The Road to Sparta

by Dean Karnazes

  The irony is that Stylianos’s athletic career was brought to an abrupt halt by the Nazi occupation of Greece. In 1942, he and a group of friends were captured and taken prisoner by German soldiers. Stylianos was recognized as an Olympic runner and thus released, but all of the other men were executed. Enraged, Stylianos joined the Greek resistance movement and spent the next several years fighting to drive the Nazis from Greece. The allies succeeded and the Nazis were eventually defeated. Finally, he could run again.

  But it was not to be. After fighting the Germans in World War II, he began fighting in the Greek Civil War in 1945. The entire time he yearned to resume his running career, and his dream was to one day participate in the famed Boston Marathon. Then, in 1946, an American friend named John Kelley secured an entry for him. Because Stylianos arrived in the United States frail and emaciated from battle, race officials protested that he might not survive. But he had given everything he had to travel to the United States, and eventually the officials relented and allowed him to enter the race.

  It didn’t go well for him. He languished near the back of the pack for most of the race. Nobody expected much from this obscure Greek runner, so his poor showing came as no surprise. Boston, after all, was the world’s preeminent marathon, and he was competing against an elite and established field of the world’s best. Besides, Stylianos was weakened from years of fighting. But when he heard the cry of an old man shouting from the crowd, “For Greece, for your children!” pride and passion took over and he ran like he had never run before, passing runner after runner until he eventually caught the leader, who was none other than John Kelley. The two men locked strides for a period, each vying for victory. But in the end it was “Stelios” who prevailed, hailing jubilantly as he crossed the finish line, “For Greece, for home.”

  He had done the unimaginable and won the Boston Marathon. Nobody thought it was possible, but Stylianos Kyriakides was used to overcoming staggering odds. A tough life had created a tough runner and one with an indomitable spirit. He was honored by President Truman at the White House and spent the rest of his life humbly dedicated to public service.

  The inspiration for the museum came when Dimitri discovered some dusty cardboard boxes in his father’s attic. It had been a decade since his father’s passing, and it was time to clean things out. Inside these forgotten boxes he found a treasure trove of historic memorabilia. There were trophies and medals, news reports about his father’s remarkable accomplishments, and presidential decrees. Most of these were unknown to his family. Stylianos was an unassuming man who didn’t speak much of his successes. Had Dimitri not discovered these tattered old boxes gathering dust in the attic, his father’s legacy would have largely passed by without recognition.

  The museum now houses some 6,000 artifacts from around the globe. Organized into 3,100 exhibits, the museum showcases the history of the marathon race from 1896 through the present day, with every Olympic Marathon spectacularly memorialized with its own unique tribute. In all of my global travels, I had never seen anything even remotely close to this incredible exhibit. Yet we appeared to be the only visitors at the museum that day, and I think they may have opened the place solely for our function, even though it was during regular business hours. Normal everyday attendance must be too low to justify opening the doors.

  I could have spent hours, if not days, wandering these hallowed corridors, absorbed in all the lore that was on display in this fantastic cathedral of running and sport. As it was, I had scarcely an hour before my crew started prodding me to go. We were due back in Athens for another function and were already running late.

  The last vision I saw as we drove off from the Marathon Run Museum was that bronze statue of a runner on display in front of the property. Fixed in midstride, he seemed to be calling out to me, “Stay. Don’t go. Run with me . . .”

  We drove off, but I would run with this figure again, for its replica is the bronze sculpture we runners pass in Hopkinton at the 1-mile mark along the Boston Marathon course. The statue of Stylianos Kyriakides lives in two places, and his enduring spirit lives on in the many athletes who have run past it.

