Southern Comfort

RUNNER'S WORLD, APRIL 2006 EDITION (REPRINTED WITH PERMISSION)

The racing’s tough but that’s about the only hardship at the Antarctic Marathon

By Steven Seaton

“I’m going outside and I may be some time”

I never thought I’d have the chance to deliver Titus Oates’ ironic last line from inside a tent in the midst of the Antarctic wilderness, but here I am 600 miles from the South Pole overheating in a head-to-toe layer of Gore-Tex and my Falke thermal underwear. The inaugural Ice Marathon is just ten minutes away and there’s little doubt that it will take me some time.

Outside, the wind is dying down, or at least as much as it ever does in this part of the world, but it’s still picking up snow and ice and throwing it against the side of the tent. The noise of the repeated collisions echoes around inside as I fiddle with two hats and a scarf trying to ensure none of my skin is exposed to the elements. There’s bright sunshine streaming through the double-layered tent, but the air temperature is still –10C and it’ll feel much colder with the wind chill. The thought of what awaits makes my still-warm sleeping bag, lying close by on top of two single mattresses, look very attractive.

Oates would not have been impressed. His famous final words were in fact a verbal suicide note. After walking for weeks starving and suffering with severe frostbite, his decision to step outside was a selfless but ultimately futile attempt to save the remaining three members of Robert Scott’s ill-fated 1912 south Pole expedition.

Although my family thinks I’m away trying something equally heroic, I’m not sure they’d be quite as impressed with the reality. My group flew to Patriot Hills, and its expedition base at the foot of the Ellsworth mountains, on a huge Russian transport plane. Our arrival just after midnight was greeted with a fine cooked meal and another this morning before the race. In between, I managed a comfortable night in my family-sized two-person tent that even has sheets and a fluffy pillow on top of the mattress. In fact the toughest thing I’ve had to do so far is walking a kilometre from the blue ice runway to the semi-permanent structures of the camp. Somebody else carried my bag though.

Even my marathon worries seem pathetically mundane. Will my goggles steam up the moment I step outside into the cold? Is it a problem that I can’t feel my feet inside three layers of woollen socks? And how am I going to use my “pee bottle” using this much clothing?

That lavatory question, particularly vexing in any marathon, is doubly problematic out here. With a 3,000 metre ice cap covering the land, which incidentally means the whole continent sits at altitude, and a strict no-pollution policy, all human waste has to be collected in bags and barrels before being shipped back to Chile. That’s fine when the collection point is one of the camp’s designated lavatory tents but more troubling when you have to carry it in your jacket pocket and then run with it for 20-odd miles. And I’m not even going to think about the potential dangers of exposing myself in these conditions.

It’s all another reminder that the obvious problems of running in Antarctica, such as the cold and the wind, might not be as big a deal as the less obvious ones such as the dryness of the air or the altitude. In fact the biggest challenge in the whole event might simply be making it to the start line in the first place.

Most Arduous Race Journey is one of many labels the race could claim for itself. Although it’s not the only marathon in Antarctica – there’s another long-standing event which is a cruise from southern Argentina and puts its runners ashore to run the race on one of the south Shetland islands off the coast of the Antarctic mainland – it’s definitely the world’s most southerly marathon, possibly its windiest and most expensive and as only nine of us are due to run, it could pitch itself as the world’s smallest too.

As I finally emerge from my tent into glorious 24-hour-a-day sunshine I can see the other runners milling around in a group under the start banner. Wrapped up against the elements it’s hard to tell one person from another, although it’s easy to pick out who’s planning to run and who isn’t.

Ironically, overheating is more of an issue when running in freezing temperatures than being too cold, so most of us are dressed in only two thin layers, one to insulate the body and one to keep the wind off. The camp staff, who have turned out to witness the marathon, are all in the more usual Antarctic attire of bulky down jackets, thick trousers and heavy boots. They see plenty of “strange” people passing through the camp but still seem to regard this escapade as eccentric, although I sense they look on with more amusement than admiration.

The signal to start is a welcome one. Sub-zero air temperatures are comfortable to run in but numbingly cold when you’re just standing around. Our route stretches out ahead as far as the eye can see, a clear path carved out through the little wind blown ice and snow ridges that cover the entire terrain.

The event is organised by Adventure Network International (ANI), the company that runs the Patriot Hills camp, and Richard Donovan, an experienced polar runner who is acting as its race director. Most of ANI’s clients are either climbers trying to tick off the nearby Vinson Massif, Antarctica’s highest peak, off their sporting CV, private expeditions who need logistical support or a few rich tourists looking to “bag the Pole”. It sees the race as a means of filling more seats on its plane although there’s a commitment to make it as authentic a marathon as the conditions allow.

