The Wait 

Four years on a waitlist is a long time to think about and set expectations for an adventure. Expectations that only build as you tell friends and family that you are going, and they celebrate your yet to be accomplished feat.

How do you prepare for an “other worldly” environment when you can't come close to mimicking it? How do you prepare for an event when the best blogs and advice from former participants is simply, "you need to experience it for yourself!". Cranking the incline up to 5 or 7 on a treadmill for miles on end certainly is torturous but does it really ready you for rumored 40 mile per hour winds, white-outs, hills and ice? My breezy, sunny Oakland provided little to make me feel ready for the run, and for the first time, I missed Chicago winters with temperatures in the teens. I craved the wind hissing off of Lake Michigan and the bundled figures bracing through the gale blowing between buildings. These signals, at least small reminders I could push myself in ugly extremes with those equally unhinged. Dedicated runners, or dedicated masochists.  

The Arrival 

After a 20-hour journey from San Francisco, I arrived in Buenos Aires. The group of runners, roughly 200 in total, trickled into the hotel throughout the day. Generally, participants were easily identifiable in their athleisure wear coupled with their searching looks as they made and held eye contact for slightly longer than the norm, checking to see if the look recipient too was about to embark on the ultimate adventure.  

I've always been proud to have run multiple marathons, but in this group, I was a novice. In response to the commonly probed question of how many marathons everyone had run, "25 marathons", "124 races", "60 I think?", "oh, over 50 at this point", were the types of answers given. These were running gods and I was merely a trail shoed plebeian.  

The Journey South

Slightly tan after 3 days in Buenos Aires, but masking building nervous energy, our group split in two, each bound for a different Russian research vessel for the journey. After an early morning flight with the balance of the day spent in scenic Ushuaia, we boarded the Akademik Sergey Vavilov. The ship loomed large, all 380 feet of it glinting in the sunlight of the harbor. That evening I watched the sun come down on the mountains and the rich reds and greens of southernmost Argentina without an inkling that those colors and the land itself would become cherished sightings on the voyage.  

We greeted our first morning at sea bobbing through the Drake Passage, an infamously rough 600 mile stretch of ocean running from the bottom of South America to the South Shetland Islands. We laughed at each other as we wobbled and weaved through the ship’s narrow hallways, many of us displaying the grace of someone exiting a bar at 2 am. I foolishly tried the treadmill, clutching at its front and sides, attempting to tame the mechanical beast pitching up and down in the ship's basement.

As we neared the continent two days later with our race fast approaching, the excitement continued to ratchet up. Our first landing was breathtaking.  A rocky beach covered in penguins and seals. As much as I tried to be present, my mind kept returning to race mode- every gust and slight slip of my boot was being processed into my planning for the run-- I was not fully present on the icy planes. 

After dinner, we eagerly awaited our first update on the weather and course. Our race director began, “Now sometimes when we come to Antarctica, the continent rears its ugly head. It looks like that is going to happen tomorrow.” Immediately my restless leg syndrome set in, and brows furrowed across the group. The race directors decided to move the race start time up by two hours to avoid the forecasted afternoon storm but warned that it would be tight. 

That evening I pinned my bib onto my race gear and counted the layers for comfort. Instead of attempting sleep, I stayed up reading about Shackleton and his exploits as the world’s best known Antarctic explorer. His family motto, “By Endurance We Conquer”, my new mantra.  

The Race

At 5:00 am we received our wake-up call and news that the race was ON. We climbed into Zodiacs, quiet and wide-eyed, and flew across the bay to the frozen expanse. Within the first 5 minutes of running, I knew I was in trouble. Barely into our first 4.4 mile loop, one of 6 we would have to complete, I was dripping in sweat. I stripped off mittens and hat, unzipped coats and necks of shirts but when we hit the turnaround we were back in icy wind instantly turning beads of sweat into ice drops and damp hair into frozen strands. My protein bites hardened into rocks. My face reddened from wind burn. That “warm” downwind segment reversing to the deep freeze continued for each and every lap. 

The course was much harder than I had expected. There were some small stretches of mercifully flat ground, but the rest of the loop was made of hills, small and large. We had blizzardlike conditions more “on” than “off”, and the mile near the turnaround was laden with small slick stones described as “ankle breaky rocks”. By the fourth lap, the wind had picked up from dull roar to shrieking howl. It took energy to not to be blown backwards.

One thing you may not expect from a race in Antarctica is unbelievable crowd support. No, not the penguins. Spouses and children and partners of runners not competing stood along the course for 3, 4, and 5 hours to cheer us on. They hooted and hollered and told us to keep pushing. They each deserved medals for getting us through it.

At mile 25, the tears came. I was running in a place that was completely wild and unpredictable and challenging and beautiful. I had struggled, walked and shuffled, but I was going to finish. I mustered one last spark of energy to jump for a finish photo and then promptly fell apart. One of the boat crew had to hunt through my bags and shove layer after layer over my already bundled torso. Poor soul even had to take my sweat soaked shoes off for me and help me stuff unfeeling feet into boots. I repeated feeble “thank you’s” and “I’m sorry’s” while snot ran down my chin. Running a marathon in Antarctica is not a particularly dignified undertaking.

That evening we celebrated both our victory and St. Patrick’s Day with many flutes of green champagne. I climbed into bed exhausted, relieved and very proud that I had remembered to buy Cheetos in Argentina which I munched under the sheets.

The Destination 

All that I have written above would have made for the trip of a life time. I could have gone home and felt proud of myself and wowed at the scenery. But the trip was just at its beginning. The anxiety of the race melted like the snow in our sneakers and our group began to be fully present. For the next 3 days in Antarctica, the icebergs glowed brighter, the whales breached higher and the glaciers calved louder. The peace I experienced when standing on the deck of the boat wasn’t invaded with thoughts of race day attire or planning, what was happening at home, or what work email I was missing-- my mind was finally just quiet. 

Running on Antarctica gave me deep respect for the place and the creatures that inhabit it. It is a brutal, volatile and remote environment teaming with life and beauty. Something about the place also seemed to bring out the best in the people with whom I traveled. We supported, cheered and looked out for one another in a way you would not expect from acquaintances of mere days. We are deeply bonded by our shared experience. One of the guides with whom I became fast friends wisely told me that there are too few places where people can safely meet and share themselves; in its wildness and power, Antarctica seems to foster this kind of human honesty. 

The Return

When I first started long distance running in high school one of my teachers used to ask me, “What are you running away from?” I always thought this was a silly question. I wasn’t running away from something, I was running head long at something. I was running to find my upper limit, my outer edge of endurance. I was running at a target with no knowledge of where it might be and hoping I would never find it. Antarctica, however, has stopped me dead in my tracks. I wasn’t looking for it, but the experience forced me to slow, stop and freeze for a moment and truly look at my direction and future. Now that I am thawing back in California, surrounded by my loved ones who I missed deeply, I can’t stop thinking about how to hold on to this experience. If I could, I would go back repeatedly and take everyone I care about to see the snowcapped peaks and swooping albatrosses. For now I will have to settle knowing that I will go back some day and hold on tightly to the burning joy and bit of icy wild I found on the last continent.