On the first day of December, 1992 at 8:07 a.m., six runners began a long, extraordinary journey from Cincinnati to Cleveland shielded from the rush hour traffic, for the first few miles, by a Cincinnati Police officer on a motorcycle. After the officer waved farewell and good luck, the five Ohioans explained to William Verdonck, of Belgium, the significance of the State Route 3 signs. These small steel outlines of Ohio would be our guides, especially in the confusion of the cities, as we willed our way toward Cleveland, 256 miles from the start in Cincinnati's Fountain Square. The Ohioans were Buck Walsh, Ron Hart, Regis Shivers, Phil Freeland, and myself. We were each running for a great challenge as well as to raise money for various organizations, which aid the homeless.

I joined Verdonck for about five miles, the others staying a short distance behind us. I enjoyed a fragmented conversation with the Belgian, who spoke very little English. Verdonck seemed quite optimistic and confident as he strove to understand my queries. We talked of other races run, of other challenges met. One phrase he knew in English came through crystal clear, more than once..."All my dreams are coming true," he said of being here in America for the first time and having the opportunity to run his longest event ever. I was already quite impressed with this former professional soccer player as he went on ahead of me. I expected that he would run well here.

I continued on through the sprawl of suburban Cincinnati, through Norwood, Madeira, and Deer Park and into Montgomery. Buck Walsh, who was looking strong, joined me for a while. The motor homes carrying each runner’s crew passed me at about one hour into the adventure. William's handler, Jan, also from Belgium, sounded forth with a bugle, playing some sort of charge or call to battle. My pace was conservative, I thought, but seemed harder than I felt it should on this first day.

Upon leaving the Suburban area past Cincinnati's outerbelt, Interstate 275, I had a true feeling of being on the open road. Strip shopping centers, office complexes, and condominiums were left behind as I entered the farm zone of southwestern Ohio. Traffic, though lighter, was still an ever-present hazard. There were frequent reminders that the deer hunt had begun: orange clad gents, and a woman or two, in pickup trucks and four-wheel drive vehicles. Slow elk (cows) grazed nearby, aiming curious (dumb) looks my way. The cows and I were working towards goals that, though in many ways vastly different, shared the common theme of limits. I was searching for my limit of foot travel mixed with sleep deprivation for, probably, about a three day period. The cows were working on another kind of limit- maximum weight gain in an economically feasible period of time. I hoped that my prospects for a long survival were better than those of the cows.

Around noon of the first day, Phil Freeland joined me for a short time. We chatted for a few miles, and then we would "leap-frog" for the rest of the day, Phil going ahead of me when I took a break or vice versa, up to the seventy-one mile point, where Phil would take a sleep break. Ron, Buck, and Regis would also take their first sleep breaks there, in Washington Court House, while I went on ahead. I enjoyed this first night running, and the solitude, as the traffic was very light. There was a faint glimpse of the half moon through the clouds at times, little wind, and the temperature was just below freezing. I decided to keep on going through my first sleepy spell, and then rest when a recurrence came.

A frequent hazard, especially during the night running, would be the remains of animals that had been run down by vehicles. A corpse might suddenly be seen before my foot went to the pavement, forcing a quick change in foot plant. At night an expired opossum might not be seen at all, but felt under foot, forcing me to make an immediate adjustment to prevent a tumble. The opossums seemed to outnumber all other species of "wild-death" and there was a great variety of types of carcasses, ranging from the dried and leathery (possum jerky) to the deep pile possum (only run over once). Deer were seen rarely and raccoons and skunks once in a while but I never ran more than a few miles without seeing a possum, be it prone or supine.

Soon after I first noticed "the glow" of Mt. Sterling, I began to experience some incredibly large yawns. Because of the almost continuously cloudy weather during the run a town's presence would be presaged many miles before I arrived there. The reflection of a town's lights, bounced off of the clouds above, would be visible for more than an hour before I actually entered the town. This glow would usually be both eerie and comforting. It would bring hope as each successive town was evidence of progress toward the final goal and, at the same time the glow would cause frustration because of the amount of time between my first noticing it and my actual arrival at its source. I fought off the first yawns and continued on.

A small group of cars, probably three in succession, passed me traveling south, all three moving well over to give me plenty of room and I waved. A few minutes later a red Jeep, traveling north, slowed next to me and the driver called, "Robin, is that you?” I walked closer expecting to find someone involved with the run. What a surprise as I found the two occupants of the Jeep were Libby and Lisa Gilmore, mother and daughter, who both work as registered nurses at Ohio State University Hospital's rehabilitation center where I was also employed. They had been near the end of a forty-mile drive home from work after the evening shift when Lisa recognized me as I waved. Lisa had turned the Jeep around and came back to say "howdy". Libby and Lisa presented me with two White Castle hamburgers and wishes for continued good luck. I ran on, about fifteen minutes, into Mt. Sterling. I would keep Libby's and Lisa's wishes for good luck, but would graciously offer the two hamburgers to my daughter, Mackenzie, and friend Del. I was hungry but felt I might be wise to choose fare with less onion and grease, as I did not want to push my good fortune too far.

