people casually strolling by my car, totally oblivious of the situation inside. Apparently the seals that were so effective at keeping noise out were also pretty good at keeping noise in. There was nothing I could do but scream: other than the ability to open my mouth, I was completely immobilized. I yelled louder and louder and louder, but no one outside could tell that I was inside on the verge of blowing apart.
    My screaming was interrupted by a curious belch. Then came a few more burps. Something was rising up inside my stomach. Suddenly my mouth opened, and projectile vomit began streaming out. I tried to tilt my head downward toward the floorboard, but I was completely incapable of altering the flow of things. I must have looked like Godzilla blowing fire into the air.
    It lasted maybe thirty seconds. When I’d run dry, the entire dashboard and steering wheel were covered in vile sludge. The cramps were still so severe that all I could move were my eyeballs. The rest of my body felt like brittle glass. What to do now?
    Perhaps if I could force my