Broken-Field Running

The 100th running of the Boston Marathon in 1996 was a special event for many runners but particularly so for Bob Sarocka of Lombard, Illinois, who completed the race despite twisting his left ankle after stepping in a pothole at mile three. He was running with a friend, Tony McElligot.“| wanted to drop out, but Tony talked me out of it.”

Sarocka discovered that if he ran on the right side of the road, the camber made the pain manageable: “I just focused on one mile marker at a time.” He finished in 3:18, compared with his PR of 2:55. But he salvaged his participation in the 100th running of Boston.

Once he removed his shoe, the ankle began to swell.With the aid of his wife, Lori,he limped to the medical tent for treatment, including ice and a compression bandage. Sarocka purchased crutches at a local drugstore, and after returning home he checked into the emergency room at Loyola University Medical Center. X-rays revealed that he had run the last 23 miles on a broken ankle.

But the story doesn’t end there. Sarocka continues: “A few months later, after bottoming out on potassium following the Ice Age 100, Tony went to the same emergency room and got the same doctor. She started telling him about some idiot runner she had treated who had run a marathon on a broken ankle. Tony had to admit that he was the one who told me to keep running.”

not.” After the Chicago Marathon, we heard again from the injured runner, who trained in a pool and used an elliptical trainer for eight weeks without running. Indeed, she had suffered a stress fracture, although she said it was healed by the time of the race. Unfortunately, by the nine-mile mark, she had pulled a quadriceps muscle and finished in pain. Her time was 6:25:22.

LOOKING BACK ON AUGUST

Some August injuries respond to treatment—the most popular being ice, anti-inflammatories, and rest—and runners resume their training in September, leading to that October marathon. But other injuries do not, causing runners to make the unfortunate decision to postpone their dreams of marathon glory for another time and place. Dropping out is never fun, before or during the race. But while mileage in excess of 30 miles weekly has been identified as one cause of running injuries, more of a problem is jumping into that high level of training with an inadequate base. If you train properly and increase mileage gradually, your Augusts z

should be filled with sunshine and success. Ib

“The Injuries of August” is an excerpt from the third edition of Marathon: The Ultimate Training Guide, just published by Rodale. Copyright 2005 by Hal Higdon. All rights reserved.

In Good Hands

Running in the Palm of the gods.

very story we tell must have a point, a writer friend once told me. It must offer something revelatory, provide the audience with more than a mere recital of facts. Another friend, an ultrarunner, says that every time he runs a long race, he finishes a little richer than when he began. Travel, according to a third, will humble anyone who is willing to step outside of the realm of tourism, become immersed in another culture, and attempt to understand a completely different perspective on life.

I tend to agree with all three, and therein lies my dilemma. In attempting to relate the experience of participating in India’s Himalayan 100 Mile Stage Race—an amazingly difficult race in an unheralded part of a fascinating country—how do you sift through the facts, present observations, and offer up impressions in a way that makes any real sense? How to convey the tough effort—so incredibly tough—that faced runners the moment the race started and continued until the very last day? The cold, the shivering cold, the teeth-rattling cold that forced strong, durable athletes into huddles around a tiny hearth and into sleeping bags as soon as meal time was done? The effects of altitude, the difficulty flatlanders had finding air at 12,000 feet, the sucking-through-a-straw sensation that kept many from getting more than a snippet of sleep? The track that straddled India and Nepal and looked up at four of the world’s highest five peaks? The towering majesty of sacred Kanchenjunga; the thrill of Everest, Makalu, and Lhotse as they peeked through the clouds? The ab-crushing laughter, the daily routine? Will anyone care?

Strangely, these are the thoughts that float in and out of my mind as I grind my way uphill on the fourth and second-last day of the race. I’m out of sorts this morning, a little nauseated from the bus ride to the start and somewhat concerned about a tweak in my knee. I’m alone with my thoughts on a tarmac road that gently climbs through a cover of tropical trees.

I seem to have lost all sense of distance and time, but I know that I passed Daniel before crossing the river; now, looking over the edge of the road, I see the silver thread of water disappearing into the distance far, far below. The one-time

800-meter national champion from Germany had started the day at a breakneck pace, leading the rest of the strong European contingent, but the other three had taken command when the route reached the end of the six-mile descent. It is seven uphill miles to the finish, and while I know there is little chance I will catch the others, I know I can hold off Daniel if I don’t falter on this last part of the climb.

