Not at any great speed, just strong, steady trot through the darkness. Suddenly, he jumped sideways, with a twist, landing in a sliding stop, eyes and ears frozen forward. But they would be safe, the suspected woods troll was actually a familiar embankment across the trail that meant only half a mile back to camp.

Sliding down from the saddle, the exhausted rider clung to his neck, wanting to laugh or cry, but unable to summon the strength for either. A few small tears trickled down, the only sign of the enormous pride inside. They had done it, HE had done it, traveled one hundred miles of trail. It was immaterial that they had almost doubled the time of the front runners, they had finished. He completed his first 100, galloped across the finish line and reached criteria almost immediately. She completed her first 100 clinging to the saddle as her 'colt' followed trail and brought them back to camp.

Their day had started at 3:30am, the light drizzle threatening to freeze should the temperature drop a couple of degrees. Anticipation from the rider overcame the confusion and anger the untried colt felt as a result of the unusual circumstances. Years of preparation and training would be tested, although the conditions were unforgiving, it was time.. The competition was not the other riders, it would be the trail, the miles and the clock.

The day began to blur. In and out of camp, up and down the trail, over the river and through the woods, they trotted, chatted, and made up silly songs. They survived one hard lesson in particular, regarding the proper number of flashlights that should be tucked in pockets and fanny packs. And followed good advice, gathered in advance. Alone in the dark, in the woods, the clock ticking, but he was hungry so they stopped. He snacked, then they again ambled ribbon to ribbon, in the moonlight, towards camp. Then out of camp and back into the now familiar darkness.

In the last couple of years, they had done several limited distance rides of 25-30 miles, but he had only one 50 to his credit. That evening, at 60 miles, he got angry. "We should be done by now," he thought and bolted down the trail, "She wants to ride- lets get mov'n!" They argued, her arms and back aching from the reins. Temptation was there to let him set the pace, he felt that strong, but they were barely halfway. Singing "Miles to go before I sleep," She insisted on continuing to follow their pre-planned strategy. By 70 miles, he had settled down, they were in for the long haul and he just jogged down the trail like a little tank. Invincible and unstoppable still, but grim determination had replaced much of the exhilaration that had filled the 'navigator.'

12:29am; At 90 miles, she sat in the middle of the road crying, claiming extreme illness, and trying to avoid the certain death of a particular horse due to founder or colic, or anything. Ten miles just seemed so long as to be impossible. The trail stretched forever, like licorice taffy, almost unending. Camp sat somewhere beyond the limitations of imagination and physical capabilities. After a large measure of TLC, from an incredibly patient and understanding crew, there were again traveling down the road.