Upon entering the southern city limits of Mt. Sterling, I was surprised to see, not one, but two motor homes in a gravel parking lot. Yes, one was the "Hornet", containing a resting William Verdonck and crew. Sleep well, William, I thought, and when we rise, "Zet Hem Op", loosely translated from his native tongue as "go for it". Once in our motor home I changed my clothing and ate quickly. I then climbed into the over the cab bed at 2:00 a.m. Fortunately, sleep came quickly; the alarm was set for 5:00 a.m., Eastern Surrealistic Time.

I awoke midway through the twenty double beeps from my watch's alarm. I dropped down from my high bed, being careful not to step on Mackenzie or my son Corey in the beds below. Hurrying to the bathroom at the rear of the motor home and raising the blind, I discovered that the Hornet, and Verdonck, were gone and Phil Freeland's vehicle had just arrived. Pop Tarts were chewed as I dressed and coffee was brewed to take with me. I hurried out into the predawn gloom of light drizzle mixed with snow and greeted John Freeland, Phil's father and long time crew chief. I took off, easing into a run, cursing myself for not taking time to put in my contact lenses as the steam from my coffee fogged my seldom worn glasses. Phil, William, and 170 more miles were ahead of me. " I do believe, I do believe", I said to myself, feeling like the “Cowardly Lion” as he traveled to OZ!

By midmorning of the second day, I would begin to see road signs and other landmarks that were vaguely familiar from the less strenuous ramblings of my high school years. I marveled at the contrast, wondering if I could have imagined my engaging in a journey such as this run back then. Probably not, for back in those days I would have found myself taxed by even a five-mile run. I was now running not only through rural central Ohio, but also through my past.

Heavy traffic forced me to discontinue my nostalgic reverie and concentrate on the present. For that moment, and the many hours to come after, I was back to being a vulnerable foot traveler dancing on the boundary between an unrunnable ditch and certain heavy metal death. Up to that point, only a few vehicles had made blatant moves toward my edge of the highway. It is hard to understand why anyone would suddenly swerve towards the path of an oncoming runner. Perhaps some people might at first steer towards the right as an almost reflex reaction to seeing something of interest. Perhaps some motorists find it difficult to repress their homicidal tendencies.

A few miles south of Grove City I had a very close call with a car in an incident of great irony. I first noticed something white straddling the centerline of the road when I was still about fifty yards away from it. When I was only about twenty yards from the white object an oncoming car suddenly swerved towards my edge of the road, apparently in an attempt to avoid the thing in the middle of the road. I hopped sideways into the ditch and whirled around, cursing and gesturing at the driver. I had missed serious injury, possibly death, by a few seconds at most. Waiting for a moment when no traffic was in sight, I dragged from the highway what I then realized was the large white banner that had blown off of the side of the motor home carrying my wife, Marcia, my three children, and Del. The banner now had at least one set of tire tracks across "THE AMERITECH MOBILE RUN ACROSS OHIO...for the homeless". The tracks had just missed the Cincinnati Habitat for Humanity logo.

I allowed myself a moment to calm down, for homeostasis to return, then picked up the banner and ran on holding it out in front of me. A few minutes later the motor home carrying "Team Run Amok" appeared from the north, my crew inside watching for the lost banner. After turning the motor home around, Marcia and Del pulled off the road for a moment to retrieve the banner from me. I would next find them on the north side of Grove City, in Urbancrest, duct taping the banner to the left side of the vehicle. I ate a sandwich and filled my water bottle. We received a call from a friend, Doug Brandt, who said he would be joining up with me soon. I moved on through the area just south of Columbus, wondering what sort of festivities awaited us at the Open Shelter in downtown Columbus.

The stretch of road between Grove City and Central Point Shopping Center might be best described as nondescript. I certainly could not later recall much of interest about that area. Perhaps all of my concentration was taken to watch for the traffic. I again thought of the Open Shelter and a word came to mind to give a rhythm to my running; pizza...pizza...left, right...pizza...pizza...stomach growl...pizza...pizza. My new mantra dissolved as I pulled into a parking lot near Central Point. Doug was waiting there with his girl friend, Jo Clarke. Introductions were made between Doug and Jo and my crew. Doug and I ran off through the near west side of Columbus, as I told him some of the highlights of the journey thus far.

