by Scott Jurek
The Spartathlon, first run in 1983, was the brainchild of Wing Commander John Foden, a native Australian on the verge of retirement from the British Royal Air Force. Foden’s forty-year military career included service in the Korean War, the Suez Crisis, the Brunei Revolt, and the Turkish invasion of Cyprus, but he was also an avid amateur athlete and a student of the classics. One day, while rereading Herodotus, he started wondering if Pheidippides’ legendary run was something within a modern runner’s power.
John and four buddies from the RAF decided to make the attempt. In the words of the Irishman John McCarthy, “We established a credible and historically correct route using ancient military roads, pilgrim ways, dry river beds and goat tracks, taking into consideration the ancient political alignments and enemy states to be skirted.” The five runners set off from Athens on October 8, 1982, and the “three Johns” succeeded, arriving in Sparta in front of the statue of Leonidas on October 9: John Scholten in 35.5 hours, John Foden in 36 hours, and John McCarthy in just under 40 hours.
They decided to establish a yearly run that, in the Olympic vein, would offer no prize money or commercial gain but would instead promote a spirit of international cooperation and fellowship. Indeed, the Spartathlon is one of the best values in the world of ultrarunning. The entry fee of $525 gets you lodging and meals for six days as well as two of the best awards ceremonies you’ll ever attend, museum tours, bus transportation, and ample food and water at the aid stations.
In 1983, 45 runners from 11 countries competed. In 1984, the International Spartathlon Association was founded to manage the race.
After he retired, Foden stayed active in the ultra community, promoting races all over the world. I found his booklet, “Preparing for & Competing in Your First Spartathlon,” very helpful my first year. He continued to break age group records into his seventies, and in 2005 he was the oldest participant in the 300-km Haervejsvandring Walk from Schleswig in Germany to Viborg in North Denmark in seven days.
In the Western States and other ultras, I had battled the best long-distance runners the United States had to offer. The Spartathlon attracted the finest in the world. When I showed up in 2007, I faced the 2001 champion, Valmir Nunes from Brazil. He had just broken my Badwater course record and held the third fastest 100-km time in the world. There was an impressive number of other former champions: the 2000 champion, Otaki Masayuki, and the 2002 (and eventual 2009) champion, Sekiya Ryoichi, from Japan. Markus Thalmann, the 2003 champion from Austria, was there, too, as well as Jens Lukas from Germany, who had won in 2004 and 2005. When I had won the previous year, I was the first North American to do so. The greatest Spartathlon champion was—and probably always will be—homegrown. Twenty-six-year-old Yiannis Kouros was living a Spartan lifestyle as a groundskeeper near Tripoli when the Johns undertook the first Spartathlon test run in 1982. Hearing of their mission to resurrect Pheidippides, the literary-minded Kouros was entranced. He had run twenty-five marathons at that point, with some modest successes and a personal record of 2:25; he was about to find his niche. In 1983, Kouros burst onto the ultramarathon scene with a Spartathlon and ultramarathon debut in an astounding 21:53. His margin of victory was so great—more than 3 hours ahead of the runner-up—that the race director refused to award him the trophy for two days—until it could be proven that he had not cheated.
He went on to win the Spartathlon three more times, and these remain the four fastest times ever for the course, ranging from 20:25 to 21:57. Pheidippides couldn’t have done better. I’ve chased many a record, but my best times are in fifth, sixth, and seventh place overall, 23 minutes behind his slowest time.
Now semi-retired from ultras, Kouros is undefeated in any continuous world-class road ultramarathon competition beyond 100 miles, and he still holds world records on the road and track for almost all distances and durations beyond the 12-hour event.
Kouros is a philosopher-athlete in the ancient Greek tradition. His results seem to stem from an overflowing energy of spirit. He paints, writes poetry, records songs, played the role of Pheidippides in the movie A Hero’s Journey, and delivers motivational talks “to get people inspired and alert, so they can discover and utilize the unconditional abilities of human beings, in order to bring (beyond personal improvement) unity, friendship and harmony to the world.”
