After another hour of silence the captain came back on the loudspeaker. This time he announced that the rejiggering effort had been unsuccessful and that they were now going to have to remove all of the luggage and reload it back into the hold, presumably much better this time. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
Another hour passed. Then the captain came on once more. Finally, I thought, we’re ready to get going. Instead, he announced, “Air France-KLM is now on strike,” and the mic went dead. That was it, nothing more was said.
Now I was pissed off. What the heck was going on up there? Did the captain make that announcement and then walk off the plane? Was the whole cargo rejiggering thing just a ploy to buy time? I needed answers. But the flight crew was just as clueless as we passengers were, which was even more unnerving. Nobody seemed to know what was going on. I was fuming, though strangely enough, I seemed to be the only one who was upset. None of the European passengers on the flight reacted as though anything was amiss. I wanted answers, but there was no one to ask.
Another hour of radio silence went by, and then all of a sudden the jets fired up and the plane started moving. There was no announcement, nothing. We just started rolling down the runway. I could see the flight attendants scurrying around frantically trying to get everybody back into their seats. Before we knew it, we were throttling up and preparing for takeoff.
“HOLY SHIT!” I was thinking to myself. “Who’s flying this thing?” Did some kid near the front of the plane notice that the cockpit door was left wide open and sense opportunity? The flight simulator on his mom’s iPad was kinda cool, but this, THIS was the frickin’ mother lode!
Despite my best efforts, I didn’t get much sleep on that flight. I was a little too nervous to fully relax, to be honest.
When we arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris the next morning, picket lines had already formed. A full-blown labor strike was now under way. I had long since missed my scheduled connection to Athens and was hoping I’d be able to somehow take another flight later that day.
Finally, after hours of anxious waiting, I caught an Aegean Air flight to Greece. Akis and Peter met me at the airport, as the 2nd Annual Navarino Challenge was set to get under way the week prior to the Spartathlon. My parents had flown in from Southern California to join us. They had arrived earlier in the day and were already at the hotel. It was late in the evening when I arrived at my room, and I barely made it to the bed before blacking out.
It wasn’t a long night’s sleep, for we’d planned to meet in the lobby for breakfast the next morning. Seeing my parents in their homeland was about the most heartwarming sight a son could ever wish for. We embraced. “How’d you guys sleep last night?” I asked.
“Okay,” my mom replied.
“I slept like a rock,” I said. “Was everything all right?”
“A skýlos came into our room and crawled into bed with us.”
“What! A dog got in bed with you?! Did you shoo it out?”
“No, but I probably should have. He was a real bed hog.”
“Mom! This is a four-star hotel.”
“I know, but it’s Greece.”
I had to chuckle at that. It wasn’t my first time in Greece, nor was it the first time I’d heard that line.
Yeah, this was Greece all right, and despite all the trials and tribulations involved in getting here, it still felt pretty darn good being back.
It also felt good spending time with my parents. None of us were getting any younger, and I’d heard too many people who’d lost their parents say that they wished they’d spent more time together. I was determined never to let that happen to us, so I brought my parents with me wherever I went whenever possible. It helped that I genuinely enjoyed their company and that we got on well together, though they did possess two very different personalities. My father could be tense, and intense, at times. An exceedingly prompt man, if he told you he’d be somewhere at a certain time, not only would he reliably show up, he’d arrive half an hour early. Nick had strong opinions and maintained rigid positions on certain subjects. Although principally a fun-loving man, he had an obstinate streak within him and could become slightly ornery on occasion.
My mother, on the other hand, was a carefree and whimsical soul. Very few things rubbed her the wrong way. Nothing, actually. She pretty much rolled with the punches and was unfazed by much of anything. Mary Francis, “Fotini,” had a slightly looser relationship with promptness than her husband. Meetings and appointments were viewed more as rough approximations, nothing particularly fixed or rigid. So long as you arrived within a general range (i.e., some time that same day), all was good.
