There are parts of this story that are brilliant. Parts that are fun, beautiful, painful, exhilarating. Then there are parts that are embarrassing and disappointing.

For 10 years I have dreamed of running an ultra. But it needed to be a specific ultra. I wouldn't run this to be an ultra runner. I wanted an ultra to be part of the pack. To loose my secret frustration of always being the slow one. The runt of the litter who couldn't quite ever keep up and would earn a proper 'ultra nickname'. I wanted McKenzie.

McKenzie isn't just an ultra - it is an institution, the essence of what ultra running meant to me. Of course, McKenzie had to be the one. It started years ago. Listening to Coyoda and Harold discuss the race, listening to Jrun complain about how slow he was, when actually, he was really fast. Sitting outside handing out race packets, and then enjoying the company of ultra runners and good food at the Log Cabin Inn. It gave me a desire that I never thought would be really be a reality. Especially when I hurt my back and was laid up for three years.

Finally, I was allowed to run again. When proper running kicked in, the first thing I did was start counting months toward McKenzie. I had nine. Nine months to go from 15 mile weeks to be able to run 31.

The training was brilliant. It was sometimes painful, and sometime my back gave and I couldn't run. There were beautiful moments of running across the peat-bog and smelling the rain coming, and running through the forest, skirting puddles and roots and realising that I was finishing my 21st mile and I was still moving easily. That was progress. McKenzie was finally within grasp.

September hit. Coyote time. This was what I had been waiting for: sitting around with the coyotes, drinking Obsidian Stout and laughing. Coming up Friday to pick up my packet kicked the nerves in big time. I was worried. It was really hot and being a flatlander already the mountains were getting to my mental strength and I wasn't even running yet. But it would be great. That's what I told myself, that's what you told me.The evening was perfect. We ate, and talked and laughed and being at Harold's river house was perfect Coyote pack time.

I slept great, oddly unusual for me when I'm mentally anxious. Ginger drove to the start area and tried to keep me calm and distracted. (you did well Ginge, thanks) I rucked up and stood in the queue for the toilets - the nerves had kicked in big time by now. All around me were ultra runners. I wondered what I was doing there. Ticer walked by and I was nearly sick with the nerves. If he was here I definitely shouldn't be. I recognised a few faces and stood feeling like the odd kid that doesn't get picked for the sports team. What was I, an unfit runner from flatland Irish country, doing in the mountains of Oregon with a bunch of proper runners?

We all went to the start and Jrun grinned and nodded. My brother and his friend stood beside me, proper ultra runners.

It was all go. We went and it was great. It was easy, the pace was slow, I could do this. Then the altitude hit. By mile six my head was pounding with pain and I had lost all rhythm of breaths to steps, but I was eating and drinking and even though I already thought it was hot, I was moving well. Pleasantly surprised, for in the back of my mind were the 4 days I had endured of excruciating vomiting flu the week before. With the weight loss and the muscle fatigue, I hadn't thought I was even going to run - but I knew I had to.

Everything seemed fine until about halfway. This wasn't clicking the way it should have been. Fifteen miles doesn't make me tired. At 18mi I knew something was wrong. My body wasn't responding well and parts of me hurt that shouldn't have been. I simply couldn't run though the pain. Every 1/4 mile I had to walk a bit and we slowed down too much. The fear of not finishing in time became a reality as I watched my planned goal time of 5.30 come and go. At one point I stopped and cried. Partially in pain, but more in disappointment and frustration.

We finished. Mentally I knew it was Ben and Todd that had brought me through. Even though I was grateful, I also hated the fact that I wasn't good enough to do it myself. How embarrassing. My performance was once again one that I didn't want to be portrayed alongside the Coyote name.I didn't want to go back to Harold's place. It was too disappointing.There wasn't a rock close enough for me to crawl under.

I didn't run for a month afterward. Talking about it made me feel worse. People wanted to know how it went. How do I tell them I'm so disgusted with my performance that I'd be happy to erase it from memory? What do I say to a group of friends who want to know what's happened?

I don't know. Maybe, I'm sorry.