As I approach another bend, I hear noises: the rushing of water, accompanied by a rhythmic tapping that seems to echo off the side of the hills. Is that a woodpecker? I wonder. I round the corner and see a small waterfall ahead. A stone bridge leads over the gap that takes the runoff away down a steep, dark ravine. And there, on the side of the road, just beyond the spray of the water, sits a woman, surrounded by a large pile of rocks. Here is the source of the tapping: she has a mallet in her hand and is pounding on stones. A young child, no older than 3, sits alongside. The child mimics the mother, methodically hitting a stone with a stick. A man appears, carrying a load of rocks from the natural quarry created by the waterfall; he dumps them on top of a pile. All look up from their labors and smile as I approach. I bow in deference as I run by and return their greeting: Namaste. (The divinity within me greets the divinity within you.)

I contemplate the hardship of these people’s existence, wonder at the way fate plays with privilege and poverty and all states in between. Suddenly, around another bend, the finish appears: a few jeeps, a small table with drinks and biscuits, the familiar faces of race personnel. A banner is stretched across the road, and I break the tape in a ritual that is repeated every day, every time a runner arrives. I get a hug from the beaming race director, grab a bottle of water, and congratulate those who are already done. Daniel is not far behind, and then come the others, the people who have become like family in the space of a week. Later, I ask about the stone crushers and the numerous others like them that we have seen from our bus window on various parts of our trip. I learn they are working for the government, making gravel for roadways and construction projects, for 40 to 60 rupees a day ($1.50 to $2.00 U.S.).

YOU’RE RUNNING WHERE?

I’ve been incredibly fortunate over the years, having indulged in dozens of assorted adventures in different parts of the world. Some have been frivolous, others foolhardy, some just plain stupid and dumb.

Since I can usually count on Murphy’s Law to throw a curveball into my plans, I’ve never been big on death-defying stunts or outright acts of masochism. (Contrary to recent media coverage, the point of going “beyond the marathon” is not to prostrate oneself in some mysterious temple of pain.) Most of the things I take on are pretty basic and mild.

And yet, whether cycling through Europe or sailing islands in the Torres Straits in search of a downed warplane, climbing Kilimanjaro with a snowboarding buddy or scuba diving with seals in the Pacific Northwest, running across Siberia or dragging a pack through a nettle-infested Pennsylvania swamp, each of my adventures has been a growth experience in some particular way. Like my friend’s ultraraces, all have left me a little different. All have given me something that I could never have hoped for or expected when the adventure began.

As I’ve matured (if age is a state of mind, I would like to believe I’m still in my teens), I think I’ve even taken a “seek deeper meaning” kind of approach to my adventurous trips. I remember considering an offer to run in the Marathon des Sables (MDS). I was excited about the chance to test myself in a multiday, self-sufficiency race, because it required intense training, detailed planning, and an intimate knowledge of pacing in an environment unlike anywhere else in the world. Like many runners, I had a history of problems in the heat, but while researching the race, I talked to several MDS and Badwater veterans and learned how to prepare. During the event, I made some great friendships and met people who epitomized how selflessness, mental toughness, and humility can act in combination to make a good athlete great. I also discovered qualities in myself that I hadn’t known about or perhaps had forgotten, things that came out as a consequence of circumstance, unconscious traits that were revealed under stress. I like to think these discoveries were mostly positive, but chances are I’ve just buried the bad along with the scorpion I found in my tent.

Five years after the MDS, I was asked whether I was interested in journeying to the Himalayan Run and Trek as part of the journalist crew. Not being big on spectator sports, I agreed to travel to India for the low-key, relatively unknown race if I was able to run—and if I could arrange an extension that would immerse me in this majestic part of the world. The race was certainly appealing: staged in the Darjeeling area, it was a fully aided event that covered 100 miles over five days. Part of the course ran along a ridgeline that formed the border with Nepal at an altitude of 12,000 feet. With 39 runners representing 12 countries, it was certain to be a multicultural event.

