THE TARMAC ILIAD

The sound had been there for a long time; I just hadn’t heard it. The thrumming a constant white noise, like a faulty ventilation fan with a bad bearing — cicadas. The drone of their mating call so pronounced, but at the same time unobtrusive until you really stopped and listened. I was listening now, lying on my back looking through the spindly branches of an olive tree, my chest heaving under its sparse shade. The insect sounds took me back to the Australian bush in mid- summer when I was a kid. But now, I was burnt out in the Greek countryside.

“I probably shouldn’t be here” was one thought that filtered through my state of semi-delirium. My body, sodden with sweat from the heavy humidity, sprawled listlessly. My brain’s processing power seemed to be trapped in cold porridge. It was Mile 53 and the recurring question to myself was: “How is it going to be possible to do another 100 miles feeling like this?”

The Spartathlon was in full swing. A fast and furious rampage from the Acropolis in to the ancient city of , this somewhat famous ultra follows the Greek history of a tough bloke by the name of . He was apparently an early version of an ultra runner, who in 490 BC was sent on foot from Athens to Sparta to seek help in the war between the Greeks and the Persians before the . No doubt, he must have suffered as much as me – if not more, wearing a leather skirt and running in sandals. The race is made tougher by the very strict time cutoffs throughout the event – the first and hardest being the 50- mile mark. This was the stretch that had hammered me.

After a pleasant temperature rolling down the hill from the Acropolis before sun up, the day had turned into a kiln of heat and humidity as we hustled through the dirty streets of the Athenian industrial areas, sucking exhaust fumes from frantic traffic. By Mile 30 I was laboring up a grade at a slow walk, my head hanging in exhaustion. I stole a glance at the turquoise expanse of Mediterranean water to my left and almost begged myself to stop and jump in. I was having some serious mental battles with myself and it was becoming one of the hardest races for me to continue with, physically and mentally.

It was my eighth race of the year of 100 miles or more, and I was starting to show more cracks than the Acropolis. The UTMB 100-mile mountain race had finished only a few weeks before, with the Badwater 135 only three weeks before that, and on and on. I was taking a self-induced beat down and trying to get back up, all punch drunk and bloody-nosed. I was so done and fatigued that I will admit one side of my brain wanted to miss the critical first time cutoff at Mile 50 so I would have no option but to stop – sad, but true. You see, doing these races is no easier for me than anyone else. Fortunately, the little pit bull that has his kennel in another part of my brain kept pulling me on, as if by his leash.

At some point I crossed the Corinth canal and stood a few moments on the bridge to admire the geometry of its engineering and the symmetry of its gouge through solid rock. I have captained a large motor yacht through the narrow confines and was glad to see it from a different angle,

without the stress of navigation. I tried to keep up some sort of plod forward, which seemed interminably slow. I was sure I was going to miss the time cutoff, so I was astounded when I rolled into the Mile 50 check station with almost an hour and half to spare. I don’t know if it’s possible to have double vision with my one good eye, but that’s about what I was seeing as I checked through and found myself standing back on the blazing tarmac of the road heading forward. Some demons whirred around my ears like bothersome mosquitoes. I could actually feel a twinge of disappointment that I had made the cutoff and now had no excuse but to carry on. What a complex quagmire of emotions to wade through. Some psychologist should do a thesis at some point on an endurance athlete’s ticking time bomb – it would really baffle science!

Three miles later, as the road shimmered in a heat haze before me, I literally fell off the tarmac onto the ground under an olive tree’s shade and lay there for fourteen short minutes, wondering how it would be possible to do another 100 miles. A runner called out if I was ok, so I lazily raised my arm with an upright thumb, hoping he would get my drift without me having to talk. Talking seemed too much work. Luckily, the grass was sharp and made me drag my sorry ass back onto the road, where I continued on for many miles with my buddy Sung Ho Choi (Bruce) and Lara Zoeller, who appeared out of the heat haze as I stumbled back to business. We forged into the blistering heat of the afternoon with a continuous walk/ run that kept us moving forward. I could hardly keep my head up.

At a junction in a small town, Chris Roman appeared and bought me a can of Coke from a roadside stall. I clasped the frigid can between both paws and drained it of its sugary, cold nectar, blithely moaning in ecstasy before rueing bitterly its demise. I was becoming a head case in a Greek tragedy.

The sun fell slowly from the sky and I hung my head lower and lower, trying to keep my hat shielding my face. The heat felt fierce and radiated at me from the broken tarmac of backcountry roads. Fields of olive trees, baked in silence, languished into the horizon. After the sun went down I started to feel a bit more energy and began running for longer stretches. Passing through small villages with shuttered windows and lazy cats sleeping in doorways, I started to revive somewhat.

At Aid Station 28, I realized with a start that I had forgotten to get my drop bag at Station 26 – the bag that had all my night gear, warm clothing and calories in it. I had only put out three drop bags for the entire 153 miles, so this proved to be a large bummer. Luckily, I had decided last minute to carry a spare headlamp on me right from the start, and big thanks to Brandy Choi for lending me a long-sleeve top and some spare drink mix to get me through until my next drop bag 45 miles away.

