Antarctica

Antarctica (January 21st, 2002)

South Pole Marathon: Antarctica is the highest, coldest, driest, most windswept place on earth - truly the last frontier. The first ever marathon to the geographic South Pole took place on January 21st when athletes ran at an effective altitude of 12,000 feet, in wind chill temperatures of -50C, against a freezing headwind. Richard won the marathon race and ran a further 3km on top of the traditional marathon distance of 26.2 miles (42km) to complete an ultramarathon of 45km in total.

First Ever South Pole Marathon
By Richard Donovan

The inaugural South Pole Marathon was scheduled to take place on January 8th, but weather delays and related logistical problems meant the race was not attempted until January 20th. At that stage, we had already lost the tough German athlete Raphael Rottgen who regrettably was forced to leave Antarctica because of work commitments. I have no doubt that Raphael would have thrived under the harsh conditions, which incorporated altitude of 10,000 feet, wind chill temperatures of -50C, a headwind of about 7-10 knots, compacted snow of about 4 inches depth covering three-quarters of the course, and sastrugi, or wave-like formations of ice, covering the remaining quarter.

It had only just begun, however, when the race of January 20th had to be abandoned. From what began as a bright and pleasant day by Polar Plateau standards, a whiteout occurred making it impossible to see the markers which lined the 26.2 mile route to the Pole. Although these flags were positioned at 200 metre intervals, one had extreme difficulty even distinguishing the white ground surface from the surrounding sky features because of the thick fog that descended on the course. Not surprisingly, the race was aborted after a couple of miles and snowmobiles were summoned to collect and return us to our base camp tents. Although these tents were situated within a few miles of the starting line, along with the DC3 plane that transported us to the Plateau, the camp proved difficult to locate under the whiteout conditions. We ended up, unknowingly, taking a rather large circle and approached the starting line again from the wrong direction. Eventually, we did find the base camp, thawed out and contemplated what was not to be for that day.

The aborted race did provide useful lessons. The race would take much longer than anyone's initial estimates and I noted in my diary the same evening that 20-minute mile pace throughout would be optimal. It is difficult to imagine competing at a pace that is almost four times slower than regular marathon pace, but this would be the reality. The altitude and cold in particular just take all of your energy, so much so that sitting idle on the Plateau would make you lose weight. Although the actual altitude is about 10,000 feet, the effective altitude is 12,000 feet given its Polar position and related atmospheric conditions. In addition, the extremely cold temperature and headwind can create problems other than simply the prospects of hypothermia or frostbite. Your own breath, for instance, can fog up your goggles and thereby make it difficult to see ahead as well as requiring that they be cleared periodically. Furthermore, the balaclava and facemask, worn to protect your face, ears and nose from frostbite and windburn, can contribute to inhibiting your already laboured breathing under the altitude.

On the evening of the abandoned race there was widespread concern that the event might never be run. We were at the mercy of the weather in that we needed a relatively clear day, but Nature of course might not be so forthcoming. A clear day was not just needed for the athletes to see the course: it was required for the DC-3 support plane to land at the half-way point in case there were any casualties to the severe conditions. Each day we spent on the Plateau, we also became weaker. We additionally knew that the DC3 plane's contract with the race organisers was reaching its end date within days.

In the event of there not being a good day on January 21st, alternative scenarios were earnestly discussed that could enable the race to be run while employing acceptable safety measures. Among the safety predicaments facing us was that, even with a staggered start, athletes could be strewn along the course with potentially large gaps in between. This scenario would be a support and safety quagmire in what is a very volatile and changeable environment. However, at this juncture, an extremely generous gesture was made by two of the athletes, namely, Ute Gruner of Germany and Don Kern of the USA. Although these competitors had the ability and willingness to complete the course under the conditions, they both felt they would do so at a slower rate than the other athletes. As such, they decided to opt out of the 26.2 mile run to the South Pole and elected to do a half-marathon on an out-and-back course at the Pole itself. In doing so, Ute and Don would minimise the need for the DC3 plane to land at the halfway point and enable a couple of snowmobiles to support the remaining athletes. By having only snowmobiles covering the runners, and removing the necessity for a support plane, the requirement for absolutely clear weather would be diluted somewhat.