We passed Franklin County Stadium, home of the Columbus Clippers (and during my childhood, the Columbus Jets) and watched for Glenwood Avenue. Traffic was not very heavy at this time. "It's taken me a little longer than I hoped it would to this point but I feel okay Doug,...oh, there's Town Street, we turn right onto Broad." On Broad Street, a light drizzle began to fall. We made a loop around Mount Carmel Medical Center. With the Open Shelter only about two blocks away, a runner came out to greet us. I ran the short distance remaining to the shelter, my eyes focusing on a large WSYX-TV video camera and a cluster of friendly faces. I went inside for fresh Donato's Pizza and found Phil Freeland still there munching and chatting. Phil would leave shortly before I would. As I prepared to take off with Doug, I paused to greet Regis upon his arrival at the Open Shelter. It was about 11:00 a.m., with 110 miles gone and 146 remaining.

Columbus would be an almost continuous series of friendly faces and well wishers. After the Open Shelter, Doug and I ran about a mile to Nationwide Plaza, where we chatted a moment with my sister, Elaine, and two of her coworkers as the three returned from their lunch hour. Doug and I continued north, through the Short North, which had made the transition from run down and grungy to artsy and chic during the Eighties. The campus area of The Ohio State University was bustling as usual. We cruised through and I felt somewhat transcendent, like I had gone beyond the sphere of experience of most of the other people around me. I felt, when other people would make brief eye contact with me, that they could tell I was involved in something really awesome. I waved back to a friend in a pickup truck, wondering if he thought I was just out on an everyday training run. Doug and I left the campus zone and entered Clintonville. As I passed within one-half mile of my home I gave home little thought and continued the last mile to my son Corey's school, Clinton Elementary. Upon arriving at the school I was greeted by a class of twenty or more students and some staff people. The children were standing in a cold drizzle, holding up signs and banners that they had made, wishing me good luck. These children and several other classes were delighted when given a brief tour of the motor home. My mother and father were also present, having driven from home and work respectively, to greet Marcia, the children and me. The visit to the school lasted about thirty minutes, as had the stop at the open shelter. Another runner, Bill Thornhill, joined Doug and me for the rest of Columbus' north side. Frank Meyers, a nurse from Dodd Hall, where I also work, brought me a six-pack of Coor's Cutter (near beer-no alcohol). I drank one of the Cutters as we cruised up High Street, unconcerned about surprised looks I received because of the tall amber bottle in my hand. We met Marcia's father for a moment then continued on into Worthington.

Bill and Doug were enjoying a conversation as I trailed a short distance behind. When I stopped very briefly to talk to Mark Elderbrock, the physician who was watching over us during the run, Bill and Doug missed the turn off of High Street. I shouted at Doug and Bill, unheard, into a strong wind. About a mile up the road I met up with my crew and the Ameritech Mobile phone was used to summon Dr. Elderbrock, who found Doug and returned him to Team Run Amok. Bill had decided to run back home. At the next motor home stop, shortly before Westerville, I went in to strip off some damp clothing. The sun had begun to peek through the clouds for the first time since the early hours of the journey. My polypropylene clothing had grown tiresome and I needed an airing. While I was inside the RV a visitor arrived and introduced himself as Joe Clark, from the "Ohio Runner" magazine. Doug was quite surprised at Joe's name being almost identical to Doug's girlfriend's. The male Joe Clark wanted to take some pictures for a possible story in the magazine so I wore one of the Run Across Ohio shirts. Just minutes after I ran away from the RV, the sun was again lost behind the clouds and the wind picked up. Another quick stop would be required when I found my crew in Westerville. I added fresh outerwear and prepared to exit the greater Columbus metropolitan area.

Del came out to run with Doug and me, and soon six runners from the Westerville North High School cross-country team joined us. It was somewhat energizing to run with a group of that size. The high school runners turned around as we reached the north end of Westerville. Del, Doug and I continued on into the countryside as the traffic became heavier with rush hour. There was a brief snow shower with a little accumulation. I would stop for dinner somewhere north of Sunbury, with more than half of the journey behind me. My plan for the evening was the same as the first evenings, to keep running until fatigue made it unsafe to continue.

Filled with bean burritos, chicken noodle soup, and coffee, I dressed for the last running segment of the day. This was to be a night of contrasts. The drabness and sameness of the countryside would occasionally be overpowered by a house or cluster of houses decorated for Christmas. These brightly lit up homes would give me a reason to pause for a few minutes as I studied their owners' creativity. I enjoyed the Christmas lights, probably more than at any time since childhood. I began to look forward to the holiday, which is not usually the case for me.