He has certainly inspired me to push beyond the limits of form. Kouros is not much to look at as a runner, with his boxy build and choppy gait, although little is wasted on his runs, and he keeps moving even while he eats and drinks. His upper body is remarkably muscled. When you look at sprinters, you see those developed upper bodies, too. I think Kouros has found an extra energy source up there in those powerful pectorals and deltoids. Many runners have learned that a strong upper body helps with technique and speed. Kouros, though, seems to have discovered a secret about transferring propulsive power from the arms to the legs.
Ultimately, Kouros teaches us that the ultra is an exercise in transcendence. He explicitly defines it as a test of “metaphysical characteristics,” as opposed to inborn athletic gifts or level of conditioning. Only a continuous run of 24-plus hours will do, “as a runner has to face the whole spectrum of the daytime and nighttime and be able to continue. Doing so, he/she will prove that he/she can run beyond the effectiveness of genetic gifts and fitness level, as these elements will have gone from the duration of time and the muscular exhaustion.” While respecting the athleticism of such events, he disqualifies 50-milers and stage runs from the category of ultra, as they will favor athletes who are well trained and gifted. The true ultrarunner must endure sleep deprivation and complete muscular fatigue. Only then can he or she “find energy after the fuel is gone.”
Reflecting on Kouros’s message and thinking about the bliss that awaited those who could push through an ultramarathon’s pain helped me when, nine days before the event, I woke in the middle of the night and, on my way to the bathroom, stubbed my pinkie toe. The next morning it was black and blue and just hanging there. I was pretty sure it was broken. Over the next week, I tried to tape it against the toe next to it. I tried walking on the beach, bracing the toe with taped Popsicle sticks. I tried a stiffer insole. I told myself that I had almost nine days, that the body could do miraculous things.
At my second Badwater Ultramarathon, in 2006, I experienced the most grueling finish of my running career. I'm grateful that Dusty was with me, making me realize that yes, I could go on.
Before heading into the depths of Mexico's Copper Canyon, in 2006, to race the Indians known as the "running people," I met the mysterious race organizer, Caballo Blanco (White Horse). Here we discuss the wondrous properties of pinole.
The Tarahumara are known for their grace and speed. The fastest and most graceful of them all is Arnulfo Quimare, and to this day I consider him one of my noblest competitors.
I stay at the finish line to show respect to fellow runners, and because it's a blast. At the conclusion of the 2006 Copper Canyon Ultramarathon, I'm with (L to R) Arnulfo, Manuel Luna, Silvino, Herbalisto, and a local child.
The Hardrock 100 takes runners up 33,000 feet and over eleven mountain passes. In 2007, two nights before the event, I tore the ligaments in my right ankle. The Hardrock suddenly got harder.
At the Hardrock 100, runners encounter snow, ice, rain, sleet, and lightning. I'm not sure I ever felt quite as small, or as humbled. If you're an ultrarunner, you can fight nature or embrace it. I suggest the latter.
In 2007, in my second Spartathalon victory, as I passed the ruins of Corinth I imagined Pheidippides at my side. Running has taken me places.
Most times, sunrise in the Italian Alps would cheer me. In August 2008, though, I was in third place in the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, nursing a bloody knee.
In 2010, New York Times columnist Mark Bittman interviewed me. Before any questions, he opened his fridge and asked me to prepare a meal. I whipped up a veggie and tofu stir-fry with homemade Indonesian almond sauce and quinoa.
My mother struggled with Multiple Sclerosis most of her adult life, and her last few years were filled with pain. Her response to my concern was always the same and it still inspires me: "Don't worry about me. I'm tough."
Mountains, deserts, and canyons bring with them fiendish challenges, but nothing compares to the monotony and mental strain of a 24-hour race. In 2010, I traveled to Brive la Gaillarde, France, to see if I could set a national record.
I met Jenny Uehisa in 2001 through the Seattle running community, and I was taken with her kindness, adventurous spirit, and infectious smile. Today, there's no one I depend upon more.
In September 2010, I went on a USO tour in Kuwait, where I ran alongside 1,400 soldiers in a 9/11 memorial event, signed autographs, and swapped stories. I consider the trip one of my greatest honors.
