The inaugural Navarino Challenge proved to be a wildly successful event and went on to become an important annual occasion, with me continuing as the official host and ambassador. It didn’t change all of Greece, but it did change some of Greece. The Greek people needed something positive, and the Navarino Challenge provided a glimmer of hope. Enough with the hardship and austerity for a moment, let’s run together and celebrate the goodness of life. It was my small contribution to this country I’d come to love, my way of doing what I could, and it made me proud.
The Navarino Challenge also gave me a chance to wander deeper into the sinews of the land, exploring some of the byroads and back trails of Ancient Greece and working on a plot to launch my own Hokule’a-like re-creation of an ancient odyssey. Still, there was much research and investigation yet to be done to arrive at the start.
And the one person who could get me there was an aging professor living in the countryside of England.
15
GIVER OF THE WATERMELON
There’s only one person who knows more about Pheidippides’s travels from Marathon to Sparta than Dr. Pamela-Jane Shaw, and he died 2,500 years ago. Other than the man himself, she is the world’s foremost authority.
Preferring to go simply by the moniker “P-J,” Dr. Shaw first became interested in the topic as a student of history and has since gone on to become the preeminent expert on ancient hemerodromos routing. As the expedition leader of a group that explored and mapped a large portion of the ancient passageways used by Pheidippides during his epic run from Athens to Sparta, she guided this 5-day trek across the Greek countryside, cataloging and surveying important physical observations pertaining to the landscape and distinctive topographical landmarks Pheidippides could have relied upon to navigate this vast stretch of unmarked terrain without the use of a map or GPS. In 1997, P-J published an article that appeared in the periodical Geographia Antiqua entitled, “Message to Sparta: The Route of Pheidippides before Marathon.” To this day her research remains the most authoritative work ever published on the subject.
Professor Cartledge introduced the two of us, and we corresponded frequently, P-J and I. She was remarkably forthright and helpful, always willingly sharing with me great volumes of research material, historical photographs, and detailed notations from her work. While she wasn’t a runner herself, we shared a mutual passion in the history of this particular ancient Greek athlete, and that common thread formed the fabric of a bond that developed between us. She was passing along her legacy to me, and I was honored to take the torch and run with it.
My interactions with P-J were occasionally adventures unto themselves. At times I would receive answers to my questions in a matter of hours, yet other times weeks or even months would pass without a response from her, and I would start to worry. Then an eloquent, thoroughly researched, articulate, and thought-provoking reply would arrive in my in-box that completely upended my previous thinking on the topic I was researching.
P-J’s mind assembled information in fantastic ways. She had cataloged and archived so much historical record and firsthand observation that she was able to cross-reference inferences and minor passages from disparate ancient sources to draw conclusions that were entirely novel and unique. It continually astounded me that this 21st century Brit had amassed more intelligence on the topic of Pheidippides’s travels from Athens to Sparta than even Herodotus had.
In my ongoing dialogue with her, one thing became evident: If I were ever to approach any sort of re-creation of Pheidippides’s historic run, I would need to revisit Greece, this time in the sweltering heat of summer, as the Battle of Marathon took place in early August.
And so I returned to Athens in the summer of 2014 and set about my work. Hitching a ride, I headed for the hills of ancient Greece to do some reconnaissance and exploration. I needed to hit the trails and survey the landscape more deeply.
Greece in the autumn can be quite warm, as it had been during the Navarino Challenge, but the heat of summer elevates things to an entirely new level. It smelled as though my hair was singeing as I worked my way along the rocky, exposed hillside. There was a certain raw savagery to the searing beams of solar radiation bombarding this particular stretch of pathway I ran upon, and it seemed to be further concentrated and intensified by the curvature of the landscape. I scurried along quickly, like a bug trying to escape the deadly rays of a magnifying glass held by some sadistic child. The heat was just unbearable, and it was only nine o’clock in the morning. It reminded me in some ways of the Badwater Ultramarathon in Death Valley, or running across the Sahara during the 4 Deserts Challenge, but the shafts of light cast by the Greek sun seemed to be more piercing in certain ways, more intense and focused.
