Ultramarathon Man

by Dean Karnazes

And it wasn’t just me who was feeling the strain—the group was increasingly fraying. The confinement of small tents, a single frozen bucket for a toilet, and nothing to do all day were wearing on everyone. Counting the flight crew, there were thirteen of us living in a tent the size of a small dormitory room. Gear and food were strewn everywhere. A small camping stove was kept going round the clock to melt drinking water, resulting in a damp condensation that dripped from the ceiling and created little frozen puddles on the floor. We needed to get on with this event soon. If only the weather would cooperate; but, unfortunately, Antarctica didn’t have a history of cooperative weather.

  The pressure on Doug to get things under way must have been tremendous. The cost of having a DC-3, flight crew, guides, and a physician all sitting idle was surely exorbitant. Adding to the strain, we had gotten the word that a group of Pole taggers were waiting in Patriot Hills for us to get the DC-3 back. These were folks that had paid a lot of money to be taken to the South Pole; they weren’t the kind of people that were used to waiting in line, and we had the only plane that could get them there.

  Doug remained focused and composed, but we could sense that if this marathon didn’t happen soon, it wouldn’t happen at all. With each passing hour, the costs mounted and the morale among the group slipped.

  Our single contact with the outside world was an Iridium satellite phone. Reception was sporatic, but I managed to get through to my wife. I sat in the cabin of the DC-3, which was cold as a meat locker, and told her we were safe but were running a couple of weeks behind schedule. She was characteristically supportive as we spoke, and I could hear Alexandria and Nicholas in the background asking, “Is it Daddy? Is it Daddy?”

  “How is everyone?” I asked through the static.

  “We’re doing fine,” she assured me. “But the kids miss you. I miss you, too. Is everything all right?”

  “I think so. Doug and the guides are competent, but there’s a lot that’s beyond our contol. And running a marathon in these conditions is going to be scary, if it’s even possible at all. No one’s gone more than a mile away from camp yet.”

  “Please be safe,” she said.

  I just bit my lip. There was no way I could offer any assurances on that one.

  I asked if she wouldn’t mind contacting my office. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear an update,” she said.

  Thankfully, I had an understanding boss. I’d just about burned through all my accrued vacation days, and it wasn’t looking like I’d be home anytime soon.

  I told Julie that I loved her, and she wished us all well. “Be careful,” she said.

  “I’ll do my best. Hug those kids for me, and I’ll see you all soon.”

  The guilt and loneliness of being away from my family and job gnawed at me like never before. The stakes were getting higher with each passing day. There were responsibilities—as a father and co-worker—that I needed to uphold, and I was stuck in Antarctica, trying to run a marathon. I longed to get this event under way and return home. In one piece.

  The dreariness of the situation weighed heavily on me. Though stressing about it wasn’t going to change anything, we weren’t going anywhere. So I called my training buddy, Christopher Gaylord, for a little levity. We laughed hysterically at the grimness of my predicament. I told him about the exploded beer cans lying on the floor of the plane, with the frozen froth clinging to the walls like spray-on insulation; about trying to brush our teeth with frozen toothpaste that wouldn’t thaw unless you slept with the tube in your mummy bag; and about our delightful meals, “cooked” on a small camping stove that could barely get the water warm enough to heat our dehydrated rice, meat, and vegetables. They were soggy on the outside and crunchy in the middle. The particles that weren’t cooked fermented pleasantly in our stomachs.

  “The air inside our tent doesn’t smell like roses,” I said.

  “Maybe you can float the tent home,” Gaylord said, “like a big helium balloon.”

  It sure would beat running at this point.

  After more days of waiting, the weather finally yielded enough for Doug to decide it was time to attempt the marathon. Small yellow mile-markers had been set up along the way by a party that had left from the Pole on snowmobiles and worked their way out to us. We were supposed to follow these markers (when we could see them). The gun went off, and the race was on.

