In it long for the run
Auckland investment expert Duncan Erasmus shares his experiences of running marathons on all seven continents – from North Korea to Antarctica.
Running a marathon in the endless, icey white expanse of Antarctica is something quite different. You don’t know where you’re going, really, or what the conditions are like, or even where to set any of your expectations.
One moment, you’re gently running along, a fresh set of clothes in place, enjoying the sunshine and solitude. The next moment, you turn a corner on the glacier and end up dealing with fierce, biting wind.
Each step becomes a challenge, but no matter what Antarctica does, it does it with beauty. The harsh wind brings snow, like white beach sand, slithering and blowing around your feet and sparkling in the sunlight.
When things quiet down again, you’re left with yourself and an unchanging, pristine landscape. It’s one of the biggest mental challenges: you’re running, and you feel like you’re going nowhere.
Nothing is changing, and it leaves a lot of time for thought – like why I got myself into this insanity in the first place?
I got my first taste of adventure travel races when I completed a half-marathon under the midnight sun in Iceland. For the locals, it was just a celebration. For me, it was the beginning of a long, hard road.
From there, it was a simple matter of dreaming up my next goal: full marathons, across all seven continents. I didn’t want to do it just anywhere, though, I wanted each one to be special in it’s own right.
My first full marathon in Auckland in 2014 was a train wreck. It was tough, I hadn’t trained as well as I should have and set out too fast (rookie mistake).
I ended up hitting the wall at 24km and struggling through a lot of pain for a time of 4 hours 40 minutes. The time actually wasn’t that bad, but it sure was painful.
My second marathon, the Pyongyang Marathon, was meant to be a big improvement.
Dubbed ‘‘the most isolated international sporting event in the world’’, more than 650 foreigners were allowed in to run alongside around 800 North Koreans.
What I didn’t bargain on was dealing with a dictatorship. Less than two months out, we received word that due to the Ebola outbreaks in Africa, the borders were now closed. Foreigners were no longer welcome in North Korea.
I frantically booked another marathon, in Kazakhstan, as a backup, but crossed my fingers hoping things would improve. Fortunately, within a month, we got the good news from the North Koreans: amateurs were allowed in, but not the elites.
I found a country awash with contradictions: five star hotels had no hot water, you drove on dirt roads to reach them, after passing gleaming concrete monuments. The marathon itself was an amazing experience. For an amateur runner, starting and finishing in a stadium with 50,000 people roaring their support was an unbelievable feeling.
It was well run, and very safe provided – you followed simple rules.
For instance, there were no cameras allowed, but some visitors managed to smuggle their phones along the route.
The event drew some international media attention, and and I was interviewed by phone from inside the stadium by the The
Telegraph and The Daily Mail. ‘‘I did feel like I was in a bit of a bubble,’’ I told them.
‘‘The North Koreans were very friendly during the run but outside of it there was a marked change. They were very cautious about interacting with us once the race was completed.’’
I completed the Kazakhstan marathon two weeks later. It was a beautiful place but the concept of tourism was entirely alien to the locals. They seemed to be wondering what I was doing there.
The next two marathons were ticked off in quick succession: first up, the Athens Classic Marathon, which commemorates the founding of the modern marathon.
Way back in the 4th century BC, a Greek messenger called Pheidippides is said to have run 240kms in two days, including the 40km from a battlefield near Marathon to Athens, to announce the Greek victory over Persia in the Battle of Marathon.
The modern marathon came along in 1896 as part of the first Olympics held in Athens. At the 1908 Olympics in London, King Edward VII requested the event finish in front of their royal family viewing box, resulting in the 42.2km distance we’re more familiar with today.
It’s still a source of pride to the Greeks, and this pride brought the Athenians out in droves to support us along the marathon route, heaping olive branches and encouragement upon us.
I needed that encouragement – I was very ill, hadn’t slept for two days, and it was hot. I surprised myself by finishing with a respectable time of four hours and five minutes, and I think I even outran my illness. I felt better the next morning, even though I couldn’t walk up stairs.
Fortunately, the temperature was cooler by the time I arrived in Death Valley, California, which wasn’t what I was expecting.
We went in winter, and enjoyed perfect running weather through Titus Canyon, a marathon-length metal road running through some of the most alien landscapes imaginable.
