What could be good-er than a sunset view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the Berkeley Marina?
Since the inception of BC&H 14 months ago, one question bounces around my head a lot: did I start to blog because I notice things, or do I now notice things because I started to blog? If Descartes had aired his thoughts on WordPressicus back in the day, would he have positioned the above tenet as “I think, therefore I blog” or maybe “I blog, therefore I think”?
I tend to think it works both ways â hopefully I have something to say in the first place, or I wouldn’t bother writing. And with every run, I diligently observe and catalog details big and small… not because I see it as my responsibility to the blog, but because thatâs just my brain doing what my brain do. I blame heredity â the most convenient target âplus twenty years of scientist training thatâs messed with all the neurons bumping around inside my head.
In any case, over the past year Iâve committed to memory â both neural and digital â a number of notable moments from my time spent exploring the East Bay on foot. Â And since Katie and I recently decided to pick up stakes and move down to the Los Angeles area, I figure now is as good a time as any to unload share my personal experiences and more-or-less random musings on the good, the bad and even the ugly of a year spent running in the East Bay and beyond:
â  Track day = payday: One summer afternoon, while knocking out mile repeats on the Cal (UC Berkeley) track, I glanced down as I finished a set to see a $5 bill lying in the middle of lane three, silently minding its own business but clearly planning its escape. Still breathing hard from my mile effort, I reached down to pick up the orphaned bill, only to discover Iâd missed a zero and that I was in fact holding a $50 bill.
Glancing around incredulously â left, right, left again, more carefully than if Iâd been crossing Highway 101 on foot â I realized that none of the parents or kids loitering around the track were frantically digging through their pockets, or counting the contents of their wallet, or walking around scanning the ground like theyâd just lost a contact lens. Two teenagers sat on a low wall 12 feet away, laughing loudly and completely unaware that Iâd just run the most profitable mile of my life.
After pocketing (or rather, Amphipod-ing) the bill, I turned my momentarily lapsed attention back to my recovery lap, already in progress. I like to think my windfall was an apology from the running gods for all the unattended children and selfishly oblivious parents Iâd weaved to avoid during my countless workouts on that track.
â And while Iâm talking track workouts: Gotta shout out to the intrepid squirrel who one day elected to stand right in the middle of the local dirt track, gnawing away on an acorn while I and other runners sped by him on each side. Peace, love and happiness for all natureâs creatures… Berkeley in a nutshell, I thought.
â A question for the Berkeley Psychic Institute, after I spied this sign on a run through downtown: Not to sound cynical, but why the doorbell? If youâve earned the title of psychic, wouldnât you simply sense that Iâm standing outside your front door? Or does that logic only work when a spirit comes a-callinâ?
â Sorry Bay Area, this doesnât involve you: Hey Hammer Nutrition, I get the cutesy marketing opportunity, but practically speaking why are your gel packets shaped like awkward bloated hammers?  Isnât it bad enough that your Heed drink tastes like cough syrup? Iâd imagine that as prospective packet designs go, that hammer design scored above only the velcro gel packet, inside-out gel packet and gel packet with pump dispenser among focus group participants. Nothing says âendurance runner trying to minimize clutterâ like an extra inch and a half of utterly useless packaging:
Fortunately they didn’t name the company “Jigsaw Nutrition”
If your poorly conceived packet design reflects your desire to distinguish Hammer from the more user-friendly offerings of PowerBar, Clif Bar and GU Energy, then your efforts are paying off and I thank you â your packaging allows me to quickily distinguish and avoid all Hammer Gel products at my local REI.
â As a trail running and minimalism aficionado, Iâve decided to title my not-soon-to-be-released autobiography Zero Drop Dirty. Or if I happen to suffer a debilitating running injury between now and then, Zero Drop Hurty. Donât even try, fellow trail runners… Iâve already trademarked both.
â Speaking of minimalist running, I saw this advice posted to an online running forum on training in minimalist shoes: âDo start out slow and you will avoid sore angry mussels.â I resisted the urge to post my own âClam up with your shellfish commentsâ response.
â When you gotta go: One typically cool Bay Area afternoon, while running down very steep Moeser Road in El Cerrito, I suddenly felt natureâs call â loud, unmistakable and clearly not willing to wait until I got home. Noticing two outdoor facilities in the park to my left, I veered off in that direction only to find both bathrooms inaccessible behind a locked fence (if I may digress for a moment on my own blog: this obnoxious practice by communities and businesses of making toilets inaccessible to the general public is regularly repeated across the East Bay and nowhere else Iâve lived. It seems to stem from a conditioned fear that someone who doesnât belong there may actually happen by and want to USE the facilities. On longer runs around Berkeley and Oakland, I frequently found myself on the lookout for homes being remodeled, so I could use the generally unlocked porta-potty in their front yard.)
Anyway… between the time Iâd sighted the bathrooms and the time Iâd realized they were locked, my brain had upped the ante and begun writing checks my bladder couldnât cash. So then I had no choice but to sneak off into some nearby bushes in that same park, just below an embankment. Fortunately the coast was clear â the park was empty as I hurried to take care of my business quietly and discreetly. But then, as I stood awkwardly amidst the sparse foliage and passed the physiological point of no return, I heard the squeals and laughter of children â many children â running and playing above the embankment no more than 50 feet away. It hadnât occurred to me that the park might be connected to a playground which, due to the steep grade of the road, was situated above the park.
My brain instantly filled with the sorts of horrific images that might fill any normal brain upon finding its charges partially exposed and within throwing distance of an active playground â images of me exiting the bushes to find ten stern-faced police officers with guns raised, ordering me to pull my shorts up where they could see them; images of reporters asking my brother, âSo urine no way surprised by his arrest?â and Chuck responding with âNot at all, I knew the truth would trickle out eventuallyâ; and images of letters received in prison in my poor motherâs handwriting, chastising me for not wearing clean underwear when I was arrested (in my defense Mom, running shorts are made to be worn without underwear…).
Luckily though, I exited my shadowy cover of bushes into a still-empty park, and so was very â I guess the word would be relieved â to continue on my way without any pee-nal consequences.
â Citizens of the Peopleâs Republic of Berkeley tend to treat their cars chiefly as mobile billboards for their left-leaning/wordy/esoteric viewpoints, and the cityâs bumper stickers provide more entertaining reading material than many a townâs library.  So I rarely pass up an opportunity while running to break out the handy flip phone camera:
â And what says âEast Bayâ more than spotting a âI Hella â„ Homosâ bumper sticker on a pickup truck, the same week a fellow named Sonny Dykes was hired to be the new Cal football coach?
Sadly, I wasn’t quick enough to snap this picture myself before it sped off (Etsy.com)
â Though not a bumper sticker, the âDrive Like Your Kids Live Hereâ sign is another variation on the obnoxious âBaby On Boardâ theme… so Iâd like to tip my cap (while at the same time not condoning vandalism) to the unidentified wielder of a can of red spray paint up in the Berkeley Hills, who with a few strokes changed this signâs intent by 180°:
â Now for the ugly: While running the Iron Horse Trail in 86°F heat, I passed a small cluster of concerned onlookers gathered around two paramedics who were attending to a man lying on his back in the middle of the concrete path. A quick glance told me the manâs short-sleeve shirt was unbuttoned and spread open… but it was the wide smear of crimson across the trail that momentarily unnerved me, and I resisted the morbid impulse to glance at his face. Fortunately the paramedics seemed to have the situation under control. And so I ran on, as runners always do.
â Potential ugliness turned memorable meeting:  Just over a mile into a 22-mile February training run along that same Iron Horse Trail, I found myself following a dirt alleyway behind a row of homes, with close-set backyards and driveways to my left and an eight-foot-high chain-link fence to my right. Suddenly I felt an electric charge ripple through me as I was greeted by two pit bulls bounding toward me out of the nearest driveway, one of them midnight black and the other sporting a brownish-black coat (for which I soon learned the appropriate term â âbrindleâ). I quickly steered toward the fence and for about three. long. seconds. debated whether to start climbing. Then I realized the animals were acting curious rather than threatening â no barking, no bared fangs, no guttural threatening growls. Which was reassuring, given that both muscle-bound canines were now standing on their hindlegs, pawing gently but firmly at my legs and hips as my heart continued to skip beats.
Still I was too â Iâll go with âtimidâ here â to present a friendly façade much less a set of fingers, until with relief I glanced up to see a wiry 20-something Latino fellow wearing a black hoodie pulled over his head, leisurely following the dogs down the driveway while calling them to his side. The dogsâ caretaker was also the owner of extensive tattoo work that radiated up his neck to his face, as well as to the knuckles on his hands.  In another time and place, this might have struck me as a menacing scenario.
But any fleeting unease was swiftly quelled as I watched the two animals rush over and zealously lick their masterâs face. He in turn patted and stroked their backs with an intensity that could only be described as â true love, I thought. Clearly they were his pride and joy. He smiled up at me from his kneeling position, he and I shook hands, and he proceeded to tell me at length about his two boys as I warmed up to the playful pooches, stroking and patting each oneâs solid, muscular back.
Now that the warning sirens in my brain had stopped wailing, I was able to relax and appreciate the two pit bulls for what they were â beautiful, august creatures built like furry brick walls. It seemed inappropriate at that moment to think of them as dogs, the same catch-all term used to describe dachshunds, chihuahuas and labradoodles. Their owner told me how heâd brought the animals with him to California from Harlingen, a town at the southern tip of Texas, close to the Mexico border. He spoke softly, but the pride in his voice was loud and clear as he talked of his companions â how heâd raised them from puppies, how one of them had been featured in a photo shoot for Life magazine, and how he had a sweet-tempered female lounging around inside the house as well.
After several more minutes spent admiring and amusing his sturdy canines, we exchanged our goodbyes and I continued on my way, though I already knew the rest of that dayâs run would be a dog by comparison.
â On urban animal encounters: Running through a neighborhood just north of Berkeley, I swung a left turn from a residential stretch onto a bustling, four-lane avenue.  Lost in thought, I absentmindedly glanced over at a busy gas station on the corner, then looked up again just in time to avoid a head-on collision with a 4-foot-tall and prodigiously round turkey. I hesitate to say which of us would have gotten the worst of a collision, but the turkey seemed to take it all in stride.  He jerked his head up at me, looked back down, looked back up, then strolled past as though Iâd just stopped him to ask for directions and he had somewhere to be.
Sheepishly I glanced around to gauge whether any bystanders had witnessed this exchange… only later did I learn that a whole rafter of wild turkeys lived across that bustling street, in a fenced-off area dedicated to sustainable urban agriculture and appropriately known as âTurkeytown.â Turkey sightings in Berkeley arenât uncommon â Iâve seen several around town and in the hills.  But after 42 years of life experience including four in college and several more in graduate school, this was the first time Iâd ever had to tell myself to back away from the Wild Turkey.
â Orange you glad that bridge is there: I could list it first, or last, or anywhere in between… but the Golden Gate Bridge will always be the gravitational field around which my Bay Area running routes orbit. My favorite road course in the East Bay, up along Grizzly Peak and Skyline Blvd, owes much of its allure to its panoramic views of the San Francisco skyline and the cityâs defining international orange landmark. Even Oakland Airport officials publicly acknowledge on which side of the bay their bread is buttered:
And with that, for now at least, I bid farewell to the Bay Area as my primary residence. Iâm eager to probe the untapped running potential of Southern California, with its beaches and coastline as far as the eye can see, and weather that hasnât required long pants since our arrival two months ago. Eager to see new places, meet new running buddies, explore new opportunities and generally feel a new vibe thatâs still very much California.
I think, therefore I am going to like it down here. Let me know if youâre ever in the L.A. area… Iâd be happy to offer a guided tour of my favorite SoCal running routes!
Looking back: Mt. Tamalpais in Marin overlooks the East Bay and Mt. Diablo (standing tall in the distance)
So why, on a ship full of hyperaccomplished running juggernauts, did my focus gravitate to Paul Butler? After all, Paul â a 61-year-old dentist from Center City, Philadelphia â had run âonlyâ 56 marathons prior to boarding the Akademik Sergey Vavilov bound for Antarctica. Compared to some of his fellow passengers, whose medal collections could be melted down to build a life-size Optimus Prime, Butlerâs own collection of race bling is relatively modest and could reasonably hang from both sides of one sturdy doorknob (my preferred method of showcasing medals).
Speaking of juggernauts…
No, it wasnât necessarily the quantity of his marathons that attracted my attention; it was their quality. Because Paul may be, without exaggeration, the most efficient marathoner in the history of the sport. His pre-Antarctica total of 56 marathons incorporated all 50 states plus Washington D.C., as well as six different continents. Heâs never run two marathons in the same state nor â aside from North America â on the same continent. Heâs run his hometown Philadelphia Marathon only once (although he has competed at shorter distances in the city). Unlike the rest of us, he doesnât choose a marathon based on what his friends are running, or its proximity to his home, or because heâs easy prey for modern-day race organizers who promise a one-of-a-kind finisherâs medal to anyone who completes all three races within a series.
