RUNNING IN CIRCLES
MH meets the athletes taking their marathon to colder climes in the perilous Antarctic
My brain is sending words to my mouth but they aren’t coming out properly. The left side of my face is numb with cold, my lips feel like they’ve been glued together and I’m slurring badly. I know there’s a huge ice-topped mountain off to my left but it is hidden behind a veil of cloud and mist kicked up by a fierce, blinding wind. Visibility is now down to less than 10m, and it is increasingly difficult to keep sight of the little blue flags marking the safe route of passage against the vast and disorienting white canvas. The whole area is an active glacier; between here and the finish line there are crevasses big enough to swallow a large vehicle. Two hours in and with more than half the distance still to go, the wisdom of running a marathon in the world’s coldest, bleakest territory is seriously questionable.
But for those of a certain temperament, the chance to run 26.2 miles in the planet’s last true wilderness is too great to pass up. Taking place at the foot of the Ellsworth Mountains, participants in the annual Antarctic Ice Marathon must compete with a wind chill of -20°C and a max wind speed of 25 knots. It is not so much a race, then, as the ultimate endurance event. And at £12,000 a head, only serious competitors need apply.
INTO THE WILD
Irish ultrarunner Richard Donovan ran in the Antarctic for the first time over a decade ago, as part of a quest to run seven ultramarathons on seven continents in a year. One of those was the first and only race to the South Pole, which he won. Where most would have packed away the thermals and dined out on such achievements, Donovan saw opportunity, establishing the Antarctic Ice Marathon in 2006.
Over a decade later, running deep inside the southernmost continent remains an exclusive experience. Around 40,000 tourists visit each year, but the vast majority remain on cruise ships that skirt the coast. Few make it to the interior and just over 50 will run the marathon. Of the 52 competitors to run the race in 2015, only 47 finished, with the slowest suffering more than nine hours on the ice.
The race is an adventure even before you get to the start line. My journey is a three-flight expedition from London to Punta Arenas in southern Chile, followed by a four-and-a-half-hour flight to Union Glacier and a temporary expedition camp 600 miles from the South Pole, then a final stretch in an Ilyushin IL-76TD – a utilitarian modified Russian transport plane in which seats are bolted to the floor and life rafts fastened to the walls. Landing on a blue-ice runway is inherently riskier than landing on asphalt.
At the camp a short 4x4 drive away, rows of brightly coloured, two-person clam tents dug into the ice sit dwarfed by the peaks that surround them. Life in the camp centres around the main dining tent where staff provide daily briefings and weather updates, as well as hot meals, beer and wine. But the evening before the race, alcohol is the farthest thing from our minds as my fellow competitors and I desperately try to acclimatise. During the Antarctic summer (November to
I’M STRUGGLING TO SPEAK. “Sweat cools on your body and raises your risk of hypothermia”
February) the 24 hours of sunlight are a mixed blessing. The sun heats the tents and provides a constant source of solar power for the camp, but it also plays havoc with circadian rhythms.
Also of importance is calculating the optimum kit to carry into the wasteland with us. There are safety points along the course, but overloading on supplies could cost vital seconds. In an environment where hypothermia can take hold within 20 minutes, prior preparation can mean the difference between life and death.
Underfoot decisions are easier. Before our arrival, camp staff had marked a safe route – two laps for the marathon, or just one for a few who merely want to enjoy the tranquillity of the surroundings without too much punishment. Grooming the course with skidoos has compacted the snow, meaning participants can run relatively quickly without special footwear. Some runners even compete in road shoes without signs of discomfort.
But challenges are multiple. For those new to polar running the tendency is to overdress in fear of the cold. But on the run your body heats and sweats. As the sweat cools on your skin, it accelerates your risk of hypothermia. Wearing too little is just as bad, and leaving your hands or face uncovered can leave you susceptible to frostbite. Paradoxically, one of the biggest dangers in these frigid conditions is the sun. Not only are its rays more intense through the thin atmosphere, but in the endless white terrain, the reflected danger to the skin under your nose and chin is greater than from the sunlight above.
GLACIAL PROGRESS
Anticipation at the start line is as palpable as the teeth- chattering chill in the air. We are quickly underway and it doesn’t take long for the small field to string out into a long line. By the first mile marker most are out on their own and the field gradually fades into an expansive and unbroken silence. You are left listening to the howling of the wind, your own breathing pattern and the crunch of snow underfoot. With the light shimmering off the surrounding mountain tops and a sea of white in every direction, the Antarctic makes for a surreal place in which to run.
As the race progresses it is evident that all the competitors are feeling the effects of the testing terrain. Compacted snow is more like hard sand than road – even a gentle climb is fatiguing – and breathing hard in these conditions takes its toll on your lungs. Then there’s the cold itself, seeping through layers to chill your body the moment you stop moving.
No one comes to the Antarctic for a PB. But having come so far, the race demands you give it your all. Soon, two Brits, usually sub-2hr 50min marathon finishers, are tussling for the lead. Eventually, Paul Webb, a scientist from St Andrews University, breaks away three miles from the finish to win in 3hr 35min 25sec.
Minutes behind Webb is Luke Wigman, an ex-soldier who, while serving with 1 Para as part of the Special Forces Support Group in Afghanistan in 2011, stepped on an improvised explosive device and lost part of his left leg. The damage was so severe he feared he might not walk again, but after several operations and a year of intensive physiotherapy, he was not only walking but running – fast. Remarkably, with a renewed focus and commitment to training, his new times – a sub-34min 10K, 1hr 16min for a half and 2hr 48min for a marathon – is even better than what he was capable of before the explosion.
Post-race we find ourselves stranded in camp for a few days more until the pilots deem it safe to take off. Among the exhausted runners, stories are swapped, alcohol imbibed, muscles soothed. In all, 19 nations are represented, with runners from their early twenties to their seventies. There are runners who could easily afford the entry fee and many who saved to be here. For most, the race has fulfilled a lifetime’s ambition to visit the Antarctic. One thing on which we can all agree is that to have run a marathon here among the cold, wind and sheer hostility of the snowy plains is a privilege like no other. If you’re interested in running the Antarctic Ice Marathon visit icemarathon.com