Spartahlon 2015
While waiting in the queue I scanned each of the nine people in front of me – knowing that less than half of us will reach the finish line and the same applied to the rest of the crowded room of participants. How do I know this? Thirty two years of history has proven that on average only 41% of participants starting the race will reach the finish line.
I measure the physique of each of my “opponents”. Their bodies are lean with the definition of muscle clearly visible and a hungry look in their eyes. I suppose this is exactly what athletes look like after months of intense training. Bodies and minds are well prepared but, as in my own mind, I am sure they, too, are wondering in which half of the field they will be – finisher or non-finisher.
We are at the Finix Hotel in Glyfada, Athens for the registration of the 33rd Spartathlon, a 246km foot race with a rich history dating back almost 2500 years - following in the footsteps of Pheidippides. Pheidippides, an Athenian messenger, was sent to Sparta in 490 BC by his commanding officers to ask assistance from the Spartans against the Persians at the Battle of Marathon. Greek historian, Herodotus words were: “On the occasion of which we speak when Pheidippides was sent by the Athenian Generals and according to his own account, saw Pan on his journey. He reached Sparta on the very next day after quitting the City of Athens.”
In 1982 British Royal Air Force Commander, John Foden and four other men decided to determine if it is humanly possible to achieve what Pheidippides achieved. Three of these runners were successful in completing the course in less than 36 hours. Since 1983 the race has been run annually at the end of September, the same time of year in which Pheidippides achieved his great feat.
My support team was going to collect a rented car Friday morning after the race had started, but the race organisers insisted on having a car registration number to complete my race registration. After four hours my wife, Ina, and our eldest daughter, Michelle, eventually sent me the number and I could complete registration. My younger daughter, Jessica, and I completed my booking into the Hotel London which was across the road from the registration building and the allocated accommodation for me as one of the participants. Although I was not planning to stay at this hotel I wanted to experience the nervous excitement before the race of the other participants.
Later that afternoon, after the compulsory race briefing, I invited my support team (my family) to experience the bated atmosphere at the Hotel London. The organisers tried to allocate the close to 400 athletes according to their language but the Hotel London ended up with the athletes from countries with a small number of entries thus 24 different nationalities of whom very few managed to speak a broken English. My room mate was Polish and the conversation was abruptly ended as he could not speak English. I was glad I would be staying with my support team in a rented house nearby. We saw each other on the road again and exchanged smiles of recognition. At the prize giving ceremony he enquired, with gestures, whether I had finished the race and indicated he was one of the unfortunate half of the athletes who did not finish.
Even though we did not have any conversation with the other athletes and their support teams, it was nevertheless a wonderful experience - so much diversity and all with one common goal; reach Sparta before 19h00 on Saturday. While scanning the unfamiliar surroundings I noticed an emblem very familiar to me. The Comrades Marathon in all its glory. I was eager to start a conversation but her support team indicated she did not understand English. I pointed to the emblem on her back and told them I was from South Africa. She was from Brazil and had already completed the Comrades Marathon eight times and planned to run the race another two times in order to claim the famous green number for ten Comrades Marathon races. We travelled together on the bus to the starting point the next morning and she excitedly pointed to my running cap with the Comrades Marathon emblem. We had a gruelling marathon in common and were on our way to make history. She approached me at the prize giving ceremony and indicated she did not complete the race. I wanted to know whether she was going to try again the following year but she indicated four unsuccessful attempts were enough. After a good night's sleep I was up at 4:00 on the Friday morning. I jogged the two kilometres from our rented house to the Hotel London to enjoy breakfast and catch the bus along with the other athletes. Ina, Michelle and Jessica were going to use public transport to get to the Acropolis for the start of the race. Night turned into day and the Acropolis was brilliantly lit. While searching for a toilet I bumped into Ina - support team and runner united before the start of the race. There were masses of people so this was a stroke of luck. People gathered on the marble road at the foot of the Acropolis at the entrance to the Odeon of Herodes Atticus - a fitting starting point for this historic race. Athletes were doing last minute stretches and running short distances while some were posing with their support teams for photos. The race is on - months of training and, in my case, years of dreaming became a reality.