The fact that Nepal was nearby was an additional draw. The Katmandu Valley had been on my must-visit list for a long time, and though I knew I wouldn’t be able to drum up the time or money to join the classic Annapurna circuit or Everest Base Camp treks, I was determined to do something to approximate the experience since I was going to be so tantalizingly close. I had met several Sherpas and Tibetans while working for a travel company and wanted to learn more about their lands, culture, and the role Buddhism played in their lives. I settled on a postrace excursion into Sikkim, an Indian state that is nestled among Nepal, Tibet, and Bhutan. I hoped to do some mountain biking and hiking, to visit monasteries high on remote mountains, to see prayer flags alive in the wind.

Saying I was blissful as the trip came together would be understating the obvious, but as it drew near, I noticed my wife, Lisa, becoming antsy, defiant, uncharacteristically withdrawn. She was always my unfailing crew captain at stateside races and generally supported such trips, although it had been a while since I had planned anything quite so involved. I tried to get at the reason underlying her angst, and though she offered explanations that varied from having to care for our menagerie on her own (three aging greyhounds and a pair of energetic domestic-bred birds), to losing gym time, to sacrificing a real vacation together for something I wanted to do, I knew there had to be more. On the final sleepless night, she asked if I would call her when the race was over and would I skip the planned extension if she wanted me home. I agreed, begrudgingly. The next morning she left for work, and I left for India, tired and mad.

THE GUEST IS OUR GOD

The sense that the trip would be something special began to appear on the ride from the Bagdogra Airport to our accommodations at Lake Mirik Resort. Others had made the trip from Delhi ahead of us or would be coming later in the day, so there were only eight of us aboard the old school bus that took us along the highway to Siliguri, through the river (the bridge was out), and along the meandering road to our destination. We were all pretty beat after umpteen hours of travel from various locations, but as our pent-up energy mixed with diesel and dust, we found ourselves scampering onto the luggage carrier on top of the roof—the only way to go, said Andy and Rob, the pair of gregarious Brits. For the next couple of hours, the Englishmen, a South African, a pair of Americans, and I (a Canadian, eh?) traded stories, shared observations, pulled one another out of harm’s way. With branches and power lines rushing overhead, we made small admissions that revealed small parts of ourselves.

Sean constantly pointed: look at the monkeys, the KitKat and Pepsi signs, the chrome and religious icons and phantasmagorical decorations adorning the trucks. Andy and Rob admitted they had never run more than a half-marathon before—and they had gone that distance only once, the previous month. Dave shot video and made dry jokes between sneezes, the kind that made everyone laugh. I hung on for dear life and let on that my butt was getting bruised from all the jostling, that I’d be getting down into a real seat as soon as I could. Rachel laughed along and said she was glad I spoke up; you could tell she was the type of woman who would never be first to give in, no matter how much it hurt.

India is a place where all of the world’s great religions converge. Whether Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, Catholic, or Jew, you will find references to your faith at every turn. Dozens if not hundreds of other creeds have followings here: Parsi, Jain, Sufi, Bahai. The Indian landscape is dotted with places of worship,

and it seems as though daily life is built around rituals and rites. Religious icons greet the eyes wherever you look. The dashboard of our bus, like the taxis that had taken us from the airport to the hotel in Delhi the night before, was a Hindu shrine; it was lined with statuettes of deities, strands of colored threads, strings of wooden beads.

“You are our guests,” said the man who calls himself Mr. C. S. Pandey during the first official race meeting that evening in Mirik, “and to Hindus, the guest is our god. You are coming here from your country as adventurers, looking for the highest form of perfection. We bring 300 people on the race team to give you divine hospitality. It is what sets this adventure apart from stage races in other parts of the world.”

Mr. Pandey spoke rapidly and clipped his words in typical Anglo-Indian style. His tone was serious, his demeanor businesslike. On first meeting him, you might say that he was rather formal, perhaps even a little uptight. By the time the meeting was over and the options of having a hot breakfast or a bagged one the next morning had been reduced to Pandey’s preference (“OK, you will have bagged breakfast so you can sleep a little more,” he said after tallying the vote that clearly indicated hot breakfast was the choice of all but a few), I was convinced it was true what I had heard. The race director is a little quirky. And he does indeed have a dictatorial streak.

The next day, I joined the optional sightseeing trip to Darjeeling. While there, I met a Hindu holy man, who offered a blessing and anointed me with a saffron powder and bracelets of string. When I hook up with my roommate, Patrick, back at Mirik, we laugh at one another: he too, has an orange dot on his forehead and string around his wrist. His came from a monk at the monastery that looks over Mirik, high on a hill.

