The shoulders of the M7 are littered with all kinds of interesting things – truck tires, serpentine belts, transmissions, empty bottles, smoked and un-smoked cigarettes, doll heads, jewelry, clothes, lunch – like a Wal-Mart Supercenter with a really big automotive department. Using only roadside detritus, an enterprising individual could build a car (although not necessarily a functioning one) and stock it for a family of four (although a pretty dysfunctional one).

Russian drivers give crazy a whole new meaning. Painted lines are open to interpretation, dividers are merely suggestions, and shoulders provide additional passing lanes. Even driving direction on a two-lane road is subject to change without notice. I'd rather run down the middle of the Garden State Parkway wearing nothing but a feather boa and stilettos (and without money for tolls – although, come to think of it, I probably wouldn't need any) than brave the M7 outside of Moscow.

I'll admit I'm subject to irrational fears. I get spooked easily at night, I don't like confined spaces, and I'm not overly fond of the number 13. I am, however, truly afraid of the M7. No, not afraid. Terrified. Every time I face the M7, I have to confront a heart-pounding, cold-sweat-inducing, cry and scream and beg for your life kind of fear. I see the M7 and I want to run. Which would be a good thing, I guess, if running away from the M7 was an option.

Unfortunately, I had to run on the M7. On the shoulder. With the serpentine belts and the doll heads. With the insane Russian traffic. I'd imagined my death by runaway Russian truck or speeding Russian car a dozen different times, so I suppose that's why I wasn't prepared for what actually happened.

I was first up the morning of June 30th – the first runner of the day at 9 AM. My stomach was a little gurgly and strange when I woke up, so I opted to skip breakfast. A wise choice, as it turned out. By mile four, my stomach had stopped gurgling and was instead making squeaky little protests. By mile six, protest turned into open rebellion; my legs were covered with diarrhea. My socks were brown, my shoes squishy, my shorts indescribable. I had a police escort who witnessed the whole explosion from behind and who may now be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder as a result.

I always wear my favorite shorts on the last day of a four-day shift, when I'm usually the most tired. I'm convinced my favorite shorts are imbued with some sort of luck, because I always have a good run when I wear them. Well, almost always. And now, my favorite shorts are imbued (possibly permanently) with something other than luck. Hmmm. I may be in the market for a new pair.

I did finish my run – not elegantly, but definitively. At the conclusion of my leg, no one wanted me to ride in their van and I was offered Wet Wipes the way mints are offered to someone with bad breath – politely, repetitively, and with a certain sense of urgency. The baton was taken away from me and, I think, boiled in bleach. I'm not sure I'll be able to look Hilary Swank in the eye if we hand the baton back to her on September 4th.

Upset stomachs, less-than-ideal terrain, hot, dusty, miserable runs – all part of the experience. I'm okay with it. I can take the bad along with the good, the terrible with the amazing, the hellish with the transcendent. To put it simply, life is like a box of chocolates: sometimes you get delicious, sometimes you just get brown. And until now, I'd been unable to adequately express my disgust and disdain for the M7. No longer. “A big load of crap” sums it up nicely.