I love eating healthy food, but like my grandma Jurek, I find preparing it for others is almost as gratifying. In 2010, I cooked Thai curry and brown rice for fifty in Chamonix, France, a few days before the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc.
Popsicle sticks. I tried a stiffer insole. I told myself that I had almost nine days, that the body could do miraculous things.
Finally, I reminded myself to be grateful for my latest injury. It helped me remember why I ran ultras in the first place. It wasn’t for the chance to best a record. It wasn’t for simple physical pleasure. It was for something more profound, something deeper. To run 100 miles and more is to bring the body to the point of breaking, to bring the mind to the point of destruction, to arrive at that place where you can alter your consciousness. It was to see more clearly. As my yoga teacher would say, “Injuries are our best teachers.”
I’m convinced that a lot of people run ultramarathons for the same reason they take mood-altering drugs. I don’t mean to minimize the gifts of friendship, achievement, and closeness to nature that I’ve received in my running career. But the longer and farther I ran, the more I realized that what I was often chasing was a state of mind—a place where worries that seemed monumental melted away, where the beauty and timelessness of the universe, of the present moment, came into sharp focus. I don’t think anyone starts running distances to obtain that kind of vision. I certainly didn’t. But I don’t think anyone who runs ultra distances with regularity fails to get there. The trick is to recognize the vision when it comes over you. My broken toe helped me do that.
By the time of the race, my toe still hurt with every step, but I was trying to ignore the pain. I had other things to think about—Nunes, for example. Masayuki and Ryoichi from Japan, Austria’s Thalmann. The only other runner I paid some attention to was Polish, and he had run to Greece from his country, pushing a modified baby buggy that he had rigged to carry his goods and gear. Piotr Korylo had stopped in Rome to see the pope. I admired his single-mindedness, but figured he had to be exhausted. I didn’t see him as serious competition.
The Spartathlon course is hilly but not steep, which presents problems of its own. Even the fastest ultrarunners in the world are forced to walk steep sections of the Hardrock, for example, but in the Spartathlon the only excuse for walking is weakness. So I ran. Thalmann and Nunes went out first, as I expected. The Pole overtook Nunes after a mere 20K and was building a huge lead.
With no pacers, the first time you see your crew is 50 miles in. I kept a steady pace, occasionally downing some gels, potatoes, bananas, and energy drinks, willing myself to stay in the moment, to concentrate on the next step and the step after that. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, the temperature was in the mid-90s, and I had climbed away from the sea, had woven in and out of orchards of orange trees and through the ancient, column-filled city of Corinth. I was running toward the sun, which was setting behind a great hill in front of me, turning everything a misty, thick red. I tried to not think too much; in a race this long, at a moment this hot, with lips this parched, thinking could be dangerous. It too easily led to a calm, rational assessment of where I was, how far I had to go. Rational assessments too often led to rational surrenders. I tried to go to that place beyond thinking, that place that can bring an ultramarathoner such happiness.
People always ask me what I think about when running so far for so many hours. Random thinking is the enemy of the ultramarathoner. Thinking is best used for the primitive essentials: when I ate last, the distance to the next aid station, the location of the competition, my pace. Other than those considerations, the key is to become immersed in the present moment where nothing else matters.
But I was struggling to hold on to third place, and I was so thirsty. Every time I saw someone—a villager, a vintner, an old lady sitting in a patch of shade—I yelled, “Paghos nero parakalo,” which means “ice and water, please,” but no one seemed to understand. Finally, emerging from a chalky, lonely taverna, a bent old woman in a long, navy blue dress shuffled toward me. “Paghos nero parakalo,” I called, and miraculously she seemed to understand. She yelled something to a man standing in the doorway as she mimed drinking.
She had thick arms, thick ankles, and a rough, weather-beaten face. Her husband handed her a large glass of water filled with chunks of ice, and she gave it to me. The ice could have come from keeping freshly caught fish cold. I could not have cared less. To me, the chunks were more valuable than glittering diamonds. She also picked a handful of basil leaves from the garden at her feet and thrust them into my hands. I was trying to drink and thank her at the same time when I saw her motioning to the basil leaves and then to my small waistpack, where I carried my gels and food. She was telling me to put the basil in there. When I took the pack off, though, she pulled one of the leaves out and stuck it behind my ear. Then she kissed me on the cheek.
