Running on Empty by Marshall Ulrich Page A

We’d have to train. Hard.
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    It was all coming together: Charlie was on board and would pitch my idea to his movie contacts, plus he thought that a documentary would help attract sponsors. A race director and close friend of mine had offered to underwrite the run, so we just had to go and meet with her to see how she felt about a two-man attempt on the record and get her blessing to proceed.
    One hitch: After the three of us met in New York, she told me that although she was still willing to finance the run, and she could see great reasons to do a two-man race, she didn’t like my choice of running mate. To be blunt, she couldn’t stand Charlie, didn’t trust him, and didn’t think much of his résumé.
    She had good instincts, but I thought she was wrong about him. Sure, he was less experienced than I, but he was also a tough competitor and I’d watched him keep a sense of humor under some tense circumstances during the adventure races we’d done together. Yes, he could be volatile: I’d seen him blow up before. When we’d climbed Denali together, I’d been clipped to a steep-incline rope above him and our guide, Gary Scott, when the two of them got into a heated argument over I don’t remember what. That had been unnerving, and I’d wondered if they were going to start punching each other out while we all dangled there. Thank God they didn’t. And true, Charlie had hollered at me on the phone once, angry when I’d told him it was time to pay back some money he owed me, threatening to kick my ass or beat the shit out of me (one or the other) the next time we crossed paths. He just didn’t like to be called on his bad behavior. And sure, there were . . . other times, other trivial arguments, other things that showed me that Charlie could be a powder keg. But I felt sure I could handle whatever might come up. Under all that bluster, I believed, was a good guy who had what it would take to run across the country. He also brought a lot to the table with his media and sponsorship contacts.
    We would have to find a different backer. I couldn’t, in good conscience, take my friend’s money when she didn’t feel a hundred percent confident in the venture. Besides, I was squeamish about putting her personal funds at risk. What if something went sideways and it ruined our friendship? Not worth it.
    By then, it seemed chances were good that Charlie could come through with a viable documentary deal, get us involved with producers who would make a film that could fulfill my grandiose vision. And with the right production company, we could pursue big-name sponsors and serious money. That was a better plan all around—less risk—so I thanked my friend profusely for her offer, and then explained that she wouldn’t have to put even one cent of her own cash on the line.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’m still going to run across the country.”

    There was one more problem, though. In passing, I mentioned my brewing plans to Heather, who shot me a pained look. Usually supportive of my exploits, she nonetheless rejected this idea.
    â€œWhat?! You never told me about this . . . no. No, no, no. You can’t.”
    She knew the price Everest had exacted—temporary cognitive problems and permanently impaired concentration—and worried that a run of this magnitude would be like that multiplied many times over. The numbers were dizzying, unimaginable: 3,063 miles, 117 marathons back to back over more than 40 consecutive days of running. The farthest I’d ever gone was for the Badwater Quad, nearly six hundred miles that took me more than ten days and pushed me to my limits mentally, emotionally, and physically. This would exceed five times that distance and grow exponentially more difficult as we neared the end. Any suffering I’d experienced in my earlier pursuits, including Everest and the Badwater Quad, would seem transient and