So much to catch up on, but I won't dare attempt to fit it into one entry. I want to write about a controversy and a 40-foot-high statue of a merino and a great surprise -- the best news I've heard since arriving Down Under -- but that will all have to wait for later in the week; I'll portion all of this stuff out incrementally. For now, I just want to recap a memorable the weekend.

Provided the massive story I'll soon file for the Tely resists editorial liposuctioning, I'll later provide a link. But in the meantime, here's everything you need to know about the ultramarathon/road trip weekend, times three.

Starting with the trip down.

I learned, after some 1,000 km on the rented Corolla, that roads in Australia likely resemble the American infrastructure circa 1955. Here, the term highway is highly erroneous. Traveling down to Eden -- the last town in the southern-most point of New South Wales -- I followed the Princes Highway, which meanders without any real purpose along beaches and through forests, all while doubling as the main street for almost every charming town along the way. So long as you're in no rush, this is cool. In Milton, NSW, I stopped for lunch and confirmed the world-class reputation of a place that specializes in veggie burgers. A touch later, in Mogo, I hit the brakes when I spotted a cafe whose precise name I forget, but I know it included the first name of the owner (Catherine?), and I know the building resembled a log cabin. Catherine, or whoever she is, serves overpowering lattes. I arrived in Eden, starting point for the ultramarathon, just in time for the official pre-race dinner. Persuaded by the caliber of the buffet, I decided that the portions suitable for guys about to run 246 km would also be suitable for a journalist about to watch.

(I differed from the runners because, for one thing, I didn't wear a gargantuan stopwatch and, for another, I wasn't wearing an old race T-shirt with about 12 logos on the back.)

Now let me provide a little background about this race, and ultramarathons in general. I believe they make for compelling stories because the guys who compete in them are generally a.) very self-aware, analytical and well-spoken; b.) excited for any media attention; and c.) psychotic. This particular ultra is probably the hardest on the continent. Twenty people, including two women, signed up this year. Starting line: the beach, 5:30 a.m., Friday morning. Finish line: the highest mountain in Australia.

Five guys failed to finish. One woman tore her hamstring midway through the race, kept going and finished with on a right leg, swollen by hours of internal bleeding, that resembled a giant grape popsicle. Most other finishers needed at least 40 hours of running/walking/staggering before freeing themselves of the torture.

As planned, I embedded myself with two runners who'd decided to pair up and run together -- the better for company and encouragement. (And, for my purpose, narrative dialogue. A solitary runner is no better, journalistically, than a bowl of fruit.)

Stopping to meet their crew every four kilometers or so for food and water, these two runners, Tim and Andy, moved across Australia. I followed, mostly in my car. We moved through red dust countryside with genuine kangaroo crossing signs, past abandoned corrugated shacks, up densely rainforested mountains, through farmland, and finally toward Mount Kosciuszko National Park -- entrance for the final mountain climb. Watching these guys devolve over their run was something I'll never forget. At moments, they hallucinated. They lost control of speech. During daylight, these were subsumed by flies and had to run with giant beekeeper-type headdresses. During the night, they strapped on reflective gear, thermal layers, water packs and headlamps; they looked like Martians.

Friday night, exhausted, I caught a few hours sleep in my car when I pulled to the side of a country road and reclined my seat. But at 2:30 a.m., I'd promised Tim and Andy that I'd run alongside them. (You know, to get the "feel" for what it's like. Plus, they needed some support; the nights, any ultrarunner will tell you, lead to the darkest moments.) So while somebody volunteered to drive my car about 15 kilometers ahead, I went out and pounded the pavement with these crazy guys. Their determination during this point was so otherworldly, I don't know whether to call it inspiring or humiliating. All Tim wanted to do was sit. He kept mumbling this. Finally, along the road, he stooped to his knees. I don't know if I've ever seen a man in such bliss. But 10 seconds passed and he said, "I think that's all I'll allow myself."

Then he kept running.

When the sun rose, the guys still had another 15 hours of running to go. Their running strides had dissolved into geriatric shuffling. Or walking.

I suppose I had leeched onto this event as a vehicle for witnessing some intriguing parts of Australia, and so when Tim and Andy came within 18 km of the finish line -- the most scenic part -- I again joined them. By this time, to describe their movement as "walking" would be charitable. Just as the sun set, we climbed toward Mount Kosci. The wind whipped. I strapped on four layers and changed into blue jeans. About two kilometers from the top, the sky was lined in profound purples and oranges -- the kind of thing you might see on an Arizona tourist pamphlet. When Tim and Andy made it to the top, they started giggling, almost crying. I'm indebted that they allowed me to share in the moment with them. Hopefully the details of their journey -- and the details of those other runners -- make for compelling journalism.

By the time we all got off the mountain and returned to our cars, it was close to midnight. I'd accumulated a crazy sleep deficit. Based on the company I kept, though, I felt no right to complain.

Sunday morning, after an enormous breakfast with Tim and Andy and some other runners in a resort town called Jindabyne, I drove back to Sydney. It's strange how leaving and returning to a place accelerates the pace at which it starts to feel like home. That, or maybe I was just excited to sleep in a bed rather than a Corolla driver's seat.

First Published: December 10, 2007, 11:15 a.m.