Not only had P-J previously traversed these paths herself, she had scoured the surrounding passageways as well, searching for potential alternative routes that Pheidippides could have used during his travels to Sparta. In her Geographia Antiqua research paper, she plotted numerous courses that he may have followed.
Sparta was a powerful and important Greek city-state, and the Athenian leaders would have chosen their most noble and physically able herald to interact with the Spartans. Not only must this individual have possessed godlike athletic prowess, he must also have been a wise diplomat and a gifted orator, even after running hundreds of miles.
In all likelihood, Pheidippides had traveled to Sparta many times prior to his historic run. Given Sparta’s prominence, communications with this city-state would have been frequent. Using a single herald to interact with the Spartan leaders would allow a greater level of familiarity and trust to develop between the parties. The Greek city-states were not always on the best of terms with each other, to put things lightly, yet they all seemed to realize the importance of banding together in unity, especially in the face of a threat such as the Persians posed. Given that a mutual defense pact, epimachia, was in effect between Athens and Sparta at the time, an Athenian messenger would have been welcomed. Pheidippides would have probably specialized in this particular route from Athens to Sparta and would therefore have an intimate familiarity with the terrain.
Having participated in the renowned Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run on a dozen occasions, including once during the wintertime, I was aware of a certain intimacy one develops with a particular stretch of geography after multiple passages across the same ground. Traditionally held the last weekend of June—summertime in the Northern Hemisphere—the Western States Trail is located in California’s Sierra Nevada mountain range and proceeds from the Squaw Valley Ski Resort near Lake Tahoe to Auburn, just outside Sacramento. A rugged wilderness trail, it has remained largely untouched since the time of the early settlers.
People may think the mind grows dull after prolonged periods of intense exertion and that one would easily lose his bearing, but just the opposite is true. The senses become more acute and attentive, almost as though the physical threat compromising the body forces the mind to take up the slack. A protracted fight-or-flight response ensues in which awareness progressively sharpens while the body and muscles increasingly weaken and fatigue.
I can remember, with great clarity, events and locations from nearly every single Western States race. The people whom I interacted with, the conversations we had and the emotions that came as a result, are etched upon my memory. I can describe their faces with vivid detail, the color of their hair, what they were wearing, and even the types of shoes they had on. Specific geographical landmarks stick out with equal clarity. Certain rocks along the path become familiar; particular trees, abrupt rises or descents in elevation, and the views afforded by various vantage points all get mentally imprinted and cataloged like data on a computer chip.
A hearty scent of pinesap emanates in certain regions of the trail, while the pungent odor of sagebrush pervades others. The crackling of the earth underfoot is sharper in areas where crumbly granite sands cover the pathway, while in other sections of trail one’s feet land in a soft p
owder of dark silt from the decaying bark of nearby pines. The damp, cool dawn air grows increasingly drier and lighter at higher elevations, while the warmth of twilight’s lasting gleam lingers thick and dense well into nightfall, when the stillness of the daytime silence gives way to the sounds of clicking crickets and croaking frogs as the nocturnal phase of the earth’s rotation becomes the new reality, the day’s hazy blue skies fading into complete blackness bejeweled by a million twinkling stars.
There are points during the 100-mile crossing when the midday sun relentlessly scorches the earth, with little protection to be found anywhere. But I remembered things: On the left-hand side of a particular stretch of trail there is a slight shadow cast by the nearby trees that provides a sliver of shade to run under. A creek at the bottom of a particularly deep canyon offers a refreshingly cool place to reconstitute and hydrate, which is good because a long, arduous, and brutally hot uphill section follows, an area where a windless vacuum of stagnant air hangs thick and heavy, like a Turkish bathhouse. Even during the inaugural wintertime traversal of the Western States Trail, these familiar guideposts were clearly identifiable, if not mentally more than visually (since many of them were buried under several feet of snow).
