The Road to Sparta

by Dean Karnazes

  From a competitive standpoint my performance was well below par. I knew this, and I was disappointed in that regard. But I also knew I must still conduct myself as a disheartened champion would. My personal ethos demanded that I always demonstrate arête and uphold my bestness, no matter how weakened my state. As the legendary ancient Greek athlete Archilochus once expounded, “O heart, my heart, no public leaping when you win; no solitude nor weeping when you fail to prove. Rejoice at simple things and . . . know the tides through which we move.”

  Paraphrasing Thomas Cahill in Sailing the Wine-Dark Sea, “the tides through which we move . . .” is a chilling reminder that nothing lasts forever, that life ebbs and flows but eventually all is swept away by the currents of eternity. Let our temperament be humble in both glory and in defeat, let us maintain modesty in times of high achievement and honor in times of heartbreaking failure, and let us never forget that the illusion of permanence can deceive and that all things have their place and time but must inevitably come to an end. If we may conduct our life in accordance with this eternal truism, there is nothing more; we have lived life as best we can.

  A procession of fans was waiting to escort me from the edge of town. Some drove scooters, some road bicycles, and others ran next to me. All were talking at once, asking me questions and hooting at spectators along the sidelines. Kids darted back and forth, nearly tripping me, screaming and laughing all the while. People cheered and clapped, “Bravo! Bravo Kostas!”

  As we rounded the last corner and came running up the final stretch of roadway toward the finish, that cacophony and chaos of banter transformed into a melodious rapture. The pageantry of those last few steps is impossible to describe. I just glided inward as if surfing on clouds. To finish the Spartathlon race, you do something unique within the sporting world. There is no finish line to cross, no mat to step over or tape to break; instead, you conclude the journey by touching the feet of the towering bronze statue of King Leonidas in the center of town. The mayor of Sparta places an olive branch coronet upon the head of each finisher, and you are handed a golden goblet of water from the Holy River of Eurotas, just as Pheidippides had been given. There is no race finish as spectacular as that of the Spartathlon, and there will never be. This is it, the genuine article, the place it all began. Nothing will ever top it. Ever.

  Pheidippides would have met with the equivalent of the mayor in his day, only that man would have been the king. Exhausted as he must have been from his long journey, his job was not yet complete. After arriving in Sparta, Pheidippides would then have to present a compelling case for why the Spartans should join the Athenians in battle. He’d have to pull himself together and appear poised and articulate, communicating with clarity and coherence. Herodotus recorded the moment thus:

  Men of Sparta, the Athenians beseech you to hasten to their aid, and not allow that state, which is the most ancient in all of Greece, to be enslaved by the barbarians.

  Apparently his plea was convincing, for it worked. The Spartan leaders agreed to bring their army to Athens to join forces against the Persians.

  I was ushered into the medical tent for a mandatory racer’s assessment. It was stifling inside and reeked like a public urinal. I’ve been through many postrace medical checks before, but never had I witnessed anything quite like this place. The scene was shocking, total carnage. Some runners were slumped over with their heads buried deep between their knees while others lay lifelessly on cots with IVs protruding from their arms. Many had splints or temporary casts on their legs, blood and sputum were splattered everywhere, drip bags hung like grapes on a vine, soft cries and moans echoed throughout, and people coughed and wheezed uncontrollably. Medics wearing surgical gloves darted about frantically trying to attend to all the wounded. One of them stopped and looked at me. “Were you in the race?” he asked. I nodded my head. “My God, you don’t even look tired.”

  “Then may I go?” I felt like I was just getting in the way of things.