  As I was lying in bed that night before the Spartathlon, my mind raced through all the places I’d been and all the people I’d met over the past several days. There wasn’t enough time in each day to fully appreciate the value and richness of these experiences in the moment, so at night I would lie in bed and replay these events over and over again so I could properly acknowledge them and store them neatly in my memory. This is what an introvert does. If deprived of quiet reflection during the day, the mind will activate at night. People might think introverts are a subdued and drowsy bunch, but such is hardly the case. Extroverts tend to be more vociferous and outspoken, gregariously flitting about in active conversation and chatter. But an introvert’s mind can be an extremely hyperactive space. At night my mind would restlessly course through the day’s episodes, cross-referencing and triangulating them with prior events and experiences, seeking connections and logical inferences, trying to make sense out of the chaos of a fast-paced life that was inconsistent with who I am.

  This night was no exception. At a time when I most needed sleep, I lay in bed wide awake. The harder I tried to quiet my mind and slip into slumber, the less tired I became. Was I trying too hard, putting too much effort into it, like a chameleon attempting to force a color change instead of just allowing nature to do its thing? I thought about that question, too.

  I wondered how many other competitors were lying in their beds that night staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Perhaps every single one of them was. Or perhaps none of them were and I was on my own. I tried not to think, which made me think more. I tried to count down from 100, but only made it to 60 before determining that the exercise was frivolous and contrived, totally ineffectual. Finally, I just went with the flow. I allowed my mind to wander freely, to do what it needed to do without any obstructive conscious intervention. A glorious procession of recollections and memories played out before me in a grand theatrical presentation. I smiled and cooed, contentedly watching the episodes unfold in my mind’s eye. Unexpected characters emerged and dissolved into the milieu; locations and settings moved quickly from one scene to the next, yet retained all of their original clarity and rich contextual associations. It was 2:30 a.m. when I last looked at the clock and 5:30 a.m. when the alarm went off, though those several hours of contented bliss were deep and restorative.

  I rolled out of bed, splashed some water on my face, and looked in the mirror. Morning was here. It was time for battle.

  * * *

  1 It must be noted that Maria Polyzou, the Greek women’s marathon record holder, also played an instrumental role in the development of the museum.

  Award from Mayor of Marathon (top left), Crew from Navarino Challenge (top right), Talk at Public School of Palaio Faliro in Athens (bottom)

  19

  THE RACE IS ON

  Three hundred and fifty warriors huddled in the predawn mist at the foot of the Acropolis anxiously awaiting the starting gun to splinter the morning stillness. Athletes had hailed here from 46 countries; some made crosses on their chests, others pranced and stretched, while others hugged loved ones in a final embrace of farewell. Each individual standing at the starting line held the same dream, that of touching the feet of King Leonidas before sunset the next day. Sparta was 153 miles, and untold perils, away. But every person wearing a race jersey was determined to make it there.

  For me, the quest was deeply personal. I’d been waiting a lifetime to be standing in this place, and at that moment I saw this more clearly than ever. I would finally run alongside my ancient brother, Pheidippides, albeit 21⁄2 millennia in his wake. I felt better this morning than I had in the past week, as though my body had cleared itself of illness and risen to meet the challenge ahead. This was my hour to shine brightest, in full honor of the intrepid adventurer who had brought me to this place.

  In the crowd there wer
e some familiar faces, along with some new ones. There were acquaintances I’d met at various venues across the globe, and there were people I’d heard of but never met. We were all kindred spirits now, standing there together before the start. No matter how competitive we were, all held a mutual respect for our fellow athletes, for each of us was acutely aware of the sacrifice, commitment, dedication, and courage it took to be toeing the line that morning. Whether one’s intention was to win the race or simply to finish it, these same qualities were a shared prerequisite among us, a commonality that cut across borders, religions, ethnicities, and socioeconomic status and bonded us together in a sacrosanct union of blood, sweat, and honor.

