Huang Xiangyang runs through Ham Tin beaches on his way to the second checkpoint.[Photo by Lao Yao and Kit NG/China Daily]

Heart of darkness

It was completely dark already. For the first time that day, I felt I may lose the game. The first half of the race is considered easier. There's little incline and it's during the day.

How could I expect to make up for lost time in the much harder second half, with many steep climbs at night? I could only pray for a miracle.

I departed from CP5 15 minutes later, wearing a headlamp and having changed my shoes－I had put a bigger pair in my drop bag there, fearing my feet would swell after a long run.

As the odyssey continued, I did a little soul-searching: Had I overstretched my limits? Maybe I should have trained much harder. Besides full marathons, the longest distance I had ever covered previously at one time was no more than 60 km, which was during a workout on city roads, a far cry from the rocky and root-studded mountain trails I was stumbling along.

And if one's marathon time could be used to judge his ultra-trail ability, mine－at around four and a half hours－was just mediocre.

The story could have ended there, without regret. At least I would have tried before I threw in the towel.

All odds were against me then. Apart from the pain in my toes, one thigh muscle was getting stiff and cramping. For hours on my way to CP6, my pace had been reduced to a speed no faster than a walk.

"I am a machine. I don't need to feel a thing. Just forge on ahead," I recalled Japanese writer and runner Haruki Murakami saying to himself when he reached his limits during an ultramarathon. My problem, I thought, must be worse－all parts of "my machine" seemed to be breaking apart.