Doug and I loped into the small town of Centerburg about 8:30 p.m. and I was happy to be out of the rural darkness for a moment. It was there in Centerburg, however, that I would incur the only obvious verbal affront of the entire journey. As we passed a small pool hall I glanced in and saw a few teen-age males who seemed to take an interest in our passing. When we were about a block away, I heard a door open and close behind a us, and then a shout

"That's stupid!", obviously directed at Doug and me, because there were no other people out. I stopped abruptly and turned towards the source of the insult.

I called back, "Want to run to Cleveland?", a rhetorical question of course.

One of the young men again made public the depth of his vocabulary.

"That's really stupid!" he shouted. I stood there for a second, part of me angry and part of me wondering if what he said had some truth to it. I could not allow that thought to continue, though, for it could only have worked against me.

Doug said, "Come on Robin, they are not worth wasting our time", and I agreed and we ran on through the town discussing the limitations of (some) human minds.

Around 10:00 p.m., Doug heard a familiar sounding vehicle approaching from the south. We stopped to see Jo Clarke pulling to a stop next to us. Doug bade me farewell and rode ahead with Jo to retrieve his things from the RV. Doug had accompanied me for about forty miles, the longest run of his life. On their way back to Columbus, Jo and Doug stopped to tell me that I was about to catch up with Phil, who had apparently stopped for a sleep break. I would continue on for another hour at least, maybe two, after passing Phil's motor home. I went to bed after 11:30, following a sizeable meal. I had just over 100 miles left to go at that point, and I was feeling very weary. I had been hoping to at least arrive in Mount Vernon before sleeping on the second night and I had made it to within about four miles of that town. I slept for more than four hours that night, far more time than I had planned on sleeping. When I awoke, Phil would once again be ahead of me.

I woke with a start at the alarm, descended from my high bed, and dressed. I ate as much breakfast as my stomach would accept. Before exiting the RV, I put on my "bright stuff". We had been provided with a fluorescent orange vest and a small red strobe light that I would clip onto my belt pack. Many drivers must have had their curiosity aroused when seeing the strobe light flashing ahead of them. This third day began with great difficulty, around 5:15 a.m. It almost seemed like I was still doing the running of the night before, as if I had not even gone to bed at all. I looked forward to getting through Mt. Vernon and on ahead into the Mohican country.

North of Mt. Vernon the terrain began to change a lot. Long rolling hills, lots of curves, and beautiful scenery helped take away the monotony of the road but made the running more difficult. One problem with the route in that area was the total lack of shoulder. The highway was very narrow for the most part and the ditch was absolutely unrunnable, often not walkable. I did a lot of jumping (off the road) and standing (in the ditch) while waiting for cars to pass as I ran through the area just north of Mt. Vernon.

After passing 160 miles I began to notice some definite heightening of the senses. I would also begin to experience emotional states more intense, more basic and pure, than at any other point in my life. While passing a house in the village of Amity, I noticed in the house's back yard a statue of a standing deer. I then saw, above the statue, a dressed hanging deer, minus head, and I at first glance thought it , too, to be a statue. The harvested deer appeared to be too shiny, too crimson to be real. Not much later, a hammer seemed to echo for a mile as I gradually arrived at the sound's source, a solo worker on the roof of a new garage adjacent to the highway. The roofer called out a greeting with a big wave. I simply yelled back, "Cleveland!”.

I was encouraged as I began to recognize the names of back roads south of the Mohican area. During a quick stop at the motor home I grabbed my tape player, hoping for good miles ahead. I had experienced many moments, that third morning, when I felt emotionally spent, as if any ability I normally possessed for putting on a facade, any ability for pretense, had splintered away leaving behind my basic self. I had felt torn apart mentally, but still, somehow, able to run on, with all of my thoughts focused upon the sheer difficulty of the moment, tears at times flowing off into the wind. Now, just about five miles south of Loudonville, I had begun to escape the negativity. I crested a hill as the beginning of a tape rolled in my tape player and a song began. I listened, my consciousness absorbed by the lyrics as I took in the beauty of the hills and forest:

"Carve your name, carve your name

in ice and wind

Search for where, search for where the rivers end

or where the rivers start ...

Dare to lead, where the angels fear to tread,

till you are torn apart

Do everything that's in you,

you feel to be your part,

but never give your love my friend,

aren't you a foolish heart?" *

The words and music coming from my tape player meshed with my emotions, with my extreme joy at being able to feel good again. I crested another long hill on one of the most scenic parts of Route Three and gazed toward the pine trees of Mohican State Forest. Over fifty hours into this fool's journey across Ohio I was riding a wave of happiness. I paused to pluck a tattered yellow ribbon from a tree at the point where The Mohican Trail 100 Mile Run crosses the highway, then resumed running at a pace that I had not been able to hold since early the first day of the run. The sun made a rare appearance, glistening off the thin coating of snow. "If only it could stay like this for another seventy miles", I thought, knowing the folly of that hope.