To that end, camp staff spent days before our arrival scouting, measuring and marking out a course, which is effectively one big figure of eight with loops around the mountains on one side of the camp and out onto the plateau on the other. The course has been groomed repeatedly with snowmobiles to make a firmer, flatter surface to run on, marked with distinctive pink flags, and has big bamboo poles in lieu of mile markers. Manned aid stations with warm drinks, food and emergency shelter are sited every five or six miles, snowmobiles will drive up and down the course for safety and there’s even a doctor on standby ready to deal with any emergency. It’s an organisational effort that would flatter a race 20 times the size.

And it’s all very welcome. As the field quickly strings out the reality of running here becomes apparent. It’s hard to gauge your effort in such an alien environment so it’s good to know as I pas the first bamboo pole in nine minutes that I’m going faster than I want to. The early section of the course is flat and relatively fast and I’m tucked in behind the big pre-race favourite, a Russian ultra runner who has a couple of international victories on his running CV. I’m not sure what I’m doing there because I haven’t.

We’re a diverse group from a range of backgrounds: a Blackpool-based GP who hasn’t run a marathon for years; an insurance salesman from San Diego making his first running trip outside the USA; and the director of a security firm from Galway who ran his last marathon at the North Pole, to name but three. In fact the only common link between us is the race itself for which the only real qualification is the ability to pay the $15,000 fee ANI charges for the out-and-back trip from Chile.

Of course that’s a frightening sum of money but in the expensive business of Antarctic travel it’s considered reasonable. ANI charges Mount Vinson climbers $28,000 (£16,000) and if you want to continue on to the South Pole you’ll need closer to $33,500 (£19,000).

It isn’t the thought of money but a watch that crosses my mind as I try to stick with the early pace. Other than the bragging rights, the winner also takes home a £3,400 kobold watch. As the pace quickens from flat to gentle incline, I decide that I can do without a new watch.

When the sun is shining out of a perfect blue sky and there’s a light wind on your back it’s easy to forget the potential dangers of this place and push too hard. The weather can change quickly; a rise in the wind speed would bring a drop in the wind chill making frost damage and even hypothermia constant concerns. Even with all the support on the course you still have to look after yourself. That’s my excuse anyway. It’s nothing to do with my ability to run quickly.

I’m already feeling the effort of running in these conditions. The grooming of the course has helped to make an even running surface but the top layer of snow is soft and slips away under any pressure, particularly on the first climb. It’s like running on sand. The grip on the trail shoes everyone is wearing offers no purchase on the soft snow. It is demoralising stuff, sapping your leg strength as every foot forward is accompanied by half a step back.

By now the Russian leader is starting to disappear over the top of the climb and for a time I’m on my own.

Glancing ahead from the top of the slope the horizon stretches out as if you’re looking at it through a wide-angled lens. Framed within the white landscape the sky and mountains seem on an equally grand scale. If you ever doubt your own insignificance in the face of nature, this place will clear your mind of the thought.

It feels like I should be on my own but I’m glad of the company as one of the Irish runners catches me on the slope. We run together and try to chat, but it’s hard to speak properly through a face mask and with the wind whistling through the air it’s hard to hear anything anyway.

After cresting the hill, tossing down a warm drink at the first aid station and sucking on half a bar of frozen chocolate, we’re on to a gentle downhill section behind the mountain.

In the crisp, clean air you can literally see for miles. The black silhouette of the leader is still clearly visible out in front and in the distance behind us we can see the next two runners moving over the terrain like tiny ants. After the long down there’s another climb back on the other side of the mountain which brings the camp’s tented village into view even though it’s still four or five miles away. Beside it the blue ice runway shines out of the snow like a mile-long rectangular mirror dropped on to the snow.

I’m now running on my own again and the pace is down to ten-minute miling. I’m inclined to give chase to the pair ahead but it would be criminal to run here without taking in the surroundings, or am I just too slow? I can feel the sun beating down through my hat but I know that will change when I pass through the camp and head off into the open windier section of the course. By now I’ve had enough and the joy of the experience is fraying at the edges. My triple layer of socks is killing my feet and will eventually cost me seven toe nails; my hands are constantly vacillating between too hot and freezing cold and the soft ground is draining the strength from my quads. Out on the open plain, the little pink flags are the only spot of colour against the white landscape.

At 20 miles the final aid station before the finish comes into view and it’s the most bizarre of those on the course. It’s at the point where a DC6 crashed in 1993, although now all that’s visible is s ingle wing that sticks up menacingly out of the snow. I take my last warm drink, try to eat a gel that has partially frozen in my pocket and head for home into the wind.

The last six miles of a marathon or always a challenge but this is a nightmare. By the standards of the Antarctic’s ferocious katabatic winds, which have been known to gust at over 200 miles an hour, today’s is but a light breeze, but it’s still strong enough to check your forward movement and force you to run with your head down out of the wind.