The 50-year-old Texan had started his Indian adventure 10 days earlier in Varanasi, the holiest of Hindu cities, the place where millions go to drink from the mighty Ganges River, to be healed, to watch funeral pyres, to die. . . . Patrick had taken dozens of pictures, and we spent the night of our introduction watching a slide show on his laptop and talking about the holiness evident in most of the eyes.

After, we share the day’s experiences while laying out and repacking our day packs, take-along gear, and leave-behind bags. I am tired but wired with anticipation, because tomorrow we start running. Patrick is methodical, relaxed. This is his third time at the race.

Later, I wander down the hill from the resort in search of a phone and make an amazingly solid connection to Lisa back in the States. We had spoken briefly when I arrived in Delhi and, as then, are happy to hear each other’s voice. And yet in spite of the clear line, our talk is distant. Something still hangs between us, and our conversation seems as though we are on opposite sides of the world.

UP, UP, AND AWAY

The following morning, the group takes another long bus ride to the starting point, winding along twisting mountain roads. As with the four-and-a-half-hour return trip the day before, there is no flat and no straight stretch: we are constantly turning, going upward or down. The race begins in Maneybhanyjang, a small village that lies in a valley at 6,600 feet.

The thing that strikes me most is the non-Indian-ness feel of the place. It is clear we are in the Himalayas. The prayer flags I had been waiting for years to see in situ fly overhead. The locals don’t appear at all Indian; rather, they look like they come from Tibet or Nepal. Men lounge alongside their jeeps and motorbikes; young mothers hold their children proudly and ask them to wave as the runners and race personnel disembark from the caravan of buses and jeeps.

The athletes limber up, stretch nervously, search for facilities, take photographs to try to hold on to the colorful scene. A local orchestra, complete with strings, horns, and drums, performs a raucous serenade as dancers swirl about us, their curved swords cutting the air. We are given holy scarves and blessed by the head of the village. And then we are off, passing through a shower of flower petals. The streets echo with joyous shouts and the sound of applause.

Ihave been hoping that the many spiritual connections I have stumbled upon since leaving the States will somehow give me strength and power, but I find the running immediately difficult and unrelentingly up. Two hundred meters from the start, we detour from the main road and begin a steep climb on a rough jeep track, nothing but rocks that are kept from falling over the cliff face at corners by small patches of concrete. The sun is out and the morning chill is quickly gone; within minutes I am well past mere perspiration, I am dripping with sweat.

I try to get out in front to snap a few pictures, but Christian, the Austrian, and Kai, the tallest of three Germans in the lead pack, are already loping ahead. I’m a little optimistic in thinking that I can keep up with these two. Within 10 minutes, I am gasping for breath, and the pair has disappeared from sight. It takes a while, far longer than usual, but I eventually settle into a slow, steady tempo; I leave behind the anticipation of the race, the adrenaline rush of the start, the excitement of finally running after all the preparation and talk. Well, perhaps I don’t exactly settle in. The going is never particularly comfortable, and rhythm isn’t exactly how I would describe the way that I move. But like the others, I am moving—slowly, constantly, upward. And I soon begin noticing—if not fully appreciating—the magnificent views.

The road is one of the steepest I have ever run, and the switchbacks provide not an iota of relief. At the corners, you can glance down and see tiny figures scampering along a track far below. It is other runners, of course, moving along the very path you are on. Farther down, you see the river snaking along the valley

A A holy lake lies alongside the track the runners follow, on the border with India and Nepal. Legend has it that the lake was formed in Buddha’s footprint.

where you started the day. The hillside on the opposite side of the river seems to reach the sky—and it slowly dawns on you that you will be gaining that height and then continuing even higher, that you will finish day one at Sandakphu, literally with your head in the clouds.

Irun at various stages with Dolores, a mountain runner from Argentina; with Andy and Rob, the easygoing Brits from the bus; with Daniel and Johannes, the German middle-distance man and his personal trainer friend; and with Mark, a doctor from New Mexico who is on the trip with his wife. In between gulps of air and sips of water, we trade words of encouragement, point out potholes, remark on the vegetation and views. On the short downhill stretches, we get a chance to learn a little about each other: why we are here, what experience we have with this type of event, how we expect we will do.

