The Road to Sparta

by Dean Karnazes

  When she returned a minute later, she was carrying a big watermelon, which she presented to me proudly. The thing was still warm from the sun, and I was pretty sure she’d just picked it from her garden behind the shop.

  “Efharisto,” I said, thanking her. I wasn’t sure what to do at that point, so I walked out the door, drinkless, carrying a huge watermelon.

  Now what? My hotel was still a few miles away, but I couldn’t just leave that watermelon on the side of the road. There was no choice but to haul it back with me. It was brutal trying to run while carrying this outsize gourd, as it must have weighed 25 pounds. I tried tilting my head forward and supporting it along the crook of my neck; I tried cradling it against my belly like a big plump baby; and I tried holding it under one arm or the other like a lead rugby ball. Nothing was easy; there was simply no painless way to carry this beastly melon.

  When I finally got back to my hotel room, I thought I might need traction.

  The next few days of reconnaissance in these hills and valleys yielded more questions than answers. In certain instances it was hard to know whether Pheidippides would have followed a shorter, more direct, albeit waterless, path or instead opted for the security of traveling a longer distance with a greater certainty of encountering hydration along the way. Even with my perspective as a fellow ultramarathoner, many of his decisions would have been improvisational depending on the temperature that particular day, the state of his thirst or hunger, and whether he was feeling vigorous or fatigued at the time. But for someone attempting to re-create his route, these things were not only unknown but truly unknowable.

  As I explored areas nearer to Sparta during my scouting missions, the scenario became even more convoluted. Given the high alert at the time of Pheidippides’s run, undoubtedly Spartan interceptors would be patrolling the area and would have spotted him incoming. At the point of contact, Pheidippides would have simply followed the patrolman back to Sparta on a route so chosen by this man. It was impossible to determine at what juncture this interception might have happened, which presented yet another unknown variable.

  The other challenging element to my work was that no matter how stealthily I tried to tiptoe back to my hotel, there was no way of getting around that little shop on the side of the road. By the end of my stay, I’d amassed half a dozen watermelons in my room. That precious old shopkeeper simply wouldn’t have me pass without bestowing upon me another of these colossal fruity gems.

  On the final night of my stay, I summoned a bellman and we carted all of them to the hotel kitchen, where I shared the juicy bounty with the entire staff. As with all of the other foods grown in this region, their plump flesh was pure ambrosia, like nectar of the gods. I’ve never tasted watermelon quite so delicious.

  On the flight back to San Francisco I began to analyze the notes I’d compiled during my exploratory treks in the hillsides and mountains of Greece. P-J’s research had proven invaluable, but I still couldn’t piece together how it was that I could possibly re-create Pheidippides’s journey accurately. That’s when it became abundantly clear: I couldn’t.

  Too much had changed in 2,500 years; too many unknowns couldn’t be resolved; too many factors were beyond reconstruction. Reenacting Pheidippides’s actual pathway would be impossible. It was a most disappointing and heart-wrenching verdict to reach, but it was the honest truth. All the work that had been undertaken, all the effort and planning that had gone into the endeavor had only led me to the forlorn conclusion that my dream of re-creating the actual route of this ancient Greek messenger could never be realized, that I had set about doing something that couldn’t be done. I had such grand intentions, but I now knew with certainty it was never to be.

  I wasn’t good at failing. Who is, really? We talk about picking up the pieces and moving on, but this was more than a temporary setback to me, this was everything. “Fuck!” I pounded my fist on the tray table. The gods give to us and the gods take away, and that sometimes joyous, sometimes cruel balance we’re left with is this thing we call life. Things don’t always go as planned, I reminded myself. Dreams don’t always come true. Deal with it.

  Unexpected spring in the hills of Greece.

  16

  SIGN ME UP

  But deal with it I could not. Upon returning home to San Francisco I entered into a state of funk. My final correspondence with P-J stamped a chilling permanence on my hopes. “It would be impossible to accurately re-create Pheidippides’s endeavor,” she wrote, “for we will never know with certainty the route that he followed.”

