Spartathlon 2018

     I wanted to share a few thoughts and experiences from our recent trip to Greece for my race. Many of our friends expressed some interest, and I hope reading this doesn’t make you sorry you asked. Spartathlon is a foot race held annually on the last weekend in September in between the cities of Athens and Sparta in Greece. Runners from around the world gather at the Acropolis in Athens, and over the space of 36 hours make their way to the statue of King Leonidas in the city of Sparta, 153 miles away. 

Race Route

King Leonidas Monument in Sparta

     First some history. It’s the history of the events that inspired this race that makes it so unique and special, and my love of both running and history put Spartathlon at the top of my running goals. I’ll try to keep it short....

     In the 6th century BC, Greece existed not as the unified country with defined borders we know today, but as a series of independently ruled city-states who would often fight amongst each other, but from time to time would unite against a common enemy. Ionia was a region in present day Turkey, conquered by Cyrus the Great, leader of the Persian empire. This enormous empire was attempting to gain control further into the Greek states.  The Greeks in this region, unhappy with this arrangement, attempted to expel their Persian rulers. With the help of Athens, Ionia temporally threw out the occupying Persians. Darius, emperor of the Persian empire at the time of this uprising, regrouped his forces, retook Ionia, and vowed revenge on Athens for their support of the rebellion. 
     The first Greco-Persian war was the Persian empire’s first effort to teach Athens a lesson and subjugate Greece after the Ionian revolt. Darius easily defeated and occupied cities in his path at the beginning of the invasion in 492 BC. The following year he gave diplomacy a try, sending emissaries to all of the remaining city-states asking for “earth and water”, traditional tokens of submission. Seeing Darius’ success thus far in his campaign, and fearing the alternative, most complied. In Athens, however, the ambassadors were tried and executed, and in Sparta, they were given their earth and water in the form of being thrown down a well. These acts of defiance only increased the Persians resolve to subjugate Greece. 
     In 490 BC, a large Persian force landed at Marathon with plans to advance from there the 25 miles to Athens to exact the destruction promised by Darius. The Athenian army, vastly out-numbered, dispatched Pheidippides, their best runner-messenger to Sparta to request help from the Spartan army.  The Spartans, knowing they would be next if Athens was defeated, agreed to march to Marathon to fight. It’s not known for certain why the Athenians didn't wait for the fabled Spartans, but apparently seeing an advantage, attacked and defeated an army that out-numbered them by 10-1.  By the time the Spartan army arrived the battle was over, and the Persians were retreating back to Asia. 

    Pheidippedes ran the 150+ miles from Athens to Sparta, arriving, according to the historian Herodotus, the day after he left Athens, ran back to Marathon in time for the battle, then ran the 25 miles from Marathon to Athens to deliver the news of the victory to the king. Upon completion of this last leg of his journey, he did the thing he is most well known for, which is fall over dead. The popular marathon race, of which there are hundreds each year in the US alone, has it’s origin in the commemoration of this last bit of Pheidippedes’ long journey.

    Though the 26.2 mile marathon has long been popular, for about 2500 years or so, no one felt the need to repeat the Athens to Sparta leg of Pheidippedes’ desperate journey. Some historians felt that the time frame of 36 or so hours in Herodotus’ account was evidence of it’s inaccuracy. In 1983 an RAF officer and distance runner called John Foden coaxed a few friends into joining him in trying to run a route Pheidippedes might have taken, and 3 of the five were able to get to Sparta the day after they left Athens. The Spartathlon was born, and the race has been hosted annually by Greece since then.

     It’s been a dream of mine to run the Spartathlon since I first learned of its existence 10 years or so ago. I finally got my chance at this year’s race, the Spartathlon’s 36th formal running. I won’t belabor the selection process, but it involves a 2 tier qualification standard, allowing elite runners to bypass the lottery process that the rest of us must use. For runners like me there is luck involved, and I was surprised to see my name on the list of participants after the February drawing. Most countries are allowed a maximum of 25 slots, none of which are guaranteed, and this year the American team consisted of 15 runners.