On January 21st, the day began with the sun blocked from view. The only option, given the circumstances, would be the snowmobile support one. Once we had started, the DC3 plane would fly directly to the Pole and our finish line: landing at the Pole is much easier than landing on an unmarked snow runway, particularly if visibility is not ideal. Nonetheless, we were informed by the race coordinator that if one of the athletes had to abandon the race, whether through injury or through being a victim of the conditions, then all of the athletes would be forced out of the race - there would not be enough cover for the remaining athletes if one retired and required a snowmobile to transport him to safety. Moreover, we would all have to be transported to safety together.

Given these latter stipulations to complete the race, I decided I would strap snowshoes to my runners. I had never worn any before, but my overriding concern was the risk of hyperextending an already injured and weak right knee once again. I had hyperextended it in the snow prior to going to the Plateau and it remained swollen and vulnerable. Indeed, a German orthopaedic surgeon who had tended to it gave me a 50% chance of completing a regular marathon on the road and I was still taking anti-inflammatories. By wearing snowshoes, however, I could provide some stability to my knee as I ran and had less chance of falling victim to a 'surprise' deep patch of snow. I certainly did not want to be the person who would end the race for the others because of a lame leg! The amazing US athlete from Cheyenne, Wyoming, Brent Weigner, also chose to wear snowshoes. Brent is the first person to have ever run seven ultramarathons on seven continents and is a vastly experienced and respected athlete in the ultramarathon world.

In order to satisfy the safety concerns of the organisers, it was agreed that the race would be run expedition style over most of the course with a sprint in to the finish over the last few miles. We were now ready to begin and were taken to the starting line for a 6pm start. However, the expedition style pact was effectively ditched from the outset as the competitive instinct took over and the adrenalin began to slush its way through our bodies. Dean Karnazes, an accomplished ultra runner who elected to compete without snowshoes, bolted into an early lead before the official stopwatch began and opened up a very considerable margin before the rest of us were even out of the blocks! Over the first few miles, he gradually increased this lead. I decided to run conservatively, sticking to my twenty minute per mile plan, which I presumed would reap dividends over the longer term. The cold and altitude were simply not conducive to faster running and moving any faster opened up the possibility of hitting the wall early and being unable to continue. Worse still, any such recklessness by me, or indeed any of us, could lead to race abandonment were we to become seriously ill or unable to move. Although Brent Weigner remained close by me over these opening miles, he also appeared to be ignoring the distraction of other competitors' pacing.

Only two miles into the race, I had to stop to remove a middle layer of thermals from my legs. I was overheating. My upper body was a comfortable temperature - neither too hot nor too cold - and I was very happy with my layering system. I had a thin silk type layer closest to my body, which was designed to wick out perspiration. My second layer was a thicker fleece layer and the third layer was an outer windproof shell complete with ventilation zips. However, the need for three layers on my legs was quickly proving unnecessary and I stopped and struggled to remove my second layer. I promised myself I would not stop again to tamper with equipment as I could feel the perspiration starting to freeze on my inner clothing: it takes only a few minutes for this happen. My fingers had also begun to numb at the tips.

Four miles into the race and I was already closing on Dean who was visibly slowing. I was suffering very acute pain in my hip flexors (bursa tendons) because of my body's unfamiliarity with snowshoes and the altered leg motion they required. Two miles further and I had caught Dean, who was now suffering from the cold and was considering a change in some of his gear. I continued onto the largely sastrugi section of the course and opened up a significant gap quite quickly. My tendons felt like they had two knitting needles pushed through them but I tried to ignore the pain that I was now resolved to experience for the rest of the race. I continued to drink water at regular intervals, turning away from the wind to take each gulp. The lengthening time periods it took for a support snowmobile to reach me suggested I was opening a widening gap. In fact, halfway through the race, at the end of the sastrugi or harder ice section, I had a lead of almost a mile. Unknown to me at the time, Brent Weigner had slowed and ran with fellow US competitor Dean Karnazes, who was suffering through a bad patch and had called on Brent for support.

