By the time I was 17, I'd finished my first marathon; worse, I'd already tried--and failed--in my first ultramarathon. In the nearly 30 years since that DNF, I've run more than 100 marathons and no ultras. So it was with more than a little trepidation that I toed the line last fall for my second attempt at the really long run.

Flashback to 1974: I'm sitting in Algebra class, calculating not quadratic equations but pace per mile for the 12th John F. Kennedy 50 Mile race in Boonesboro, MD. The math indicates that my friends, Dave, Ron, and I, need only average eight minutes per mile to better our goal of seven hours. No matter that the three of us are novice cross-country runners, whose longest runs combined didn't come close to 50 miles.

In the rejoinder to "What were they thinking?", none of us finished. We separated early on the Appalachian Trail, two of us got lost for several miles, and we all quit at the same point in Antietam, 26 miles in. The weather--freezing rain and a temperature around 30 degrees--didn't help. Dave's dad had to pull over repeatedly on the long drive home so we could stretch our cramping legs.

Some 28 years later, I started again on a cold but thankfully clear morning to try to finish what I had started so long before. This time, however, I had help in the form of an experienced and accomplished crew--Greg Shank, Tyler Newcomer, Jeff Scuffins, and Susan Maher--without whom I never would have finished. I'd like to say they were with me every step of the way, but neither the official rules nor the roads allowed support to that extent. Instead, they drove well over 50 miles to offer encouragement, fluids, and PowerGel; usually the latter two mixed together into a cement-like cocktail that proved a potent if unsavory elixir.

The first several miles were on roads, and I saw my crew twice before the race headed into the woods. Even there, the course followed a paved fire trail, so, other than a steep uphill, it wasn't too different from any other road race. Knowing that everyone feels good at that point, I tried to run easily and conserve energy but found myself leading despite my better intentions.

Once we headed onto the Appalachian Trail, however, Eric Clifton, four-time race winner and course record holder, took off like a frightened deer. Initially, I was happy to let Clifton lead, because the trail isn't particularly well marked and I hadn't forgotten getting lost lo those many years ago. But Clifton proved a poor guide, as he bounded gracefully over the stumps and rocks while I lumbered like a bear. Within a few minutes, Clifton was out of sight.

I wasn't alone for long. The third- and fourth-place runners caught me within a couple of miles. 'Good,' I thought, 'I'll run with these guys.' But those guys barely slowed as they flew by, so I picked up the pace, hit a rock and fell, then ran more carefully while they pulled away. More guys caught me, then left me behind. I fell twice more and panic set in. By the time I came off the last mountain near 16 miles, I was thoroughly frustrated, in eighth place and more than seven minutes back.

I ran past my crew, grabbed some fluids and Gel, and cursed the trail and myself. Of course, my crew offered nothing but positives (and that cement mix) but I felt I was letting everyone down, especially after running so confidently the first few miles. After two hours of rocks, tumbles and mountains, I ran onto the C & O Canal towpath with one part relief, three parts resolve.

Which wasn't quite the right mix, even though I rapidly closed the gap on the leaders. My crew timed the interval and met me every two miles: "Down to 51/2 minutes, fifth place." "Four minutes, third; be patient." It felt so good to run without fear of breaking an ankle, however, that I kept pushing the pace and passing people, even though I still had more than a marathon in distance to go.

About 30 miles in (tell me that doesn't sound ridiculous), a cyclist told me he would be my escort so long as I held the lead. I told him I was still in second place, but he said, no, you're the leader. So it was that I took the lead.

From that point on, my race became a slow deterioration in pace, a gradual increase in pain, and a nonlinear drifting toward mental disorientation. For most ultra runners, the support crew becomes the primary source of physical as well as mental energy. Toward the end of what was otherwise the endless stretch on the canal, I saw Shank, who had assumed the role of coach and, more importantly, chief psychologist. In my depleted state, I must have looked longingly at my crew, so supportive, so comfortable, so not running. I wanted to stop. Shank sensed a nadir in my resolve and admonished me to maintain an even emotional keel.

"You're going to hit some bad spots here, so don't get too high, don't get low, just keep steady," he yelled. At the time, I considered his words nothing less than the distilled wisdom of the ages; whatever their worth, the advice probably saved my race. I did my best to focus.

Ask anyone who's run--the last eight miles of the JFK are absolutely miserable. After 16 miles on the AT and 26 miles on the canal, this is what we were fantasizing about? The paved roads roll--and roll and roll and roll, toward the finish line. Up, down, high, low, my spirit soared and sank with the elevation.

Despite my best efforts at maintaining an even keel, "stop" was my brain's one-note refrain. Shank and my crew, bless them, never stopped offering encouragement, but at a water station maybe five miles out (maybe farther, maybe closer, maybe it didn't happen at all) I stopped for the first time to drink. Shank and his constant patter were momentarily shocked into silence before he redoubled his efforts, starting with, "Keep moving!"

In the end, just moving proved to be enough, even though my 13- minute lead had been whittled in half. I finished in six hours, 13 minutes--and 28 years. I'll never consider myself an ultra- guy, but at least now I can say I've finished one, with a little help from my friends.

(Editor's Note: We published results of the JFK 50 Miler in the Jan-Feb issue. Or, check our Web site for complete results!)