We had more than 80 miles left when my body collapsed and my mind disintegrated. I remember saying something like, “Taylor, I’m going to Tracy’s.”

And then I was crawling interminably along an empty street to my girlfriend’s warm couch, leaving my friend alone in the cold, in the middle of the night, inching ‘round the track on what must’ve felt like broken legs.

It is important that I tell you this story, one of betrayal and failure and who I am.

I’d been sitting in my room, twiddling my thumbs on a cold October afternoon two years ago when I had an idea. This is how it always happens.

This time around, the idea involved running. It told me to run 100 miles in a week. At first, I had some skepticism about the idea. But the more I thought about it, the more palatable it became. And soon the idea warped into 100 miles in one day.

Twenty miles in a day would’ve made more sense, but 100 seemed like a nice, round number. Why not run 100 miles?

People do all sorts of crazy things. Cliff jumping, for instance. Or riding a bike across the country. You can’t explain it.

Now, I knew this would be hard to do alone, so I needed a partner. I quickly found one in Taylor Lenon, who lived one floor below me. Taylor, gentle, tall and lanky with black curly hair, was the only person I knew who was crazy enough to do it. Among other things, he was fond of racing his bike down parking garages at full tilt.

We decided to start at night to get the cold, lonely part out of the way, so we’d have the sun for the meat of our journey. We took some water and granola bars, drove to the Lawrence High School track and started running.

I hadn’t run or worked out for more than two months, so I was not well prepared for our endeavor. But running had always come naturally to me on the high school track team, so I figured I’d be OK. Taylor had been biking nearly every day and was in a marathon training class, so he was better off.

It took until mile eight for me to realize what a crazy idea this was. By mile 12, I felt like I was running on stilts and I had to stop every couple of laps. I alternated between running and lying on the ice-cold track with my hands wrapped around my legs. It was about this time that I started saying, “Taylor, let’s go back.”

Taylor would have none of my wavering. He’d said he would run 100 miles, and that, by God, he would give it all he had. I could see in his eyes that he was disappointed in me.

Close to mile 20, as we stumbled our way around the track and I told him I was checking out. He didn’t plead with me to stay. We finished the lap, and I walked onto the street and turned toward Naismith Hall for my girlfriend’s couch. As I walked away, I turned and saw Taylor’s silhouette etching its way around the pitch-black track.

A couple of hours later, two friends dragged me off the couch and took me back to Lawrence High. Taylor was still there, walking slowly and silently around the track with a dead look in his eyes. A few other friends of ours who’d come for moral support walked with him. I joined them for a few final laps before he made it to 30 miles and called it a night.

I now realize what the difference was between Taylor and me on that night — why he was able to succeed, in my eyes, and I was not. I learned my weakness.

I reach for the impossible and head into it without preparation. I do it all the time, actually. And I don’t regret it. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t. More important, though, was that on that night I wasn’t there for my friend.

Fall is approaching and I think I might call Taylor. Maybe we can give 100 miles one more shot. And maybe this time I’ll do a little training beforehand. I know it would be better to aim for 30 or 40 miles. But I’d rather not. I’d rather go for 100, and if we don’t make it, we don’t make it.

But this time, Taylor, I’ll stay with you.