Lumbering into the second half of the race, I had a huge build-up of solid ice accumulating inside my balaclava under my chin. It was impossible to remove it. My toes were also feeling decidedly cold. Earlier in the race, I had lifted my goggles onto my forehead and removed my facemask so that I could see and breathe easier. I had also lowered the balaclava on the right side of my face so that I could slot carbohydrate jellies into my mouth without having to labour with removing masks and then repositioning them. Moreover, a balaclava and cap separated my head and face from the biting wind and cold and the impact was now becoming apparent: the right exposed side of my face was becoming iced up and my nose hurt somewhat from windburn.

I continued on, constantly trying to keep moving, and always looking forward to the point where the mile markers would indicate single digit distances to the South Pole. The miles seemed endless and difficult to judge - there are no visual cues like buildings or other city structures to give you a reliable sense of distance. There is just an endless seam of ice. Occasionally, as I plodded along the surface I could hear a crashing sound some forty metres away. It was as if the ground was crumbling nearby when, in fact, it was probably just small break-ups of snow and ice resulting from the vibrations of my impact. Although we were told there were no crevasses on the course, these eerie sounds certainly lead to some cautious steps. With six miles to the finish, a snowmobile approached me and the support driver filled my water bottle. He confirmed I had a two-mile lead and turned back in the direction of the other competitors. I knew it would be impossible for me to be caught unless some kind of disaster struck. This seemed unlikely given the spectacular sun which beamed down from overhead. It was surrounded by halo-type rainbows, like the rings of Saturn, and these rainbows seemed to touch the ground to my right. I moved on as briskly as I could until potential disaster almost did strike!

With three miles to go, there were no route markers to be seen. Snowmobile tracks suggested a turn to the left, but the course had been relatively straight for the previous few miles. The South Pole was also not visible and some light fog was periodically obscuring my view. I hovered around the same spot for some five to ten minutes hoping that the support snowmobile might arrive or that I could catch a glimpse of the next flag marker, but nothing. I was concerned that my lead was being squandered and knew I had to make a decision. I chose to follow the snowmobile tracks. Wrong decision.

I wandered a few hundred metres, not sure where I was going but beginning to realise it was probably the incorrect direction. I was essentially lost. Luckily, I caught a glimpse of a flag to my right and proceeded hurriedly in that direction. Ironically, it was not a flag that was laid out for our race but nevertheless led me in the correct direction so that I could see other flags into the distance as the sun began to shine brilliantly again. As I approached the two-mile point, a support snowmobile caught up with me, re-supplied me, and then moved on ahead to the finish line. With two miles remaining, I could see the finish line looming, or rather, the Amundsen-Scott polar station. Soon, I was at the one-mile marker and the actual finish line was clearly visible. A small crowd was also evident, presumably from the station. What a relief!

As I headed into this last mile, Ute and Don came out to greet me and congratulate me. They were successfully nearing the end of their own half-marathon and were a very welcome sight. In fact, given their earlier sacrifice to do a half marathon, they were two of the main reasons why I was in this position. I wrenched off my balaclava and my cap and ran in what I thought was the last 100m - unfortunately, it was about 400m to the line and I ended up getting frost nip on my left ear! The Amundsen-Scott staff were friendly and cheering and perhaps slightly relieved that we were all going to make it and I was too.

When I crossed the line, my hip flexors seized up completely and I succumbed to hypothermia. I was shaking uncontrollably and felt fairly exhausted, but mentally strong. Dr. Duncan Gray, the expedition doctor from Scotland, sat me down and forced some food and hot drinks into me. Before I knew it, I had been sitting down for some twenty minutes and shortly thereafter Dean and Brent arrived at the finish line in that order, respectively. But Brent, the plucky veteran from Wyoming, didn't just stop there. He continued on to run an additional 3km to win the ultramarathon section, decisively beating me in the process. I could only marvel at his drive and stamina as I struggled in behind him.

This concluded the racing, but not the physical suffering. I suffered frostbite on my toes and the tips of my fingers were also numb. I also got a mild dose of snow blindness as a result of neglecting to wear my goggles throughout the race. Finally, I ended up on a drip, taking a few litres of IV fluid to counter the depletion I suffered. Was it worth it? It sure was!