Although I felt comfortable, in the back of my mind was the anticipation of the tightness in my right calf which I have been suffering from for the last couple of weeks before the race. Numerous visits to the physiotherapist did little to alleviate my concerns. Even though we covered many kilometres sightseeing all the magnificent tourist attractions of Athens, the single ten kilometre run I did three days before the race was uncomfortable owing to the calf tightness. I was concerned but had not mentioned this to my support team. Throughout the race I experienced many aches and pains but never from the right calf. That injury had resolved itself as does happen sometimes.
It is impossible to imagine such a race in Johannesburg at 07h00 on a Friday morning where motorist can barely tolerate runners on a Sunday morning while they go out to buy their Sunday newspaper. I soon fell into an easy pace as per my planning. Runners had right of way in the peak hour traffic out of Athens and motorist even turned out to be our best supporters honking a “bravo” while wishing us luck. These words we heard quite often during the next two days of the race. Running was relaxed and pleasant and I started a conversation with an athlete from the USA, Chris Benjamin; we spent a couple of kilometres together. The scenery changed as we left Athens. The sea views were stunning and while running through villages school children were allowed to leave their classrooms to cheer us on. The level of noise and support escalated a couple of levels when a runner acknowledged the support with high fives.
As we progressed, the heat and humidity made things uncomfortable. Although other athletes might assume that I come from South Africa and this should not be a problem we had just experienced a cold winter in Johannesburg and I was not fully acclimatized to this heat and humidity.
My focus was on the beautiful scenery to take my mind off the heat. Chris caught up with me again and breathless told me his support team was worried as he was running too close to the cut-off-times. I could put his mind at ease assuring him we were well within the required time limits and he joined me. We ran together for a long time during which I learnt that he was from California and the climate is very similar to the current situation - Chris was comfortable; I was not. In actual fact, he had completed Badwater in 2014 which is a foot race in America known for the inhumane conditions owing to temperatures of up to 50°C. This is a run from Death Valley to Mt Whitney, CA over a distance of 217 kilometres. The starting point is 86 meters below sea level and the finishing point is 2 548 meters above. A T-shirt is earned when the runner crosses the finish line within 48 hours.
The discomfort I experienced started at 40 kilometres and it was getting progressively worse. I slowed my pace to cool down my body and lower my core temperature. I slowed down even more and walked in shady spots which were few and far in between. By then Chris had left me behind.
I started to panic when my situation worsened. During the build up to the race I spent progressively longer sessions in the steam bath at the gymnasium on a daily basis. I spent these times in a temperature of 43° and a 100% humidity pushing myself every day a minute or two beyond the point where I could no longer take it - literally to the point where I felt I was going to die if I did not escape to breathe. I started to feel that way but the difference, there was no door I could open just before the desperation and panic forced me to act irrationally. The only relieve was a cool sponge at each water point and this relieve was lost after 100 meters past the water point. I was soaked in my own sweat and water which was not evaporating but forming a shield to retain as much heat as possible. This continued for a number of check points and I experienced inner conflict in my mind. How was I going to solve this desperate situation? Then I started thinking of all the excuses I would be able to use to explain why I handed in my race number at the next check point. I panicked and desperately wanted to get out of the situation. My race was over.
At that point an athlete in the colours of Spain, Thomas Schmid, asked me how I was coping. I was hot and bothered and could not cope with the heat. After which he responded that coming from South Africa the heat should not be a problem for me. Apparently the world is under the impression we do not have winter in South Africa or any cold weather for that matter. After I had told Thomas I had to get out of the heat he pulled out a sandwich size zip-lock plastic bag and handed it to me saying he had many more. He advised me to fill it with ice at every check point to "sponge" my body while running. Thomas then left me. My priority was to fill my bag with ice at each check point for the rest of the day. As things started to look up from then I even spent a brief moment to admire the Corinth Channel when I crossed it just before the major check point at 81 kilometres.
While running comfortably next to a very busy road a police officer pulled me aside and greeted me like a long lost relative. It turned out his cousin lives in Springs, South Africa - familiarity breeds content. I was in a hurry and with an invitation to call me when he visited his cousin again I was on my way.