I traced this lax mannerism back to her Ikarian roots. Few clocks are synchronized on Ikaria. In fact, few clocks even exist. None of the shops or stores have them; neither do the restaurants. They somehow magically open when people get hungry and close when everyone’s done and decides to go home.
Time is immaterial on this sun-kissed Mediterranean island, deadlines malleable. Everyone casually runs behind. Argamisi, as the Ikarians like to say (late-thirty). Attitudes remain carefree and life stretches along merrily without measure. People forget to die.
But they don’t forget to live. Family gatherings and get-togethers mean everything on Ikaria, and celebrations are frequent, though they sometimes get off to a late start. I was told a story of a young Ikarian who arrived at a wedding a day late (her own). But that didn’t matter because the guests had already started celebrating (I guess you could call it a prenuptial commemoration). Eventually she joined the merriment herself, because the priest didn’t show up for another day after that. Once vows were finally exchanged and the marriage officially consummated, the celebration continued for another 3 days until all the revelers decided it was time to walk back to their villages and have some rest.
When my yia-yia (my mother’s mother) was a young girl, she remembers her mother sending her brother down to the store for some eggs. Apparently, along the way, he met a group of friends who were heading to the other side of the island for a party, so he decided to join them. He showed up back at the house 4 days later, and the first thing their mother said to him was, “Where are my eggs?”
Summertime visitors speak of the Ikarian “Golden Triangle” (i.e., from bed sheet, to beach towel, to napkin). There’s no need to keep track of time for regulating such movements. The lazy flow from one to another of the trio occurs naturally when things seem right; there’s no need for annoying buzzers or alarms. So long as you remember the suntan lotion, all is good.
The euphoria of seeing my parents and reliving some memories over breakfast was preciously short-lived. Almost immediately the procession of activities commenced. There were speeches to give, press conferences to attend, talks to be made at local schools, and sponsor appearances planned for that evening. By the time we finally finished dinner, it was well past midnight. We capped off the day with a shot of ouzo, though for me it was less of a celebratory toast than a tranquilizing agent so that I could get some rest.
Unfortunately, throughout the course of the day, I’d grown progressively ill and was now feeling like a festering petri dish of contagion. Brushing my teeth, I glanced in the mirror. I didn’t look like my normal, vibrant self. There was no sparkle in my eyes; rather, there were dark circles and bags. I looked washed out and haggard. This wasn’t good. It was the worst imaginable time to be getting sick. The next 12 days would be a whirlwind of nonstop commitments and activities culminating with the Spartathlon. Getting sick wasn’t part of the plan.
The last thing I recall before nodding off was a comment a friend once shared: “Wanna make the gods laugh?” he smirked. “Tell them your plans.”
The incubation went like clockwork, and in the morning the green monsters crawling out of my nose looked angry and possessed, like something Odysseus battled during the Odyssey. How was I possibly going to get through the day, let alone the next 12 days?
Sometimes you’ve got
to fake it to make it. Throughout the course of the Navarino Challenge I did my best to put on a happy smile and retain an upbeat and cheerful demeanor. These people were so excited to see me, and I, in turn, was genuinely glad to be seeing them. My state of mind had nothing to do with the external setting and everything to do with my compromised health. When you don’t feel your best, a dark cloud hangs over your head wherever you go. I’d slipped down a few rungs on Maslow’s hierarchy and was now more concerned about survival than self-actualization.
Although the Navarino Challenge involved a couple days of back-to-back running, the longest distance was only 21 kilometers (i.e., a half-marathon). I could schlep my way through that relatively short distance no matter how horrible a bug I harbored. There may be a few unsightly snot rockets ejected from my nostrils along the way, but a half-marathon is something I knew I could get through, despite being ill.
And I did.
By the conclusion of the first week in Greece, my condition had steadied. It hadn’t worsened, though it hadn’t gotten much better, either. It had reached a plateau and stabilized. The most troubling repercussions from this illness were that my body clock refused to reset. Usually I’d adjust to a new time zone in a matter of days, but I’d now been in Greece for a week and still hadn’t adapted. Things had better change quickly, as the Spartathlon was right around the corner. For that race I knew I couldn’t fake it to make it.
