What you need to run 100km on insufficient training:

*Lots of over-the-counter pain killer of choice
*Sweet blue headband
*Lots of carbs
*Vaseline to prevent blisters and chafing
*Ipod with killer desert running playlist
*Personal van and driver

Things better left behind:
*Common sense and a brain

What was I thinking when I set my alarm to 1:45 AM so that I could participate in the 100km “Pharaoh Run” on the outskirts of Cairo? In retrospect I probably wasn’t. Was I prepared? No. I’d been running on the treadmill and a 2km horsetrack. It’s probable that Cairo’s pollution actually renders jogging unhealthy. Nevertheless, “The Victorious,” would not defeat me. I would run the race, and declare myself Curtenkhamen and proclaim a new Pharaonic Era.

After meeting up with my friends, who were running the race as a relay team and each doing 20k, we caught a taxi out to the Intercontinental Hotel and were introduced to our drivers. I had my own van as I was going it alone and my driver, Samie, assured me when we arrived at the start line that he was a professionally trained masseuse. I wasn’t listening at that point, just staring out into the dreary desert landscape wondering where in the world we were.

At 6:30 AM the gun went off. The first 10 km were surreal. I was accompanied by U2’s Joshua Tree album, and it was the perfect soundtrack. A gorgeous sunrise, a chilly fog (both words I would previously never have used in describing Egyptian climate). Was I still in Egypt? The answer was certainly yes as I realized that the fog was actually smoke from the massive piles of trash being burned off on the sides of the road. Kms 10-30 were among the dreariest landscape I have ever seen. It was deader than Death Valley. There must be something out there, though, as there were lots of soldiers on patrol carrying rifles.

Near km 30 things began to get interesting as we passed a random graveyard out in the middle of the desert. Desert turned to green trees and a canal. Laughing children jogged alongside me and made me feel like Rocky, or the Gladiator as that was what was on the Ipod. For a while I took off my headphones and enjoyed the sounds of morning in small village Egypt. The splashing in the canal, the donkeys, the cheering children, the slightly weirded out adults. I got to run with my roommate for a while, though I wouldn’t see my relay team after km 40. It was also the last time I ran without pain. Some aspirin did the trick for a while as I coasted into the halfway point a little after 11 AM, stopped for lunch, and opted for the leg massage from my driver.

The second half got off to a decent start. I couldn’t help but put on Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer (Cheesy I know, but it worked). “Oh… we’re halfway there… woooah, livin’ on a prayer…” I ran the first 5k of the second half as fast as any portion of the race, finishing off by cruising in to the 55 km marker to the tune of Garth Brooks “Callin Baton Rouge.” I was going to rock this race.

Of course, that was the end of the good times. My driver kicked my confidence into the canal when he informed me I was in last place; shortly thereafter the pain killers began to wear off and I began to really know what running in pain meant. Then, at km 57 I grimaced into a new village and was greeted by another mass of children. Unfortunately for these children the novelty of running with cheering kids had worn off. Unfortunately for me they were not cheering.

As Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” ironically came blaring onto my Ipod they converged on me, grabbing at my shorts, grabbing at my Ipod, giggling and whacking me with their little bamboo shoots. “DON’T TOUCH ME!” I screamed. Eyes wide, they back off, more shocked at my Arabic than my anger. Like Michael Jackson I was turning into a monster. I felt as though these kids were zombies bent on eating me. Soon enough the whacking began anew. “DON’T YOU TOUCH ME AGAIN OR I WILL SMASH YOUR FACE!” They backed off, but I could hear their giggles. Next thing I know a rock whizzed past my head. Then another. I picked it up, whirled around catlike, and wound up ready to throw a fastball. The sea of zombie-children parted where the rock might have gone, but I chose to hang on to it and keep it prominently displayed in my hand. No more rocks were thrown. I started to feel bad when some friendly children tried to get high 5s but instead got my death stare and a good look at the rock. “Thriller” turned into “It’s Raining Men” (yes I have that song and I like it), and I found myself forcing my way through a crowd of men coming out of the mosque after Friday prayer. I wanted to scream at them that their children are monsters. Stop praying and discipline them!

Emotionally I had lost it. Over the next 20 minutes I bounced between anger, joy at catching another weary runner, pain, and remorse at my not quite attempt at murdering the Egyptian children. This turned to devastation when I finally reached km 60 and MY DRIVER WAS NOT THERE. Dehydrated, overheated, I desperately needed a break and some water to cool off. For the first time all day I walked. Where the hell was he? Had he gone AWOL? Would I have to quit because my driver bailed on me and stole my stuff? What would I do?

I walked for 20 minutes. Then jogged for a bit, then walked some more. Finally he came from behind and sailed past me. I screamed at him to stop, flailing my hands in the air but he continues to go. Didn’t he know that this was way past the 5 km mark? Just because I wasn’t waiting at km 60 didn’t mean I wanted to go all the way to 65!!! Fortunately he didn’t go too far, but when I caught up to him and found him chitchatting with the cops I was ready to give him an earful.

“Where were you? I nearly died!! You’re supposed to stop every 5 km!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The kids broke my window.”
“The ones with the rocks?”
“Yes. I have to file a report with the police.”

Speechless, I rubbed my hands with my face and staggered over to the car, emotionally crushed. I was toast. Leaning against the van (I couldn’t sit or I’d fall asleep) I had an internal argument, for the first time pondering the idea of dropping out. I had over 35 km to go, just shy of a full marathon. My legs were aching everywhere, my shoulder hurt, my back hurt, my stomach hurt, and I was as tired as I’ve ever been. But worse, I was on a pace that would not allow me to finish before the 12 hour cutoff: the previous 10k had taken me nearly 2 hours. I opened the bottle of Aspirin and popped three more pills. Was I doping? I was up to twelve pills, twice the daily recommended limit on the bottle (in the end I took eighteen). Who cares? I thought. I’m also running about 5 times the daily recommended limit. I instructed my driver to begin stopping every 2.5 km to check on me and doggedly pressed on.

I don’t remember much of the next 15 kilometers, just pain and the continuing argument of whether or not to stop. Two things kept me going: pride (I couldn’t allow myself to be beaten by some zombie children), and the thought of a respectable retirement from ultra-marathoning. If I didn’t finish I’d have to enter another one of these damn events to redeem myself!

The final turning point came around km 80 when I could no longer run. Not even my stubborn will was enough to endure the pain for more than 5 minutes at a stretch. After a silent prayer I decided to walk one song, run one song. My Ipod stepped up… Van Halen, U2, even Tamer Housny. Next thing I knew I was at 85 km, and had mentally already finished. I even started to smile again. It might have been enjoyable were it not dark, and were it not for the fact that the last 5 km were going against traffic on a divided highway. I seriously thought I might get hit by a truck and go flying off into the canal.

Once sundown came the police forced the race officials to shut down the road leading up to the Sakkara pyramid. So a group of race officials simply greeted me at some arbitrary point on the road (where there was an intersection to the divided highway and a sign saying "Goodbye") and told me I was finished. My time was 11:02:36.

Can you brag about something being the most challenging thing you’ve ever done when the reason that it was so difficult was that you were totally unprepared to do it? Previous mindless capers, including the Cannon brothers ‘guerilla race’ across Death Valley in 132 degree heat, and the 100 miler Massanutten trail run across the mountains, were perhaps more physically demanding, but I was also in better shape. This was my first “I willed myself to finish” event.

However, finish I did. And I’m proud of it.