I was just regaining my stride when I noticed a Danish athlete staggering into a very busy three- laned road. Cars were swerving and braking to avoid hitting him. The drivers were speeding, as they do in Greece, and his life was in danger. I increased my pace but fortunately another athlete also noticed him and pulled him out of harm's way. We looked around for assistance with check point number 22 in sight. A friendly supporter took hold of the Danish athlete, who was desperately trying to get back into the race, and she urged us to continue running. My co-helper, an Irish athlete, Brian Ankers, and I spent a large portion of the night running together while talking.
Despite the earlier problems I experienced I passed this check point only 3 minutes 21 seconds slower than planned. Although it was still warm I believed the worst of Friday was behind me. The kilometres came and went until darkness enveloped us. As the last rays of the sun were disappearing I caught up with Chris again. He was clearly hot and bothered at that stage and it soon became clear he was not in the mood for conversation. I left him behind and never saw him again.
The pleasant early evening hours made running easy and comfortable, especially after the heat of the day. I enjoyed it full well knowing the mountainous part of the race was yet to come. I could not believe the instant stardom as children from the villages were asking for my autograph.
While running on my own I heard a car approaching, noticing the flashing light I instantly knew it was the dreaded sweeper vehicle picking up runners that could not continue. Someone shouted "Vrystaat" when they passed me. I was amazed and wondered whether they had employed officials who, supported rugby, from South Africa. I could only think of responding "Blou Bulle" which was met with laughter.
When I was preparing for the race I relied on what I read about the race and the mountainous crossing which received a lot of coverage over the years. Somehow all these writers failed to mention the massive climb up to the mountain's base. It is steep, relentless and never ending. In the early stages of the climb I passed Brian and asked whether he knew what had happened to the Dane he rescued from the busy street in Corinth - he did not. Brian caught up with me again after awhile and joined me as he felt he was going too slow on his own. I, too, needed some support at that stage so he was very welcome. While struggling with the climb in pitch blackness we were speculating where exactly the dreaded crossing was and when we would reach it. Apart from an occasional strike of lightning we could not see the start let alone any of the mountains around us. At the last village (Lyrkia) we passed through before we started the climb, the village church was brightly lit and as we moved up through switch back after switch back Brian pointed out that the bright church light was sinking deeper and deeper into the vast blackness around us until it was just a very distant flicker down below.
Eventually we decided to just maintain and where possible increase our buffer on the cut-off at each check point; maintaining a margin of just below one hour. At this stage my anticipated calculations on my elaborate pacing spreadsheet and the information supplied on the distance boards at each check no longer concerned me. I had my running computer set to display the time of day and at each check point it was merely a simple calculation between the check point closing time and the time of day which was then the time ahead to the cut-off. Calling it a simple calculation is actually an understatement because by then my mind was so numb a simple calculation was difficult. Brian and I cross checked each other to ensure the veracity of our calculations.
The first time we managed to increase our buffer on the cut-off time to more than an hour we celebrated as if we had won the race and by then we had not even reached the 160 kilometres mark yet. But we were both feeling quite comfortable despite the endless climb because we were not falling behind the required pace.
The Rugby World Cup was taking place at the same time in the United Kingdom and coming from South Africa I am an avid rugby supporter. Every time I came across an athlete from the participating countries I asked who he thought was going to win The Rugby World Cup. I must admit the support for the rugby tournament was met with very little enthusiasm. The last time I asked the question to some British athletes a South Korean athlete replied Japan. We laughed but of course the joke was on me as South Africa had lost their opening game against Japan.
At long last we reached the base of the mountain and a very steep climb along an almost non-existent path lay ahead of us. There are those who claim the path is still exactly the same as when Pheidippides passed nearly 2500 years ago and it was where he had the encounter with the god, Pan. This was a huge physical challenge owing to the gradient, the rough terrain, tired legs after 160 kilometres and to top it off it started to rain.
The mountain crossing was a sight for sore eyes - looking towards the peak it appeared as if the headlights of runners ahead were running into the heavens. After a brief stop at the base I commenced the gruelling task at hand without Brian this time. It was also the last time I saw my support team with their car. By then everybody could recognize my support team and their car owing to their custom made supporter's T-shirts and the four South African flags flying above the roof of the car. I saw them at each check point but I now had to scale the mountain and they had to take a different route.
