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“I regard mathematical certainty as highly suspicious,” Judge says. “But the probability is that I would finish the race, because my training was showing me that I was doing what I was supposed to do. But it’s a little like a TV show where you put a pet hamster in a toy boat — some things don’t always mesh.”

What Judge means is: the unexpected is to be expected. Runners twist ankles. Hard rains fall. There is no certainty in the woods and as darkness enveloped the forest, Judge’s world went black. For the past few years, he has run in the company of volunteer pacers. Runners who push and encourage him not to talk too much, say, about his dabbles with Buddhism or his days as a firefighter, but to stay on track. They run with Judge because he is a gentleman and because he would never ask for their help. Leanne Blair had already run a 26-km race Saturday morning before joining Judge for 52 kilometres through the night.

“My headlamp died on us,” she says. “Jack’s was dimming and his back-up light was horrendously dim — and so it was despairing for both of us because I didn’t think we could continue. But we kept each other up.”

They kept going, pausing beside a mist-shrouded Marsh Lake, where Judge thanked Blair for all she had done. “He is an amazing man,” she says. “He never asks for help.”

Rationally, however, Jack was cooked. He was losing too much time. Practically, he was starving and stopped into an aid station staffed by a longtime friend and race volunteer, Julie Glandfield Smith, for a bowl of her 100-mile soup — made from sweet potatoes, coconut milk, peanut butter, curry powder and ginger root. Hours later, he returned back through the station. Glandfield Smith and the other volunteers nervously checked their watches.