  He excused me, and I stepped out onto the streets of Sparta. There was an assemblage of people waiting for me. They had more books and posters and another batch of things for me to sign. Many had driven for hours to meet me here. Some had come from islands on boats, and they wanted pictures and had special notes for me. Some even brought gifts and homemade platters of food to eat. I’d been running for nearly 35 hours straight, and a long line had formed to get my signature. My journey to Greece and the uncovering of my roots had been a transformative revelation, and the Spartathlon experience was the crowning jewel. Yet the race hadn’t been easy. Although I was grateful for having finished, I was disappointed with my performance. But such were the tides through which I moved. There would be “no solitude nor weeping.” Not now, not ever. Sto kalo, to the good. I would stand here until sunset signing things, smiling for photos, talking with others while holding my head high. These people had traveled far to see me. And now I realized, with great clarity, that I had traveled my entire lifetime to see them.

  Finish of Spartathlon with statue of King Leonidas in background.

  29

  THE TROPHY

  Ivan Cudin of Italy won the race in 26 hours and 18 minutes, and Sugawara Hideo of Japan concluded the race in 35:57:03, fewer than 3 minutes before the cutoff. Somewhere along the road, the hopes and dreams of 146 racers lay dashed. They never reached Sparta; the sand in the hourglass had run dry.

  The drive back to Athens from Sparta was long, but I was with my crew, and it was the first time I was able to formally thank them for their support during the race. Dimitris said he’d never witnessed anything like it before. Like what, I wondered? After all, he’d been at hundreds of races and was the publisher of an ultrarunning magazine. He’d crewed for the women’s race winner, Lizzy Hawker, just the year before. What could be so unique about the experience this time?

  “All you had for the last 75 miles was water. You never ate anything.”

  I explained to him that I couldn’t. The nausea, you know.

  “I know, I saw. But how you were able to get to that finish without eating anything was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Guess I just ran on stored reserves?”

  “Oh no, I think it was more than that.”

  Perhaps it was. Perhaps I was simply acting out my destiny. Perhaps I needed to be at that finish line as much as I needed air itself. Something beyond my body carried me to Sparta, and I think we all sensed that.

  My flight left early the next morning. I was due back in the United States to give a talk. As much as I would have preferred to stay in Greece a while longer, it was not meant to be. Life moved faster than I desired it to. Strangely, though, as we sat there preparing for takeoff, my mind was quieted. I was content. Somewhere along humanity’s cultural progression we seem to have confused comfort with contentment, but I now realized that contentment doesn’t come from comfort; contentment comes from living through great discomfort. As the plane’s landing gear tucked up neatly into its compartment, I looked out the window one last time to see a shimmering sunrise over the mountaintops beyond Agios, rays of golden light beaming skyward into the heavens above. Once again, I sat awestruck by the majesty of this timeless land. Greece is a place for lovers, and Greece is a place for dreamers. Greece is a place for those who seek, and Greece is a place for those who seek escape. Greece is a place you go to lose yourself, and Greece is a place you go to find yourself. I had set out to find Pheidippides, and in the process I had found myself.

  “Men search out God and searching find him,” Aeschylus once said. This had been my search.

  The long flight back to reality wasn’t bad; my muscles weren’t too sore and recovery came quickly. Part of the reason for this, I knew, was because I’d scaled back on my pace so drastically during the Spartathlon, downshifting into a lower gear and sacrificing performance for the certainty of finishing. I did what needed to be done to reach Sparta. My body could better tolerate this reduced output, and the amount of
muscle and tissue destruction was thus minimized.

  I learned that Dave had also gotten the job done. He said he’d probably drunk an entire case of Coke during the race, but he finished. It’s amazing what a little sugar and caffeine can get a guy through (okay, a lot of sugar and caffeine). I did what I needed to do, and he did the same. Philotimo (respect and honor).

  Here is the juncture where this book should end. It’s the perfect Hollywood conclusion, is it not? The story contained a bit of drama, a little conflict, some ups and downs, but in the end all ended happily ever after. But there’s a hitch, a meddlesome fly in the olive oil, if you will. You see, for one of the main characters involved in the plot there is still much unfinished business to contend with, for not everything in Sparta was as it seemed.

  The issue, you see, is that the moon wasn’t full.