It was every bit as steep as I had expected and more while the loose rocks and slippery boulders did not make it any easier. I slipped numerous times and could hear rocks rolling down the mountain as other runners tried to regain their balance. At that point it was literally a case of putting one foot in front of (or rather above) the other. I soon realized that on the one side was the mountain and on the other side nothing but a black abyss, slipping on this narrow trail might be fatal as I did not know how far I would fall. I focussed on the path while ensuring that each step was solid.
I thought I still had quite a way to go to the peak when, to my surprise, I was at the check point at the top of the mountain. This stage was physically demanding but even more so very scary and I would not want to run this path during the day when I could actually see the steep precipices. Downhill was much better and not as scary but I still had to be sure-footed as the path was strewn with loose rocks. It almost took as long down as it had taken to the peak.
Despite trying to avoid the large puddles of rain and the discomfort of my soaked body, the paved roads at the bottom were more comfortable. Although I could feel the chafing under my arms and in my groin - which was definitely going to cause discomfort - the cooler weather was more acceptable than the heat of the previous day. Day broke into a wet and gloomy morning but running was easy and comfortable. Statistics indicate that participants who make it this far have improved their probability of finishing the race by quite a large margin. This knowledge in the back of my mind encouraged me and despite the chafing everything seemed to look up. My Garmin's battery power was running low and the discomfort and chafing of the wet clothes made me anxious to see my support team. Besides needing the external battery pack for my Garmin and a lot of cream for the chafing I was also looking forward to friendly familiar faces.
I passed several check points scanning the surroundings with anticipation for the crew in the green shirts and car decorated with the South African flags but to no avail. Every car I heard from behind had to be my crew but every time it turned out to be another support car or a farmer on his daily routine.
Eventually I spotted Michelle in advance at a check point and I was relieved because I could get something to soothe my underarms and groin - I could also get the battery power pack which was really not that important at that stage, except I needed all the data of the race on my computer for later reference. I did not notice the car with its South African flags but at that point it was totally irrelevant to me; I had seen my crew and the race could continue as was planned.
After a long descent from the mountain we started climbing again while it was still raining. The tiredness was weighing me down but I knew my body was in reasonable shape and the end was in sight provided nothing major happened. I felt a little upset with some of the writers who claimed that once over the dreaded mountain crossing it was all downhill to Sparta. And now I faced another mammoth of a climb, but so be it. I continued with a walk run strategy maintaining quite a reasonable pace and even passed quite a number of runners on the way. A street dog joined in the race running up and down offering support to many different runners. On several occasions I thought the dog was going to be run over while running to and fro across a busy four laned road but it survived. My support team assured me the dog was well looked after at the different check points.
I reached the point that I reach in every race at some point - enough already - I wanted the race to be over and done with. I accelerated and started overtaking a number of runners of whom one, Robert Pennington, a British athlete, told me the end was near when I complained about another uphill. Robert was in a festive mood because he knew he was going to finish the race with his fourth attempt - having already had three failed attempts. I admired Robert; coming back despite the extreme physical demands after three failed attempts took some doing. Robert and I celebrated together in Sparta and at the grand prize-giving ceremony on the Monday night. Well done, Robert.
When I was about 11 kilometres away from Sparta I felt a sudden and severe stab in my right quad. I was concerned because the remaining distance could become a major problem. I have seen runners before abandoning races close to the end owing to injuries like this. I stopped briefly once at one of the major check points where a physiotherapist massaged the quad. Initially he only applied some ointment and gave the quad an up and down rub but I asked him to put some muscle into it and the problem seemed to be alleviated. That was until I started the descent downhill to Sparta.
I continued, pace well down, with the walk run strategy up to a point where the stabbing pain persisted, even when I walked. I had come to Greece with the sole purpose of finishing the Spartathlon and decided at that stage I would rather walk to the end and not risk aggravating the situation to a point where I might not even be able to walk. King Leonidas was still 8 kilometres away and while walking many of the runners I had passed earlier streamed past me. The temptation was almost overpowering my mind to "race" them to the end, but I reminded myself that this was my race and I should not be influenced by any runner's pace or position, therefore I continued to walk as fast as I possibly could. Even Robert passed me close to the end. It was the longest 8 kilometres I had ever completed in my life down the road to Sparta. The road felt endless and around every bend I expected to see Sparta but time and again the road continued endlessly.