  That was the emotional context of the starting line experience. The practical consideration was that it had started to rain, making one’s gear choice during this initial stage critical. Due to the unusual rules of the race, the first opportunity we’d have to modify our outfits wouldn’t come until 26 miles after the start. The Spartathlon was somewhat unique in this regard. During many ultramarathons, especially ones taking place primarily on roadways (versus wilderness trails), there are designated points at which a runner can access his or her support crew for food and supplies, and to make gear changes. While there were many aid stations set up along the Spartathlon route—places where an athlete could obtain hydration and nutrition—there were strict rules as to when a runner could potentially interact with an outside crewmember or accept outside aid to change clothing or footwear.1 My crew would be driving to sanctioned spots along the course to meet me. There were a very limited number of places where I could see them, so most of the time I would be running alone or with other runners, while my crew drove up ahead to junctures where I was allowed aid.

  This crew consisted of a team of Greeks. I had some acquaintance with them, but none of us knew one another all that well. Over the course of the next couple days we were sure to gain an intimate familiarity with each other, whether we liked it or not.

  With the rain, it was an unusually cool and cloudy morning, though it wasn’t expected to stay that way for very long. At some point the forecast called for clearing skies and warming temperatures, but when this transition would occur was anybody’s guess. The tactical consideration was that you wanted to be wearing enough clothing at the start to remain warm and dry, yet not so much clothing as to become overheated when skies cleared and temperatures warmed. I decided to go with a lightweight waterproof shell to remain dry. I could always tie it around my waist should the sun make a premature appearance and I didn’t need it, but I would have it at the ready should the rain resume farther down the road.

  Amid the swirling commotion and restless anticipation of the starting-line countdown, I glanced up one last time to take in the towering white columns and sweeping broad arches of the Acropolis. That single glance sparked what appeared to be a chain reaction of the other runners and spectators doing just the same. A silence swept over the group, and for a frozen moment in time all seemed awestruck by the magnificence of the setting. It was humbling to think that 2,500 years earlier a man stood in this exact location with the intention of doing precisely what we would be doing today, running to Sparta, only his hopes were not to earn a finisher’s medal but to save Greek civilization. In all my many years of running and racing across the planet, nothing compared to the emotional force of that moment.

  “Trri-ia . . . the-e-o . . . ena,” the countdown concluded; the starting gun went off, and away we went.

  The send-off was ceremonious to be sure, though a bit less so than in other ultramarathons, especially those run in the United States. This crowd seemed slightly more subdued, a bit more introspective and focused than at other races. Perhaps it was owing to the composition of the group. There were many athletes from Japan competing on this day, and they seem to engage less in overt rah-rahing and chest-pounding than do their Yankee counterparts. The Europeans, too, skewed toward the mellower spectrum on the bravado scale. Or perhaps the solemnity was on account of the intensity of the race that lay before us. The Spartathlon is considered one of the most grueling physical contests on earth. The qualification standards for gaining entry into this event are set high—only the most elite athletes are eligible—yet no matter how many ultramarathons you’d previously completed, no matter how fit and experienced you were, the odds of finishing this race were no better than the odds of not finishing, perhaps worse. We set off through the streets of Athens not so much in a frenzied flurry of unbridled enthusiasm, but in more of a contemplative awareness of the contest that lay ahead.

  One of the reasons this race is so demanding is the aggressive cutoff times between checkpoints. For instance, runners must reach the Ancient Wall at the Hellas Can factory—50.22 miles from the start—within 91⁄2 hours or face elimination. For comparison, many 50-mile ultramarathons have cutoff times of 13 or 14 hours to complete the race in its entirety. Spartathlon runners have to better this pace by many hours, and then run another 103 miles on top of that. And this merciless cutoff to cover the first 50.22 miles of course isn’t an isolated thing; such accelerated milestones continue unabated the entire duration of the race, which leaves little margin for error. If an athlete experiences a setback or physical decline at any one point along the course, it could spell imminent doom. This knowledge taxes one’s psyche from the very first step.