  You might be wondering why that matters. So what if the moon was half full, three-quarters full, or entirely full? Who cares? Well, the ancient Spartans cared. And they cared a lot, for established Spartan religious law forbade them from leaving for battle until the Karneian moon was at its fullest. These were men of great tradition, and not even the threat of pending annihilation would alter their principles.

  This fact posed an interesting predicament for Pheidippides. Yes, the Spartans agreed to his request to come to Athens and battle the Persians, just not as quickly as the Athenians had hoped. The moon wouldn’t be full for another 6 days’ time. The Spartans were a people given to unflinching religious devotion, and Pheidippides would extend them all due respect in this regard. But at the same time, the situation was dire and their delay was horribly problematic, for in 6 days’ time the Athenians might already be slaughtered by the Persians. Pheidippides had to let his people know about the delay, for such information could prove critical to the outcome of the war. So he did the unthinkable. After a brief catnap and some food, he awoke before sunrise and set out on the return trip of some 140 miles back to Athens. He had to let his countrymen know of the Spartan delay. After all, he was a messenger, and carrying news was his job. And never had there been more important news than this to carry.

  The Spartans bid him farewell and assured him that in 6 days’ time—when the moon was at its fullest—they would march for battle.

  It may seem unimaginable that after running from Athens to Sparta, a man could pick back up and embark upon a return journey, but that is precisely what Pheidippides did. He was a man of duty, and whether or not he was in any physical condition to carry out this added task was irrelevant. He would do what needed to be done. And so off he ran.

  One can imagine that his constitution would have been fairly compromised; I’d experienced this myself. Running from Athens to Sparta in the earth-scorching heat would render any man weakened, even the fittest of the fit. Now, operating on little sleep, Pheidippides found himself trudging back over a mountain pass in the Parthenion range high above Tegea. He’d already put a significant distance between himself and Sparta and was likely in a state of suspended delirium, when suddenly he had a vision of the god Pan standing before him. With the face of a human, but the body, feet, and horns of a goat, Pan was an unsettling figure to behold. What did this mountaintop god want?

  Pan explained that while he still maintained loyalty to the Athenians, they must worship him properly in order to preserve the alliance. Pan had great powers that could distress and unravel an enemy; he would bestow the Athenians with these abilities, but only if they were to revere him as they should, as the god he was. Just as unexpectedly as this vision had occurred, the great god disappeared. But the sentiments Pan conveyed were not lost on Pheidippides.

  Herodotus described this scene some 2,500 years ago; I wondered if that eerie presence I had encountered that night while high on the mountain ridge during the Spartathlon could have been this same ghostly god-creature. Was it a hallucination, or was it something more?

  With unfathomable strength of body, mind, and spirit, Pheidippides arrived back in Athens in 2 days’ time. However, the Athenian citizens were gravely concerned when he showed up unaccompanied. Where were the Spartans? Their hopes for survival seemed dependent on Spartan reinforcements, but these legendary warriors were nowhere to be seen. This was not welcome news. Fear spread amongst the citizenry; what would be their fate? An ominous cloud of anxiety and unrest pervaded the city. The Spartans wouldn’t be departing for 4 more days.

  Pheidippides was informed that after he’d been dispatched to run to Sparta, the Athenian forces decided to deploy to Marathon. Knowing this, he realized that despite just having run to and from Sparta, he must immediately run another 25 miles to the plains of Marathon to inform General Miltiades and the Athenian forces of the Spartan delay. Talk about no rest for the weary! Endurance never sleeps.

  When he arrived in Marathon, the sight before him was horrific. The entire plain was filled with Persian troops and cavalry. Their encampment stretched for nearly as far as the eye could see. To say the Greeks were the underdogs would be putting it mildly. Most of the roughly 10,000 adult male Athenian citizens had mobilized to fend off the Persians, but it has been estimated that there were as many as 50,000 Persians. The Greeks were badly outnumbered, perhaps five to one.