At last, as I approached the last corner before the race ended at the feet of King Leonidas at the end of the main road in Sparta, Michelle and Jessica handed me a South African flag. I was totally amazed to hear a female voice greeting me in Afrikaans - it was Thea Pieterse who stayed in the same guesthouse in Sparta where we were booked in for the Saturday night. It turned out the hostess told her about the South African who were running the race and decided to delay their going to Athens as they wanted to see me complete the race. This note had been left for me with the guesthouse owner by Thea.
As I turned around to finish the race another athlete grabbed my arm; it was Thomas who had saved my race with his zip-lock and ice advice. I thanked him and turned into the main road of Sparta to complete my Spartathlon. Michelle and Jessica were next to me. The main road was lined with cheering spectators and they made every athlete feel like a superhero - a young boy and girl asked whether they could carry my flag to the end.
It was an amazing feeling to touch the foot of the statue of King Leonidas. At the entrance of our house at home we have column where the intercom is and during my training I had finished my runs by
touching this column, visualizing it to be the statue of King Leonidas. I could hardly believe I was touching the real deal and I felt exhilarated.
There were 374 runners at the starting point at the Acropolis in Athens of which only 174 finished the race. I was one of them, in position 127 in an official time of 34:52:54. It was only 17 minutes and 4 seconds slower than my planned time and with well more than an hour to spare before the cut-off time of 36 hours. The race was won by Reus Florian from Germany in a time of 23:17:31.
A special ritual was followed with each athlete finishing the race - the athlete received gifts, a wreath with olive leaves and water from the Eurotas River offered by young female Greeks dressed in traditional clothes. The applause from the crowd was overwhelming and they chanted, "Bravo, bravo, bravo ..." Everybody truly treated us like superheroes when congratulating us afterwards. The senior official who presented me with the congratulations on my official finish stepped up and said, "Congratulations Vrystaat." He was the official who had shouted "Vrystaat" the previous night - he lived in South Africa for some time and is familiar with the country. He felt very proud that a South African
had completed the 2015 Spartathlon.
It would be amazing to see more South Africans participate in this spectacle. In a country where, on an annual basis, more than 15,000 people participate in the Comrades Marathon while the rest of the population is out in support, either next to the road or in front of their TV sets, is proof of a country with a love for long distance running. In fact I believe we have athletes (well, at least one) that can compete for top honours in the Spartahlon.
Mission completed. John Foden, the father of this unbelievable race, said and I quote, "I shan't wish you luck because if you haven't trained properly, luck will be of no use. And if you have trained properly then you don't need luck." These are wise words, but I firmly believe that apart from proper training a fair amount of good fortune is also required to complete the race. I feel this way because I do not believe 200 participants in the 2015 Spartathlon arrived at the start not properly trained.
PS. It was while the medical staff attended to my many blisters that I heard about the misfortune of my support team's car. After the last check point before we scaled the mountain top they drove off to the next check point where they were allowed to support me again, for a well deserved rest. The car did not start and it was really a crisis as I did not make use of the drop bag system to ensure that I had my personal things on the route as and when I needed them. Everything was with my support team so I fully relied on them. Luckily all the other support teams knew the familiar car with the South African flags flying above the roof and when they heard of the predicament with the car they offered assistance. Kyle Mossop, a Scott, who was supporting a British runner (Sean Maley) who was running close to my pace, offered them a lift for the rest of the race. Thank you Kyle and Sean. They did not want me to worry and hid in the car every time they passed by me. On Saturday after the race Ina, Jessica and the host of the guesthouse went to recover the car. They returned at 2 o'clock the Sunday morning after they had first ended up in the wrong village about 120 kilometres from Sparta instead of the actual village, called the same, about 60 kilometres away where the car was left. All's well that ends well.
Thank you Ina, Michelle and Jessica for your unwavering support - not only during the Spartathlon, but also during all the endless hours of training when, as a family, many things had to be changed to accommodate my training. You are very special to me.
Also a great thank you to the people of Greece and the race organisers – this truly is an unbelievable event. Then, to all my family and friends that encouraged and supported me through my training and during the race – thank you very much.
Michael Botes Spartahlon 2015 Race number: 224
non- The natural born athlete ^