Punishing Race Is An Enticing Lost Cause

WARTBURG, Tenn.

Alone, running and hiking in the mountains for almost 50 hours, Brian Robinson's mind had slowly unraveled. He had run through two sleepless nights, through fog and sideways rain, through thornbushes and over rattlesnake dens. Now, with 80 miles finished and 20 left in the world's toughest footrace, Robinson no longer could differentiate between real and imaginary. Around each corner, he thought he heard picnickers laughing at him. At midnight. In the remote woodlands of Tennessee.

Robinson stumbled into the Barkley Marathons' final aid station at 8 a.m., with black hollows surrounding his eyes. His hands trembled, a result of the five caffeine pills he had swallowed. Dozens of scratches covered his arms and legs. His dry-fit shirt was dingy and frayed. The slightest gust of wind knocked Robinson from side to side, so he leaned against a tree.

A half-dozen friends and fellow runners -- all of whom had quit long ago -- rushed to prepare Robinson for the final section of the race. Two people changed his shoes. One person sponged his forehead. His friend, Wendell Doman, started cooking six eggs as Robinson eyed his watch.

"I need to get back out there now," Robinson said. "I don't think we're going to be able to cook those, Wendell."

"I know," Doman said. "But you need the protein."

"Just put them in a bowl," Robinson said. "I'll drink them raw."

Only six runners ever have finished the Barkley Marathons since its inception in 1986, and the race teased and tortured Robinson and 34 other runners during the first weekend in April. Some of the best endurance athletes in the world traveled to Tennessee to test themselves against the hardest course in ultramarathon running: a cumulative elevation almost equal to two climbs up Mount Everest; trails too deteriorated to follow without a compass; temperatures that, in a single weekend, threaten both heatstroke and hypothermia.

Even if Robinson, 45, could force down runny eggs and drag his wrecked body 20 more miles within the race's 60-hour time limit, he would fly home to California without prize money, fame or significant recognition. Like every other runner, he had come to Tennessee seeking a more personal result. Mainly, he was curious about how well he could compete. How hard could he push himself? How much could he endure before his mind and body surrendered to the woods?

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Gary Cantrell conceived the Barkley Marathons in the late 1970s, after the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.'s convicted assassin escaped from Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary near Wartburg. James Earl Ray ran for 55 hours before guards found him eight miles from the prison fence. Cantrell, a local ultrarunner and accountant, followed the story and thought: That's pathetic. I could have gone at least 100 miles in that much time.

Cantrell spent the next several years scouting the area for a race, and eventually he designed a 20-mile loop on rugged hills and overgrown mining trails. The path forces runners to hurdle hundreds of fallen oak trees and wade through raging creeks. Runners must complete that same loop five times to finish the race, or three times to finish the 60-mile "fun run." To prove he had completed the remote course, a runner this year had to tear a page from 10 books placed along the loop. Cantrell provides detailed directions to each book, and he counts a runner's pages at the end of each loop before allowing him to continue.