The Road to Sparta

by Dean Karnazes

  A deeper reality, however, was that I didn’t really fear blisters all that much. Sure, they might be gruesome and painful, but they would never stop me. I’d once developed severe blisters on the first day of a 6-day run across the Atacama Desert in a remote area of South America. But even with a marble-size, fluid-filled blister festering under my big toenail, I was able to complete the race (winning, actually). Perhaps subconsciously I like pain.

  As quickly as my musing had begun, it dissipated. I snapped out of it to once again be swept away by the natural beauty of the setting we were running through. Walled by steep limestone cliffs along the inland side of the highway, the sparkling Bay of Salamis now came into full panoramic view across the seaward side of the road. The rain had stopped and the day was windless and calm, which made the water look like porcelain, the opaqueness of the low-lying clouds reflected like mirrors off the still surface. It appeared as though one could ice-skate across the broad expanse, effortlessly gliding onward with one gentle stroke and then another, Whoosh . . . whoosh . . . whoosh . . . whoosh . . .

  “KARNO!” suddenly I was jolted from this spell. “Hope it’s cool if I call you that.”

  I turned to see an oxenlike figure, big and broad shouldered, with a bold, booming voice to match. I knew this man, though mostly by reputation. Prior to this roadside encounter, we’d only once briefly met in person. But his lore preceded him, and I felt like I knew him better than our chance acquaintanceship would indicate.

  Brash and unfiltered, Dave Krupski wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. A standout collegiate athlete at Yale, he went on to attend Notre Dame Law School, graduating magna cum laude. Dave was a true scholar and a polished orator.

  “Dude, so howzit going?” he asked.

  “Ah, so far so good, I guess. You?”

  “It feels hot out here to me,” he said. “Does it feel hot to you?”

  “Yeah, it feels a bit warm for sure.”

  Dave was a brawny, muscular guy, which could be problematic for a long-distance runner on several levels. First, working muscles tend to generate and retain more heat, the metabolic processes working like small kilns to provide a constant source of energy. Servicing these active muscle fibers requires a greater flow of blood, which can force the heart to work harder in an attempt to pump additional volume. Consequently, the entire cardiovascular system gets placed under greater demands. I’ve consciously tried to reduce some bulk myself, for these very reasons.

  Dave seemed hardly affected by his brawn, though. This guy was a beast of a runner, despite his barrel chest and twin-cannon arms. His résumé included several dozen sub-3-hour marathons along with an impressive list of ultras, many of which stretched beyond the 100-mile mark. And he didn’t just finish these races; he often won them. That same relentless drive he’d applied toward achieving excellence as a lawyer was now being transferred to the tarmac.

  Another athlete came running up from behind. He was European, I think, perhaps from the Balkans or Ukraine. Or maybe he was Brazilian. He spoke a language that was completely undecipherable to me; almost no words, or even sounds, could I understand. I’d learned a bit of Portuguese in my travels to Europe and South America, and also I spoke some Spanish, French, German, and Italian, but nothing he said registered.

  He was trying to explain something to me, and though I couldn’t understand a word, I knew without much effort precisely what he meant, because it was exactly the same thing many people had been attempting to articulate to me over the past few days. He had read my book, at least one of them, and was trying to express this to me. My books had been translated into 16 languages, so runners across the globe now had access to them. Many runners could identify, personally, with the stories of struggle, pain, loss, and perseverance in these books because these are the same experiences they share themselves. We runners are united in this way.

  Through my books, I’d become something of a de facto conduit between runners of various nationalities at these international events because I was the one commonly known entity among athletes of various ethnicities, many of whom spoke different languages. Whether one hailed from Germany or Japan, Slovakia or Brazil, the Czech Republic or Korea, New Zealand or Italy, they knew me as the author of those books about running. It was an unintended consequence of publishing my books, and it was quite beautiful.

  It was also somewhat confusing. Here was this poor guy going on and on trying to express himself, and I couldn’t understand a word of it. Finally, he looked at me and realized this fact. He smiled, laughed at himself, and then gave me a runner’s hug. That’s the other universal trait we runners share; we’re not afraid to hug (even while running). It’s a bit awkward at times, but quite touching nonetheless, and probably something the world could use a little more of these days, though I digress.

  I’d never let such notoriety go to my head. I’d been largely unaffected by it, never growing impatient with people, regardless of the setting or circumstance, and never taking any of it for granted. I thought of myself as just another runner, part of the clan, nothing more. A passage by Epictetus had profoundly shaped the way I sought to conduct myself in this regard:

  To live in the presence of great truths and eternal laws, to be led by permanent ideals—that is what keeps a man patient when the world ignores him, and calm and unspoiled when the world lavishes him with praise.

  Dave had disappeared during my conversation with the other runner (er, attempted conversation with the other runner), and in the interim it seemed to have gotten progressively hotter outside, stifling almost. The road we were running along continued to weave near the seashore, but the air remained thick and heavy. There were numerous aid stations set up along the way—nearly every few miles it seemed like another appeared—but the only thing I was getting at these stops was water. My appetite was starting to reemerge, but I was relying only on ancient foods and they were entirely absent at these outposts. Overflowing with energy bars and electrolyte-replacement formulations, these stations provided plenty of modern athletic foods, but no figs, olives, pasteli, or cured meat were to be had.