  Setting out from Athens, I was keenly aware that a fairly aggressive clip needed to be maintained in order to ensure reaching the various milestones with an ample buffer of time to feel secure. Of course, knowing that I needed to maintain a fairly aggressive clip to feel secure made me feel insecure. Was my pace too fast, too slow, or just right? Was I placing undue stress on my system, or holding back too much? Should I try to hang with the experienced frontrunners, or should I follow my own instincts? These questions kept turning over and over in my mind.

  One thing I was absolutely sure of, however, is that I didn’t want my feet getting wet. Although it wasn’t raining hard, it was coming down at a fairly steady rate, and creating standing puddles of water in the roadway. Larger pools, some deep enough to swallow a foot up to the ankle, were beginning to accumulate in many of the low-lying areas. You invariably alter your footsteps when the ground is wet and slippery. Your muscles and micromuscles make calculated adjustments to help stabilize your body, whether you perceive these subtleties or not. Muscles that may not normally get utilized during dry running conditions are recruited, and this extracts greater effort and increased exertion.

  Attempting to avoid getting my shoes and socks too wet, I exercised caution in navigating around these waterholes. From previous experience I knew that running in wet socks could be a recipe for disaster, especially when temperatures got warmer. Feet that are kept in a perpetual state of dampness become pale, puffy, and plump, with distended fissures and deep crags developing between skin folds. If you’ve ever stayed in a Jacuzzi or a warm bathtub for too long, you know what I mean.

  Skin that is softened and swollen in this way tends to be more susceptible to irritation and trauma if subjected to repetitive microabrasions, such as the grating that can occur from a seam-stitch or flap of fabric jutting slightly outward from inside the cavity of one’s shoe. This point at which an irritant contacts skin is often referred to as a hot spot because of the heat such friction inevitably generates. Waterlogged tissue is extremely sensitive to this dynamic and easily develops boils and blisters in response—not a condition you want to perpetuate in the first few miles of a 153-mile footrace.

  Other runners appeared to be exercising care as well, but some were not. They were trudging straight through the waterholes without trepidation. I wondered how their feet would fare farther down the road. It would be several hours—a full marathon’s distance—before there was any possibility of changing into dry socks. This provided ample time for blisters to build up.

  Dodging puddles wasn’t my only concern. The streets of Athens were becoming crowded with morning traffic. Policemen
were stationed at most of the main intersections to stop vehicles, but after crossing the street, we runners had to run along the sidewalks and fend for ourselves. These sidewalks were filled with all kinds of obstacles, from overflowing trash cans to meandering pedestrians to stray dogs. On top of that, the periodic motorcycle or moped would come careening down the pathway in an effort to skirt the blocked intersections, nearly taking out unsuspecting runners like bowling pins. There was yelling and screaming and the honking of horns, both by frustrated motorists who were angered by our presence and by enthusiastic commuters who were expressing their support. Gestures were extended from car windows, mostly congratulatory, though some otherwise. Many of the older shopkeepers appeared to be aware of the race. “Bravo! Bravo!” they shouted. Many others, however, like those just walking down the street or waiting at a nearby bus stop, seemed to be oblivious to what was going on. They looked at us with unease, as though we were a horde of criminals who had just busted out of the local penitentiary. The whole scene was a chaotic and disjointed puzzle, a perplexing amalgamation of fear offset by elation, along with unnerving disorganization improbably paired with a grand atmosphere of celebration. I’d come to expect nothing less in Greece, and it strangely served to heighten the mystique of this legendary race in its modern-day incarnation.

  Greece was a paradox, an unsolvable conundrum. In the bad there sometimes could be found good. In the darkness there sometimes appeared light. In the midst of desolation and despair, hope could spring anew. It was in this swirling ambiguity, this impossibly illogical riddle of contradiction, that everything suddenly made perfect sense. Life could not be understood, and Greece elevated this truth to its surface. As we ran down the congested streets of Athens, cars and trucks zooming by just inches away, what we runners were doing made no sense at all. Yet it made all the sense in the world.