  We didn’t get very far. Not two hours into it, the visibility shut down and conditions deteriorated. The race was quickly called off. It was another harsh disappointment and a sobering learning experience. Two of the runners, Don and Ute, had covered fewer than 3 miles in that time. At that pace, it’d take them over seventeen hours to finish the marathon. They’d likely succumb to exposure first.

  After the first race attempt, in an e-mail sent via satellite from our tent, Don described the situation like this:By the time we got to the 2-mile mark, we had a hard time seeing the marker wands in front of us. We got almost to the 3-mile mark where Doug was waiting for us, visibility was falling, and the world was white from ground to sky. As Doug turned around on the snowmobile to tell us that the race was cancelled, he lost his equilibrium and fell off. That’s what happens when your whole world is the same color and you’re in motion. He picked us up and we headed back toward the start. We ended up driving in circles trying to find the way back to the DC-3.

  The experience left him apprehensive. “This is going to be brutal,” he wrote, and concluded soberly, “Finishing a marathon in these conditions could be more dangerous than I bargained for.”

  Something had to change. That demoralizing first attempt convinced the group that our whole concept of the marathon had to be radically rethought. The ferocity of the conditions demanded it. Don and Ute decided to run a half-marathon instead.

  That left only three of us running the marathon. Then Brent announced that he would be using his snowshoes. “I know my limitations,” he said. He was an experienced runner and snowshoer, so I was inclined to trust his judgment.

  Then Richard approached me in our tent and asked if he could borrow my snowshoes. Did this mean that what we had decided upon in Patriot Hills was out the window? That the race was off and all we were trying to do at this point was complete the endeavor in any way we could? Safety had become the primary concern.

  “Sure, man,” I said, digging out the snowshoes from the bottom of my bag and handing them to him, “whatever it takes.”

  After the conclusion of the event, in a message to a buddy, Brent put it this way: “Once we arrived at the polar plateau, it was decided the run would not be a race, but an expedition run in which all team members agreed to stay together for safety reasons. Everybody made sacrifices in order to make it happen. It was a total team effort.”

  Even though he wouldn’t be running the full marathon, Don remained upbeat. “Ute and I would fly to the Pole and do a half-marathon that could be easily monitored,” he wrote in another satellite e-mail from our tent. “Brent and Richard would wear snowshoes, Dean would wear just running shoes. The three of them would have to stay close together, expedition style.” He must have been disappointed that he wasn’t doing the entire marathon, but he showed valor in choosing to concede on the side of safety.

  Doug and one of our guides, Kris, would be supporting our marathon efforts on snowmobile. Given the savagery of the conditions, we were instructed to stay within eyesight of one another so that we could be safely monitored. The plan was for me to run my ass off and, I hoped, stay up with the guys wearing snowshoes. It didn’t sound entirely like a “team” effort to me, but I was willing to give it my best shot. This was probably our last chance; if we failed here, we would likely be forced to abandon the effort and return home without finishing anything.

  I knew I’d have to push very hard from the onset, so as not to slow the group down. My calculations were that I could complete the course in five to six hours wearing snowshoes. Without them, I wasn’t sure how long it would take, or if I could even
make it.

  The group left the tent like men on a mission. But we only made it to the edge of camp. The snowmobiles wouldn’t start. The carburetors apparently hadn’t been adjusted to the higher elevation of the polar plateau and the engines wouldn’t turn over, or were frozen, or had voodoo spirits infesting them, or whatever . . . the damn things just wouldn’t start. It was another delay as the flight mechanic began inspecting the internal workings.

  Eventually he was able to jury-rig the starter, and he got the engines turned over. How long they would run for, and if they would restart if they stalled midway through the marathon, was anybody’s guess. We wanted to get this thing going and were getting reckless. I could sense Doug’s unease. This was a man who had high standards where safety was concerned.

  What transpired during our second attempt at a marathon is largely a frigid blur. Luckily, much of it was captured on videotape. As Brent and Richard were busily adjusting their snowshoes and getting them strapped on, I stood bouncing and shivering in the freezing temperatures trying to stay warm. “I’m freezing,” I said to the group. “I’m going to start moving.” I knew with their snowshoes they’d have no problem catching up.

