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<p>It&rsquo;s midnight. 12:01 to be precise. Twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes left to try for 169. The minivan crunches into the gravel along the edge of Snake Mountain Road and comes to a stop. The doors open. Four men pour out into the darkness. I follow behind, stumbling over the back seats, trying to be quiet. They spread out along the road and then stand motionless in the fog, two with heads cocked toward the sky, two bowed as if in prayer. Peeps and croaks from frogs spill out of a nearby wetland, thousands of points of sound washing over the road.</p>