18
FOR GREECE, FOR HOME
As we have seen from my trials and tribulations in the backcountry of Greece, the exact distance from Athens to Sparta is impossible to know given the vast number of potential routes and detours Pheidippides could have taken. Greek historian Isocrates says it was 1,200 stades, while Pliny fixes it at 1,140. And then there is the issue of the length of a stade itself. Most take a stade to be 200 yards, but the ancient stadiums were closer to 180 yards. Thus, the likely distance Pheidippides covered between Athens and Sparta is somewhere between 136 and 142 miles.
What sort of condition might Pheidippides have been in at the time of his departure? Could he have been nursing an injury? Did he get a good night’s rest the evening prior? Was he at the top of his game, or had his training been slacking off prior to being called to duty? These things will never be known with certainty, though we can assume that as a trained professional and the chosen one to undertake this critical mission to Sparta, Pheidippides was in a constant state of readiness and fully prepared to carry out his duties at any time should the need arise.
What did the man look like? Did he have a solid physique? What was his age? According to the Suda, an ancient Mediterranean encyclopedia, hemerodromoi would have been beyond ephebos (adolescence) and more mature. It is likely that Pheidippides was a bit older and more senior than the average hemerodromos, probably in his late twenties (remember, life expectancy was much shorter back then). The supposition that he was an elder herald is based on the fact that it would have taken time to develop the navigational skills, physical experience, diplomatic poise, and familiarity with the Spartans necessary to earn their trust. Because he would also travel through many other city-states on his journeys, having solid relationships with those entities would assure his safe and expedient passage.
Regarding his physical stature, Pheidippides was probably firmly built. From modern analysis we know that high-impact weight-bearing exercise—including running—helps develop bone density. The belief that Pheidippides had a muscular physique is further validated by excavations of the necropolis at Eleutherna in which anthropological data showed the people living there to have had extremely strong lower legs, likely in response to the never-ending physical demands of their duties and lifestyle. (Eleutherna is in a mountainous region of Crete that was home to an abundance of trained-athlete militia.) Running great distances over prolonged periods of time in uneven and challenging hilly terrain recruits many of the body’s major muscle sets in the legs, core, upper body, and arms. It can therefore be reasonably presupposed that Pheidippides and the other hemerodromoi maintained a high strength-to-weight ratio, with a thick and sturdy skeletal structure.
Yet, having a strong body is only part of the equation. Having a strong mind is equally, if not more, important. There is a saying at the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run: “The first 50 miles are run with the legs, the next 50 with the mind.” There comes a time when the human body is fully tapped out, depleted, and spent. Even the mightiest cannot go on forever; this is where mental fortitude comes into play.
Mastering the mind is a complex process. A warrior has confidence, yet is not blinded by foolhardiness. He knows that victory is never assured, regardless of one’s abilities. Mastering the mind requires an intimate awareness of one’s weaknesses and shortcomings as well as the mindfulness to mitigate and overcome such vulnerabilities. A warrior is humble and unassuming, knowing that despite possessing great strength and discipline, triumph must be earned each and every day.
In the period leading up to the Spartathlon, my mind was cluttered and overwhelmed with outside stimuli. After the conclusion of the Navarino Challenge, the pace never slackened. Once I was back in Athens, more invitations and requests flooded in, things that were important to me like visiting local schools, attending charity fundraising events, supporting Greek economic development, and touring historical sites and museums. There were more interviews and press conferences, which were challenging, along with a dizzying array of new people I met and was introduced to along the way, many of whom had equally challenging names to pronounce. There were Aiketerine and Vasiliki, Panagiota and Evangelia, Alexandros, Calliope, Demetra and Panagiotis, Elias and Theodoros, Athanasios, Spiros, and Charalampos. Most of these people were associated with the media, I think, or an institution, or an event, or something? To be honest, I was never actually sure. But there were hundreds of new faces every day, some speaking English, some not. I continued feeling sick and broken down, though I did my best to conceal it. I didn’t want attention or sympathy directed my way. This wasn’t about me; this was about doing my best to give back to the people and the country that had welcomed me as one of its own. Sto kalo, as the Greeks say, to the good.