  “Me, too,” Richard said, having affixed the snowshoes and joining in with me. “God help us all.” Those are the last words that were said before we began trudging forward into the pallid abyss, heads down to deflect the incomprehensible cold.

  Since this was the second, and likely last, attempt at the marathon, Doug was hyper-astute in making sure everything was going well at an early stage. Scarcely a mile into it, he was already inquiring about our progress, asking Richard if the snowshoes were helping. “Yeah,” Richard said to the camera, “it makes a difference, all right.”

  That was good. Our initial prospects of completing the event this time around looked more encouraging than they had the first time. Now it would just be up to me to keep up with the group in my running shoes, which was no small chore.

  I’d started out briskly in hopes of regenerating some of the internal body heat that was lost while standing idle at the start. Running hard helped to warm my core body temperature, but no amount of effort could keep my feet warm. Without the platform of a snowshoe to land on, I kept dunking my foot directly into the frigid ice pack below the surface where the temperature was a uniform -54 degrees, and I was forced to stop along the way to change the heating pads in my running shoes. Replacing the three pads in each shoe was costing time, and I’d quickly lose body heat when I stopped, but it was a necessary evil. Without fresh heating pads, frostbite was inevitable.

  We slogged along within eyesight of one another for much of the first half of the marathon. I was pushing as hard as I could to keep up, and it was draining. I would run ahead and stop to change heating pads, and the others would catch up—like a quasi-hare-and-tortoise routine—and then I’d charge out again, trying to recapture some of the body heat that was lost from the pit stop. A couple of times I asked Doug if the group was sticking close enough to be safely monitored. He reassured me that things were fine. That was comforting, because I was incapable of going much faster.

  As the run progressed, my goggles would instantaneously fog whenever I stopped. The cumulative moisture buildup resulted in instant condensation. If I removed my goggles so that I could see, my eyes would start to water profusely and the tears would painfully freeze. So I left the goggles on and fumbled in the haze.

  We runners exchanged few words along the way—primarily just grumbles about the cold (it was approaching -40 degrees). Talking was difficult with a “gorilla mask” covering your mouth and nose. You had to wear one, though. Breathing the superchilled air directly could freeze your trachea.

  By mile 17, icicles had formed under my neoprene face mask, limiting my ability to eat or drink—or even move my head. My progress in the soft snow was brutally slow as my feet sank deeper into the yielding surface the harder I pushed off. It felt like I was running at full capacity, every muscle in my body working overtime, but with the snow sucking me down I was barely inching forward. By mile 18, I began having serious doubts about whether I could complete the marathon. My heart raced, but I scarcely covered any ground.

  I kept going, numbly.

  At the 20-mile mark, my fingers were so cold that I couldn’t clench my fists. I was unable to change the heating pads in my shoes at this point; I didn’t have the dexterity left. The body heat I was generating by running as hard as I could didn’t account for much in the sub-zero temperatures. The cold was winning. It seeped in through every seam of my clothing.

  When it’s cold beyond comprehension, you start losing your natural instincts. Am I freezing? No, things are fine. Wait a minute, I can’t feel my toes! Should I stop? When the temperatures are so low, just a few minutes of poor judgment can cost body parts. Unlike the heat of Death Valley, where you can seek reprieve in the shade, there was no escape from the polar cold, no place to hide.

  The altitude was another factor, and one we’d underestimated in our planning. Thinking only of the relative flatness of the polar plateau, we’d failed to prepare for running at the elevation of a significant mountain. I was sucking the frigid, oxygen-poor air at 11,000 feet above sea level through a neoprene muffler that had frozen solid. Every breath was like trying to suck an ice cube through a straw. I was running in the most desolate, open expanse on the planet, suffocating.