I kept up a good pace as I approached the intersection with State Route 97, and was surprised to see a motor home coming towards me with John Freeland's broad smile beaming at me through the windshield. I was encouraged to know that I must be close to Phil. I thought that Phil and I might both get a mental lift from running together and comparing our experiences up to that point. I turned for a moment to see John pull the vehicle off from the road to let out a runner who I immediately recognized as Kevin Skeen of Perrysville, a town not far from Loudonville. I decided to have some fun by making Kevin work a little to catch me. I increased my speed to about eight minutes per mile, maybe even faster, Kevin would agree after he caught up with me. We moved on towards Loudonville and brought each other up to date on activities of the previous six months. The local McDonald's Restaurant was starting to call me as I anticipated a chicken fajita. We arrived at the restaurant, on the south side of Loudonville, and Kevin offered to rub down my legs as I ate. I enjoyed the fajita and the last of the Coors Cutters, and other nourishment since then forgotten.

The McDonald's stop was probably just long enough to ensure that I would not be catching up with Phil for a while. I cruised through Loudonville, my first time there since an August vacation, just four months before, when I met up with my family there after a fifty-four mile training run. That run had been a mix of highway, hilly back roads, and forest trails and was done as preparation for the Olander Park 24 Hour Run, my longest run ever up until this experience. That August day had been most memorable, ending with a pizza picnic at a local riverside playground on a perfect late summer evening. It was the kind of day I hope my children will always remember. I left Loudonville and those summer memories behind and was back in the country quickly, rolling towards Wooster and the 200-mile mark of the run.

My "Mohican High" ended much too soon, probably only about five miles out of Loudonville. It may have been that I had pushed too hard as I neared Loudonville or it could have been the many hours on my feet taking their toll. My calves felt very swollen, as if about to explode. I entered the RV at around 185 miles, took off my shoes, put my legs up, and tried to think of a solution. I reached Mark Elderbrock on the mobile phone and asked for advice. I suggested sodium retention as a possible cause but Mark did not think that was likely. I ate a banana and downed some liquid Tylenol and a little ibuprofen, with lots of water. Mark had suggested that the best solution was keeping my legs elevated for a while, so I tried that for about twenty minutes. After this break my calves would feel much better, but this type of problem would recur throughout the day and would hinder me again on Friday.

At 191 miles there was a roadside rest area, the first encountered during the run. I stopped and signed the register and left a cryptic message in case any of the three runners behind me might also stop there. I was not concerned that Ron, Buck, or Regis might catch me because I would have welcomed the company. I moved on slowly towards Wooster accompanied by Del, who was now carrying a blue toy rabbit. My younger son Logan had brought the rabbit along for company and wanted Del to take it out on the road for a while to see the scenery up close. I remember many hills during this part of the journey, and their effect on my tired, slightly stiff legs. It had become quite a struggle to continue and I would rest for a while in Wooster. We reached the outskirts of Wooster at dusk, and I was ready for a large meal.

While changing clothes before dinner, I decided to harass Phil a little. I called his mobile phone number and he also happened to be taking his dinner break at that time. When Phil answered I said, "You can run, but you can't hide." Phil told me that he was just outside the north side of Wooster, probably only three or four miles ahead of me. I told him to keep an eye on his rear flank because he might be seeing my little red strobe light moving up on him soon. The conversation got me motivated to get back on the road again as soon as I finished with dinner.

Wooster was quite extensively decorated for Christmas. The colors seemed brighter than bright. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground. I still felt alert but sensed that I was flirting with the boundaries of reality. I had my "bright stuff" on and I was swinging a small flashlight in my hand. My brief appearance in a convenience store on the north side of Wooster, during a family snack stop, prompted the clerk to ask Marcia, after I had gone outside to escape the heat and brightness, "Why is he dressed like that?". After Marcia explained , briefly, the nature of our mission, the clerk said in a bored tone of voice, "Oh, I guess that should help the cars see him." Hmmmmm!! I had a chocolate bar and a Motrin, chased with water, and ventured onward into the darkness north of Wooster. All that remained were fifty-two miles of trial, tribulation, trauma, and triumph!