At least, that was the plan. But as we all quickly learned on the Last Continent, sometimes the best-laid plans of ice and menâŠ
Paul’s own best-laid plans went awry at mile 20 when, with 6.2 miles to go in a 15-year journey, his Antarctica Marathon came to a premature end. Â And four days later, on the Vavilov’s stomach-churning return voyage across the Drake Passage, as most passengers struggled with the concept of âupright,â I seized the opportunity to chat with him in the shipâs library, to learn more about his meticulously executed racing past, his unexpectedly bittersweet present, and his uncertain post-Antarctica future. Â Iâll let him fill in the details.
Paul and Sharon Butler, aboard the Akademik Sergey Vavilov
(The following conversation took place on April 3, 2013; the original transcript has been edited for brevity and clarity)
Mike S: Â What motivated you to start running in the first place?
Paul B: I was a runner in elementary school, in the 5th and 6th grade, and then I gave it up until I was in the Army, in Germany. I was married with three children, and I wanted to get myself into shape and be job-worthy before I came back home to the States and looked for a job. So my wife Sharon and I started jogging around the American base in Germany. We both lost about 40 pounds and got back in 1980 in great shape.
MS: Â So you came back from Germany and settled down in Philadelphia?
PB: Yes. And then sort of forgot about running until my youngest son was going to be bar mitzhvahed.  In our congregation, you then do something charitable. I got something in the mail from the Leukemia Society â you raise money, and they’ll pay your way to a marathon. So I chose the inaugural Rock ânâ Roll Marathon in San Diego in June 1998.
We sent out letters to raise money, and our whole family went â the six of us, Sharon and I and our four children. I think we raised about four or five thousand dollars for the Leukemia Society.
That got me hooked, to do a marathon. And I was disappointed â I think I did it in 5 hours 45 minutes. I expected to finish, but I developed blisters. So then after that was over, and I was disappointed in my time, I said “I’m going to try this again somewhere. Hey, there’s one in Las Vegas, letâs go to Las Vegas.” And I actually finished that in under 5 hours, like 4 hours and 59 minutes. I really ran hard at the end and all my muscles spasmed, and Sharon had to take me back to the hotel room in a wheelchair. That’s how horrible it was.
So then I decided, I like doing all this stuff but I’m not going to kill myself anymore, I’m just going to finish. I had 3,600 frequent flyer miles built up from my credit card, and I took all six of us to Vermont. And I ran pretty good, just missed five hours by under a minute.
And we said, let’s go to some different places, doing these marathon things.  When I got to about eight or nine, I saw something about the 50 States Marathon Club.  That got me really motivated, and I ran over 40 marathons between 2002 and 2009. Sometimes I did 12 a year, and one time I ran two marathons on consecutive weekends.
So that’s what I did â I decided just to finish, not to hurt myself, not to worry about whether I finished in five hours or seven hours. And I just kept doing them.
San Diego, 1998: the race that began a 15-year marathoning journey
MS:Â And always used your running as a reason to travel with the family and visit another state?
PB: Well, the kids went with us to Vermont and then to Alaska â the Mayor’s Midnight Sun Marathon in Anchorage in June. We made it a family vacation where we did the marathon first and then flew up to Barrow, took the train down to Fairbanks, and did the whole thing for a couple weeks. It was great.
The trick was planning everything, because I only did one marathon in every state. My last one was supposed to be in Atlantic City. So my whole family, all my friends came out⊠and that year they canceled the race last minute because they didnât have a sponsor. Luckily for me there was another race that weekend, the Asbury Park New Jersey [Relay] Marathon. Iâd never been to Asbury Park, so that was a new place to see, and it was their inaugural run.
But the bad news was, there was a nor’easter that weekend â it was 40 degrees, the wind was sort of like this [indicates the lurching ship], and it was raining heavily I’d say 90% of the time. It was a horrible day to do a marathon. I wouldnât want friends and family to come out in that weather, but a lot of them did. So a lot of my family was able to see me finish, but the odd thing was… less than a minute before I crossed the finish line, two of my kids were swinging my oldest grandson back and forth and dislocated his shoulder. So when I crossed the finish line hardly anybody was there, they were all worried about him. Luckily, a family member whoâs a physician was able to reset my grandson’s arm, so everything was ok.
After that, I didn’t think about running marathons anymore until February or March 2010.  I had built up a ton of frequent flyer miles to run all these places in the states, and I discovered you could fly from Philadelphia to Dublin for 20,000 miles. That was a really good bargain, since it was in October during low season. And the weekend I picked out, the Dublin Marathon was that weekend.
Even M.C. Escher would have been impressed by how Paul made all the pieces fit
MS:Â So you hadn’t thought about running the continents?
PB: No, not until that point. And I said well, I can do a marathon in Dublin. On the 50 States Marathon Club website, under âMembershipâ it has “Conquering the Continents.” I saw that not many people had done all the states and all the continents, and I said wow, that’d be a pretty neat thing to be one of those people.
We can’t take too much time off work, so we did several of the international races as a four-day trip â leaving on a Thursday night, arriving on Friday, sightseeing on Saturday, marathon the next morning and then leave that night. We did the same thing with Marathon Tours for their inaugural marathon in the Outback in Ayers Rock, Australia. That one had an eight-hour finishing time â thatâs my kind of marathon, I always try to get the slowest. Dublin was also eight hours.  So I signed up for that [Ayers Rock] and it worked out great, it was a nice marathon.
And then Phuket in Thailand â I did that in 2011, and that was the worst race ever, ever, ever. I wear orthotic inserts all day when I work and during races too, and theyâd never bothered me before. But in Phuket, it was so hot and humid that I developed horrible blisters, and the orthotics kept irritating the blisters. I didn’t really know what was going on the whole race, until I got home and saw what had happened⊠I kept thinking there were stones in there or something. But I had blisters â I peeled the whole thing off the back of my foot, from the bottom of my foot, both feet.
The bottom line was that after about 5 miles, I was limping… and I limped the whole way, 26.2 miles.  But I finished, and that was my slowest finish time, like 7 hours 15 minutes.  I crossed the finish line, and I was like the last one to finish. I knew I wasn’t going back there to do it again â I had to do it. So that was gratifying, the fact that I did it.
Then I ran Mt. Kilimanjaro the following February, Easter Island in June, and the Marine Corps Marathon [in Washington D.C.] was in there at some point. And I was done last June, after Easter Island.
I signed up for Antarctica probably three years ago. I was signed up for 2014, and Thom [Gilligan, President/Founder of Marathon Tours and Antarctica Marathon race director] called me a year and a half ago to ask, âDo you want to move up a year?â Believe it or not, I trained harder for this race than I did any other race because I knew it was going to be more difficult. I like to run on a treadmill, and that was probably my downfall â even though I would run 15, 16 miles and elevate it every once in a while to get used to hills, it just wasn’t like this. You can’t duplicate this on a treadmill. [laughs]  So that was probably my downfall. This was supposed to be 57 and done, and… now it isn’t. But I did get a half marathon medal, I did 20 miles, I just… I would never come back here, I would never do this again.
Paul (wearing bib #20) greets the camera during the Antarctica Marathon (photo credit Anita Allen)
MS: There are companies that fly into Antarctica, race immediately and fly out again. Would you ever think about doing that?
PB: I probably would… because it’s going to gnaw at me for a while, that I didn’t finish it.  I can’t help it â no matter what anybody says to me, it’s going to bother me. Even though it’s the same medal, and it’s going to be up on my wall, it doesn’t mean the same in my heart. I know there are two other races that fly in here, so I would definitely do that. But we can’t really afford to do it this way [by ship] again. Our house needs to be painted, the bathroom needs to be redone, and we put that off so I could do this. Who knows, I’m only 61, there are a lot of guys here older than me who finished a marathon, so⊠I’ll see.
MS: So then what’s next? Will you keep running, maybe start over?
PB: Well, I’m going to still run, but I have no marathons planned. I signed up for the Broad Street Run in May â Philadelphia has a Broad Street 10-mile run which is the best, most successful and most popular 10-miler. They have like 40,000 runners, and itâs a lottery like the New York City Marathon. It’s a nice easy run, and I’ll do that. And then I’ll see.  I’ll look into⊠I know I’m not going to not look at the website for those two other [Antarctica] marathons. But I have to find out, is there a time limit on that one? I don’t want to go there and get yanked off the course in 6 hours 15 minutes if they’re only giving you six hours.
I’ve been emailing my daughter, who’s a professional trainer. She’s done a couple marathons with me in Hawaii and Florida, and she was a professional basketball player.  When she was in high school, in the state semifinal game, her team was behind by two, and as the point guard she was dribbling down court for the tying or winning basket with five seconds left. She was dribbling down, and the ball dribbled off her knee, went out of bounds, and that was the end of her high school career. She said, âDad, that haunts me all the time.â Not every day â she has three boys of her own now, she’s got a nice life, great husband, but every once in a while she thinks about that ball dribbling off her foot, just like I’m going to think about me stopping at the 20-mile mark and not finishing this race. She says things happen: âYou know, whatever caused you not to have the energy to go on, it happened. Just like I dribbled off my foot, I can’t go back to change it.â Like the guy who makes the last out in the World Series, you know, or the guy who drops a perfect pass in football.
MS:Â So you decided to stop the Antarctica race yourself, you said?
PB: Yes, it was my choice.  I guess I looked ok, and Thom said âPaul, I’m stopping all the runners after you, and we’re going to monitor you.â  I was on that harder loop [out to the Uruguayan base and back] at the 20-mile mark, and I saw a hill. At the 20-mile marker there was a big dip right there, and I had already fallen twice, Iâd really hurt myself [indicates his wrist].
I said to myself, I’m going to fall if I try to go over that hill, and I’m never going to get back up to go the other way. And there were still hills beyond that.  I just felt that I was going to hurt myself. Iâd already fallen twice, and I didn’t want to really cause any problem for me or anybody else getting me out of there.  I just didn’t feel confident⊠I lost my confidence.  Because I wasn’t out of breath, I just didn’t have the inner strength.
MS:Â So… you mentioned Phuket, but would this qualify as your most challenging race?
PB: The course in Phuket wasn’t crazy hard, it was just the feet that got me in trouble there.  I never professed to be a great marathon runner, but this is the first I had to drop out of.  I always finished every race â even if I had to walk it, I always had that strength to finish. This one just… like I said, I trained for this one more than any other marathon, and I didn’t take it seriously enough, even at that point when Thom sent that email about “You’d better train for the hills.”  The ice and the hills just got to me.
For 18 runners, crossing the finish line in Antarctica secured their place in the Seven Continents Club
MS:Â Do you have a most memorable race?
PB: I like Vermont because it was a tough course that I finished pretty well, for me â a little over five hours. Actually, that was a beautiful course. Marine Corps I liked also because I did a pretty good time on that, and once you do that, you feel like you’re a real Marine, you know? [laughs]  Every race I felt really good about because I’m not a super athlete.  I’m sure I’m 20 pounds overweight. In my mind it’s hard to even walk a marathon, and I usually would run more than half of it, then run and walk the rest of the way.
But I always felt that I was able to pick my races. I couldn’t pick this one, this was it â this was the one, I couldn’t change it. I always thought I could do what I had to do with this one. Because I talked to a few people who had done it, and they said âThom will let you finish as long as he sees you’re going at a good pace.â And he did… he was going to allow me to finish. I made the choice to stop. And that’s not like me.
Bob [a fellow runner] picked me up when I fell.  He saw me go down the second time, and I didn’t get up right away. I wasn’t knocked out, but I was like in shock, like where am I? He yanked me up and asked me if I was ok, and I said yeah I’m fine, and I kept on going at that point.
MS:Â What’s been your favorite destination, not necessarily for the race itself, just a place you visited?âš
PB: Actually, believe it or not, Mount Rushmore. Thereâs actually two marathons there, Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse [MS note: the Mt. Rushmore Marathon was discontinued after 2008].  I chose the Crazy Horse Marathon because it’s more downhill. If I can go fast on the first half â I usually walk a lot of the second half â I’ll finish in a good amount of time. I love that course, and Sharon loved to see Mt. Rushmore.
These races have given us chances to see the whole country. When we went to do the Lake Okoboji Marathon in Iowa, we took a three-hour side trip and saw the Field of Dreams, from the movie. Every time we went somewhere we tried to see an attraction. Even if we had to drive a long distance it was worth it, because you never know when you’re going to go back to these places.
MS:Â What’s your PR?
PB: It’s like 4:59:02 I think, something like that. That was in Las Vegas. I figure there’s no way I’m ever going to get under four hours, so that’s fine for me.
MS:Â Have you run any trail races, or do you stick to roads?
PB: No, I don’t do any⊠in fact, I would consider this a trail race, I think it should be advertised as a trail race. Whether it’s muddy or icy, it’s still a trail race.
This definitely has the look of a trail race (photo credit Anita Allen)
MS:Â Do you run any other distances?
PB: I’ve done the Broad Street Run many times, the 10-mile one, and I do a few half marathons in Philadelphia. But not much lately. I really just tried to do marathons, and now it’s a new part of my life, so I haven’t really figured out what I’m going to do next.
MS:Â Do you do any other sports besides running?