It’s a slow trudge to the finish line just outside the camp, which doesn’t come into view until you crest a little rise half a mile before the end. I’m miles behind the winner who finishes in 5.09.38, but only a few minutes ahead of the fourth placed finisher. The rest of the field follows over the next hour or so.

Oates was right, I was out there for some time. My 5.39.35 is a person worst by some way. I’m not troubled at all. The joy of this event is not how fast you run it, but simply that you run it at all.

So you want to run the Ice Marathon…

The next event will take place in December 2006; the entry fee is $15,000 (£8,500), which includes all flights to and from Antarctica from Punta Arenas in Chile in addition to accommodation, food and all logistical support in Antarctica itself. For further details see www.icemarathon.com or email rd@icemarathon.com.

Ultra Ridiculous

If a marathon in Antarctica sounds like a daunting prospect then running 100k is likely to be the stuff of nightmares. It shouldn’t be a surprise to hear it’s never been attempted before, which is reason enough for the race director, Richard Donovan, to insist on it being part of the programme.

As the first person to run marathons at the North and South Poles in 2002, the unassuming Irishman is always prepared to back up his plans with his own two feet. With colder, windier conditions, poor visibility at the start, no manned aid stations and limited snowmobile support, the 100k was never going to be popular with those who had run the marathon the previous day.

Nevertheless Donovan might still have expected it to be more than just a solo effort on his part. But that’s what it turned out to be. Carrying a satellite phone for safety and an MP3 player to break up the tedium of endless lonely miles, he ground out a staggeringly impressive 100k on his own in 15.43.35. To put his effort in context, the race distance represents approximately ten per cent of the overall distance from Patriot Hills to the South Pole, which expeditions generally cover in 50-60 days.

It was also disappointing for those of us who had struggled through the marathon to see Donovan still apparently full of energy at the finish, chatting away in the dining tent and celebrating with a crisp sandwich and a couple of cans of beer.

Ilyushin of Grandeur

Antarctica is the world’s fifth biggest continent, covers 10 per cent of the earth’s land area yet remains its most inaccessible and remote land mass. Fewer than 200,000 people have ever visited the region – the majority merely taking a cruise into its coastal waters and islands – and no one calls it their permanent home.

Yet despite the distances involved – particularly if you’re travelling from the UK from which the Antarctic hub of Punta Arenas on the southern tip of Chile is 18 flying hours away – the continent is surprisingly accessible.

Well it is if you happen to be a geologist or geophysicist working for one of several countries that regularly fly its scientists into the Antarctic’s vast interior to do field research. If not, then your only route in is a seat on ANI’s Russian-built Ilyushin-76, the only private plane that regularly flies into Antarctica.

It is a 4½ hour flight from Punta Arenas to the blue ice runway at Patriot Hills, although as the plane can only land if the wind is below 20 knots (which it rarely is) its arrival and departure is always unpredictable. Our two-day delays going in and coming out are considered a good result: two-week delays are not unheard of.

The flight itself is almost as big a part of the Antarctic experience as the marathon. There’s certainly none of the anodyne waitress service of a commercial flight – just a burly Russian load master incongruously making sandwiches mid flight and throwing out packets of crisps – but then there’s none of the restrictions either. The bucket seats squeezed along the flanks beside a central cargo of fuel barrels, food and supplies offer freedom to roam, while the little holes in the fuselage and glass nose offer great views of the massive icebergs and ice pack of the Southern Ocean. Even the much feared landing was smooth enough to be on the Tarmac of Heathrow.

Poles apart

“Did you see any polar bears?”

At least two of my friends asked me that question on my return form Antarctica. It proves firstly that some of my friends aren’t very bright and also that there’s a degree of confusion between the Arctic and Antarctic.

Since both regions are covered in snow and ice, it would be reasonable to think that running in both environments offers a similar experience. They don’t. The North Pole in the springtime, when its marathon is run, is colder and wetter than the Antarctic in mid summer. The North Pole sits on top of the waters of the Arctic Ocean, so it’s also a potentially more dangerous environment and that’s not even considering the tiny chance of a polar bear encounter.

To minimise the danger, the North Pole Marathon, which takes place on a floating ice camp at 89 degrees north, is run over several laps so that competitors are always in sight of the camp. While that might seem contrived, to do anything else would be irresponsible. Deeper snow and drifts also make it difficult to run in that terrain without snowshoes.

The Antarctic in contrast offers a more predictable, if still potentially dangerous, running environment. Its single 26.2-mile course provides a greater sense of isolation and remoteness, which is enhanced by the difficulty of reaching the race location in the first place. With the hills and altitude it’s harder on the legs and the lungs, which is why the winning time in the Arctic was more than an hour quicker than its southern relation. Of course the Antarctic is the world’s driest desert and its bleak interior doesn’t support life of any form. So, definitely no polar bears and no penguins either, you only find those on the ice floes around the Antarctic coast.

publish365