  What kept me going? Easy. It is what I lived for. The adventure. The challenge of pushing the human body beyond reality. Not only had a marathon to the South Pole never been run before, but plenty of people doubted it could be done, said it would be impossible. I was out to prove that it could be done, regardless of how irrational, how improbable, how dangerous the effort was. That it was obliterating me in the process only heightened my fighting spirit. I had something to prove, if only to myself: that it could be done, that nothing was impossible.

  At mile 22, my face mask had become a solid block of ice. My breath had dampened it, and it froze stiff. Eating and drinking became impossible; nothing could reach my mouth through the frozen block. But just as worrisome as the inability to eat or drink was the small gap that had developed between my goggles and face mask. The arctic air sneaked through unabated, searing the tissue along my upper left cheek. With the face mask now completely frozen and immovable, it was impossible to seal off the crack. It felt like Novocain was being injected into my cheek. First came the sting of the needle being inserted, then the area tingled and went numb.

  This is how people die in the cold. They push too hard and don’t realize it until they’ve gone past the point of no return. The situation had gotten critical. Every step forward came at a mounting price. My muscles were slowly running out of fuel, and there was no way of getting food into my mouth. The vicious air was attacking my face, so I ran with my head hunched over as far as possible in an effort to deflect the biting headwind and prevent further tissue damage. I slogged forward, trying to keep my feet moving through the sinking surface, ignoring the stinging and hoping that I could reach the Pole before having to curl into a ball on the snow.

  Periodically, I glanced up in hopes of seeing something. Not only was the horizon difficult to gauge, but my goggles were fogged and frozen, creating a restrictive tunnel vision. I could see nothing but white in every direction.

  There was no way to look at my wristwatch without removing a mitten, which was out of the question at this point. Even if I could get to my watch, deciphering the time through these clouded goggles might very well be impossible. We had been out here a long time, that much was certain. Even while I ran at full capacity, the soft snow, which sometimes swallowed an entire foot, bogged me down so badly that it was grueling maintaining a fifteen-minute-mile pace—about the speed of a brisk walk on a hard surface. I ran as hard as I could, but barely moved forward. Given the stops to change the heating pads in my shoes, I guessed that we’d been going at it for close to eight hours. Usually I could run two marathons in that time,
even on the most demanding course. But not here.

  My mind was focused on one thing this entire time: getting through the ordeal in one piece. There were no flashbacks or daydreams, no existential thoughts: the intensity of the conditions and the unrelenting physical demands placed upon me commanded all of my attention. And the situation was rapidly becoming perilous.

  Doug and Kris were nowhere to be seen. Had their snowmobiles stalled? Were they lost? It was difficult to decipher anything. The snowmobiles would be next to me at points along the way, and then I wouldn’t see them for long stretches of time. If I were to crumple in a heap on the snow, would they ever find me? One of our guides, Bean, was an experienced back-country pioneer and had instructed us to always save 10 percent of our energy in case something unforeseen occurred. I had long since tapped into that reserve. In fact, I was running on empty by now.

  I kept scanning the horizon, hoping to spot something, anything. Still only white. Then, remarkably, something emerged in the distance. One glance up, there was nothing; the next, there appeared to be something dark on the horizon. Yes, something was out there all right. Elated, I began to sprint. I couldn’t imagine it being anything but the Pole; what else could be out here? The quicker I got there, the less frostbite damage my face would sustain and the sooner I could get new heating pads in my shoes and food in my mouth. It was a reckless all-or-nothing burst; if this little spot in the distance wasn’t the finish, I was in trouble.

  Thank God, it was. The marker at the South Pole is, well, a pole. A red-and-white-striped pole, like outside an old-fashioned barbershop. It was well past midnight as I charged toward it, heaving my chest forward in an attempt to propel my weary legs over the last bit of course. My goggles were entirely frozen over, and it was difficult to decipher anything. A snowmobile, or something, appeared before me. Actually it was Don, running in the opposite direction for some reason. At the last second I saw his hand in the air, and we high-fived each other. Apparently he was still running the half-marathon. I was in no condition to stop and ask, and we ran right past each other and kept going our own ways.