PB:  I played basketball with an adult league for ten years. When I decided to do this running thing I gave it up, because in this league guys like you â younger guys â would come in and play, and they would play for real real. I was scared I was going to get hurt… so I decided just to make sure if I was going to hurt, I was going to hurt myself [running]. So I might try that, I might go back and do the basketball thing.
MS:Â Have you sustained any injuries through all of this?
PB: Yes, this happened about two months ago â I switched shoes, I didn’t do it right away, but I did a 15-mile run, and after the run this big toe got totally black.  I had to go to this podiatrist who saved me many times in my running career. He gave me some shot and had to slice between the nail and the thing, and the thing bled out. I was able to still run, and it finally eased up, but that sidelined me for a couple weeks about eight weeks ago. So that’s the worst of my injuries.
MS:Â Wow, so no shin splints, no stress fractures, no tendinitis, no plantar fasciitis, nothing too serious?
PB: I did… in 2001 I had a problem with plantar fasciitis, and I didn’t run for about a year. I must have bought three or four different gadgets to try to cure that, and the orthotics finally helped. That was all my injuries. It wasn’t all easy, but I never had knee problems, I never had shin splints, never really had hip problems.
Yeah, I was pretty fortunate. And I always say to myself that if I could lose 20 pounds and keep it off forever, I probably would’ve been a really good runner. Because I had no knee injuries, no problems â but I didn’t have the self-control, I enjoy eating too much. I’m a vegan, but I eat a lot of that too.
MS: If you were to start on day one and do this all over again, would you do it the same way? Would you do anything differently?
PB:Â For my whole running career?
MS:Â Yes, from San Diego, 1998.
PB: No, it was such a great run. I spent so many hours planning to make sure I could get all the states at a certain time to finish up Saturday [in Antarctica]. It was all planned out, and it took so much effort â enjoyable effort. It was a good part of my life, 15 years. And who knows what the future’s going to bring.  I swore to everybody this was going to be my last marathon⊠I said “This is it, I’m not doing anymore.” It takes up a lot of time; I wake up at 4:00 in the morning on the treadmill, I’m running two hours before I go to work, and then I’m falling asleep at 7:00 at night. I know if I were to say to Sharon right now, “Let’s not paint the house, let’s not fix this,” then she would go with me, she would do this again⊠she would.  But it’s not fair. Sheâs given up enough at this point, and she was at every finish line, every finish line.
Reunited at the finish: while Paul raced, Sharon provided support as a volunteer (photo credit Anita Allen)
MS:Â As far as advice for other runners who look at you and say, “Wow, 56 marathons, I couldn’t even run one,” or really anybody who’s looking at some kind of daunting challenge, would you have any guidance for them?
PB: Yes, I would. I think anybody could do it, could do what I did. I don’t consider myself a great athlete. But I bought this book called The Non-Runner’s Marathon Trainer, written by two professors from the University of Northern Iowa who taught a course about training for a marathon as part of their college curriculum. It was a 16-week course, and they gave you eating advice and training advice so that any non-athlete could get through a marathon. So I read and followed the training guidelines in that book for the first three or four marathons. And it worked. So anybody who’s not a real athlete, buy that book.
MS:Â Is there any other race that you really want to run, that you have in mind?
PB: No, there’s a whole bunch of stuff that’s going on in my life right now. But I’ll be thinking about Antarctica⊠definitely that’s going to be on my mind, and who knows what’s going to happen.
The 14th Antarctica Marathon (Saturday, March 30) Race morning arrived in the usual manner, with Andrew’s comforting voice reminding us over the Vavilov‘s PA that it was time to run a marathon on the coldest, highest, driest, darkest and windiest continent on Earth. Hooray! Fortunately the day promised to be optimal (in the Antarctica sense of the word), with temperatures hovering around a balmy -5°C (23°F). More importantly though, wind speed was a near-negligible 12 knots (14 mph), assuaging my concerns that I’d be stumbling 13.1 miles through an unforgiving headwind (and the other 13.1 with a brisk tailwind).
I inventoried my gear one last time. All race-day nutrients â energy bars, gels, etc. â had to be removed from their original packaging and all paper wrappers left on the ship, in accordance with the 1991 Protocol on Environmental Protection to the Antarctic Treaty. This wasn’t a problem, since for convenience sake I always liquify my race-day nutrition in my water bottle.  Per Thom’s instructions I’d prepared two such bottles, which I planned to leave at the start/finish area.
In a dining hall alive with the clatter of breakfast dishes and the buzz of pre-race jitters, I waited as long as possible to eat my usual stomach-sanctioned meal of granola and peanut butter, which I’d brought with me from California. Several steps stood between us and the starting gun â the donning of the tomato-red Wet Skins that would keep us warm and dry, the loading of the zodiacs, the short ride to King George Island, the process of funneling everyone from zodiac to start line â and with 4+ hours of running ahead of me, I wanted to maximize the nutritional payback of my carefully choreographed breakfast.
The first zodiacs launched at 7:15am, with 12 passengers per zodiac. After a short 5-minute ride under gray skies and across smooth water, we beached near Bellingshausen Station and stepped ashore for the first time in 3Âœ days. Two Gentoo penguins splished and splashed in the water nearby. Stepping out of my Wet Suit, I could still feel the ground swaying underfoot as I tried to coax out my land legs. Moreover, the residual effects of the Transderm patch that I’d removed 36 hours earlier continued to wreak havoc on my short-range vision. Discomforting as my still-dilated pupils were, I was confident they wouldn’t upset my ability to run in a straight line for several hours.
How does a warm-weather Californian train for a marathon in Antarctica?  Much as I hate to divulge trade secrets, here it is: I bought stuff.  More specifically, windproof stuff.  Compared to my typical all-season California running attire, I felt like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man in my three upper-body layers (REI wool base layer, synthetic Under Armour mid-layer, Columbia wind- and waterproof outer jacket) and two lower-body layers (REI fleece-lined tights, Pearl Izumi lightweight running pants), plus balaclava that I was hoping to shed early in the race.
Talk about happy feet… Rich’s own have carried him through over 300 marathons
Katie â who as a spectator would be doubling as a volunteer â was even more polar-ready, given that she’d be standing around for an indeterminate amount of time. She wisely wore her Wet Suit and rubber boots at all times, together with her Arctic Parka from The North Face that was so down-filled and poofy, I entertained the thought of hanging bricks from her sleeves so she wouldn’t blow away.
As Thom announced two minutes to start, the One Ocean crew hurriedly set up plastic buckets lined with green trash bags to serve as makeshift latrines. Fortunately I’d been able to attend to my most pressing needs on the ship, and after a lightning-quick stop at the latrine I jogged to the start line. For many of the bundled-up runners gathered beneath it, the unassuming white canvas banner represented the culmination of a lifetime of marathon-inspired blood, sweat and tears (with more to come). For others of us, this would be continent #2. And for two runners, this would be their first marathon on any continent.
This is how I envision an Antarctica Walmart on Black Friday (footage courtesy of Anita Allen of Marathon Tours):
Regardless of what road you’d taken to get there, Thom’s starting-gun cry of “GO!” triggered a collective release of whole-body tension, as the slow-moving stampede of runners â including members of the Russian and Uruguayan bases â followed the leaders along the dirt and up the initial ascent. And almost immediately, I dismissed all thoughts of a sub-4:00 finish. The first mile (which, given the course layout, we would be running six times) was an absolute mess. This was trail running at its damnedest. The deep, hardened ruts carved by the Bellingshausen ATVs, combined with the sporadic patches of ice, brought to mind the frozen-over ribcage of a recently excavated T. Rex.
Footing in places was unpredictable at best. Trail running typically demands that your eyes constantly scan the ground two steps ahead for your next foothold. But on King George Island, it also became necessary to anticipate several steps beyond that, as the course at several points became an exercise in “Choose Your Own Adventure”: foot-deep powdered snow to your left, slushy ice straight ahead or a seemingly frozen-over stretch to your right. The demand for constant vigilance gradually took a mental and physical toll and led to lapses in attention, resulting in either (best-case scenario) choosing the more difficult and treacherous route, or (worst-case scenario) a hard and jarring fall on slick rocky terrain.
Just a boy and his balaclava, out for a springtime jog
And fall people did: this edition of the Antarctica Marathon might appropriately have been subtitled “There Will Be Blood”. Many runners fell multiple times, sustaining scrapes and bruises of varying severity. Two women broke their falls with their faces, yet soldiered on with impressive battle wounds that testified to their toughness.  And post-race rumors circulated that one runner had even suffered broken ribs (yes, plural).  I was among the fortunate few to speak of “fall” rather than “falls” â I got too aggressive and lost my footing during my second loop of that first out-and-back, landing on my backside and bouncing right back up again. No blood, no foul. But in homage to March Madness going on back in the states, I adopted a mantra of “survive and advance” that served me well at all remaining icy stretches.
Although the prevailing concern had been shoe-sucking stretches of gooey mud, as it turned out postponing the trip until late March (i.e. closer to winter) meant that most of the would-be muddy bits were now iced over. Every once in a while I’d hit a slushy patch and submerge my foot, though fortunately wet feet never became a concern.  I think by mile 4, most runners â myself included â gladly would have swapped the ice we had for the mud we didn’t.
Whether it was due to the half-week spent on the ship, or my racing in lower-body layers for the first time ever, I could quickly tell that on this day my legs wouldn’t be their trail-running best. Fortunately I wouldn’t need them to be â this wasn’t the Chicago Marathon, and the only PR to come out of this day would be Thom’s post-race press release. I’d run (and specifically trained) on tired legs many times before… the question wasn’t whether I’d finish, it was whether I’d do so before the other 40-something-year-old males on the course.
(Top) Overall winner Alan Nawoj leads the way up another icy hill (photo credit Anita Allen); (Bottom) Third-place finisher & women’s champ Inez Haagen appropriately sports bib #1
Whereas the first 4+ mile stretch out to the Uruguayan base and back was fairly brutal (though with a striking glacier view to distract the mind), the second out-and-back was much more manageable. After a mile or so of smooth footing on dirt, a series of undulating hills led past the Chilean base and out to the second turnaround near the Chinese base, where yoga guru Liz sat waiting to cheer us on. Her enthusiasm was a welcome pick-me-up.
With one iteration of the course under my belt, I shed my balaclava and passed through the start/finish area to a chorus of cheers from the most amazing volunteer contingent on the continent. And as soon as I began my second ascent of that first nasty hill, the assorted aches and pains that had nagged me throughout the first nine miles faded â the lifelessness in my legs, the tightness in my left adductor, the overstretching of my arch that comes and goes in my Merrell Mix Masters. Even the Patch-induced fog around my head lifted… maybe I’d succeeded in sweating out the residual scopolamine. In any case, it all vanished. And finally I was back to doing what I do â I was running. On rugged trails, and up and down hills. In one of the most mythical and breathtaking places on the planet. Life was good.
Gentoo-men, start your engines! Â Footage with narration by Martin Evans on the marathon course (thanks, Martin!):
Not that I was running every step with my arms raised and fists pumped. To be sure, I was enjoying and appreciating the scenery of the course, stopping briefly to breathe in the views and snap a few photos along the first two out-and-backs. But other runners did a much better job of flipping their switch to carpe diem mode. Luckily the course layout was motivating for the frequent opportunities it afforded me to see my fellow runners.  Because everyone seemed to be having (cue Dirty Dancing soundtrack) the time of their lives â even the lead runners greeted passing runners with a smile and a wave. Although in passing, I did overhear one of several marathoners with a cold-weather Canadian pedigree admit, “I wish I could fast-forward the next three hours.”
Some fatigued runners inevitably narrowed their focus later in the race to conserve energy; after the 17-mile mark, for example, I acknowledged and encouraged everyone I passed with the same silent thumbs-up. But a surprising number of runners I passed during my final out-and-backs still looked like kids riding a roller coaster for the first time â eyes wide, arms raised, huge grins seemingly painted Joker-style across their faces (Why so serious?, their body language seemed to ask). I admired and respected their live-in-the-moment mindset, in part because I couldn’t relate to it. The faster I run a race the more I enjoy it, with few exceptions (I can’t think of one right now). My overall enjoyment of a race is, in large part, a function of how long it takes me to get to the finish line. I realize expectations change, often in ways we can’t predict, and I know it won’t always be this way… but for now it is. I can live with that.
We interrupt this running program for some polar humor
Regardless of continent, no trail race would feel official without my taking a wrong turn. Despite Thom’s clear warnings to stay watchful for arrow signs and not blindly follow the person ahead of us, I unwittingly slipped into auto-pilot mode during mile 14 and blindly followed the person ahead of me. Ginger, who had recently passed me and was running a strong race, blew by the Chilean airstrip and had almost reached the base itself before realizing that neither the Chilean airstrip nor that large red building on her left was part of the course. I’d just reached the airstrip when she turned to look over her shoulder, and I gestured in sweeping windmill-type motions for her to turn around. Fortunately she did, and as I reversed course I saw yet another runner on auto-pilot heading our way. Retracing my steps to the suspect turn, I continued on my way and within minutes was passed by Ginger again, this time for good.
