I blew past my first night motel stop, making almost 58 miles on the first day. Thankfully, I hadn’t sent any spare clothing to that motel. If I didn’t have to pull that damn cart, I probably could have done five to seven more miles.

I felt pretty cocky when I checked into the next motel on the list a day early. I removed my soaked Harley t-shirt. I washed it in the bathroom sink, along with my socks and shorts. The hot shower felt heavenly.

I threw my wet clothes over the shower rod to dry. I looked at the 38 names of people who had cancer written on the shirt. I would switch to a fresh shirt each day and rotate my shoes. My main goal was to keep my feet clean and dry.

I grabbed a quick dinner at a Denny’s. After watching a little television, I went to bed. I didn’t set an alarm. I figured I would let my body choose my pace. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage links, I was off again. I called Fran and told her I had started my quest and would check in with her twice a week.

I felt a little sore, but after popping two ibuprofen, it got a little better. People honked. A few threw me dollar bills as I ran. Every town I stopped in, I checked for a Harley dealership. Most pledged something or gave me an extra shirt to wear.

I heard that all the local dealerships back home had hung large maps and plotted my daily progress on them. I also heard there was a bet going on about how long I would last. The big money was on 22 days.

I had to stop walking on day six after only 21 miles. My feet were burning with pain. I emptied two bags of ice into the bathtub, took a deep breath, and shoved in both feet. The pain was instant. I thought ice was supposed to make them feel better.

I did my best not to cry and decided that I was pushing myself a little too hard. I would have to back off a little before I ran out of energy and quit.

I picked up some diaper rash ointment and a box of round band aids for my nipples. They were already rubbed raw and bleeding. I had averaged 45 miles a day and needed to rest for a day or two before pushing it again.

I had been using the two-ten strategy. I jogged for two minutes and walked for ten. When I found that walking hurt my feet more than jogging, I revised it to jog for ten minutes and walk for three. It wasn’t perfect but worked for the next few days.

Dan was right. I wasn’t in as good shape as I thought. Running five to seven miles for five days a week was one thing. Even running a marathon was impressive. This went way beyond that. At day ten, my legs felt like lead. Worst of all, my iPod got wet and stopped working.

The next day, I doubled up on my socks when I saw the start of a nasty blister on the heel of my left foot. My body had started to fall apart.

The worst part was the loneliness of being out there by myself. I had a lot of time to think and reflect on my life. After thinking about the last two years, I realized Monica was right. I truly was a self-centered ass.

I only helped others when I absolutely had to, but expected everyone to drop what they were doing to help me. I made a mental note to call Monica when I got back. Maybe I could get her to at least talk to me.

Two and a half weeks in, Fran told me she had collected $2,000 for my brother.

“I don’t understand. I thought all your funds were claimed,” I said. 

“I let the local news know what you're doing. Now, they're giving updates on where you are and how you're doing. . . . Craig, how are you doing?”

“In two words, sore and tired. But it looks like I can’t quit now even if I wanted to,” I said with a forced laugh. “I’m pushing for June 12th. I only hope my feet and legs last that long.”

“Well, keep up the good work. Remember, it’s for your brother.”

She didn’t have to say that. I already knew it. I just hoped I could make it without dying in the process.

Why didn’t I just say 250 or 500 miles? That would have made a lot more sense.

I kept walking.

I wrote in my journal every day. I wrote about how I was doing, feeling, and if anything exciting happened.

On day 20, a car stopped next to me and a man handed me a one-hundred-dollar bill.

On day 23, a little old lady waited for me along the road. She gave me a bag of cookies and a ten-dollar bill. “God bless,” was all she said.

On day 29, it rained all day. I was soaked from eight in the morning until six at night. I was freezing cold and thought I would lose it before I made it to the hotel for a hot shower.

Like most nights, I iced my feet on and off for the better part of an hour. Then I put on lotion and baby powder. I logged my miles and, for the first time since I began, I had doubts.