Pre-race U.S. Team Picture
    
 I consider myself a casual runner compared to many who participate in the sport of ultramarathon running. Between a more than full-time job and a side business, family commitments, etc, my training was probably not optimal, and certainly not what most do in preparing for a race like this. I ran as much as I could anytime I had the chance, ran in the heat of the day often, (typically conditions in Greece in late September are quite hot), I ran hills, pulled a tire, that kind of thing. I had time to do only 1 training race, the rugged and difficult Scout Mountain Ultras 100 miler in southern Idaho. My training peaked at about 90 miles a week, but some weeks, due to other responsibilities, I didn't run at all. 

     M’Lee, despite knowing that this would be no vacation, travelled to Greece with me, and having her there made the trip so much better. We arrived 2 days before the race.

Day before race at The Acropolis

     It amazes me that a person can leave Moses Lake in the morning, and find himself in Greece that same day in Moses Lake time. As I was wishing for a little more leg room while eating my hot meal at something approaching 550 MPH, 38,000 feet over Greenland, it struck me that a good day of travel not so long ago was covering 15 miles and not being killed in the process. In any case, we finally arrived in Athens, rented a car and made the short drive to the host hotel in Glyfada, a seaside suburb of Athens. 

     I had a day and a half to try to adjust to the 10 hour time shift between Moses Lake and Greece, during which there was race check-in, pre-race meetings, and a few other details to attend to. I had the chance to meet and become friends with the other members of the US team. I felt I was probably the slowest among them, but my goal was to finish, and if they, or the nearly 400 other runners from around the world for that matter beat me to Sparta I didn’t care, as long as I got there too. 

     The english version of the pre-race meeting was conducted by Costos, who's last name by his own admission is “long and complicated, like most Greek names”. He promised to greet each of us, if we managed to get there, at the foot of the statue of King Leonidas in Sparta, the finish line for the race. 

     Pre-race Meeting

     After a fitful night of “sleep”, we got up early and drove to the start line, at the Acropolis in Athens. If you take the time to read travel guides before traveling to Greece, most will advise you not to attempt to drive in Athens. A quick look at a map of the city and you will understand why. Haphazard street layout, Greek drivers, whom Costos warned us about, coupled with dark, rain, and non-functioning GPS made the drive a hair-raising event, but we managed to arrive at the starting line with 12 minutes to spare. Most of the races I’ve done have been mountain trail races that typically start at a campground, forest service road, or some other convenient place for runners to gather. The starting line of the Spartathlon however, is truly awe-inspiring. We started at the Acropolis, with the Parthenon lit up above us, just as sunrise was approaching. I wished I had had a little more time to take it in, but like the other runners, I was anxious to get going.

      Starting Line
     At the starting gun, the nearly 400 of us made our way down hill on slick cobble stones and marble tile walkways to the city streets below. I left M’Lee, her nerves frazzled by the drive in and the prospect of finding her way out of the city and to Sparta on her own, with a great sense of guilt. 
     The first 30 minutes or so of the course takes runners through Athens to the outskirts of the city where traffic was a little lighter. Greeks drive with a sense of urgency and abandon that I think even Utah drivers would find alarming. Motorcycles and scooters weave in and out of traffic without regard to formalities like lanes and speed limits. I expected to see pile-ups and carnage at every turn, but with experience, street smarts, and maybe a bit of natural selection they make it work. 
     There was a steady rain, light at first, but I didn't mind. I was grateful that we wouldn't have the heat and humidity that often adds to the challenge of this race. Every few miles there were check points where you can fill your water bottles and grab a little something to eat if you need to. Each, however has a cut off time associated with it, and late arrivers are scooped up by the dreaded “death bus” for an expedited, though much less satisfying, trip to Sparta. 
     Long races have developed a pattern for me. At first I think I could go on forever, by 10 miles I think my legs are hurting much more than they should at this point in a race, and by 35 miles or so pain management becomes an important part of the endeavor. By “manage” I mean “put up with”; often there really isn’t much else that can be done. At about 10 miles I developed a nagging pain in my achilles, something unusual for me, I have no idea why. In running, as in life, it’s useful to focus on the things that don’t hurt rather than those that do, but this became increasingly difficult as the day wore on. The irony of being hampered by an achilles problem in a race in Greece wasn’t lost on me. 