And that’s how I turned this into my own personal 26.5-mile Antarctica Ultramarathon. And yes, there was a runner named Ginger on Gilligan’s ship, as well as at least one (assistant) professor.
By my third time around the course the temperature had begun to drop, and the icy uphill stretches along miles 18 and 19 had refrozen and become even trickier to negotiate. This third out-and-back to the Uruguayan base was the low point of my race, as reflected by the uninspired 13:07 it took me to complete mile 19.  Did you run in Crocs?, I could hear the peanut gallery back home asking.
The official Last Marathon aid station
Once I passed through the start/finish area for the final time and approached mile 22, I could see â check that, feel â the light at the end of this tunnel. As the course approached its final uphill at mile 24.5, I was able to push the pace enough to pass two runners (was he in my age group?) who looked â as I had felt 5 miles earlier â to be running out of gas. Surging down the final stretch past the Russian base, I felt that unmistakable sensation of “This is why I run” wash over me as Katie and her fantastic fellow supporters cheered me across the finish line in a time of 4:29:50.
The raw, electric thrill of accomplishment overwhelmed me as I embraced Katie and then my fellow Mike from California, with whom I’d trained in Buenos Aires and who had run an inspired race, finishing fifth overall in a time of 4:20:26. One of the younger volunteers handed me a medal still folded up in its plastic bag, which was perfectly fine with me â by that point he could have handed me a lump of frozen penguin guano and I would have thanked him giddily.
Lookin’ for someone to hug after just missing a Boston qualifier by a mere 1:14:50
After hanging around the finish area to bask in the moment, take a few photos and cheer across the next two finishers, Thom encouraged me to change out of my wet running gear and into dry clothes. And as soon as I pulled on a dry base layer, I could feel my body temperature start to drop. My shiver reflex kicked in, and the feeling drained from my fingers and toes as I hurried to don my cold-weather gear. Ewan of the One Ocean crew sprang into action, jamming hand warmers into my gloves, zipping me into my parka and Wet Suit (since my fingers had lost all dexterity), and directing Katie and me to a waiting zodiac. As I’d later learn, Thom and the One Ocean staff were carefully monitoring all finishers after marathon winner Alan and runner-up Billy each ended up in the Russian medical tent with hypothermia.
Whether it was the warm glow of accomplishment, or more likely the dry clothes and hand warmers, by the time the zodiac reached the ship my body temperature had self-regulated.  Maybe, as I’ve referenced before, I really am chasing the endorphin dragon. But if I could just bottle the pride and elation that gripped me as I crossed that finish line….
Instead, I settled for five blissful minutes in the Vavilov sauna, followed by a hot shower that, if it didn’t quite bring me back to life, at least made me feel a lot less undead.
Admittedly I was too euphoric to check, but I’m pretty sure that’s Katie inside that Antarctic sumo suit (photo credit Anita Allen)
The Vavilov continued its spiritual rebirth as more and more runners returned with stories to tell, memories to share, and wounds to heal. Some of these wounds would be psychological, as with the dozen or so runners who found themselves unable to complete the marathon and were credited with the half marathon instead. And 78-year-old Wes, appropriately fearful of falling, walked off the course for the first time in his 201 marathons.  Runners â particularly runners willing to travel to the end of the earth â are understandably a proud bunch, but hopefully all bruised egos, like their physical counterparts, will heal with time.
When the dust settled, 60 of the 72 runners who started the marathon, finished. This may sound harsh or arrogant, though that’s not my intent â but the truth is, there’s a lot to be said for a race that not everyone finishes. Inextricably wrapped up in its unsurpassed beauty is the harsh reality that Antarctica is a brutal, unforgiving backdrop for any activity, much less a marathon. You can admire and respect it from afar, you can agree to its singular demands, you can formulate the best-laid plan to overcome it. But at the end of the day you don’t choose this race, it chooses you.
Joao’s prediction had been correct, of course; with the race in our stern-view mirror, the mood aboard the Vavilov lightened considerably. But the revival wouldn’t be immediate, and the bar/lounge would masquerade as a quiet zone for one more evening while the rest of the ship surrendered itself to the inexorable force of post-marathon exhaustion.
Even without the icy patches, the undulating course would have left a lasting impression
To the victors go the handshakes: BBQ and awards ceremony (Sunday, March 31)
Official results weren’t immediately posted, so as Sunday afternoon rolled around I wasn’t sure where I’d finished overall or whether I’d placed in my age group. I knew the top five finishers, but beyond that I was in the dark as to who finished where, much less how old anyone was. I knew that Winter, who’d finished shortly after me, was 14 years old, but that was pretty much the extent of what I knew.
So I was looking forward to the world’s frostiest BBQ and awards ceremony that afternoon on the ship’s third deck. The food choices â who can say no to macaroni and cheese? â were excellent, the drinks were on ice (seriously, they were on ice), and after lunch had been served Thom stepped to the microphone to present the awards. Rather than having a prepared list of winners, he seemed to collate the overall results in his head on the fly, and there were long pauses â and the occasional incorrect winner announced â as he arranged each set of age group winners in his head before making the call. Standing on that deck, I was glad I’d invested in a kick-ass parka. Thanks, Patagonia.
Thom (center) congratulates me and Maarten Vroom (great running surname!) on winning the men’s 40-49 division
Alan Nawoj (33) from Boston was the overall marathon winner in an astonishing time of 3:29:56. Billy Nel (27) from Australia finished second with his own crazy-fast time of 3:37:48. And Inez Haagen (49) from the Netherlands, the first women’s finisher who has now won five marathons on five continents, rounded out the sub-4:00 finishers (and won the “non-hypothermic finishers” subdivision) with an impressive 3:41:52. Amazingly, Inez accomplished this mind-boggling feat at age 49, a number I had to read three or four times on the overall results page and which I still don’t actually believe. Among the runners, I particularly enjoyed watching her and Alan as we passed along the course â each has a smooth, flowing stride that even gravel-strewn patches of black ice couldn’t suppress.
Winter ran a strong race of her own, crossing the finish line in 4:49:45 and seizing the title of youngest runner to complete a marathon on the White Continent. As such, she remains on track to conquer her larger goal of becoming the youngest runner to finish a marathon on all seven continents before she turns 15 next year. And more importantly, she’ll raise a whole lot of money for prostate cancer research while doing it.
Despite finishing a solid hour (actually 00:59:54) behind Alan, I managed to win the men’s 40-49 age group in 4:29:50. In fact, all three Mikes on the roster â me, Mike Hess (34) and Mike Ahrens (62) â won our age group. ‘Tis a powerful and athletic name, that one. As their name was called, each winner stepped to the front to receive their award: a handshake from and photo op with Thom. This was, needless to say, the source of some playfully snide commentary from several age group winners, who’d clearly been hoping for something more, well, medal-y.
Thom with the top 3 women finishers: (left to right) Ginger, Winter and Inez
The awards ceremony culminated with the presentation of Seven Continents Club medals to those 18 marathoners and half-marathoners for whom Antarctica had been their 7th racing continent. That was, fittingly, one proud and beaming group. Like the Antarctica Marathon itself, the Seven Continents Club was Thom’s brainchild. As a runner I’d known of the Club for some time, but only recently did I become truly cognizant of its existence. My own motivation for wanting to race in Antarctica was my twin desire to (a) visit Antarctica, and (b) race in every compelling locale we visit.  The Seven Continents Club provides the appealing opportunity to race in places we’re already inclined to visit, as well as in some intriguing, out-of-the-way settings we might not otherwise consider.  I can definitely envision myself as a member of the Club someday.
The Last Great Continent (Sun – Tues, March 31 – April 2)
Once the marathon ended and the Vavilov left King George Island behind, our collective stress melted away â and for once, Antarctic thawing was a good thing. Wes’s sweatshirt spoke for nearly everyone with its proclamation of “GOOD-BYE TENSION, HELLO PENSION”. People animatedly recapped their race day from start to finish and swapped stories from the course. Runner-up Billy claimed the marathon “makes Comrades look like a baby,” a comment quickly dismissed by Comrades veterans Rory and Billy’s father Pieter. Jeff from Manhattan Beach summarized his thoughts succinctly, saying he felt “like I was beaten with a stick.”  Susan from Nova Scotia proudly labeled it her “best personal worst ever.”  And still others compared (and re-bandaged) open wounds.
For the remainder of our trip, we’d have the opportunity to stash our running shoes and immerse ourselves in Antarctica. And for those who have yet to visit, the best description I can manage is “nature porn.” Every stark, pristine landscape looks as though it were professionally airbrushed for maximal effect â visual features, textures and lighting coalesce in seemingly unreal ways. Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart might just as easily have been a naturalist talking about the Antarctic wilderness when he wrote, “I can’t define pornography, but I know it when I see it.”
Over the next three days we would:
witness unique, dramatically lit landscapes â deep blue icebergs framed against a backdrop of solid gray skies and unblemished white peaks â that looked more like Superman’s home planet of Krypton than unspoiled nature. Staring up from the quiet of our floating zodiac at the exquisitely oriented layers of ice and snow, it was mind-boggling to think these layers had been accumulating, building to their present-day dimensions, unperturbed for… ever? Plus or minus a few thousand years.
visit Gentoo penguin rookeries (and sighted Adelie and Chinstrap penguins) in Mikkelsen Harbor and on Cuverville Island. Like most of the group I was fascinated by these goofy-looking, -sounding and -acting birds, many of whom passed their days conserving energy while waiting â in a race against time â for their swimming feathers to replace their down covering.
experience some of the most awe-inspiring moments of our lives in Neko Harbour and Fournier Bay, courtesy of breaching minke whales and several intimate encounters with humpback whales. The humpbacks curiously chose to stay and socialize with our kayaks and zodiacs, either of which the whales easily could have flipped had they been of the mind to do so. To appreciate the combination of power, grace and empathy that the humpback embodies, check out the video below that I filmed from our zodiac.
get up-close and personal with Weddell seals, Antarctic fur seals, crabeater seals, and even a leopard (penguin-munching) seal. They may not get the attention afforded their whale and penguin brethren, but the Antarctic seals never ceased to amaze and amuse.
hear Assistant Expedition Leader Mark â check that, Maahk â entertain and fire up his audience with his account of how an encounter with a humpback whale â and looking the gentle creature right in the eye â changed his life. Mark was like a man possessed as he told his story: he was animated, he was jazzed, he was pumped, and you couldn’t help but be inspired by his energy and sense of purpose.
Antarctica is a land so completely devoid of artificial noise â no distant voices, no traffic, no machinery, no hum of electric power lines â that you soon realize: every sound out here matters. And it’s worth your time to listen. No static, no background noise, only nature as it has been for thousands of years. What you see is what you get, and if you don’t like what you see… well, Antarctica doesn’t care. And it’s not changing for anyone.
When I say “Antarctica,” chances are you think “cold.” And yes, admittedly it’s cold down here.  But if you’re willing to close your mouth, open your mind and embrace your insignificance, then air temperature won’t be your lasting memory of this place. Because that’s what this continent asks of its guests: feel free to keep your muddy boots on, but leave your first-world problems at the door.  In subtle, sublime ways that extend beyond the forced reality of the Drake Passage, Antarctica is a land of shifting perspectives.
The many faces of penguins (clockwise from upper left): fat and contemplative, fat and curious, fat and proud, fat and frenzied
On the evening of our final full day in Antarctica, John Bingham hosted a live auction to benefit Oceanites, a non-profit science and educational foundation that collects data for the Antarctic Site Inventory.  Oceanites recently lost their National Science Foundation funding and one-third of their total funding when the Sequester kicked in. All proceeds from our auction would go to benefit Oceanites, and runners answered the call with generous and in some cases above-and-beyond contributions. John started fast at a decidedly un-penguin-like pace, kicked it into gear â “I told ’em I could have us out of here in 30 minutes!” â and in no time flat had found homes for mile markers 1, 13 and 26; the start/finish line banner; a “one-of-a-kind” (turns out there were two) nautical chart of our voyage; an author-autographed biography of Frank Wild, Ernest Shackleton’s right-hand man; and the opportunity to present the wake-up announcements over the ship’s PA on the final morning of our journey.
I took advantage of the silent part of the auction to score mile marker 20, a nice round number that to me signifies a key milestone in every marathon effort.
(Left) Auctioneer John Bingham raises money for Oceanites as Jenny Hadfield tracks the results (photo credit Maarten Vroom); (Right) The closest I’d come to taking home a penguin
Queasy come, queasy go (Wed – Fri, April 3 – 5)
During the auction and dinner that evening, the Drake Passage flexed its muscles once again as we bid the White Continent goodbye and set our sights once again on Ushuaia. Quickly picking up where it had left off, the Drake rocked the ship with renewed ferocity â silverware clattered to the floor in the kitchen, diners had to side-step broken glass, occupied chairs slid several feet across the dining hall floor (much to the horror of the adults and the delight of the kids), and before dessert was served, half of those seated at our table had excused themselves to go lie down.
By 10:00pm the Vavilov resembled an abandoned ghost ship as people hunkered down in their cabins to ride out the “Drake Shake.”