There’s one point, halfway through, after you’ve been running uphill for 20km, where you crest a hill to see every colour imaginable on the rocks before you.
My performances were not quite what I had planned, time wise, so I set a goal for my next marathon to come as close to four hours as I could.
I had chosen The Big Five Marathon, running through a South African game reserve, across rough landscapes, surrounded by animals.
Those animals included lions and cheetahs, so everyone naturally joked about me doing it in my best-ever time.
Race day in South Africa was hot, with the sun beating down on the savannah.
A lion had a fresh kill on the course, which meant we had to change our planned course to give it some breathing space.
I started the event well, and managed to slip past a herd of stampeding Boks, which forced later runners to stop and wait.
The course included roads so steep they tortured the knees, kilometres of loose beach sand – and hippos for good measure.
This was my first experience racing a marathon. I was fighting for placing, and managed to come 11th in a time of 4:19 after some hard work on rubbery legs.
In the middle of nowhere, a fellow competitor named Marc came to my rescue by giving me a half-litre of water. He finished the race in 12th place.
I never realised how mentally demanding competition like that becomes – the stress and pressure of competition, and the months of building up. I’ve heard that Olympic athletes often just express relief once they complete their event, not joy, and I now have a little insight as to why.
The next event was the big one: my Antarctic marathon.
To train, the team at Auckland’s Snowplanet allowed me to run up and down the icey slopes of their indoor ski slope.
No matter how much I worked to test and adjust my gear, the biggest challenge of this marathon remained the unknowns.
Would I be prepared enough? What would the conditions be like? Going into it, for the first time, I was acutely aware I was in a situation where a mistake could be deadly.
The entire process was about leaving your comfort zone and accepting what would happen.
First stop, was Chile, where we were put on standby to be ready to fly within an hour.
We left the next morning, on a Russian Ilyushin turboprop cargo jet easily 50 years old
Life in our Antarctic camp was surprisingly normal. The food was great and the team was serious about safety.
After much nail biting and a few nerve-calming beers, it was race morning.
The course consisted of two 21.1km loops. I realised, as I was coming in on the end of the first loop, that I had made a miscalculation – not enough warm underwear.
Additionally, all the pairs I had in my tent were either cotton, which would make me colder, or long underwear that would overheat my legs.
I’ve always carried my pocket knife on my travels with me, and this time it saved me.
I’ve never chopped up and made clothing before mid-race either, so there was the first time for that, too.
In my tent, I swapped out my clothing for my full back-up set and new addition, as sweat and moisture out on the Antarctic glacier can be dangerous.
Back on the course, I felt much warmer and was instantly grateful for taking the extra time to stop. Gritting my teeth, I turned the corner into the wind and focused on taking each step.
Everyone made it across the finish line, and the atmosphere afterwards was of a mix of feelings: relief, joy, and camaraderie.
We were to fly out the next day, but naturally Antarctica had one more trick up its sleeve.
While, at the base camp, the weather was calm with plenty of sun, at the runway the wind was too heavy for the Ilyushin to land, meaning an extra day on the ice.
We spent the time playing volleyball and mountain biking, and having a party to celebrate the opening of a new toilet block.
Finally, the next morning we flew back to Chile. Over the next few days I tracked my way to Vin˜ a del Mar, a coastal resort city northwest of Santiago and the site of my next marathon.
It was a road marathon, and was uneventful, except that I will remain eternally grateful to Francisco, the cycling Chilean who helped pace the last quarter of my race and provided me with some of his Powerade to help me finish.
Once back, I learned I needed to do a quick marathon in Australia to fully claim the seven continents. My choice was Brisbane, in January, which was swelteringly hot and humid. It was over 30 degrees by the time I finished. Remembering Francisco’s kindness, I ran out to meet Ash, someone I had been chatting with throughout the marathon. He looked dead on his feet, so my goal was to support him the last 500m.
High-fiving North Korean children and high-fiving Athenian children in Greece was no different. Sports is a unifying force because it’s generally a-political and we can all relate to it.
Each step becomes a challenge, but no matter what Antarctica does, it does it with beauty. The harsh wind brings snow, like white beach sand, slithering and blowing around your feet and sparkling in the sunlight. Duncan Erasmus