  The flokati (rug) had been yanked out from under my feet. My sense of purpose and bearing was inexorably undermined; I drifted about, rudderless in a swirling sea of despair. Where once there was meaning and a clear sense of purpose in my life, now there seemed only emptiness and the hollow anguish over having failed. I spent the better part of a month moping about, licking my wounds and wallowing in self-pity.

  Perhaps this was somewhat of a dramatic overreaction, but I couldn’t just throw my hands up in the air and shrug, “Bummer, it didn’t work out,” and then carry on. Hey, I’m Greek; we don’t keep calm. Trying to repress my Greekness was like a man trying to run from his own shadow. No matter how far I journeyed, it would chase me down and remind me that you can never outrun yourself.

  Keeping things in healthy perspective wasn’t (and still isn’t) my strongest quality, nor was moderation. The oracle of Apollo at Delphi got it mostly right, except for Meden agan (nothing in excess). Runners overall tend to be a compulsive bunch, ultrarunners all the more so. Many are downright obsessive, teetering on the verge of irrationality. Moderation bores us. Personally, I exemplified these fine qualities. For me, it’s either 100 percent fanatical commitment or nothing at all.

  In our world, there are no shades of gray, only black and white.

  Maybe this is why some are drawn to ultramarathoning. When running an ultra, the rules of engagement are crystal clear. There is a starting point and there is an ending point. If you make it from the starting line to the finish line, you succeed, and if you don’t, you fail. Simple as that. The distance between the two points might be daunting, but at least you know from the outset what’s expected of you. In life, the rules are never quite so neatly defined. Sometimes you think you’re moving in the right direction, only to have the rules changed and the finish line shifted to a different location, or hidden altogether. Our modern society is filled with this sort of permanent ambiguity, yet for those with a simpler, more linear outlook, this unceasing vagueness can be intolerable.

  I have always held that life is essentially a series of setbacks and obstacles. Living is overcoming them. One morning I woke up and finally had the sense to realize how pathetic and self-absorbed my thoughts and actions had become. “Is this how Pary would want to see you living? Would you be making her proud?” The sad answer was, no, it would not. It was time to mend these wounds and do something about it. It was time to overcome this obstacle and start living again.

  Sure, my fairy-tale script for the future had crumpled into ruin, the goal of re-creating Pheidippides’s pathway proving unattainable, but no amount of sulking and self-pity could alter the reality of the situation. Coach Wooden had taught me to not let what you can’t do stop you from doing what you can do. True, I couldn’t reenact Pheidippides’s actual run, but I could do the next best thing and attempt the Spartathlon, which was the closest approximation that existed in this modern day. And that is what I intended to do: run the Spartathlon.

  The game of life was back on. The Spartathlon is one of the most grueling endurance contests on earth. To prepare for the challenge, running 100 miles a week or more became the norm. Lengthy overnight forays once a month became standard affairs, and entering 50-mile and 100-K races to help maintain my competitive edge augmented this training. Additionally, extensive cross-training sessions in the gym occupied nonrunning days. The Spartathlon demands this type of rigorous preparation.

  After Commande
r Foden and his two comrades ran from Athens to Sparta in 1982, he went on to establish the Spartathlon, which, in its present-day incarnation, is a 153-mile footrace between these two Greek cities and nearly a perfect 10 on the intensity scale. Not only is it an insanely long distance to run, but the rules also impose strict cutoff times between checkpoints and an aggressive total finish time to complete the race. For instance, racers must cover the first 81 kilometers (50.22 miles) in fewer than 9.5 hours or face disqualification. They must hit 124 kilometers (76.88 miles) within 16 hours or be yanked from the race, and all must complete the entire 246-kilometer (153-mile) course in fewer than 36 hours to officially finish the race, which was in accordance with Herodotus recording that Pheidippides reached Sparta the day after he set out (i.e., started in the morning of one day and finished before sunset on the next).