Looking to preserve our vision during the return voyage, Katie and I both chose to forego the Transderm patch in favor of Dramamine, which worked well for me at a dose of one pill every 12 hours. No drowsiness, no blurred vision and no seasickness. Howl as it might outside the portholes in our cabin, the Drake would have to look elsewhere for easy prey.
Coming together with like-minded folks like Rory, Nelson Mandela’s former chief of security and a 12-time Comrades Marathon finisher, was a highlight of the trip
But life on the Vavilov those two days was anything but comfortable. As near-hurricane force winds buffeted the ship, the theater that played out from our front-row seats on the bridge could well have been Mother Nature’s production of “The Sound and the Fury.” And again I felt very, very small. Credit to the One Ocean staff, they tried to keep our minds occupied… but even if you’re not prone to motion sickness, it’s hard to keep your head in the game when the world is constantly shifting beneath your feet. With the ship rising and falling unpredictably I felt like a human accordion: tall and stretched-out one second, short and compact the next.
But even the Drake couldn’t stifle all productivity.  Fortunately I had the opportunity during this time to sit and talk shop for a few minutes with Jenny Hadfield.  And I’m glad I did â her professional voice of experience was graciously shared and greatly appreciated. I had questions about writing and blogging, and she shared her own story of how she’d gotten started in the exercise physiology field and had gradually transitioned to a now-successful writing career (her popular advice column “Ask Coach Jenny” offers training tips and can be found on the Runner’s World website). She’s not only a terrific professional resource but also, like nearly everyone I met on the Vavilov, a genuine and thoughtful person.
We were all urged to submit our ten best Antarctica photos, and that evening Nate the great photographer of the One Ocean staff presented a slideshow he’d compiled (in record time) from our selected images. Complete with its own soundtrack, the slideshow was a tour de force that alternately had the audience laughing, cheering, ooh-ing and aah-ing. Best of all, the One Ocean staff provided each passenger with a USB jump drive containing â among other info â the slideshow, daily newsletters, staff bios, nautical briefing logs and spreadsheet of wildlife sightings from the previous ten days. I probably should have saved myself (and you) a lot of time by just posting all the data from that jump drive in place of this recap.
They may seem bumbly fumbly stumbly on land, but… proceed to perceive a pleasing pack of porpoising penguins:
It’s been ice to meet you (Fri – Sat, April 5 – 6)
Our voyage culminated that evening with the Captain’s Dinner â salmon, hooray! â in which the Captain of the Vavilov was appropriately recognized by all and presented with a marathon finisher’s medal by Thom. Throughout the meal glasses were raised, gratitude was expressed, egos were stroked and the microphone rarely sat silent. Thom invited Winter to say a few words and she acquitted herself well, reminding us about Team Winter and urging everyone to commit their running to a cause important to them.
After dinner we set about trying to repack our once-efficiently crammed bags, a task that felt like trying to shove toothpaste back in the tube. And the next morning we awoke before the sun in Ushuaia, where we began the dual process of reacclimating to civilization and saying our sentimental goodbyes. Sadly, I realize some folks I’ll never see again, though my cyber-stalking skills will stay sharp. But the world isn’t big enough to contain these runners’ passion for their sport, and I look forward to (pun intended) running into some of them again in other states, in other countries and on other continents.
Katie knows how to pick her running battles (Ushuaia)
Clearly Antarctica was a life-changing whirlwind of firsts and lasts.  And add one more to that list: it was the first time we’d traveled with a group of highly motivated, like-minded athletes… though hopefully it won’t be the last. Opportunities like this one don’t knock â or in this case email â very often. My thanks to Thom Gilligan and an anonymous iceberg with paint streaks on it floating somewhere in the Southern Ocean.
Eventually, 38 hours after last waking up on the Vavilov â and following a 3-hour delay in Ushuaia, 3Âœ-hour flight to Buenos Aires, 4Âœ-hour layover in Buenos Aires, 11-hour flight to Dallas/Fort Worth, 3Âœ-hour layover in DFW (1Âœ hours once we cleared customs and security), 4-hour flight to San Francisco, one-hour train ride to downtown Berkeley and one-mile walk with our bags slung over our shoulders or trailing behind us â we found ourselves standing, exhausted but triumphant, on the doorstep where we’d started Mike and Katie’s excellent adventure 17 days earlier. Climbing the short flight of stairs inside our front door, I dropped my bags on the top step and exhaled for what felt like the first time since Argentina. Then I did what I always do when I don’t know what to do next.
I went for a run.
The sun rises over Ushuaia and sets on our Antarctica adventure
BOTTOM LINE:  Assuming I’m talking to running enthusiasts here, my summary statement is simple: run the Antarctica Marathon at least once in your life. Unless of course you’re a compulsive type-A personality (and running attracts them like no other sport) who hates surprises, then you might want to skip this race.
It’s not an inexpensive outing, but that’s hardly surprising… you get what you pay for.
Was it the most challenging race I’ve run? No, that distinction still belongs to last year’s sunbaked Mount Diablo Trails Challenge 50K. But it was certainly challenging enough.  Preparation-wise, it’s important to bear in mind that the Antarctica Marathon is a bona fide trail race, which places it outside many runners’ comfort zone.  Unfortunately, if you want to race on this continent it’s not as though you have a slew of choices â you can’t just opt for the road version of the marathon. Sensible expectations will go a long way toward optimizing your Antarctica Marathon experience.
PRODUCTION: Thom and his Marathon Tours crew of Scott, Anita, John and Jenny did a commendable job of orchestrating all aspects of the Antarctica Marathon â from regrouping on the fly after the Great Iceberg Attack of ’13 to their near-flawless race day execution. I certainly didn’t envy them their pre-race field trip over to King George Island to set up the course, with subfreezing gale-force winds blasting them in the face while they struggled to pound each marker stake through several inches of surface ice. But set it up they did, and come race day the course was well marked (my own personal detour notwithstanding) and pretty much dead-on accurate at 26.2 ± 0.1 miles.
Other companies have hurried to cash in on the demand from runners seeking to run a marathon at the bottom of the world.  But no other company can boast Thom’s breadth of experience and connections in Antarctica. At least two companies offer a one-day Antarctica experience in which they fly into King George Island, immediately organize a marathon and then fly out the same day. To me that would feel like scoring tickets to the Super Bowl, showing up at the stadium and then watching the game on the TVs in the concourse. Sure you could say you were there… but were you really there?
Apparently my expert editor on all things Antarctica grew tired of penguin pictures
My main critique of the Antarctica race experience would be the post-race awards. For example, the finisher’s medal should vary from year to year, and should always include the year of the race (or barring that, complementary engraving on the back of the medal that includes name, finish time and year).  There’s no excuse for the fact that the Antarctica Marathon medal has remained the same for at least six straight years now (dating back to the image I found online of the same medal from the 2008 race). This is particularly true when you’re hosting a group of dedicated, goal-oriented runners, many of them 50 States/Seven Continents Club members for whom race bling is all-important, and deservedly so.
In addition, it would be nice if age-group winners merited distinct medals â for example, a penguin holding up one flipper or two to signify first or second place â to accompany the handshake and photo-op that currently await them. I’d be happy to receive one retroactively. I feel like these are easily implemented suggestions that would enhance the race experience, even in Antarctica.
UPDATE (15 May 2013): As a runner hell-bent on maintaining forward progress no matter what, I rarely back-pedal… but in this case I’m happy to make an exception.  Yesterday I received in the mail â no doubt delayed in transit because we recently moved â a stylish plaque emblazoned with the Antarctica Marathon logo and engraved to commemorate my first-place finish in the men’s 40-49 age group.  Clearly I had no idea of this impending accolade when I wrote the above sentiment, and I certainly understand why the Marathon Tours crew wouldn’t want to lug 100 race medals plus roughly two dozen plaques down to Antarctica.  And so I stand appreciatively corrected.
Overall, given their professionalism and intimate knowledge of the running community, together with their catalog of compelling international marathons, I look forward to traveling with Thom and his Marathon Tours crew again.
Liz of OOE secures a kayaker, then requests a rowing implement with the order to “Paddle me!”
But in the end, the One Ocean Expeditions staff (and the largely unseen Russian crew members of the Vavilov) were the stars of this show. Andrew and his 12-person staff did everything in their power to ensure our Antarctica experience met â and in most cases exceeded â expectations.  Without exception, every member of the OOE staff was highly competent, professional, knowledgeable, experienced, entertaining, happy to answer questions and just plain fun to be around. Granted I haven’t traveled to Antarctica with any other cruise company, but I can recommend OOE without reservation. Based on conversations with and body language of other passengers, I’m confident the vast majority would echo my thoughts.
As with any successful race, the volunteers were a key element of the Antarctica Marathon. No doubt I wasn’t the most happy-go-lucky and responsive runner out on the course â and they had to see me six times in my 4Âœ hours â but Kathy and her crew (Katie, Sharon, Sally, Wayne and company) stood by the start/finish line for the ENTIRE race, and were there to cheer emphatically and shout their support after every out-and-back. I never dreamed that Katie would willingly â and dare I say happily â stand idly outside in Antarctica for five hours. Yet there she was, smiling broadly and cheering loudly every time I passed. Kudos to her solid layering strategery, Arctic Parka and Wet Skin for keeping her toasty and for inspiring that kind of gumption.
Rating the Antarctica Marathon experience based on the race t-shirt feels a bit like rating a 5-star restaurant based on the embroidery of the napkins. But since I’m clearly not one to cut corners in recapping a race, here goes: the t-shirt is nice. Very nice. And colorful, as long as you’re a fan of baby blue. It’s a high-quality tech t-shirt with mesh shoulder and side panels. And if you happen to like the Antarctica Marathon logo emblazoned on the back, then you’re in luck, because the Marathon Tours crew has an assortment of race-related apparel available for purchase in Buenos Aires and on their website.
FINAL STATS:
March 30, 2013
26.5 miles (including an unplanned 0.3-mile detour) on King George Island, Antarctica (continent 2 of 7)
Finish time & pace: 4:29:50 (first time running in Antarctica), 10:10/mile
Finish place: 8/60 overall (73 starters), 1/10 in M(40-49) age group
Race weather: penguin-pleasing cold, low winds (starting temps in the low 20s)
Elevation change (Garmin Connect software): 2,023ft ascent, 2,031ft descent
For a race in which my major concern was NOT doing the splits, these aren’t so awful
Roads? Â Where we’re going, we don’t need roads. – Emmett “Doc” Brown, “Back To The Future”
(PREFACE: This is not a blog post in the usual sense. Rather, it’s my attempt to chronicle an amazing adventure in two acts, and to â “demystify” is the wrong word â inspire an appreciation for a remarkable ecosystem that’s much more than an alien land of ice and snow. For anyone seeking an even more detailed account of the Antarctica Marathon and its history, I’d recommend John Hanc’s book, The Coolest Race on Earth. And for time-challenged readers who simply want the gist of our journey, I’d recommend skipping all the cumbersome words and sticking to the pictures. Whatever your preference, thanks for reading!)
More so than any month in recent memory, March was a month of firsts. Or maybe more accurately, it was a month of lasts.
Cut to the morning of February 26, and the last place I expected to find myself a month later was exactly where I found myself a month later: joining upwards of 100 highly motivated runners â including one celebrated back-of-the-packer with the all-too-appropriate nickname of “The Penguin” â aboard a Russian research vessel headed toward the South Pole to race The Last Marathon on the Last Great Continent. All under the watchful eye of a leader named Gilligan.
As absurd as a “spontaneous” trip to Antarctica sounds, that’s exactly what this would be. Sometimes, truth really is stranger than fiction… and even less likely.
Damn the icebergs, full speed ahead!
Rewind to the morning of February 26, a morning that began like any other: my spring racing plans were gradually taking shape as I contemplated a return to either the L.A. Marathon â one of my 2012 racing highlights â or the Oakland Marathon, site of my half marathon PR (1:34:02) last year. Also in my sights were one or more upcoming trail races with my favorite local racing outfit, Brazen Racing.
Yep, spring 2013 was falling into place… until the following e-mail message hit my Inbox, and my best-laid plans went out the porthole:
dear Mike,
The ship that we had chartered for the 2013 Antarctica Marathon to depart in a couple of days has been damaged by an iceberg.
We have rescheduled the trip using the sister ship, the Akademik Vavilov which we have chartered many times in the past.
You are currently waitlisted or confirmed in the future for the Antarctica Marathon. Are you interested in confirming space for these new dates in 2013?
[details omitted]
It always is an adventure. Please advise as soon as possible since most of the confirmed passengers have rescheduled for the later dates. We will have a few spots available.
Please contact us immediately if you are interested.
My immediate reaction was probably similar to yours… 101 years after the Titanic kissed the bottom of the ocean, actual operating ships are still colliding with icebergs? My secondary response, though, was one of adrenalized bewilderment â Antarctica? On such short notice? Was this a legitimate option for us?
In short â yes, it was. Due to the large number of runners vying for a limited number of slots (roughly 100 per year), the Antarctica Marathon typically requires years of advance planning and a lengthy sojourn on the Marathon Tours waitlist.  As referenced in their e-mail, we’d entered the waitlist in mid-2012 and in doing so had confirmed our spot â for 2016. So we figured to have three more years to plan for this trip.
