THE GATES OF HELL
THE BARKLEY MARATHONS IS A WILDLY ECCENTRIC, CRUSHINGLY BRUTAL ORDEAL DESIGNED TO TAKE RUNNERS BEYOND THEIR PHYSICAL AND MENTAL LIMITS OVER 100+ MILES OF HELLISH, SNAKERIDDLED WILDERNESS IN TENNESSEE’S APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS. WHICH IS WHY SOME OF THE WORLD’S BEST ULTRARUNNERS TRY DESPERATELY TO LAND A COVETED STARTING SPOT…
Aon the side of a Tennessee mountain. He’s crumpled on the ground, soaking wet and breathing hard. His wife weeps as she huddles over him, her hands resting softly on his arm. Above them stands a bearded figure in a wide-brimmed hat.
‘ I got all my pages!’ pleads the man on the ground. His voice is shrill, hysterical. ‘I dropped down the wrong side of the mountain in the fog. I had to swim a river.’ He gasps for air. ‘I got all my pages!’ A small group of onlookers look from the broken man on the ground to the inscrutable face of the bearded figure looming over him. ‘ He got all his pages,’ repeats a voice in the crowd. ‘He got all his pages.’
There are marathons, there are ultramarathons, and then there is the Barkley Marathons. Officially, it consists of f ive loops through Frozen Head State Park in Tennessee, US, totalling 100 miles, but most participants believe it’s closer to 130. Runners must ascend and descend over 36,000mof elevation – almost the equivalent of climbing up and down Mount Everest. Twice. And all in just 60 hours. Of more than 1,000 entrants up to 2016, only 14 have finished.
It costs $1.60 ( just over £1) to enter. An application must be sent to a closely guarded email address at precisely the right minute on precisely the right day, and must include an essay titled ‘ Why I Should Be Allowed to Run in the Barkley.’
You must then complete a written exam that asks, for instance, ‘ Explain the excess positrons in the f lux of cosmic rays’ and ‘ How much butter should you use to cook a pound of liver (with onions)?’ New runners must bring a licence plate from their state or country. Returnees who did not finish must bring a specified item of clothing. One year itwas a flannel shirt. Another it was white socks. The few who have finished the course and are crazy enough to return, need only bring a pack of Camel cigarettes.
The race can begin any time between midnight and noon on the closest Saturday to April Fools’ Day, always exactly onehour after a conch is blown. Runners are not given a map of the course, which is unmarked, until the afternoon before. Then they must rely on compasses and the race’s obscure official directions. GPS is forbidden.
Runners must locate 13 books – largely chosen with an eye for dark comedy, eg Unravelled, Lost and Found, and There Is Nothing wrong with You: Going Beyond Self-hate – in each course loop, and tear out a page corresponding to their race number. After each loop, the pages are counted and each runner is given a new number. There are no aid stations, just two unmanned water drops that are often frozen solid. Those unable to finish are serenaded by the Barkley’s official bugler playing a discordant rendition of ‘Taps.’
All runners must sign a disclaimer that reads: ‘ If I am stupid enough to attempt the Barkley, I deserve to be held responsible for any result of that attempt, be it financial, physical, mental or anything else.’
‘ The runners come for something they could fail at,’ says theman behind it all, Lazarus Lake, or Laz for short. ‘And the less likely it is that they can do it, the more attracted they are to it.’
The event was indirectly inspired by James Earl Ray, Martin Luther King’s assassin, who escaped from nearby Brushymountain State Penitentiary in
‘ THE RUNNERS COME FOR SOMETHING THEY COULD FAIL AT. AND THE LESS LIKELY IT IS THAT THEY CAN DO IT, THE MORE ATTRACTED THEY ARE’