Like it or not, we also start sizing each other up. While each of us has come here with very different aspirations and goals, we are, after all, in an actual race. It’s obvious that the Austrian and Kai are taking this very seriously. Though they started together, Johannes seems a stronger climber than Daniel; both are very fast on the downs. Delores is pure power; she thrives on the ups but loathes the rocky descents. Andy and Rob are the opposite: on every uphill, it seems they’ ll drop off the back for good, but on the level and downhill stretches, they reappear, blasting back into the race. Mark is another strong climber and seems completely at ease.

Me? As we gain altitude, I never quite find my comfort zone or get into a groove. I continue to struggle, and though I’m not letting on, I’m feeling that

© Barry Lewis

perhaps altitude isn’t my thing. Knowing what I face in the coming days, I quickly push such thoughts out of my head. I remind myself this is a five-race event and focus on the fact that I’mjet lagged and tired, that this just isn’t my day.

Water stops are about three miles apart and so, it seems to me, are the signposts that tell us we are one kilometer closer to the day’s destination at Sandakphu, altitude 11,815 feet. I first notice the cement pylons while running with Daniel: Sandakphu, 21K. About 20 minutes later: Sandakphu, 20K. “Pay no attention,” he says. His watch is equipped with a GPS, and he has been tracking the course since the start of the day. “Those markings can’t be accurate. We have only covered 16K so far and have a total of 4OK to the top.”

And so it goes. Time, if it ever had any importance, becomes meaningless. The goal

A Aid stations are fairly frequent and stocked with cookies, crackers, water and salt, but most runners rely upon packs to ensure they are never low on fluids and food. In a stage race, at altitude, monitoring energy intake is key.

becomes the next aid station, the next marker, the next corner, the very next step. Lalternate between slow jogging, walking, and carefully picking my way through rocks on the steep, treacherous downs. The technical downhills are welcome in that they offer the chance to move a little more quickly, but they are also a curse. We are all acutely aware that our destination lies farther above and that every meter of altitude loss must be regained before the end of the day.

COCOA AND SMILES

I’ve been running for about four hours and am wet to the bone. The sun has disappeared, and I round a corner into a fierce, howling wind. I stop to eat a Clif Bar but have to keep moving just to stay warm. I slip on my lightweight wind

© Barry Lewis

shirt and am thankful that I hadn’t handed off my pack in the heat of the day. The temperature has dropped at least 20 degrees. The towering mountains that were visible on the ride to the start and through clearings in the early part of the run are nowhere to be seen. I am shivering as I descend and don’t warm up as I bottom out and resume climbing.

Up, up, always up. I lose track of pace; I no longer bother to look at the time. And then, suddenly, after another endless uphill stretch, I see several faces ahead. They yell around the corner with a greater sense of urgency than the lookouts at previous aid stations, and I realize I must be just about there. And I am. Around the corner lies a weathered sign denoting the entrance to Singalila National Park. Just ahead, a race banner is stretched across the road. And there is Mr. Pandey, looking calm and relaxed now that the race has begun. He flashes a toothy, contagious smile and gives me a hug. “Welcome to Sandakphu, Mr. Barry. How was your run?”

It is bone-chillingly cold. It has taken me five-and-a-quarter hours to cover 24 miles, and after numerous bathroom breaks, I am feeling somewhat depleted. My teeth chatter as I hunt for my cabin, locate my gear, and put on every scrap of clothing I have. Christian, Kai, and Johannes have already arrived and are lounging on the patio of their bunkhouse with steaming cups of tea. They note that my lips are blue and point me toward the cooking hut, where I gulp down a mug of hot chocolate, another of tea, and a bowl of soup before heading back outside to see other finishers arrive.

Of all the participants on the trip, Andy and Rob seemed the least experienced. Like many athletes in the 14-year history of the race, the pair had come to the event driven by a cause larger than personal challenge or fame. Despite a lack of proper preparation, they were committed to completing the race: they were raising money for a rugby teammate who had broken his neck when a scrum collapsed the previous fall. “The nicest bloke in the world,” Andy said. “Has a beautiful wife. It’s been tough on him. … But he still hoists a mighty fine beer.”

When I saw the pair at dinner on day one, I asked them how they felt, if the words that had come so easily on the roof of the bus would become their mantra for the rest of the race. While talking about their mission and lack of experience, they had laughed and shouted into the wind: “A hundred miles in the Himalayas? How hard can it be?”