And although I wouldn’t classify myself as a “bucket list” runner, I do have a short list of three marathons that I consider must-do events: Boston, New York City and Antarctica. What did it matter that neither Katie nor I owned a legitimate cold-weather jacket, or that I’d only run in tights once in my entire life? At least we wouldn’t need any vaccinations or immunizations for this trip… I’m pretty sure penguin fever is both unpreventable and incurable.
As the nail in the coffin of March normalcy, we found ourselves in a relatively obligation-free time of personal and professional transition (another post for another time). Thus the awesome realization dawned on us that yeah, March was actually the perfect time for a frigid flight of fancy.  And within two days, we’d committed to join 98 other adventure-seekers on an unanticipated journey to the Last Great Continent.  Thankfully, our voyage was scheduled to last a bit longer than a 3-hour tour.
And so it was that on March 21, after a highly successful raid on the winter clearance racks at our local REI, The North Face and assorted outlets, Katie and I found ourselves on a flight bound for Buenos Aires, Argentina, where our 17-day adventure would begin. With little time for pre-trip research and little idea of what to expect (other than the obligatory requests to “Bring back a penguin!”), our ignorance was bliss.
So, just sit right back and you’ll read a tale, a tale of a fateful trip….
ARGENTINA (Fri – Tues, March 22 – 26)
Since this is ostensibly a running blog, I’ll limit my thoughts on the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires to the high (and low) points of our 5-day visit â though use of the word “concise” here would be disingenuous:
Overall, we had a lively visit to Argentina’s capital city â which wasn’t a foregone conclusion, given that I have virtually no interest in soccer, tango dancing or huge slabs of beef. But with its European-inspired architecture, socioeconomically diverse neighborhoods, thriving theatre industry and plentiful green spaces, Buenos Aires is a culturally vibrant city and a terrific place to explore on foot. Fortunately, my sub-fluent yet functional Spanish proved good enough to point us in the right direction and keep us out of trouble.
Good morning, good afternoon and good night in the Plaza de la RepĂșblica: El Obelisco stands on the site where the Argentine flag was first hoisted in Buenos Aires in 1812
Architecturally, the city is a dynamic and captivating mix of old and new. Highlights of our bus and walking tour included the ornate mausoleums of La Recoleta Cemetary (where many notable Argentinians including Eva PerĂłn are interred), the politically charged Plaza de Mayo (site of La Casa Rosada, mansion and office of the President of Argentina), and the recently renovated Teatro ColĂłn (famed opera house which Pavarotti once praised for its “perfect” acoustics).  And not surprisingly, images of favorite son Cardinal Archbishop of Buenos Aires Jorge Bergoglio, a.k.a. Pope Francis, now adorn the city.
For a city of Buenos Aires’ reputation and importance, however, I was disappointed by the state of abject disrepair in which many of its sidewalks find themselves. In many places it looked as though The Avengers had been filmed in the city and nobody had bothered to clean up the rubble.  With a marathon on the horizon and after several near tweaks, I felt fortunate to get out of Argentina with both ankles intact.
As a runner, I was impressed by the number of Porteños (locals) out on the weekend walking, running or cycling through the city’s many bustling parks. The typical Porteño I saw certainly was not built like someone whose daily diet consists of at least two large servings of beef â I’d guess the average Houstonian weighs roughly the same as 1.5 Porteños.
Speaking of food, the only part of each day I didn’t look forward to were the meals, for instance the vegetarian pizza we ordered for dinner one evening that arrived smothered in ham (I assumed the pig had been an herbivore). In addition, the extra â and not insignificant â fee that several restaurants charged for “table service,” coupled with their insistence on serving and charging for bottled water despite the potability of the local tap water, amounted to epic scams.
I don’t usually fault cities for their names, but “Buenos Aires” is a conspicuous misnomer. Granted the city was originally recognized for its “good airs” (or more likely, its “fair winds”) way back in the 16th century, but these days it would be like changing Omaha’s name to Ocean View, Nebraska. Collectively, the carbon monoxide-induced asphyxiation from urban traffic (particularly the large number of freight trucks headed to and from the port), the secondhand asphyxiation from the local smoking population, and the impenetrable char-grilled asphyxiation from the parrillas (barbecue grills) bordering the Reserva EcolĂłgica where I ran on two occasions, combined to ensure that my lungs never got too comfortable in their pleura.
This was the top Google search result for parrilla, the catch-all name for the city’s popular BBQ grills.
By keeping close tabs on our cameras and backpacks, we were able to depart Buenos Aires with our wallets and all other personal belongings intact. Unfortunately, not all our fellow runners were so lucky… we heard of at least two cameras being stolen from dinner tables, and one trusting fellow (a fellow Bay Area native, in fact) lost his wallet to an elaborate pickpocket ruse involving fake bird droppings on his head, two helpful bystanders with a towel and an immediately accessible getaway car.
We meet at last (Sunday, March 24)
Our third evening in Buenos Aires featured the Antarctica Welcome Banquet Dinner. Here we met Thom Gilligan, the founder and leader of Boston-based Marathon Tours, as well as the four members of his race crew who would be joining us in Antarctica: Scott and Anita, respectively the General Manager and Environmental Officer of Marathon Tours, as well as the husband-and-wife team of John “The Penguin” Bingham and Jenny Hadfield, both well-known to the running community for their books and popular columns in Runner’s World and elsewhere.
John opened with some remarks about The Last Marathon, the first organized sporting event in the history of Antarctica. Â Thom then said a few words about “Antarcticer” (his Boston-based pronunciation) and introduced our upcoming adventure with the brutally honest classified ad ostensibly posted in the London Times by explorer Ernest Shackleton, in preparation for his 1907 Antarctic expedition:
Musical accompaniment for the subsequent slideshow included Dido’s “White Flag,” with its (so we all hoped) tongue-in-cheek chorus of “I will go down with this ship.” After the slideshow, Thom asked for a show of hands as to who had run a sub-3 hour marathon in the past two years. Three hands went up. He then asked for a show of hands from runners in the 3:00 to 3:30 range â three or four more hands went up, including mine. Although I knew this wouldn’t be a typical marathon, in that the 50-59 and 60-69 age groups would be the most competitive, I knew there would still be plenty of representation by the younger demographics, and I was shocked to find myself immediately seeded so highly.
But for me the most striking realization of the evening, which I hadn’t fully appreciated to that point, was the dedication and commitment of every person in that room.  True we were all headed for Antarctica, and that in itself set this room apart. But whereas running for most people is a hobby, a way to alleviate stress and stay fit, for this group it was a lifestyle, an obsession in the healthiest sense of the word.  And while not everyone in that banquet hall may have possessed the stereotypical “runner’s body” (that’s why it’s a stereotype), I’d be reminded in the coming week that mind really does matter.
Thom Gilligan introduces an excited group of marathoners to what lies ahead
That evening I met seemingly normal, well-adjusted individuals who had run over 100, over 200, over 300 marathons. I met several individuals who had raced in all 50 states, on all 7 continents, and yet had never run a trail race.  I met Winter, a 14-year-old Junior Olympian from Oregon who’d formed Team Winter and resolutely set a goal to run a marathon on all seven continents in support of prostate cancer awareness, after her father was diagnosed with the disease in 2008 and passed away less than a year later. I met Wes, a 78-year-old lifelong Purdue Boilermaker who’d run 200 marathons (including 100 in the past decade) and in 23 European countries, and for whom Antarctica would be his 7th continent and final marathon. I met Rory, a charismatic and “Jo-burg proud” South African who had completed the notoriously grueling Comrades Ultramarathon 12 times. I met Brendan, a running coach and 50 states/6 continents finisher from Chicago who’d failed in his first bid to complete the Antarctica Marathon three years earlier, and was back to exact his racing revenge. I met the Canadian duo of 70-year-old Georgine and her son James, and was amused to discovered that she was the runner in the family who had persuaded her hockey-playing son to join her in running the Antarctica half marathon.  And I met many others whose stories I’d hear and whose lives I’d share over the next two weeks.
As nonchalantly as most people would discuss their kids’ soccer game, conversations centered around questions like “How many continents is this for you?” and “Have you run Kilimanjaro yet?” The Great Wall of China, Machu Picchu, the Arctic Circle, even Antarctica already in a few cases â my travel companions had left their footprints, literally, on nearly every conceivable destination on the planet.
I had to admit… these were my kind of people.
Destination: Antarctica (Tues – Thurs, March 26 – 28)
Fast-forward 36 hours, and after one more day spent appreciating the many faces of Buenos Aires, we found ourselves on a flight to Ushuaia (pronounced Oos-why-uh by the locals), the southernmost city in the world and the capital of Tierra del Fuego at the tip of South America. As the plane touched down in Ushuaia, the cheers from the locals onboard and the sight of the woman seated next to me crossing herself suggested our adventure had begun earlier than planned.
Itâs the end of the world as we know it⊠and Katie and I feel fine
After a brief layover and stroll around this sleepy port town we boarded the Akademik Sergey Vavilov, the Russian ship (and one-time research vessel) that would â barring an unforeseen iceberg encounter â carry 105 passengers, 41 crew members and 13 expedition staff to our destination across 600 nautical miles and a particularly gnarly stretch of open ocean that we’d soon come to know all too well.
With rainbows and mist-shrouded peaks dominating the landscape, we “threw ropes” (set sail) at around 6:00pm local time on Tuesday and slowly made our way out of the Beagle Channel. From that point forward, responsibility for our well-being fell squarely into the hands of the 13-member staff of One Ocean Expeditions.
In the Ushuaia port, the Akademik Sergey Vavilov awaits its human cargo
As it turns out, we couldn’t have entrusted our safety and well-being to a more competent, experienced and entertaining group. As the Managing Director of Canadian-based One Ocean Expeditions, Andrew Prossin would be our solidly-in-charge Expedition Leader whose soothing voice and Canadian sensibilities would greet us first thing every morning with his wake-up announcements over the ship’s PA. In addition, at each meal he would set our expectations as to weather (always unpredictable), changes to the itinerary and opportunities for wildlife sightings. His understated cry of “hooray” which punctuated the end of his announcements became a rallying cry for the entire ship.
His One Ocean staff would be an appropriately eclectic collection of three fellow Canadians (Derek, Zoe and Nate); one Australian (Ewan, the kayaking king); a Dane (Louise, our hotel manager); a Welshman-cum-South African-cum-Australian (Mark, passionate whale conservationist and Andrew’s Assistant Expedition Leader); one far-North American (yoga guru Liz, whose “Alaska girls kick ass!” sticker immediately attracted my attention); one Portuguese (all-important mixologist Joao); and chefs Jeremy, John and Mike who, together with pastry chef Elizabeth, embraced and conquered the unenviable task of creatively providing three meals a day, every day, while hundreds of miles from the nearest grocery store or farmer’s market. Before this trip I’d never eaten, much less looked forward to, daily lunch dessert.
The One Ocean Expeditions staff included Expedition Leader Andrew (with microphone), Liz, Mark, Ewan, Nate, Zoe and Derek
Katie and I spent the first hour onboard familiarizing ourselves with the ship’s layout and idiosyncracies, including the less-than-romantic bunk beds in our third-deck cabin that prevented me from sitting up straight in either bed.
The next two days belonged to the Drake Passage, the necessary evil of open water between the Beagle Channel and Antarctica that would test every passenger’s sea legs, not to mention their seasickness meds. We both chose to use the Transderm Scopolamine patch, a nickel-sized prescription patch applied behind the ear that prevents motion sickness for up to three days. Which it did admirably well, the main drawback being the side effect of dilated pupils that messed up our vision something fierce. As a result, neither of us felt quite like ourselves during those two days crossing the Drake, as our literal inability to focus prevented productive behaviors such as reading or writing.
This is your brain on scopolamine (left); normal undilated pupil shown on right for comparisonÂ
Unfortunately, all postcards had to be submitted before race day if we wanted them to be postmarked from Antarctica. And so I found myself seated in the lounge of a wickedly swaying boat with one eye closed, squinting through my open eye Popeye-style as I tried to stabilize both hand and vision long enough to write legible quips about what an awesome time we were having at a destination we hadn’t yet reached. Lucky family members will no doubt wonder (assuming the cards ever arrive) how many shots of tequila preceded my postcard-ing sessions.
Luckily the One Ocean and Marathon Tours staff had planned other, less cerebrally taxing distractions to pass the time. Among these, Thom talked about the history of his brainchild, the Antarctica Marathon; John held court and lightened the mood with his entertaining perspective on life as a back-of-the-pack runner; Derek laid down mad knowledge on “Birds of the Southern Ocean”; Liz provided historical context in detailing the ill-fated Scott/Amundsen “Race to the Pole”; and Nate capped the evening with “Marine Superstitions,” after which nobody was caught whistling aboard ship.
Check out this footage of life in the Drake Passage (a.k.a. the “carbo-unloading zone”), filmed through the porthole in our cabin:
By Thursday evening we’d more or less cleared the Drake Passage, crossing the Antarctic Convergence and the 60th parallel south to enter the Southern Ocean. Soon after that we approached the South Shetland Islands and specifically King George Island, site of Saturday’s upcoming race. At that point even our first whale (fin whale, to be exact) sighting of the trip couldn’t disguise the fact that the natives were getting restless.