I ran consistently through the night feeling much more energized and coherent. At one point, I helped out an Italian guy out who didn't have a light by having him run beside me. His light was in his drop bag 10 miles further on and he had miscalculated how long it was going to take to get to that aid station. I managed to climb strong and enjoyed the mountain at the 100-mile mark. It started to rain just before I reached the trail section, which made for slippery climbing up and the same down the other side. I was passed going up the trail by a small English woman who was holding a staggering climbing pace. But on the descent I came up behind her as she literally dolly-stepped down the trail, telling me how much she hated going down as I passed, slipping on gravel and mud.

Sodden with rain and shivering, I weaved through dark village streets, my footsteps an echoing clop off stone walls. My energy started to flag again soon after the mountain. At Aid Station 52 I found my last drop bag, downed a bunch of calories, sat in a chair and lay my head on a massage table. Wet and cold, I watched the carnage around me: runners sleeping on mattresses; rain pouring over the food, making a soggy gruel of chips and biscuits; and a woman, who had looked delirious on a table when I came in, heading to hospital. A volunteer draped a warm blanket around my shoulders, but I wish he hadn’t – it felt blissful! I had to fight the comfort and keep the feeling at arms length or risk slipping off the chair onto a mattress. I stayed twenty minutes, then knew I had to get up. It was imperative to get going.

It was cold and wet and my legs were now tight like watch springs. I hobbled down slippery cobblestones, eventually forcing myself into a jog to get some body temperature brewing. Yesterday I had hated the sun; now I wanted it badly. Hugging myself and pulling my head into my shoulders, I slipped back into the countryside and looked at the mountain ridges for a hint of daylight. The long, flat stretches of country roads were a maze of puddles. First I tried to navigate around them, then gave up and steamrolled through, feeling the cold tentacles of water soak into my socks.

The warmth from the sun was a blessing when it arrived, and I was again running consistently. On the last major climb I ran almost the entire ascent, passing eight runners on the way up. I don’t know where the energy was coming from, but I sure wish I could find that ingredient and package it! It poured again near the top, low clouds and mist swirling over the road, dumping drops so large I could feel every one on my hat and shoulders. It was very cold so I let the clutch out on the downhill to warm up and see whom else I might catch. With six miles left to Sparta, I passed many more runners. Nobody seemed able to run downhill, probably from their quads being burnt out. I noticed some real cases as I passed. When I offered a quick word of encouragement, some couldn’t even answer back, shuffling forward in a zombie state with their heads down. For some reason I felt OK, even though I was terribly sore all over from all the

miles on a hard surface. My quads were fried too, but on the downhill I would start slow, then things would stretch out a little and I could go faster and try to push the pain feeling away.

I had a bad hot spot on my little toe on the right foot. Without warning, it stopped me in my tracks in a searing pain. Usually with a blister or hot spot I just push on through the discomfort, but this little toe felt like it was being cleaved off with a hot knife. I wasn’t sure what to do. Could it really stop me from finishing with only about four miles to go? At first it seemed like it might! I dragged the foot to the side of the road then lifted it up on the guardrail. I took the shoe off with great difficulty, manipulating stiff legs and body. I felt some relief, so I did the only thing I could think of: I removed one of the two merino socks I was wearing, then jammed that sucker back into the shoe and started clomping down the road. It burned but felt somewhat better.

Around the next corner I spotted two runners ahead and took off after them – which made me forget all about the toe. Never underestimate adrenaline for diminishing pain and discomfort! I managed to pass those two runners, then at the second to last aid station I passed two more guys who were fussing over the food table while I barreled past, calling my bib number to the race staff. At the very last station two more runners fell to the wayside. I was like a horse that could smell the barn, focused forward with blinders on. The local kids on bikes started following me, as they do for all runners coming into Sparta. As I started to run faster their chatter and questions died down and all I could hear was the whir of their chains and heavy breathing.

On the turn onto Main Street I started running as hard as I could and passed another runner, weaving through his cycling kids while trying to keep out of the way. There were a lot of people out on the street and sitting at cafes who gave us all a good rousing cheer as we labored up the street, which was very cool. I let out a couple of hoots to show my stoke. On the final leg I sprinted (well, it felt like sprinting) and passed another runner, who glanced over at me in bewilderment. Don’t dawdle at the finish of a race or I will hunt you down! Everyone can find that last little skerrick of coal to put in their furnace to finish strong. It’s our body’s self-preservation mechanism that saves that little bit for last, no matter how tired we are.

I bounded up the concrete steps, getting to the line and kissing the foot of King Leonidas, which means you have finally completed Spartathlon. I felt more energetic then that at any time during the past 153 miles.

I was taken to the obligatory medical checkup station manned by volunteers and given a foot wash, leg massage and beer – a nice way to finish a grueling endeavor, for sure.

My tarmac Iliad was done. The Persians weren’t coming but I still felt like I had been in a war zone….