The Antarctica Marathon (Part VII)
It was the morning of the marathon. We climbed into the zodiacs and hugged our waterproof bags, which were filled with all of the water and energy we’d need for the race.
When we arrived on shore, we walked from the snowy beach to the start line. I fell behind. My oversized, rubber boots slowed me up — but, I also wanted to stay with my thoughts. During most marathons, I slip into a numb state of mind to get through 26.2 miles. For Antarctica, I wanted to remember the details.
From the shore, King George Island stretched out in front of me. The hills, snow, and rocky trails were intimidating.
I’m about to run a marathon on Antarctica.
Together at the start line, we hopped around trying to stay warm; we were uncharacteristically quiet. We did comment on the makeshift bathrooms and the fact we’d make every attempt to avoid using them. (The bathrooms were buckets protected by 4x4 ft, person-high tents.)
Once everyone arrived on shore, we changed into our running shoes and took off our extra layers. We gathered in a circle — protecting one another from the wind like penguins — and stared expectingly at the Marathon Tour staff.
It’s time, right?
The staff announced that we’d run a modified version of the route. We’d no longer run through the worst of the quicksand mud. Instead, we’d run six laps and cut out the Russian base. Running 26.2 miles is physically challenging; running the same route six times is mentally challenging.
After our surprise, we lined up behind the start (which would eventually become the finish), and waited for the countdown. When you’re running a marathon on Antarctica, you expect a grand countdown — as grand as Antarctica. Instead, Thom brought a megaphone to his lips and “3, 2, 1.”
“Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.” — Neale Donald Walsch
The course was difficult. We climbed nearly 2,500 feet and ran over snow, rocks, and streams, and through ankle-deep mud. I loved it. At one point during the race, a fur seal waddled into my path. He stopped, looked at me, and barked. (He obviously thought we were insane for running on his turf.) I stopped, let him cross, and continued on.
At marathons in large cities, you typically run to the cheers of a booming crowd. In Antarctica, the other runners and Marathon Tour staff become your supporters. We’d been together since Buenos Aires and bonded over the love of running from day one. At every moment, we were high-fiving one another, commenting on our strength, and giving knowing smiles.
Some of the Chinese and Chilean scientists ran with us. At one of the turnaround points, a Chinese scientist ripped off his bib and mumbled, “I’m done.” Another one slowed to a walk to light his cigarette.
I happened to have another supporter on the course, my fiancé. He volunteered to be at the turnaround point at the Chinese base to count laps for each runner. I saw him every 4.4 miles. After the third lap, I ran up to him and said, “This course is really hard.” (Translation: Show me pity.)
R: “Yep, keep going! You’re currently first for the women.”
Oh, the pressure (and not the pity I was looking for) — but highly motivational. Every time I saw him from that point on, he gave me an update on my first-place status, and I tried not to get overwhelmed with the information.
A Kiwi also motivated me during the race. I’d made friends with a kind (yet snarky), New Zealander on the trip — and at every turnaround point, he was always the same distance behind me. We cheered for each other at every pass, but at the finish line we both admitted to secretly battling.
I felt strong throughout the entire race, even as the trail became a mud pit. I constantly looked down to find the path of least resistance — whether that meant a 2-inch puddle instead of five, or a less jagged rock than the one directly in my path. When I looked up, I felt as if I were still on the ship swaying back and forth.
I did trip and fall — landing on my right leg and palms. I jumped right up and a fellow runner looked at me disappointingly; he just missed capturing my spill on camera. When I saw Ryan, I told him I mud wrestled and lost.
The temperature stayed right at 0 °C, and I spent a few miles near the end debating what layers I could take off. As a San Franciscan, I had no idea how to dress for cold weather. So, I wore everything New Balance sent me: wool socks, trail running shoes, thick running pants, a long-sleeve running shirt, a long-sleeve thermal layer, a running jacket, gloves, ear warmers, and a running hat. I also added my own fleece neck warmer. I was comfortable until the last few miles. Then I started running straight for the puddles to cool down a bit. I took off the neck warmer and my gloves with a few miles to go.
Just a few miles to go. I can’t believe this is over.
The marathon went by so quickly. After 4 hours and 25 minutes, I was sprinting up the last hill and sinking in the mud for the last time. Thom stretched a red rope across the finish line, and I crossed as the first place winner for the women and fifth overall. My smile stretched to my ears, and I thanked Thom for being a pioneer for running on Antarctica.
There wasn’t much time to celebrate though. I had to change out of my wet clothes to prevent hyperthermia. The volunteers helped me maneuver my tired legs into my waterproof pants and zipped up my coat. I was then ushered to the beach, where the zodiacs (and a penguin) were waiting. Apparently the penguin was there for hours watching us run a marathon. Unlike the fur seal, he didn’t think we were crazy. He understood that running a marathon on Antarctica is an opportunity of a lifetime.
A huge thank you to New Balance, Vibram, and Marathon Tours!
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII (+ the route on Strava)