     Once out of metropolitan Athens, the course runs along the beautiful Agean Sea.

The rain eased up for a while and I had the luxury of running for what turned out to be the few dry miles of the race. Throughout the race I enjoyed meeting and, as much as language barriers would allow, chatting with runners from the 50 or so countries they represented around the world.
     We passed through Kineta, one of the coastal towns devastated by wildfires this past July.Seeing the burned out houses where many lives were lost added a somber feel to this portion of the race. 

     We soon reached the Corinth Canal, site of a major check point, where many runners meet crew members or other supporters. This was a high point of the race for me. I had been so worried about M’Lee, and it was such a relief to see her happy, smiling face. 

     The Corinth Canal separates the peninsula called the Peloponnese, which comprises much of southern Greece, from the mainland. It was first conceived in the 7th century BC, and over the centuries numerous construction attempts were made, but for a variety of reasons including financial and engineering shortfalls, the project wasn't completed until 1893. It stretches 4 miles from the Saronic Gulf to the Gulf of Corinth, and due to it’s narrow width and tricky currents, never became the shipping shortcut it was envisioned to be. It exists now primarily as a tourist attraction and historical curiosity, but is an interesting and beautiful feature of this part of Greece.

     Ever worried about the cutoffs, I took time for a quick look around, a hug and a photo with M’Lee, and went on my way. By this time I had built up a 45 minute or so cushion against the cutoff, but I knew that with any small hitch in my day that could evaporate that in a hurry. 

After crossing into the Peloponnese, the course passes by ancient Corinth, winds through small villages, farm land, vineyards, through olive and citrus groves.

          Ancient Corinth

It was cool, overcast, and rained on and off, but not enough for me to bother with the rain shell I was carrying.   
     All along the course we were greeted and cheered by bystanders, and in the small villages children would ask for autographs, which I found cute and hilarious. The world-class runners had long since passed through, but they still came out with their soggy notebooks to get autographs from anyone who would pause long enough to sign. 
     As night approached, the rains and the wind picked up, and for a brief time the rain shell was useful as a protection from it. Soon, however, I was at the “wet as I’ll ever get” point and accepted that it wouldn't change for the rest of the race. It was a relief in a way: I no longer had to fuss with gear and dodge flooded sections of the road trying to stay dry. I had been stopping along the way to take pictures, but as the rains picked up I couldn't get the touch screen on my phone to work, so I gave up on that, another time saver.
     I had a cushion of about an hour at the 100 mile mark. I was concerned about this cutoff because the 22.5 hours allowed is faster than I usually cover this distance. The cutoffs relax a little after this, giving 13.5 hours for the last 53 miles. This is also the start of the only trail section, a 3000 foot climb over Sangas pass on Mt. Parthenion, and based on race reports I had read, I expected a treacherous scramble over loose rock. In reality, it was a challenging climb on rocky trail, but not remarkable compared with the mountain courses I had run in the Western US.  Costas told us that race volunteers had put a lot of effort into making this section better and safer, and I was grateful for their efforts as I climbed. 

     It was after the Mt. Parthenion traverse that Pheidippides reported meeting and having a conversation with Pan, the Greek god of nature in what was probably the first recorded instance of ultra runner’s hallucination. I soon had some of my own:  a stump protruding from a hillside that looked like a giant cat head swaying to and fro as I ran by, and a large, hairy spider slogging through the water on the road in front of me. 
     The most challenging aspect was that about this time the rain and wind intensified. I thought it was just the effect of the mountain as there was a bit of a respite on the leeward side, but once away from the mountain we got the full force of the storm. I didn’t know it then, but this was the leading edge of Cyclone Zorba, a category 1 hurricane on it’s path through the Peloponnese. I had checked the weather before the race, if noting the benign little cloud with a few drips coming from it on my phone app can be called checking the weather. I’m not sure how an approaching cyclone escaped our notice, but it took a lot of us by surprise. 