  The Spartathlon now attracts a global field of the most elite ultramarathoners from around the world. Still, in some years, less than a third of the entrants are able to complete it. In many ways, the Spartathlon stands as the ultimate test of physical stamina and mental fortitude. Only with dogged tenacity and gritty resolve is one able to persevere and stand at the finish beneath the towering bronze statue of King Leonidas in the town center of Sparta.

  Even though the modern Spartathlon has become an international event that attracts athletes from all over the world, in many ways the Greeks still own it, one Greek in particular. When Tripoli-born runner Yannis Kouros reached the finish line of the inaugural race in 1983, there was nobody else there. He was more than 3 hours ahead of the more established field of elite runners. So he recorded his results himself, a mind-boggling 21 hours and 51 minutes.

  Some were suspicious of Kouros’s achievement, believing that he had certainly cheated. How could it be that some unknown runner from the small village of Tripoli was able to accomplish this feat and trounce a field of globally renowned competitors in the process? It seemed dubious. Until the next year when he bettered his finish time, completing the course in an unfathomable 20:25. It is a record that has stood since 1984 and one that may never be broken.

  Maybe I’d be able to tap into an inner Yannis Kouros to help me get to the finish line. But first, I needed to make it to the starting line.

  You see, my already insane schedule had taken on a life of its own these past several months, burgeoning into a rapidly metastasizing tumor that was threatening to kill the very host it depended on for its survival. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy what I was doing, because I did. It was just that the breakneck volume of nonstop commitments was suffocating me. I found myself on the road nearly constantly, and not just making long stays in single locations but endlessly crisscrossing the country and the globe. Two days in Toronto, a day in Dallas, 4 days in France, 3 in Tokyo, then on to Australia, and finally Brazil. Some 70 percent of my time was spent traveling, which made it increasingly difficult to maintain consistent training blocks in preparation for the forthcoming Spartathlon.

  My shoes logged tens of thousands of airline miles, traveling with me everywhere I went. I also developed a bodyweight training program that I could whip out during any brief period of downtime, thus helping to preserve my overall strength and musculature. The sleep deprivation and jetlag were the most difficult elements to overcome, but I did my best. The other harsh factor to deal with was illness. Because I was interacting with hundreds of people each week, in multiple geographical locations, I found myself with a nearly continuous case of the sniffles. Who knew what I was being exposed to out there, and if a bug was circulating in a particular region, I was certain to come in contact with it.

  In an effort to be as authentic as possible, I was hoping to complete the Spartathlon using only those foods that Pheidippides would have eaten: figs, olives, pasteli, fruit, and cured meats. Also, I would be relying only on plain water during the race, not the typical electrolyte replenishment beverages. It was as close an approximation to running in Pheidippides’s footsteps as could be undertaken, so I went for it. In preparation, I trained with these ancient foods of Greece in hopes of conditioning my body to adapt to this unusual diet. Plenty of lessons were learned along the way. Olives tasted great when the temperatures were warm, though they weren’t so appealing for breakfast during morning runs. Cured meat provided hearty sustenance, but could be unsettling if overconsumed and would leave plenty of gristle stuck in your teeth along with acid indigestion. Pasteli was sweet and delicious, though the honey could liquefy if temperatures got too warm, resulting in a goopy, syrupy mess. And figs were terrific on the way in, but dangerous on the way out, if you catch my drift.