Suddenly I felt a lightness and a strength. Whether it was her kindness, the water, or the basil (which I discovered later is the king of herbs, the word basil deriving from the Greek word basileus, which means king; it is revered as a symbol of strength and good luck in Greece), my mind shifted. It was the moment in an ultramarathon that I have learned to live for, to love. It was that time when everything seems hopeless, when to go on seems futile, and when a small act of kindness, another step, a sip of water, can make you realize that nothing is futile, that going on—especially when going on seems so foolish—is the most meaningful thing in the world. Many runners have encountered that type of crystalline vision at the end of a race, or training run, that brings with it utter fatigue and blessed exhaustion. For ultrarunners, the vision is a given.
I was the same person, mildly dehydrated, hobbled with a broken toe, hot, fatigued, with quads and calves that felt as if they had been beaten by baseball bats. But I was a different person.
I picked up my pace. Nunes and Thalmann had fallen behind, and the Polish guy was in front. An inexperienced runner who took the lead in a race like this after 10 miles was self-destructive. One in front after 25 miles was self-destructive but very, very determined. The same man leading after 50 miles was insane—or he wasn’t as inexperienced as I had thought. Either way, he was dangerous.
I ran through more vineyards, but I knew Korylo was still leading. He was so far ahead I couldn’t see him.
I had to beat him, but I couldn’t obsess about him. In the same way, I had to claw my way to the finish line with everything I had, but I couldn’t think too much about that line. When I got to the 50-mile mark I couldn’t think that I had 100 miles to go. I had to remember and forget. We move forward, but we must stay in the present. I tried to do so by breaking races into small, digestible parts. Sometimes I focused on the next aid station, three miles ahead. Sometimes I pictured the next shady spot down the road, or the next step.
Did “Sometimes you just do things” really mean “Try not to think about consequences, just trust in your body and yourself and the universe”? Was my dad not just a hardass Minnesotan but a mystic? It made me smile to think so. At 70 miles, Nunes pulled up to me and I gestured toward the front, raised my shoulders. Who was that buggy-pusher?
Nunes didn’t
speak much English and I didn’t speak any Portuguese, but he said, “Scotch, you strong,” and took a few steps in front of me, waving with me to keep up. We ran together for 30 miles, chasing the Polish guy. We ran over dry, baked earth and past ruins and through dusty villages where little kids materialized from dark passages and ancient doors and ran after us, shouting and laughing. I didn’t know if they were making fun of us or exhorting us to go faster. I thought of my days on that dead-end dirt road and wondered what I would have done if a bunch of men ran past my house. I wondered if any of these Greek children climbed the hills nearby and wondered why things were.
At 100 miles, a man gave me a flower. He was crying as he handed it to me. Almost every person I met in Greece seemed to radiate a passion for life. I think it was inextricably linked to the land, the water, and the plants. There’s a myth that when Athens was founded, the gods argued over who would get to be the patron of the beautiful new city. It came down to Athena, goddess of wisdom, and Poseidon, god of the sea. Zeus declared that the two should each create a gift to give to the mortals of the city, and whoever gave the better gift would be its patron. Poseidon made water gush out of the Acropolis, but it was salty and so not of much use. Athena invented the olive tree, which could give the people fruit, oil, and wood. As a plant-based athlete, it was moving to see a culture where plants retain symbolic power and where people still use herbs to heal. It’s in their history, after all. Greece was the homeland of Hippocrates, the founder of modern medicine, who singled out diet and exercise as important components of health and wrote “let food be thy medicine.” In On Ancient Medicine, he wrote: “It appears to me necessary to every physician to be skilled in the ways of nature, and strive to know, if he would wish to perform his duties, what man is in relation to the articles of food and drink . . . And it is not enough to know simply that cheese is a bad article of food, as disagreeing with whoever eats to satiety. One must know what sort of disturbance it creates, and why, and with what principle in man it disagrees.” To be fair, Hippocrates wasn’t advocating giving up cheese entirely; he goes on to say that some people tolerate it better than others. Maybe he knew about lactose intolerance.