  I had one fig left in my satchel and I ate it, but it hardly filled the growing void in the pit of my stomach. We ran past a tavern called Zorba’s and I thought about how nice it would be to indulge in some flaming saganaki and a plate of tiropita, dolmas, and souvlaki, with perhaps a piece of baklava (or an entire platter) and a shot of ouzo (or the entire bottle) to finish things off. Yes, I was growing hungry.

  Dave reemerged. “That guy was cool, but your critics are not. They’re a bunch of jealous whiners,” he announced. “Some of the shit they post [to the Internet] is pathetic.” Clearly, this was a man who didn’t mince words.

  He was referring to another unintended consequence of my rising notoriety, though one that was a bit less uplifting. Shocking, really, and a bit disturbing, too. At first I was taken aback when someone posted a critical remark about me. I took it personally, and it was hurtful. What was I possibly doing that could spark such ire in a person? The condemnation was generally over a perception that I was in this sport for myself, or that I’d given away the “Holy Grail” of running by exploiting our sport and exposing the whole world to the joys of ultrarunning.

  Fair enough, I thought. Everyone’s got a right to his opinion. Having critics kept me grounded, and that was a good thing. And, truthfully, I found some of the criticism useful, and I appreciated the feedback. I made changes in response and became a better person in the process. Then again, some of the rants were entirely unjustified and seemed to be poking fun at me, personally, more than anything else. These comments were always left online by someone using an alias like “toe jam” or “butt butter.” Never once had anyone come up to me in person and expressed such misgivings. My father taught me that if you have a problem with someone, take it up with him or her directly. Don’t slither around behind their back; conduct yourself with honor and talk to them up front. These were the ageless Greek ideals I was raised on. Live
life virtuously. Irrespective of outside forces, never compromise your principles. For, as Socrates had recognized, it is better for the soul’s sake to suffer wrong than to do wrong.

  Perhaps the Internet age had brought out the worst in some people, or at least made it easier for such people to express their opinions publicly. Whatever the case, having malicious barbs lobbed at me was one element of being me that I still hadn’t warmed to.

  “Haters gonna hate,” Dave added. “Don’t take it personally. Everything I’ve seen of you is nothing but positive. You’ve done more for this sport than anyone else, and you’ve inspired plenty of people along the way.”

  “Thanks, man, I really appreciate you saying that. Sometimes it gets to me.”

  “Look, there’s always going to be a few envious sulkers out there who have nothing better to do with their time than sit online and criticize others. Just remember, they’re the minority. Look at all the good you’ve created. Don’t let those bastards drag you down!”

  “You oughta be a coach. That’s one helluva pep talk!”

  “I am.”

  “Legal advice?”

  “No, running; branched out from the courtroom into the playroom and started a coaching service.”

  “I think you oughta offer psychological counseling, too.”

  “A running shrink, that’s good.”

  “Aren’t all us runners a bit crazy? I think there’s a market for it.”

  “Ha! But on that topic, I heard you’re following some crazy diet. How are the olives, figs, and sesame-honey mush treating you?”

  “Pasteli.”

  “Huh?”

  “That sesame-honey mush you’re referring to, it’s called pasteli.”

  “Whatever, dude. I think you’re crazy subsisting on that crap during this race. Seriously, ever thought about a shrink?”

  “Give me your card and I’ll be in touch.”

  Dave’s support about those critics had been soothing, though I’d long before accepted that no man can ever be free unless he learns to forgive. If Prometheus could endure the injustice of being bound to a rock by his evil nemesis, his liver pecked out nightly by bloodthirsty vultures, I could certainly forgive a few vile remarks left online by some loathsome Internet trolls. Their trespasses were forgiven, and I was liberated from any ongoing pain that may have otherwise gnawed away at me. My liver remained intact.

  Another aid station appeared ahead, and just as quickly as Dave had surfaced in my life, he vanished into the quixotic opium running great distances inevitably evokes. People appear and then they disappear. Faces emerge but then mysteriously teleport to some future stage of the race or to some future stage of life. We were nearing the 40-mile mark, and the notorious Southern Mediterranean heat was progressively mounting. Skies were clearing, but a certain vaporous, mental ether was condensing within my brain like a brooding hallucination. My mind was adrift, but my legs kept churning ceaselessly onward into the fomenting sepia abyss, the hazy cerebral solemnity broken only by the sound of repetitive staccato footfalls strumming the ground: tap, tap, tap, tap . . .

  22

  STALKERS

  There are different theories about food intake during an ultramarathon. Some prescribe eating prodigious quantities and frequently, adhering to a more-is-better school of thought. Eat early and often, the saying goes. Ultramarathoners have been known to consume 60 or 70 gel packs during the course of a 100-mile footrace. Others preach limiting calories or restricting foods to certain types of macronutrients, such as fats of a particular composition (like medium-chain triglycerides, or MCTs). Then there’s the 40:30:30 Zone plan (i.e., 40 percent calories from carbohydrates, 30 percent from protein, and 30 percent from fat) and the 4:1 carb-to-protein ratio strategy for fueling the body. Volumes of research are used to support each approach, with some studies being more credible than others, but for an athlete looking for answers, it’s all a bit confusing and overwhelming.