This phenomenon of developing an intimate knowledge of a section of landscape is not unique to me. I’ve talked with plenty of other long-distance runners who have reported similar experiences. Perhaps it is a remnant of our primitive survival skills, but during periods of intense physical duress, we catalog information meticulously and store it in a cerebral databank that is both permanent and immediately accessible. To recall every single step of a 100-mile footrace that transpired more than 2 decades earlier is quite extraordinary, though it occurred entirely without intentionality, like some intuitive homing device.
A glaring difference between running a 100-mile sanctioned footrace in present-day California and running an ultramarathon in 4th-century-BCE Greece is that there would have been no reliable rehydration and refueling stations along the remote mountains and countryside of ancient Greece. At the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run there are numerous aid stations set up along the course; athletes are not only familiar with their whereabouts but rely on them for nourishment and the resupplying of fluid. Orienteering solo through remote Greece, as I was now doing, was an entirely different proposition.
Yet I was pleasantly surprised by the abundance of water and streams I came upon during these exploratory treks. Even in the scorching midsummer heat, there was water to be found. One side of a ridge might be stony, scorched earth, dusty and barren, devoid of life and inhospitable, while on the other side would lie a lush, green oasis. Some of the subterranean upwellings were thermal pools, while other areas of greenery were fed by cold spring water. I imagine if one traversed this region frequently enough, they would learn the precise locations of these outlets and could pace themselves accordingly.
During my investigative training runs I would stop at many of these sparkling emerald waterways and wet my clothing or splash some cold water on my face and neck. I’d also refill my water bottles with the cool liquid.
Several of these waterways led to enchanting little waterfalls with spiraling tendrils of moss dangling off the cornices, like long strands of Medusa’s hair. The turquoise pools below were surrounded by a shoreline of colorful lichen and velvety sphagnum. Bizarre-looking toadstools of fairytale-like proportions sprouted everywhere, some having stalks as sturdy as tree trunks; they were colorful, many being rusty red or tangerine orange, while others sported vibrant latticework arteries of dazzling purples and blues interwoven throughout their bell caps. Frogs and turtles abounded. They appeared totally unfazed by a human’s presence, as though they’d had no prior contact with such a freakish species and thus nothing to fear. Dragonflies the size of hummingbirds lazily danced about, sometimes landing on nearby tree branches, sometimes sunning on one of the elephant-ear-size leaves that sprung from the foliage in every direction. The entire scene was magical, as if it were a ride at Disneyland. But this wasn’t a theme park, because the fruit wasn’t made of plastic.
I was amazed to find an abundance of wild foodstuff growing along these creek beds. There were berries and pomegranates, and fig, pear, apple, and plum trees. Apparently because of the reliable and consistent source of groundwater, nearby vegetation was able to thrive even during the intense summertime heat. Foodies rave about the goodness of field-to-table foods, but I had it even better—branch to mouth.
Sea buckthorn grew in certain regions, too, though a bit less abundantly than some of the other shrubs and plants. The prized fiery-orange berries were easy to spot as the shrubs tended to grow in large clusters. I thought about the ancient hemerodromoi plucking berries from the thorny branches as they went by and chewing on them as they ran along. The fruit tasted astringent and peppery, with notes of citrusy sweetness, and it gave my body a pulse of energy when I ate it, though I’m not sure if that came as a result of some bioactive components in the fruit or on account of the sharply acerbic taste explosion on my palate. Either way, chewing on sea buckthorn definitely puts a kick in your step!