My Friend Zorba

     Through the first 100 miles, aside from the aforementioned achilles, physically I didn't have anything more than fatigue, nausea and some nagging little pains -- standard stuff for me in longer races. At about 105 miles my achilles began to significantly hamper progress, and I started losing a little of the cushion I had built. My strategy was to spend as little time as possible at aid stations, and aside from 5 minutes getting my night/cold-weather gear on at one check point, I hadn't spent more than a minute or 2 at any one spot and skipped many of them all together. Most aid stations had potato chips, cookies and a few other things, and rather than bothering with carrying and mixing my own Tailwind, a product I had trained with, I would usually gulp down some coke or juice, grab some chips or a cookie, which became soggier as the day wore on, and keep moving. The check point volunteers were just outstanding. Most didn't have much cover, and willingly stood in the rain and wind, helping runners in any way they could, trying to keep the aid station supplies dry, and prevent the whole operation from blowing away.
     The worst of the storm came about the last 30 miles of my race. The wind was strong enough that it was hard to move against. It was cold and miserable, and my achilles issue made it impossible to make good time. Some runners suffered with hypothermia, and I remember wondering at times if I was warm or cold, I really couldn't tell, and I even thought for a while that I was dry. There were many runners fairly close together at this point in the race. I knew we were all struggling, but as we leap-frogged back and forth, I heard a lot of laughter, and almost no complaints. I love this about ultra running and ultra runners. If these people can find joy running through a cyclone after 30+ hours on their feet, they can find it just about anywhere. 
     There were some tree branches breaking loose that were large enough to do some damage if you were unlucky enough to be passing by at the wrong time, but I was more worried about the heavy ceramic tiles blowing off the roofs of some of the buildings we ran past. No close calls though, and as far as I know no one was hurt.

     About mile 135

     My only moment of doubt came 9 miles from the finish, when I stepped into a sheltered gazebo being used as a check point, and for the first time in the race sat down. I immediately began to shiver, and wasn't sure I could tolerate another 2-3 hours being out in the storm. I remarked to a British runner sitting next to me that in the US this race would have been called off hours ago. It seems that the fear of liability and mean lawyers affects much of what we do in the US, and I’m not sure it makes our lives any better. 
     After a minute or two the absurdity of quitting the Spartathlon after 144 miles, along with the concern that our shelter, which was shuddering and heaving, was about to blow apart convinced me that the best course of action was to get out of there and get to Sparta. I was so happy at that moment that the race wasn’t in the US, where those of us still on the course wouldn't have had the opportunity to finish, much less the once in a lifetime chance to race in a hurricane. 
     I ran through the rest of the check points, and finally found myself in Sparta, a few blocks from the statue of king Leonidas, the end of the race. I stopped for a few minutes, trying to take in an experience I knew I might never have again. Typically this street and the square containing the monument are choked with cheering supporters as the runners pass by. This year, aside from the few friends and family that could find shelter under the awnings of nearby businesses, the street was pretty much empty. I didn’t care, my sweet wife was there, braving the cyclone, waiting for me. She gave me a big hug, I crossed the line and kissed the foot of the bronze Leonidas, the traditional completion of a runners journey. 

     As promised, Costas was there also, seemingly as unaffected by the storm as his countryman Leonidas. He hugged me and I stepped aside to give another finisher his moment at the finish line. I can admit that it was very emotional, and I was briefly overcome with tears of relief, gratitude, and appreciation for the race, the events it commemorates, and for my wife for giving so much to be there with me.

Because of the storm, the finish line was chaotic and cold.  Not knowing what else to do, I finally made it to our warm car.  After a 30-minute drive (which I remember none of), we made it back to our hotel. 
     After a night in Gythio, a small town on the sea south of Sparta, we drove back to Athens/Glyfada through more torrential rain. By “we” I mean M’Lee- it was a couple days before I could be trusted behind the wheel. 
     The following night, the awards ceremony was held at a beautiful waterfront venue.  We found ourselves drenched again by the rain, which seemed to be the theme of this race. 

     It was a nice event, but we were sad to say goodbye to our new Spartathlon friends. 
I’m grateful to the organizers of this event, which is life-altering for many who run it.  Thank you, also, to the 2018 US Spartathlon team, 11 of whom went on to finish the race, for their friendship and encouragement. Especially to my long suffering wife who was patient with me through the summer with my training, which took so much time and energy away from other things.  Despite the adverse weather conditions, this was an adventure I will always treasure.