Running away from Wooster was made very tricky by the rough condition of the shoulder of the highway, and the road was very narrow. Cars were traveling quite fast and the headlights blinded me more than I had noticed on the preceding nights. I would wave my flashlight around a bit in an attempt to get cars to move over and give me more room. Late in the evening I began to have some serious pain in the lower left shin. Marcia and Del seemed to be getting very tired and I was nearly exhausted but I wanted to go a little further before sleeping. Marcia had nearly persuaded me to take a sleep break but there was disagreement over whether we should stay where the RV was parked at the time. After about an hour off the road, I became angry, got dressed, and hurriedly wrapped my left shin with an elastic, adhesive bandage. I told Marcia and Del they could stay and get some sleep or park the RV someplace else and get some sleep, but I was going to keep on moving because I wanted to get it over with. When I had gone three more miles up the road, Marcia persuaded me to sleep. I stripped, put on clean running clothes, and went horizontal for exactly one hour. I was determined to make it to Cleveland without any further time out for sleeping. I wanted, desperately to make it to the end of the trip in less than Seventy-two hours.

Upon rising, at 1:00 a.m., Eastern Desperation Time, I had a small snack and was quickly out on the road. I had to stay on the centerline of the highway when there was no traffic to take some of the strain off of my left leg. Fortunately, traffic was virtually nonexistent that night and I could stay on the most level part of the road surface. In the motor home, only Marcia would be awake for the next five hours, and she stayed as close as possible to me, waiting at every safe pull-off spot available. She had been totally supportive during the whole run and during these dark difficult hours her dedication to helping me through the agony and depression of the last night could not have been greater. I remember one time stopping in the middle of the road in some town, the name of which I cannot remember, and putting my head down on the door of the RV, feeling totally gone. But Marcia seemed to understand and did not start coddling me and just allowed me the moment to pull myself together, and then offered to brew fresh coffee soon and that was enough to get me going, however slowly.

Around 3:00 in the morning I entered a convenience store in Creston, hoping to fill a water bottle and find out how many miles remained between me and Terminal (how appropriate!) Tower a landmark near the finish of the run. A guy in his late teens, with very long hair, leather jacket, and a grotesque earring practically leapt out of my way as I approached the counter. I think I must have appeared to be more than a little "over the edge", with my orange vest, flashing strobe, and the look of pained desparation in my eyes. While filling my bottle I asked another man in the store how far it was to downtown Cleveland. When he replied that it was about sixty miles I had to fight an impulse to strangle him. I was not sure exactly how far along I was at that point but I knew that I was still on Route Three, I knew that State Route Three would end in Cleveland, and I knew that there could not be more than fifty miles left at that time. I had just wanted verification from someone else. I told the man, politely, that I thought he was mistaken. When he asked if I were bicycling, I explained briefly what I was doing and left it for him and the other two occupants of the store to discuss my craziness (their word for me).

I continued on in the dark, very much alone. I knew that the RV would be appearing soon; Marcia had stayed behind for a short time to brew coffee. I had boldly begun this last day, in my haste, without even one cup. Marcia soon appeared on my right and I waited outside while she filled two cups with hot Kona, one for immediate consumption and another for the road. I was making a strong effort, during the early morning hours, to keep all stops as short in time as possible. I also tried to avoid waking the rest of the crew, for it would help to have them as rested as possible when we began the long penetration of the Cleveland metropolitan area.

I reached the small village of Seville and saw no signs of life. Seville was an attractive town and I enjoyed standing in the middle of its main intersection for a moment to look around. It was such a peaceful place at that hour (4:00 a.m.?) and I was a little envious of its citizens, all nestled away in their snug beds, recharging their batteries for whatever awaited them on this first Friday of December (20 more shopping days). As I moved on, soon reaching the city limits, I heard a car horn honk, intermittently, several times. I saw no one apparent who could be doing the honking and continued running out of Seville. A moment later a police car, Village of Seville, pulled to a stop next to me and the officer asked if I needed help. I told him that I was doing well enough, all things considered, and explained that I was running from Cincinnati to Cleveland. I then asked if he knew how far it was to downtown Cleveland (this was becoming an obsession). He said that it was about fifty-five miles. I said, "Sir, I don't think it can be that far!" He then asked which route I was following, and when I told him he agreed that it must be closer to forty miles. The officer wished me well and I was off towards Medina, eleven miles ahead beneath the next big glow in the sky.

Marcia appeared again soon after my brief meeting with the police officer and I asked for my tape player and Beethoven's Seventh Symphony. I was in dire need of inspiration. Traffic began to increase, beginning with a few large trucks traveling about seventy miles per hour on the narrow, hilly highway. The blast from each passing semi would nearly blow me into the ditch. I perfected a defensive move, stepping to my left, just before a truck would reach me, and crouching with one hand on my hat. The music helped motivate me to some extent but I was finding it necessary to dig very deeply into my stores of willpower. To continue, at times, seemed impossible but I refused to even begin to think of quitting; the thought really never entered my mind. If that thought had been allowed into my consciousness I certainly would have found myself in the motor home, traveling south toward Columbus with only one word on my mind- FAILURE. I would not allow that to happen so long as I did not have a serious injury.