In the process of re-creating Pheidippides’s historic run, I and others have found that the general direction in which he would have proceeded from Athens was not difficult to ascertain, for he would be heading due west toward the Isthmus of Corinth and needed only to follow the trajectory of the sun. That was an easy course to follow. The difficult part for anyone trying to reconstruct his path today is the rat’s nest of intertwined roadways and pavement in every conceivable direction, along with the noxious miasma of sooty exhaust choking the air and making it nearly impossible to decipher where a plausible footpath from Athens to Corinth may once have existed.
As I proceeded deeper into the hills and on to the more remote rural sections, attempting to navigate a likely path went from being complex to being entirely bewildering. P-J’s research had been conducted many years earlier; since that time new roads and developments had sprung up. Some areas had changed considerably, though others had remained largely untouched since ancient times. The number of potential choices for plotting a course magnified the more pastoral and rural the geography became. After the Greeks, the Romans had once been there, and later medieval Byzantines, and then the Germans during WWII. All had passed through these parts, and fragmented remnants of their presence remained. Not only was there a variety of possible dirt paths to follow, there was a matrix of jeep roads and ancient stone passageways to choose from, and there was an almost incomprehensible multitude of divergent routes that appeared to be goat trails or paths cut by wild animals, of which I spotted plenty during my travels.
On several of my exploratory outings I had encounters with such animals, especially in the deeper brushy areas where thick shrubs and tall, grassy reeds largely concealed the ground. Wildlife seemed to be everywhere. I saw untold numbers of snakes, big snakes, snakes the length of park benches and fat as eggplants. They slithered along silently, totally camouflaged by the thickets and ground cover. Often spiderwebs would net my face. It was unavoidable. And like the snakes, these were no small spiders, but gargantuan furry spiders whose ensnaring webs seemed capable of halting a charging rhino. There were plenty of turtles, spiny porcupines, and the occasional fox, which seemed to appear most frequently toward the evening hours, as did swift-flying birds of prey with their sharp talons at the ready to pounce on an unsuspecting groundhog. There were also reports of bears in these areas, though I didn’t see any of those, thankfully.
Another thing I didn’t see any of were other humans. I’d run all over the world, and these were some of the most captivating and enchanting hills I’d ever wandered. Had this been California, the trails would have been filled with runners, mountain bikers in colorful spandex outfits, hikers with cameras and binoculars, and kids chasing butterflies with nets. There’d be signs warning about snakes, and rangers would frequently patrol the area to keep things safe. But this wasn’t California;
this was a place where time has stood still for the better part of the past millennium. The only human encounters I had were with the occasional goat herder tending to his animals.
It was probably dangerous for me to be running out there alone. What would happen if I were to encounter a bear? Should I be carrying a gun or at least pepper spray? Even if I did, it wouldn’t help if I were to be bitten by a snake or were to tumble down one of the many cliffs I traversed. I carried a cell phone, but there was no reception to be had out there. No one would find me for days, or even weeks, if I were to injure myself and couldn’t go on. Yet strangely enough, I wasn’t worried at all and set about my explorations without concern.
Near the junction of the roadway where I’d exited from the trail was a small market. I stopped in to grab something cold to drink. When the aging shopkeeper behind the counter spotted me coming through the entrance, it was as though Jesus Christ had just walked in the door. Her eyes widened and her face grew ghostly white; I thought she might pass out. Then, when she finally regained a bit of composure, she began frantically making a cross upon her chest and mumbling something incomprehensible in prayer. I could see tears welling up in her eyes. Did she think I was there to bless her or to rob the place?
When she eventually gained her composure, she began talking to me in an endless rambling stream. Her English was nonexistent, and my Greek was atrocious, so I didn’t understand a word of it. Then I noticed an old television above the counter, and from what I could gather from her Greek, I surmised that she’d seen me on TV. I could tell she wanted to hug me, but she was too polite and respectful to do so. She was going on and on, and I felt so bad because I had little idea what she was saying. Finally, she put up her hand as if to say, “Wait . . . wait just a minute,” then she slipped out the back door.
The Road to Sparta Page 11