As race day approached and hours spent aboard ship accumulated, the restlessness and nervous energy among the passengers continued to build. The most tangible reflection of this mindset may have been the bar/lounge on the upper deck of the ship, which experienced two sparsely populated evenings as normally relaxed, sociable runners morphed into their water-swilling, teetotalling pre-race alter egos. Our bartender Joao was perplexed by but resigned to this transformation, which he’d clearly experienced before. And his voice of experience predicted a significantly more laid-back ambiance once the race was over. I raised my water bottle in agreement, and in a toast to more carefree days ahead.
Keeping expectations at (Maxwell) bay (Friday, March 29)
With the planet’s southernmost continent within sight at last, the harsh reality of where we were and what we were about to do finally hit home. Stepping out on the sixth floor deck to gaze upon King George Island â so close and yet so far â I was greeted by the stinging sensation of a million frozen, finely honed razors slicing right through me. My skin and two lightweight layers were defenseless against the Antarctic wind. And to think that tomorrow at this time, I’d be running 26.2 miles in this. Let the mind games begin…
Despite the initial cold shock, the consensus adjective of the day to describe our first encounter with Antarctica was simply “indescribable.” A picture may be worth a thousand words, but in this case one would have to suffice.
The plan for the day called for Thom and his crew to make their way across Maxwell Bay to King George Island early that morning to set up the race course. Meanwhile, the rest of us would finally make an excursion off the boat and potentially even stretch our legs on land at some point. Ah, perchance to dream…. Instead, the Antarctic winds did what the Antarctic winds do, churning up the water and making conditions unsafe to launch the zodiacs (the rigid inflatable boats used to transport people from ship to shore). It wasn’t until 1:00pm that the wind died down enough to launch the boats and send Thom’s crew (plus ATVs) on their way to King George Island. Many of us watched as the zodiacs made their not-so-long yet slow voyage across the bay and toward the Russian base at Bellingshausen Station.
The zodiacs approach the Russian base on King George Island, on their way to set up the marathon course
This in itself was uplifting news, because again this was Antarctica, where even the seemingly straightforward process of getting off the boat couldn’t be taken for granted. Still fresh on everyone’s mind was Thom’s unsettling tale of his 2001 Antarctica Marathon expedition, when uncooperative weather had seized the day(s), only to have the passengers seize it right back.  After several days of thwarted attempts to launch the zodiacs in rough waters, a consensus decision had finally been reached that the show must go on, and that the marathon would be run ON. THE. DECK. OF. THE. SHIP. Apparently one of the passengers that year had been a qualified race distance certifier, and he mapped out a 26.2-mile course that comprised 422 laps around the upper deck. The race was run over a 24-hour time period, and don’t ask me how each runner kept track of his/her number of laps completed. Most strategically, the ship had been moored such that the anchor just touched the continent of Antarctica, thereby validating the venue. Thus went the story of how the 2001 Antarctica Marathon was staged under the most challenging conditions to date, a testament to human fortitude and resolve that exactly nobody on our ship had any interest in repeating.
Speaking of human fortitude… with our plans for an afternoon expedition foiled, everyone gathered in the bar/lounge to watch “Crossing The Ice,” an intimidating/inspiring documentary about two Aussies and one Norwegian who found themselves competing against each other to become the first persons to complete the trek to the South Pole and back unassisted. I then retreated to the basement gym to, if nothing else, get the blood pumping and stretch my legs before I’d have to use and abuse them the next day.
A weary Thom addresses a roomful of restless runners during his pre-race briefing
After dinner â the last supper before the race, which happened to coincide with this being Good Friday â Thom stepped to the microphone for his pre-race briefing looking ruddy and dog-tired from his afternoon excursion. He informed us that the hilly course would consist of two different out-and-backs that marathoners would run three times, with the start/finish line separating the two. The first out-and-back would take us past the Russian base, then out to the first turn-around point at the Uruguaryan Artigas Base and back, while the second out-and-back would lead past the Chilean Eduardo Frei Base and out to the turn-around at the Chinese Great Wall Station before retracing its steps. There would be icy (if not muddy) patches to negotiate that Thom estimated at around 5% of the total course distance. And based on today’s course conditions, he and his crew would be strictly enforcing the 6-1/2-hour time limit â anything longer and we risked hypothermia.
Google Earth rendering of The Last Marathon course â thanks to Dan, from whom I stole the idea; my personal detour can be seen leading toward the airstrip near the yellow church (Click on the map for a larger image)
As we’d suspected, the day had been a rough one for Thom and his crew â John predicted that if we’d had to run the race that day in those conditions, nobody would have finished. Â But he concluded the briefing by injecting a shot of humor, warning the room that “Bandits (runners who race without paying an entry fee) will be pulled off the course.”
Back in my cabin I systematically organized my apparel, bottles of Cytomax/GU, Garmin (don’t be silly, of course GPS works in Antarctica!) and thoughts for the day ahead. And I realized that realistically, I had no idea what to expect. Cold to be sure, but beyond that I had zero expectations: could I run a sub-4:00 marathon in these conditions? Probably not, though “probably not” wouldn’t stop me from trying. Runners are notorious for downplaying expectations â case in point, those ultra-competitive types who qualify for the Boston Marathon and then vow to treat it as a “victory lap”.
But this time, I realized as sleep engulfed my upper bunk â this time I really was out in the cold.
Continued and concluded in Act 2… with an actual race report!
Well done is better than well said.
â Benjamin Franklin
Sunset on the Bay Bridge, with San Francisco aglow in the background (original photo here)
18 February 2013
Dear Bay Area Toll Authority,
It’s not often I write an open â or for that matter a closed â letter to a government entity. It feels too much like yelling at the TV.  But just this once I thought I’d make an exception… because as a current East Bay and former South Bay resident, I have a long-overdue plan to help ensure the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge â with its new eastern span to be completed later this year â is the architectural marvel and civic masterpiece it deserves to be.  Besides, isn’t speaking up and making my voice heard the mark of a good Bay Area resident?
Nope, I’m writing to you today as a runner, one who’s spent countless hours exploring the Bay Area’s myriad roads and trails on foot.  Fact is, the Bay Area’s calling card is its geographic, cultural, ethnic and socioeconomic diversity, and running provides ready access to that diversity as no other mode of transport can.  So my ongoing issue with the Bay Bridge is one not of unchecked excess but of glaring omission. It’s a first-world problem, but here in the pedestrian-friendly Bay Area it’s also a conspicuous oversight.  It’s the lack of a Bay Bridge pedestrian/bike path extending from Oakland to San Francisco.
It makes me blue to think that this view â shot from the Bay Bridge at 50 mph â is inaccessible by foot
Do you know what the East Bay, North Bay, South Bay, and City by the Bay all have in common? It’s not a trick question. The San Francisco Bay separates east from west, Oakland from San Francisco, A’s fan from Giants fan, Raiders fan from 49ers fan, future Warriors fan from former Warriors fan, and foggy from, well, foggier. Several months ago, while the 49ers were flexing their muscles and the Raiders were regularly getting sand kicked in their face, the cheeky response to the question of “What separates the NFL’s best and worst teams?”  would have been “the San Francisco Bay.” But as divisive as five miles of water can be (particularly during football season), it’s the Bay Bridge that physically connects and otherwise unifies the two sides of the bay. Unless, of course, you’re on foot.
Granted, both Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) and an inconvenient ferry system operate between Oakland and SF. But as Bay Area residents we pride ourselves on our progressive joie de vivre, particularly as regards our spectrum of eco-friendly transportation options.  I see more hybrid vehicles at a typical stoplight here than I see during an entire week in most other states. Bike lanes are a staple of our commuting diet, and out-of-town guests are constantly amazed by the pedestrian-savvy temperament of the drivers here. From my home base in the East Bay, I feel like I can get pretty much anywhere I want to get in the San Francisco Bay Area on foot.
Except San Francisco.
The fact that I can’t run directly from Oakland to San Francisco is absurd. Currently all my runs along the Berkeley Marina end by necessity on the border of Emeryville, at the eastern end of the Bay Bridge. From there it’s either head back up the Marina the way I came, head east into Emeryville (which without Pixar would pretty much qualify as Oakland’s appendix), or gaze longingly across the bay at a vast running landscape that in those moments of frustration might as well be the Emerald City. Except that â OOPS! â we forgot to build a yellow brick road.
Why has a Bay Bridge pedestrian and bike path not yet happened? It’s unclear why its original architect â unlike the architects of its more popular and flamboyant neighbor, the Golden Gate Bridge (GGB) â failed to prioritize pedestrian access in his part-suspension, part-cantilever design. This oversight is even more puzzling given that initial construction on both bridges began six months apart in the same year, 1933. It’s hard to imagine that two groups of architects, each working on its own similarly massive engineering project, could operate in such close physical proximity without swapping stories or sharing ideas. In any case, since opening in May 1937 the GGB has boasted pedestrian walkways on its eastern and western sides. On pleasant days these walkways are crowded with sightseeing tourists and smitten locals, around whom I’ll dance and weave as I hoof my way from the Marin Headlands to all parts of San Francisco.
True, the new Bay Bridge eastern span leading from Oakland to Yerba Buena and Treasure Islands will contain a pedestrian/bike lane, a fact that former SF mayor Willie Brown is quick to take credit for. Inexplicably, however, there are no plans to extend pedestrian access all the way to SF. This feels like popping a handful of M&Ms in your mouth, only to discover after your first chew that they’re actually Skittles â great expectations give way to visceral annoyance gives way to resigned disappointment. It’s a bewildering lapse in both planning and judgment that’s earned the new walkway the derisive nickname of “bike path to nowhere.” Try not to take it too hard, Treasure Island.
From a busine$$ perspective, I’m envisioning the commercial applications for a Bay Bridge pedestrian/bike path.  This past week, Matier and Ross reported in the SF Chronicle that a 12.5-mile run from Oakland City Hall to SF City Hall is in the works as part of the opening weekend festivities for the new bridge. It’s a terrific idea, but why stop there? Add another half mile to the course, and what Bay Area runner wouldn’t sign up and line up to run the annual “Hall to Hall” Half Marathon to benefit Oakland and SF charities, with the incentive of an additional donation (plus bragging rights) going to the city with the fastest runners? The walkways on the Golden Gate Bridge figure prominently in three current SF races â the U.S. Half, the newly rebranded Rock ‘n’ Roll San Francisco Half, and the 200-mile Golden Gate Relay. Plus the city’s signature event, the Wipro San Francisco Marathon, runs on the GGB roadbed. There’s no reason the Bay Bridge couldn’t (and shouldn’t) follow suit.
I’m happy to design a Bay Area-savvy medal for the “Hall-to-Hall” Half Marathon
I expect your higher-ups at the Bay Area Toll Authority will be quick to cite financial constraints and design considerations, and to suggest that I get in line behind everyone else’s pet projects.  But that’s why I’ve addressed this letter to your agency â because you have the authority (the word’s in your name, after all) to “fund the long-term capital improvement and rehabilitation of the bridges.”  And given that the Bay Bridge east span replacement is already grossly over budget â a budget that has been alarmingly immune to public scrutiny â what’s another half a billion dollars among friends? You’ll likely spend a solid chunk of that on Labor Day opening ceremonies anyway.
I’m encouraged to read that finally we’ve reached the stage where a Bay Bridge pedestrian/bike path is now an official project eligible for funding. But you and I both know that’s government-speak for “we’ll get to it when we get to it,” and unless the project shows up on someone’s priority list soon, it will remain without funding ad infinitum. In the meantime, while the relevant “project initiation document” sits gathering the sloughed-off dead skin of feckless government officials dust in a file cabinet in Sacramento, think about the vital opportunity the Bay Area is losing to improve traffic flow and further reduce carbon emissions by increasing the number of commuters biking (or even running!) to work. And running or biking is more affordable than riding BART or taking the ferry.
Since we the taxpayers are obligated to foot the bill for Bay Bridge reconstruction, then we should also be able to foot the Bay Bridge.  A two-way pedestrian and bike path should have happened years â nay, decades â ago. Yet somehow, here in the nation’s crown jewel of progressive foresight and ingenuity, I can still swim from Oakland to San Francisco faster than I can run.  So come on BATA, let’s get this done! Do the right thing and don’t drop the ball on this one. We both know the Raiders don’t need the competition.
Best regards,
Mike Sohaskey
Founder and Chief Running Officer, CRO-BAR (Concerned Runners Of the Bay Area)
Mother Nature doesn’t care if you’re having fun.
â Larry Niven
This wasn’t part of the plan.
Actually, the steady uphill jog on nice wide dirt trail was the plan, the reason I was here. But freezing temperatures? Near-blizzard conditions?  And a disturbingly cold headwind that was â almost scornfully â treating my rain-soaked body like high-school football players treat one of those paper banners that cheerleaders hold up at the beginning of games? Using the ten fingersicles on the ends of my arms as blunt-force instruments, I brutishly hammered out a text to let Katie and Chuck know I was halving my intended 8-mile ascent and turning around.  This was turning out to be a typical winter run in our Midwestern United States.