But an introvert needs quiet time to digest and process unfamiliar settings and situations, to catalog and make sense of new occurrences and put things into a logical perspective. There was no such solitude to be had, the procession of frenetic activity continuing unabated, finally climaxing in an invitation to tour a museum in the small township of Marathon, where I was to meet the mayor and be recognized for my contributions to the sport of running during a press event.
This was something I would have loved to have done after the Spartathlon. The thought of driving hours to Marathon and back to attend another ceremonial affair so close to the start of such an intense physical test lacked the appeal for me that it otherwise would have held, though I kept these sentiments to myself. For now, I simply resolved to smile graciously and try my best not to sneeze or cough on anyone (or to get sneezed or coughed on!).
Naturally, we got lost trying to find the museum and ended up on some country road along the outskirts of town. The houses we passed were simple one-story structures, with dirt yards and laundry drying outside, hung by wooden clothespins. Chickens and goats wandered the roadways, appraising us curiously as we passed but in no great hurry to move out of the way. Round and round in circles we drove. Our GPS kept misdirecting the route, almost as though our destination didn’t exist.
“Akis, are we lost?” I asked.
“I’m not sure; these roads aren’t on my GPS.”
Just then we came upon what looked to be a warehouse, where a large group had gathered outside. Apparently we’d arrived. There were about 75 people in front of the building along with the mayor, who stood at a makeshift podium. All of the attendees appeared to be affiliated with this event in one way or another; there didn’t seem to be many museum-goers walking around, and the nearby parking lots and streets were entirely devoid of cars,
even though it was peak visiting hours.
The front of the building itself was fairly understated. An abandoned elementary school, it lacked any massive neon signage or billboards to announce its presence; rather, there were a simple bronze statue of a runner in front and some flagpoles. The mayor turned out to be a really cool guy. A radio DJ and media personality, he was completely new to politics and pledged both to end corruption and balance the budget, no mean feat in these parts, apparently, as he’d learned the day after being elected that the town was 25 million Euros in debt. His speech was funny, poignant, engaging, and powerful, even though most of it was in Greek.
After he presented me with the certificate and award, it was time to enter the museum. I wasn’t expecting much. What I found inside absolutely obliterated my expectations. There, before me, was the most extraordinary display of marathoning and Olympic memorabilia on the face of the earth. It was a stunning, world-class exhibit complete with remarkable staging, dazzling architectural design, and beautiful natural lighting throughout. Every detail was breathtakingly attended to with meticulousness, taste, and flair. How this forgotten municipality situated on the outskirts of time could contain such a vast collection of priceless historical artifacts was yet another juxtaposed Hellenic paradox.
The Marathon Run Museum was largely the work of Dimitri Kyriakides and his sisters, Eleni and Maria,1 and was a tribute to their father, Stylianos. The youngest of five children born into a deeply impoverished farming family in a small mountainous village, young Stylianos left home at the age of 12 to find employment. He eventually landed a job working for a British Medical Officer, who noticed the boy’s athletic talents and encouraged him to take up running. Stylianos excelled, eventually competing for Greece as a marathon runner in the 1936 Olympics, finishing eleventh overall. Not a medal, but respectable, especially considering the Olympic training program in Greece was nothing close to that of larger developed nations. These Games were held in Berlin, and in an ironic twist of fate, Stylianos was the athlete chosen to present Adolf Hitler with a sprig of wild olive from Mount Olympus, which he gave to him during the opening ceremonies, telling Hitler that it represented a symbol of love and peace. Improbable as it seems, it was actually Adolf Hitler who conceived of the modern Olympic Torch Relay as a way to spread friendship and unity among nations.
The Road to Sparta Page 13