When I reached Medina the working world was beginning to come to life. It was Friday morning and the fact soon became apparent that many of the motorists I encountered were in a hurry to get to work and get that part of the week behind them, and they were not about to cut me any slack. "Stupid runner, trying to get between me and my doughnuts and coffee", I could imagine some of the drivers must be thinking. I made every attempt to stay well out of the line of traffic and I expected things would only get worse as the population density increased to the north. I cruised along as best I could with old songs by The Who pounding their way into my head.

There was a very dangerous stretch during the last of the dark hours. The highway was very narrow and what little shoulder there was had a crusty layer of ice. As dawn approached, the heavy traffic appeared like two streams of light flowing over the hills toward the horizon, red on the right and white on the left. I worked hard at staying alert and watched my footing and the traffic very carefully.

The dawn brought another cloudy day and I hoped, and felt confident, that the last night of this run was behind me. It would take a major disaster to keep me from finishing before dark but I knew that anything was possible. At one point there was a narrow bridge with no walkway and I hurried across hoping no oncoming traffic would confront me before I reached the other side. Just before the junction of Route Three and 303, I left one of my fliers from the Cincinnati Habitat for Humanity in a roadside mailbox. The flier had directions jotted upon it for the past several miles, ending with that intersection. The flier had been printed with information about myself, and this run, and solicited pledges to benefit the Habitat for Humanity. I wondered if the occupants would realize who had left the flier in their mailbox.

I arrived in Hinckley, the town that the buzzards return to, once again accompanied by Del. I hoped that I looked better than I felt ( not likely) lest any of the buzzards were still around and searching for road meat. The highway was the hilliest yet, with big steep grades of one-fourth to one-half mile in length. We soon entered Cuyahoga County, the fourteenth and final county that I would have to traverse.

Mark Elderbrock appeared virtually out of nowhere and ran two to three miles with Del and me. During an RV stop he examined my left shin, which was quite swollen and extremely painful much of the time. Mark said that the type of problem I exhibited had become "epidemic" during the Run Across Ohio and he wished he knew how to prevent it. I immediately thought of one solution; don't run across Ohio! The main cause of this shin problem is probably the high percentage of running done on the left side of the road, because of the camber of the highway. The only time it was possible to run on the more level part of the road surface, the middle, was at night when there was very little traffic and any vehicles could be heard or seen with plenty of time for a runner to get out of the way. My rest stops during the last few hours would be, for the most part, a result of my need to put my legs up to relieve the pressure and to ice my swollen left shin. Over the last 24 hours of the run I probably had at least four hours of downtime as a result of the tendonitis.

I had become accustomed, in years past, to entering Cleveland via Interstate 71 at about 60 miles per hour, with suburbs being passed in the blink of an eye. At last I would learn how large some of those suburbs really are. North Royalton took nearly an hour, I think, although its boundaries were not entirely clear to me. At some point North Royalton blended into Parma, probably near the shopping center where I found my crew, my family, stopped in a parking lot and munching Snow White Doughnuts. Logan had saved a chocolate doughnut for me, and I enjoyed it and a cup of coffee, seated in the rear entrance steps of the motor home. I savored that moment and my spirits lifted, for I knew then (absolutely and positively!) that I would make it to the end of this outrageous journey. About fourteen miles remained, a difficult enough distance on some normal training days, but put into perspective by all that had come before it this final segment gave me no worries.

With about ten miles remaining I changed my shoes to Nike Mariahs, hoping that a slight adjustment in foot plant might help reduce the pain in my left leg. The shoe change seemed to help, along with some snow stuffed into my left sock. Marcia, Mackenzie, Corey, and Logan would not see me again until the end. Marcia thought , correctly, that time might be needed to get the RV parked and walk to the finish at the downtown Star Bank, so I was given directions and Del and I went on into the city. Of course, this last ten miles would prove to be the most confusing part of the whole trip. I strayed off of the route for the first time, but corrected the error after less than a mile of extra wandering. The deeper into the city we went the more distractions there were: more people, more cars, and more chaos!

I began to get a little excited and would occasionally pick up the pace, only to be slowed by impending dizziness. When we were still about five miles out from downtown we saw William Verdonck, Jan, and Arthur Moore. Arthur is a three-time finisher of the Run Across Ohio and this year was on William's crew. Jan was playing his bugle across moderately heavy traffic as I yelled to William, "Congratulations, great run man!". The Belgian had completed the course in less than 66 hours, a truly outstanding performance.

