THE BITTER END
Laz directs ive races besides the
Barkley. “After so many days on
the road, you know you have a
job and a family, but that’s more
like something you read about
once in a book,” Laz says. “The
real is what’s in front of you, and
you break down your life into:
‘Where will I ind something
to eat? Where will I take a shit?
Where am I going to sleep?’
That’s really all that matters. It
strips you down.”
Laz doesn’t run any more.
After 160,000 kays, his legs
gave up on him. But he
remains a trickster igure to the
ultrarunning community, which
has vastly grown since the 1970s.
Most ultrarunners today like
their races to be run on single-cut
trails, with plenty of aid stations
and high-ive congratulations.
“It’s much slower now,” he
says. “Originally, everyone who
ran was serious and competitive.
People race now not necessarily
to inish their best but to inish
with the minimum discomfort.”
At 12.05am on Monday,
two lights are seen on the hill.
Robbins and Kelly run in and
slam their hands on the yellow
gate. Both look awful, though
Kelly seems weaker. Falling into
his camp chair, he linches each
time his feet are touched. “You
look good,” a crew member lies.
After 12 minutes, Kelly
rises unsteadily to his feet andthat delivers the most kilojoules
with the least chewing. One
runner weeps as her crew shovels
macaroni into her mouth. Some
competitors inish the irst loop
but shake their heads at the gate.
They’re not going back out there.
Taps is played. Of the 40 starters,
24 begin loop two.
By Saturday night, the
temperature has plummeted
from 27°C to 4.5°C. Laz stands
at the gate, accounting for
every arrival and departure.
Robbins and Kelly arrive
together from loop two at 10pm
and immediately head to their
campsites to eat and nap. They’re
out again by 11.10pm. Most
runners quit during loop two, and
the ones dropping out now seem
crushed, their bodies beaten. The
of-key notes of the bugler sound
through the night.
When dawn breaks on
Sunday, the place has the air
of a battleield encampment.
Feet stick out the back of SUVs.
Laz snoozes in a chair next to
the gate. Mike Versteeg, who
once smashed the record for the
1336km Arizona Trail, has bailed
out on loop two. He strums a
guitar and says, to no one in
particular, “Why can’t I be good
at something that doesn’t make
me feel miserable?”
At 10.42am, Robbins and
Kelly appear in lockstep. Their
exhaustion is starting to show
and they’ve lost their appetites.
A member of Kelly’s team wedges
some pepperoni pizza into his
mouth as he starts the next loop.touches the gate to signal that
he is starting loop ive. Eleven
minutes later, Robbins emerges
from his tent and stily walks to
the gate as his wife spoon-feeds
him mashed potatoes.
At 6.45am, it starts to rain
heavily. Kelly didn’t take any
waterproof clothing with him.
“One hour!” Laz shouts at
12.42pm. The rain starts to ease.
“Forty-ive minutes!” There’s
still no sign of Robbins or Kelly.
Laz is about to call out “30
minutes!” when a cry comes
from down the hill. A deathly
pale igure is jogging up it, a
plastic bag wrapped around his
shoulders. It’s Kelly. The crowd
cheers, and as he lays both
hands on the gate, his
face breaks into a sobbing
grimace. Laz counts the pages.
They’re all there. John Kelly
is the 15th runner to inish the
Barkley Marathons.
There is no prize money.
There is no medal. But as Laz
says, “Those who know what
you did know that you did it.”
There’s still no sign of
Robbins. “Five minutes!”
shouts Laz. Robbins’ wife
appears distraught.
“One minute!” Suddenly
there’s a sound. It’s Robbins.
He’s sprinting up to the
gate but from the wrong
direction. Drenched in sweat,
he throws himself at the gate
before collapsing.
“I got all my pages!” he cries.
“I got all my pages!”
“He got all his pages,” repeats
a voice in the crowd. “He got
all his pages.”
Laz looks at his watch. It
reads 60.00.06. Robbins is six
seconds too late. Still lying on
the ground, Robbins explains
that he found the last book but
then the fog came down again,
and just three kays from the
race’s end he took a wrong turn.
Laz shakes his head. Robbins
went of the course. He’s just
another dropout. The week after
the race, Robbins will receive
emails that he’ll describe as
“wonderful and appreciated”,
signed Gary Cantrell, not
Lazarus Lake. For now, Laz
gives Robbins a hug and Taps is
played. But unlike the previous
38 renditions, this time it
sounds genuinely forlorn.FITNESS1413