  When September rolled around, I felt as though I’d done all that I could to prepare myself for the upcoming challenge. I’d maintained a weekly mileage of between 50 to 200 miles (the wide variation being due to my travel schedule) and had completed several 80-mile, all-night training runs. I felt fit and strong, ready to give it a go. However, to say that I felt confident and assured would be untrue. Truth is, no matter how good of physical shape my body was in, I still remained anxious and uncertain. Hardly a day would pass when I didn’t think about the Spartathlon. Sometimes not even an hour would go by without a thought. It’s not the kind of thing that easily escapes your mind. Often I would lie in bed at night staring up at the ceiling wondering what my fate would be. Just lying there, staring at a blank ceiling and wondering. I’ve always been of the belief that we control our own destiny, that we hold the keys to our future. If it is to be, it is because of me. But I had a sense that the Spartathlon would require something more. What that was, I wasn’t sure. I’d never felt like this before a race, and I didn’t know what it meant. But I was about to find out.

  17

  HAND ME THE CONTROLS

  The North Face Endurance Challenge is a series of races that take place across the United States and Canada. These events attract thousands of racers and spectators. One of my duties as the conceiver of this event, and also as a member of The North Face Global Athlete Team, is to attend each of these races and meet with the runners, sign posters, present trophies and medals, and generally mix and mingle with folks over the course of 2 days of running and racing.

  There are seven different race distances to choose from during the 2 days of competition, everything from the 5-K to our flagship 50-miler. Usually I’m a cheerleader at these races and see it as an opportunity to give back to the running community and support others. For the 2014 event in Madison, however, I asked The North Face if I could participate in the 50-mile race myself, to which they agreed. The race happened to be held the day before I was scheduled to leave for Greece; it would serve as a good final training run before the Spartathlon. That’s not to say I’d be shirking my other duties and obligations at the event. After finishing the 50-mile race I still hung around for many hours signing things, presenting awards, and chatting with people at the finish festival until well past dark.

  If you’ve ever been to the finish line of a running event, you know that they’re not the most hygienic of places. We runners are a sweaty lot, and stuff comes out of our noses, too. But this hardly dampens one’s enthusiasm for congratulatory hugging, high-fiving, and handshaking, and we swap plenty of bodily fluids in the process, knowingly or otherwise, all at a time when the immune system may be compromised due to the intense physical exertion our bodies have just endured. A postrace finish festival is quite possibly a germophobe’s worst nightmare. Every job has its risks, and being exposed to potential pathogens is something I have come to accept as an occupational hazard in this line of work.

  That night after the race I felt fairly exhausted. I’d flown across the country from the West Coast just the day before, risen early to make the predawn start, run 50 miles, and then spent the balance of the afternoon and early evening on my feet chatting with other runners and fans. When my head finally hit the pillow, it was nearing midnight.

  The next morning I awoke at 5:00 a.m. to attend the second day’s festivities. Now I know
that I sometimes talk about running 50 miles the way others talk about fetching the morning paper, but running 50 miles is, well, running 50 miles. No matter how many times I’ve run that distance, and much farther, running 50 miles still takes its toll. Rolling out of bed that morning wasn’t easy, as I was tired and sore. Getting through the rest of the day was quite taxing. Despite feeling great satisfaction at the sight of so many happy runners attending our race, handshake after handshake slowly ground me down. I’d lost nearly 10 pounds training for the Spartathlon using the ancient Greek foods, and I was beginning to wonder whether this dramatic decrease in body mass was perhaps compromising my immune system.

  My flight to Greece that afternoon was tight, and I made it to the airport just as they were concluding the boarding process. I didn’t even have time to wash my hands. “Perfect,” I thought, “I’ll put my earplugs in and get right to sleep.”

  We sat at the gate without moving for more than an hour. Finally, the captain came over the loudspeaker and announced that there was a slight weight imbalance and they’d have to rejigger some of the luggage. That’s odd, I thought. The only previous time I’d had to rearrange luggage during a flight was on a snowboarding trip to Lake Tahoe in my buddy’s small prop plane. After moving a board or two around, the problem was solved and away we went. But this was no prop plane; this was a 747 jumbo jet capable of transporting herds of stampeding elephants. The cargo hold was nearly the size of a football field. It seemed like a really strange announcement to me.