Del and I worked our way around a detour and then started up the west side of the Detroit-Superior Bridge. From there on the route was the same as the end of the Revco-Cleveland Marathon, but today was much different from those Sundays in May when I had run the Revco. No one else was running today, the road was clogged with cars, and I paused just a moment to take in the view from the top of the high bridge.

I ran on down the east side of the bridge, feeling a little larger than life-size. Traffic was almost grid locked and the sidewalks were jammed with shoppers and workers cutting out early on this gray Friday afternoon. I took to the street, staying near the curb, my eyes focused ahead in search of the Star Bank. Crossing Ninth Street, I still had not located the Star Bank, although other banks were all around me. My mind was racing as I swerved around parked cars, newspaper stands, light poles, and waddling pedestrians. Then I noticed a huge wreath up high on a building about a block away and I knew that it must be the place, the finish. I saw some red jackets and some fluorescent green caps then I focused on Marcia and my children. Fifty meters left, I pushed towards the end, trying to lift my legs higher. And then suddenly, after 256 miles, after seventy-seven hours and forty-eight minutes of grinding it out, over three full days of traffic, hills, tears, and avoiding disaster, and occasional glimpses of runner's nirvana, I came to a halt in Marcia's arms. It was over!

Actually, the first post-run hour revealed that the fun had not yet ended. My family, Del, and I entered the Star Bank and found we were in the midst of the Friday afternoon business world. The, mostly,

Business- suited bank customers stood in marked contrast to our motley group. I was led to a large pot of soup on a hot plate, then to a big wooden desk in the bank officers' area. The cellular phone chattered, as it had several times as Marcia had carried it from the RV parking lot to the bank. This latest call was from John Cerniglia of Cincinnati Habitat for Humanity. He was calling to congratulate me on finishing. John told me that pledges had been coming in steadily and included an individual pledge for one dollar per mile. John was extremely appreciative of the effort my crew and I had given.

Mary and Kent Beittel, the Events Consultant and the Executive Director, respectively, of the Open Shelter in Columbus were there to oversee our confusion. I was definitely on the edge of disorientation, in some ways, but still able to function passably (barely). Mary and Kent were handling things remarkably well after several days of high stress and sleep deprivation. William, Phil, and I had our pictures taken and autographed posters. Finally, Marcia, the children, Del, and I went off to a luxurious hotel suite looking down on Lake Erie for rest, showers, and pizza. We did not sleep there, however, because we were eager to get home. So, after surviving the last 102 miles of the run, and the final thirty-three hours, on one hour of sleep, I began the cleaning of the motor home en route to Columbus, my circadian cycle temporarily stuck on adrenaline overdrive.

Del drove about half of the way home and then I took the wheel after a gasoline and snack stop near Mansfield. I would have liked to have returned to Columbus via Route Three so that we could check on the progress of the runners still on the road. Ron Hart and Buck Walsh were still out there battling the difficult miles north of Wooster, but Regis had been forced to withdraw because of an injury. I also thought I would have gained an interesting perspective on the part of the run north of Columbus by retracing the route at a normal driving speed so soon after completing the run, but to do so at that time was out of the question. Ron would finish the course around 1:00 a.m., Saturday (89 hours) and Buck would reach the end at 1:49, Saturday afternoon (100 hours, 49 minutes). Phil had finished in less than 76 hours.

I would require several weeks to recover from the trans-Ohio trek, both mentally and physically. Having entered the National Championship 24 Hour Run, a last minute addition to the 1992 ultramarathon calendar, I had tried to convince myself that I would be able to recover in less than four weeks. I flew to Sacramento on December 28, excited about the opportunity and confident that I could run as well as, or better than, my 139 miles at Olander Park in September. Early in the 24-hour championships, however, I knew that my recovery time had not been sufficient. The race began at noon on December 30 and I became very sleepy well before midnight. I would struggle to cover 110 miles, after two naps and over three hours off the course. This race was probably my most disappointing running experience ever. It was obvious that my motivation and energy level were down, and I returned to Ohio a little wiser in regards to my personal limitations.

I am very grateful to my wife, Marcia, my daughter, Mackenzie, my sons, Corey and Logan, and my good friend, Del Ruckle, for helping me through this enormous challenge. Special thanks to Corey and Mackenzie, whose wonderful journals of their strangest "vacation" yet helped me greatly in putting together this account.

· Reference to song, "Foolish Heart", by The Grateful Dead, from the Built to Last album, 1989, Ice Nine Publishing Co., Inc. (ASCAP).

If you’re not living on the edge, who is ?

RUN AMOK !

By Robin Alan Fry