Except this wasn’t the Midwest… this was Southern California.  Orange County, to be exact. Average yearly snowfall of zero inches. And that’s rounding up.
Maybe this day would be my comeuppance for shrugging off both the Mayans and Weather.com
So I could hardly be blamed for finding myself in a driving snowstorm, wearing my usual comfortable winter running gear of t-shirt and shorts. And the finishing touch â the coup de grĂące in this absurd comedy of errors â was the bottle of cold coconut water that now threatened to drain all remaining feeling from the fingers wrapped tightly around it.
It was only natural to ask how this had happened. Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t really blame my brother for this one. True, it was Chuck who had â after careful consideration â recommended I run the Harding Truck Trail to Modjeska Peak during our New Year’s visit to SoCal.  And the elevation profile from his Garmin had sealed the deal, showing a daunting route that began at ~1,400ft and summited 12 miles later at ~5,400ft, making Modjeska second only to its next-door neighbor Santiago as the highest peak in Orange County.  How could I refuse an offer like that, with an ascent unavailable in the Bay Area?  And so, begrudgingly, I let Chuck off the hook.
Certainly The Weather Channel had steered me wrong.  Moments before we’d hit the road for Modjeska, I’d checked Weather.com and found a forecast of low 50s and a 10% chance of precipitation for the area around Modjeska Canyon. And even if I were to get wet out on the trail, no worries… I’d just managed eight miles in a steady SoCal downpour 24 hours earlier, and in the process gained a front-row seat to a magnificent full (and near-double) rainbow stretching from Laguna Niguel to Dana Point. I could almost hear the leprechauns on each end frolicking in their piles of gold coins. Plus, I’d maintained a respectable pace on slick sidewalks. So more rain wasn’t a concern, despite the mud it would generate.
But driving snow? No, this definitely wasn’t part of the plan.
The splice is twice as nice: even my low-res cell phone camera couldn’t spoil this iridescent display
I’m not the superstitious type, but maybe simple karma was to blame here. After Amy recently wrote about her winter training in Albuquerque, I’d joked that as a Californian I enjoyed “hearing other peopleâs stories of training in cold weather, without being able to relate in any way.” So maybe I’d brought this on myself â a (literally) cold (literally) hard lesson in winter-weather empathy.
But let me rewind a bit: last Sunday seemed like any other characteristically mild winter day in SoCal, as Katie and I made the 20-mile drive out to Modjeska Canyon. Approaching our destination, I realized I’d forgotten my water bottle, so we made a brief pitstop to buy cold coconut water. A surprisingly sharp chill greeted us as we stepped out of the car, intensified by a monochromatic gray sky that overpowered the usual Orange County sunshine. Meanwhile, our car’s “outdoor temp” display read a balmy 55°. Ideal winter running weather.
We met Chuck and Laura at the Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary, at the foot of Modjeska Peak. Conveniently (for him), Chuck was nursing an injured hamstring, so Laura and I would be running this one by ourselves. In the men’s room hung a sign announcing the park’s recent loss of state funding, and imploring the reader to bring extra toilet paper, paper towels and hand soap with them to share on their next visit. Ah, California… the golden beholden state.
Off to a good start â if only the sky in front of us had stayed this gloriously drab (photo by Chuck, without whom I’d be pulling random images off Google)
The warning chill in the air prompted me to pull on my arm sleeves â my usual ample protection against the California winter. As Laura and I trotted toward the dirt to start our immediate ascent on the Harding Truck Trail, a gray-bearded fellow in a faded baseball cap leaned out the window of his pickup truck, smiled and declared “You’re just in time for the rain!” Though the skies remained bleak the air remained dry, and I smiled back absentmindedly as we trotted on without a second thought. Dirt or not, it wasn’t like me and my trusty Mix Masters couldn’t handle a bit of rain.
With no level-ground opportunity to warm up my legs and lungs, I acclimated to the ascent by jogging alongside Laura for the first few minutes. Chuck awaited us at the ÂŒ-mile mark with camera in hand. Laura and I chatted and set expectations: since she hoped to run a low-key New Year’s Eve marathon the next day, her goal on this day was ten miles (five up, five down). Despite our late start, I was aiming to cover 16 miles (eight up, eight down) and experience as much of the trail as possible on my first outing. So Laura would most likely be done and gone by the time I found my way back to where Katie awaited at the wildlife sanctuary.
At the Ÿ-mile mark I picked up my pace and pulled ahead of Laura â I’m more of an uphiller, she’s more of a down-hiller, as I’d be reminded later.  I was eager to tackle the trail and find out how it stacked up against my favorite Bay Area hills.  Ironic that my main concern at the start of this run â the persistent ascent â would quickly become my least.
Trail Running for Dummies: Don’t keep going when the sky ahead of you looks like this (photo by Chuck, who no doubt made a beeline for his car right after this was taken)
At the one-mile mark the course’s uphill trajectory gives way to a brief ÂŒ-mile downhill jag. Here I further increased my pace and fell into a comfortable rhythm.  Bounding along I had the trail more or less to myself, and I planned to savor my light-footed feeling before the coming uphill grind took its toll. The previous day’s showers had softened the dirt just enough to provide optimal footing â not too dusty, not too muddy, with just the right combination of firmness and tack.
Glancing up and ahead of me, I noticed for the first time that the light-gray clouds had yielded to a dark, ominous haze that now engulfed Saddleback Mountain â comprising Modjeska and Santiago Peaks â and which threatened to swallow all remaining light. Â Suddenly my surroundings looked like a Photoshop creation, as though someone had applied a “Middle-earth” filter to the scene: had I left Orange County and entered the Misty Mountains?
My first sense that a light mist had begun to fall was the tiny droplets that splashed against my sunglasses and merged into a watery film (yes, sunglasses, I was naĂŻvely confident that the sun would eventually break through the clouds… hey, this was Orange County!). As the trail wound its way upward, I periodically rounded a corner and found myself running into a brisk headwind. Wind is hands- (and heads-) down my least favorite part of running, but fortunately this was relatively mild and only minimally impeded my progress.
Not as impressive as Chuck’s 24-mile elevation profile, but I’ll be back to finish the job
As my Garmin chimed to signal the end of mile two, the mist gradually transitioned into legitimate rain, and now each turn seemed to greet me with a colder and more powerful gust than the one before. The wind began to change direction erratically, blowing the rain diagonally as though searching for the most efficient way to ensure my discomfort. Wind and rain continued to build in intensity as my Garmin signaled the end of mile three. And moments later, things got (d)icy…
Maybe it was my focus on pushing forward up the trail. More likely it was the incongruity of snow in Southern California (and below 3,000ft at that). In any case I failed to register the first few snowflakes drifting around me, until at last my eyes synced with my brain, jarring me back to reality. Sure I’d realized the temperature had been dropping steadily as I’d ascended out of Modjeska Canyon… but shortly before mile three I would’ve pegged it at mid- to high 40s, maybe low 40s with wind chill. Now, watching the first airborne snow I’d ever seen in Southern California, it was clear Mother Nature had upped the ante.
Always the optimistic/stubborn runner, I persuaded my brain that: 1) snow was preferable to rain for its consistency; 2) having run only three miles, I couldn’t turn back now; and 3) this was my golden opportunity for a winter wonderland run in the snow, having been denied in Dallas six days earlier when a vigorous Christmas snowfall had followed a freezing rainstorm that coated sidewalks and streets with a thin layer of ice. As I embraced my questionable decision-making and pressed onward toward Modjeska Peak, I did make one allowance for the weather and my soggy state, electing to truncate my run to 12 miles (six up, six down) rather than the intended 16. That way I’d likely catch Laura on my way down as well.
Not bad, actually, for a photo of falling snow taken with frozen fingers on my tiny cell phone camera
But my expectations for this day took a final nosedive as I reached the 3.5-mile mark and the snowfall intensified to â I cannot tell a lie â blizzard proportions. Like a swarm of fluffy white bees attacking my face and body, the swirling snow rode the wind currents downward from the dual peaks of Saddleback Mountain. My primary concern quickly became the ever-increasing stiffness in my finger joints, as numbness threatened to replace all feeling at the ends of both arms. I cursed the #@*&ing bottle of coconut water that was my faithful companion â the only thing worse than holding on it, I considered, would be dropping it. That wasn’t going to happen, and I didn’t want to simply dump out the bottle on the trail. So unfortunately the two of us were in this together to the bitter end. And I was already bitter.
Somehow, despite my discomfort and the absurdity of running through a driving snowstorm in a soaked t-shirt and shorts but no gloves, I had one stupid decision left in me, and I resolved to reach mile 4 before turning around. Blame it on mental numbness, but somehow the four-mile mark became the hard and fast limit of what I was willing to concede. So with head down I plowed forward up the trail, swallowing snowflakes and with hands wrapped inside my t-shirt as protection against the biting wind.
I was starting to think I’d also lost feeling in my Garmin, when at last it rang out the end of both mile 4 and my uphill trek at a mere 3,113ft. Fumbling with my phone, I awkwardly pounded out a “snowing! turning back now” text to Chuck and Katie with minimal cooperation from the semi-responsive stubs formerly known as fingers. Then I swung a U-turn and launched myself back down the trail, gaining an immediate reprieve from the snow and wind which were now largely at my back.
Laura and I thaw out at the Tucker Wildlife and Soggy Runner Sanctuary (photo by a warm, dry Chuck)
Cruising downhill now, I alternated between shielding both hands in my t-shirt and beating each hand against the opposite forearm to regain feeling and keep the blood flowing, while the chilling effects of my water bottle continued to counteract my efforts. Fortunately the descent proved smooth enough, and soon I caught up with Laura, still struggling up the trail below the snowline around mile 3. “There you are!” she sounded relieved as she saw me squishing toward her. Apparently she’d tried to call me after she’d run through a flurry of hail I’d somehow avoided. Laura regularly competes in (and completes) 50-mile races, but even before reaching the snowline she was ready to turn around. Together we covered ground quickly as I hustled to keep pace behind her dogged downhill stride. I was surprised during our descent to have to sidestep and hurdle so many newly formed puddles and rivers; this was a much different trail than the one I’d felt so sure-footed on just an hour earlier.
Finally we reached the Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary, where we found Katie and Chuck waiting out the rain in the car. Owing to the limited cell coverage in the canyon, neither had received my text, and both were more than a little surprised to hear we’d encountered hail and snow on trail.  Though I may have been pushing my luck when I claimed to have also seen a Bumble.
Still in my wet t-shirt and shorts (though at least I’d brought long pants to pull on over my shorts), and with my belly now full of coconut water, the four of us reconvened for a post-run snack 15 minutes later. From the strip mall parking lot in Mission Viejo we could clearly see Modjeska and Santiago Peaks, each of which was now capped with a very fine but undeniable blanket of newborn white. Though pleased to have my story confirmed so graphically, I was shocked to see how quickly the snow had accumulated. The scene warmed the cockles of my â ah who am I kidding, no it didn’t… I was still shivering from the damp t-shirt and shorts that clung to me like frightened children.
Those look like late afternoon shadows, but that’s snow on Modjeska (center) and Santiago (right) (photo by Chuck, who then got the Snow Miser song stuck in his head)
As Saddleback Mountain receded in our rearview mirror, my phone beeped with a message from Chuck, who’d finally received my earlier text: “Snow? What idiot told you to run up a mountain?” Unfortunately I’d been denied the long uphill run I’d planned for that day. But I’d gladly trade a few extra miles for one of the more bizarre training runs I’ll likely ever experience, complete with rain, snow, hail, earth, wind & fire (and what a funky day it was). All within an hour of The Happiest Place on Earth.
Based on what I saw of it, I’ve no doubt the Harding Truck Trail is tremendous running terrain on just about any other day of the year, and in fact the Harding Hustle in July has now joined my short list of potential summer races. At which time the “fire” part of that forecast may very well come true.
In the end, the day added yet another verse to the anthem that runners (and especially trail runners) know all too well, and which author Larry Niven summarized so elegantly: Mother Nature doesn’t care if you’re having fun. She doesn’t care if you’re too hot, or too cold, or hungry, or thirsty, or sunburned, or wind-chapped, or rain-soaked, or well nourished, or craving carbs, or fully hydrated, or chafed, or blistered, or breathless, or numb, or dressed appropriately, or chasing a PR, or lost, or trying out your brand-new trail shoes, or allergic to poison ivy, or scared of snakes, or tired of climbing hills, or roughed up after tripping headlong over a tree root, or unable to see ten feet in front of you, or physically spent, or psychologically exhausted, or a first-timer, or a seasoned veteran, or a prince, or a pauper, or out of water, or in the wrong place at the wrong time when something bigger and stronger than you gets hungry, or trapped with your arm crushed under a boulder and only a dull pocket knife between you and The End, or comfortable in any way. She’s an equal opportunity offender, and she just doesn’t care.
Ours may be an abusive relationship, but she’s my kind of lady.
Runners have great stories, so I’m curious: what has been your most bizarre/unanticipated running experience?
Blisters, Cramps & Heaves 