  Personally, I’ve always subscribed to the “listen to everyone, follow no one” approach. We are each built a bit differently; what works for others might not work for me (and vice versa). So I’m constantly experimenting with various nutritional strategies and continually tweaking my diet until I hit upon something that seems to work. In the final analysis, what usually works best for me is to simply listen to my body (go figure).

  Sometimes during a race I feel ravenous and consume all kinds of food without regard to composition. Other times I crave syrupy, high-carb foods or savory, salty foods. Sometimes I’m not hungry at all and eat hardly anything.

  The same holds true for fluid consumption. I’ve run a sub-3-hour marathon and consumed only half a glass of water the entire way. Conversely, during the Badwater Ultramarathon, a grueling 135-mile footrace across Death Valley in the middle of summer, I’ve consumed as much as 9 gallons of liquid—more than half my body weight—over the course of 28 hours of continuous running.

  My conclusion is that if you feel thirsty, drink. If not, don’t. If you feel hungry, eat. If not, don’t. The worst thing you can do is to force yourself into following a predetermined plan even if your body isn’t agreeing at the time.

  My problem at this juncture in the Spartathlon was that the inner workings of my body craved calories, but a lingering nausea had made the thought of eating completely unappealing. The illness I’d been suffering over the past week had diminished my appetite. Consequently I’d dropped a few additional pounds on top of the weight I’d already lost while training for the Spartathlon. I needed to eat, but a pervasive nausea left me incapable of doing so. What was causing this queasiness?

  Not half a mile down the road I got my answer. The racecourse passed yet another row of refineries and petroleum processing plants that were spewing more vile-smelling fumes into the surrounding atmosphere. I sucked in a hearty lungful of these repugnant emissions and almost immediately began coughing and choking. A thick, foul-tasting reflux from the pit of my stomach rose into my mouth. It tasted like the putrid backwater sludge of a bayou. I spit out a corrosive black wad of this acidic goop, and it splattered on the roadside like an oil slick.

  The horrendous air quality was not something I’d anticipated having to contend with during the Spartathlon, and I was woefully unprepared to deal with it, perhaps more so than any of the other athletes competing in the race owing to the cleanliness of the air I normally breathe. Where I live in Northern California, Marin County, the air is remarkably pristine. The prevailing westerly winds blow in straight across the Pacific, which serves as a massive cleansing and purifying filter. The only thing separating my house from the shoreline is a forest of tall redwood trees, and any pollution generated farther inland from us is pushed away from my house by these persistently strong westerly winds. On days when the wind isn’t blowing, which are typically fewer than a dozen per year, the county declares a Spare the Air Day and prohibits activities that emit airborne particulates, like the use of wood-burning stoves and fireplaces and certain types of diesel machinery. Air quality is taken very seriously in these parts, and further boosting air purity, the region has one of the lowest rates of smoking in the nation. Inhaling secondhand smoke is almost unheard of in Marin. The hypersusceptibility to poor air quality I was experiencing now was likely due to the fact that my body’s natural defenses weren’t acclimated to it.

  I came upon another aid station and had a sip of water to wash down the tinny, acrid residue still left on my palate, and my mood was brightened by the cheerful group staffing the small post. I’d never been to a race before where there were so many stops along the way. There were legions of volunteers staffing these checkpoints, and they were all incredibly upbeat and supportive, always quick with a smile and a shout of encouragement. Many of these people could barely feed their families, yet here they were cheerfully and dutifully feeding us. It is the Greek way.

  Pheidippides would certainly have had a lonelier time of it. Rarely would he have encountered a smiling face, if at all. As he passe
d through the various city-states along the way to Sparta, he’d likely have met with people, though these interactions were probably more formal in nature. Although the Greeks universally agreed upon safe passage of messengers, these were troubled times. All the other city-states except Athens and Sparta had bowed to Darius; thus alliances would be strained. If Darius were to learn that one of these city-states offered Pheidippides assistance in his quest to recruit the Spartans into battle, he might no longer honor his vow to spare the lives of its inhabitants for surrendering to him. If the Persians were to prevail in their quest to rule Greece—and odds were pretty good that they would—those city-states that had provided aid to the resistance would likely be annihilated.

  It is hard to imagine what Pheidippides’s mood must have been like as he approached these other territories. He probably had friends there from his previous travels, but things might be different given the current state of affairs. One absolute certainty: He wouldn’t have had 75 well-stocked aid stations set up along the way with cheering volunteers. He also wouldn’t have been running on pavement, which 95 percent of the modern Spartathlon is run on. My heel was all too aware of this fact. Because of my hastiness back at Megara, my soggy foot had developed a blister. How big, I didn’t know. But the unmistakable tenderness resulting from prolonged friction was clearly recognizable. I would need to tend to it in Corinth, perhaps lance and tape it if necessary. But that wasn’t for another 10 miles.

  Dave resurfaced as if from out of nowhere, and we ran together for a bit more.