  Pheidippides found General Miltiades and the other Greeks holed up in the foothills of the Pentele mountain range overlooking the enemy encampment. They had sat in this position for days, awaiting Pheidippides’s and the Spartans’s arrival. During that time, General Miltiades had kept close observation over the Persian operations. He knew when they arose in the morning and how long their deployment lasted. Since the Persians tethered and hobbled their horses at night, in the morning a groomsman had to untie them, feed them, and prepare their saddlecloths and bridles. Doing these things took time. Additionally, Miltiades noted, there existed only one narrow pathway down to where the horses were kept at night, so to deploy the cavalry into battle, they would need to funnel them through this small gap. He thus surmised that in an urgent rush to fight, this slender exit would create a massive bottleneck that would considerably slow the release of both men and horses. General Miltiades was already getting into the heads of the Persians.

  Pheidippides delivered the message about the Spartan delay. He also told about his encounter with Pan on the mountaintop high above Tegea. This was taken as good news and provided hope to the Athenians, for Pan would bring them strength.

  In their current position nestled along the Pentele mountain ridgetops, the Athenians held an advantageous battle position over the Persians, one that blockaded the main access point that led from Marathon to Athens. Even though his forces were badly outnumbered, General Miltiades knew the Persian leaders wouldn’t attempt to launch an uphill attack against a superior Greek position. He just needed to wait for the Spartans to arrive. The military intelligence Pheidippides provided about the timing of the Spartan deployment had proved pivotal.

  For a suspended moment of time, let us briefly digress to dissect the genesis of the historical record. Herodotus mentions that after convening with the Spartans, Pheidippides returned to Athens and then carried on to Marathon. The narrative on this topic is delivered in concise, unelaborated passages. In Herodotus’s day, running great distances without rest was the work of a hemerodromos, that’s all. His nonchalance in describing Pheidippides’s task likely resulted from him stereotyping the role of all heralds as performing a similar duty, which necessitated no further examination of what it meant, specifically, for a man to run 300 or more miles nearly continuously. Further, because he was a scholar living some 50 years after Pheidippides, I doubt Herodotus would have been a runner himself, and thus he would have lacked any firsthand knowledge of what it meant for a human to undertake such a grueling endeavor. Instead, his cursory summation was that a herald did what a herald did, and that was that.

  Following Herodotus’s lead, modern academics and historians have similarly adopted what could rightfully be considered a discounted appreciation of Pheidippides
’s feat. They have assigned great importance to the Battle of Marathon, but simply make perfunctory mention that some guy named Pheidippides, or Philippides, or Feidippideios or whomever, ran from Athens to Sparta, and then from Sparta to Marathon, via Athens. They cite this extraordinary accomplishment as if it were a casual stroll to the neighbors’ house to borrow a cup of flour.

  My point is that the annals of history have grossly under-recognized the significance of Pheidippides’s superhuman act. It’s no fault of anyone’s, really; ultramarathoning is somewhat of an obscure activity, and it requires a fair amount of specialized knowledge and experience in the subject to provide any meaningful commentary or probing analysis on what it took to do what Pheidippides did. After having chased Pheidippides through the mountains and valleys of this ancient landscape, I can confidently assert that what he did was absolutely miraculous.

  But back to the plains of Marathon. Having received the intelligence from Pheidippides about the Spartan delay, the Greeks hunkered down to await their arrival. The next evening, however, something completely unexpected happened. Under the cloak of darkness, two men on foot appeared at the Greek enclave. These men, it turns out, were fellow Greeks from the island of Eretria, which had been overthrown and captured by the Persians. They’d been taken hostage during the Persian siege of their island and were enslaved into forced labor by the enemy. Risking their lives, the pair had escaped from their captor that evening because there was urgent news they desperately needed to convey to their Greek countrymen.

  The Persians, the Eretrians said, were up to something sneaky. They planned to divide into two groups, half their ranks setting sail in the morning around Attica to launch a surprise attack on Athens from the opposite coastline at the Bay of Phaleron, while the other half of the Persian forces were to remain at Marathon to keep the Greek army pinned down in their current position in the hills.