To see them the next morning, you would think the pair had been through a war. A steady diet of ice, ibuprofen, and sheer willpower keeps them going. They will both finish top 10 in the race. Last I heard from Andy, he said they had raised 100,000 pounds sterling for their friend through various means.

Everyone who began the journey that first day made it to the top under his or her own steam—even Scott Duncan, the 43-year-old mountain biker whose faithful steed had broken on the way to the start. “I don’t really know what to

expect,” he had said when we first talked in the hotel in Delhi, “but isn’t that the point of an adventure? I’ve done all kinds of bicycle touring, always thought India would be an amazing place to ride, and when I heard of this event, I figured why the heck not.”

I considered Scott pretty damn lucky when I heard his front fork had been damaged by all the jostling during the bus trip. Due to forces beyond his control, he would miss having to push his bike all day, because the route would have made for an impossible ride. Instead, he could hop a jeep and accompany the nonrunning journalists, spend the day acclimating while the organizers tried to find a way to get his two-wheeler repaired.

I should have known better, but then I didn’t know Scott. Like all of us, he was there to participate, to challenge himself. Like the rest, he was prepared to muster up whatever it took to deal with whatever came along. So what if taking part meant doing it on foot instead of saddle? He had been mountain biking for only six months; so what if he hardly ever ran? After determining there was no hope of getting his bike mobile in Maneybhanyjang, Scott exchanged cleated biking shoes for sneakers and jumped into the fray.

SETTLING IN

The second day of running, according to Mr. Pandey’s briefing, would be easy after the net gain of 10,000 feet the day before: a mere 20 miles of gently rolling terrain along the ridgeline, all between 11,000 and 12,000 feet. “Even though you think it will be hard because of the altitude,” he said, “there is really quite a lot of oxygen. You will know this because you will see many trees on the path. If there was no air, how could there be trees?”

The day dawns incredibly cold and clear; the ground that had been muddy the evening before is rock solid and covered in frost. After a quick breakfast, we line up at the start. Kanchenjunga, the world’s third-highest mountain, towers above the Himalayan foothills like a massive skyscraper amidst two-story townhouses back in the States. Everest, flanked by Makalu and Lhotse, is visible in the distance, but the trio looks disappointingly small. We are reminded they are more than 100 miles away.

It is 6:30 a.m. when Mr. Pandey sends us off with a calm “Ready, set, go.” The day is bright and sunny, and we heat up within minutes as we start up a rocky path that leads out of the camp. The rough path underfoot constantly varies, from sand to dirt, gravel to rock. The surrounding landscape varies as well, from barren moonscape to grassy moor, to alpine forest peppered with miniature wind-gnarled trees. The out-and-back course turns around at Molle, which seems to be little more than a border outpost with a handful of guards and a few pens for chickens and sheep. We cross paths with cattlemen grazing their cows and shepherds herding

small goats along hillside paths. We ask ourselves: from whence do they come and to where do they go?

Runners slap hands, offer high fives, and shout words of encouragement as we start crossing paths near the turnaround point. The route is spectacular, and though I have settled into a nice rhythm, I break stride often to take photographs of the distant peaks and unusual terrain. At one point, the course passes by a small lake that is ringed with prayer flags; a small monument stands nearby like a sentry on watch. I learn from one of the crew members at the nearby aid station that this lake, like many in this part of India, is considered holy by Buddhists and that the monument is a stupa. It represents the life of Buddha and symbolizes the five elements: earth, water, fire, air, and ether. I instinctively check to see whether the holy scarf from the start is still tied to my pack and the bracelet of string the Hindu holy man had given me is still wrapped around my wrist. Both symbols are intact. I wonder if the spot on my forehead has been erased by my sweat.

The start is early, said Mr. Pandey, so we can enjoy the sunshine and see the mountains before the clouds obliterate views. Most of the runners are done before the winds started whipping up to full force, but it is cold and dreary by 1:00 p.m. and we have to beg the keeper of the cook hut to start the small fires so we can try to keep warm. It takes some doing, but we eventually get some new wood, coax flames out of old coals, and take turns huddling around what little heat is generated. The bonds that naturally form during such shared adventures slowly

Himalayan Run and Trek

A The author makes his way along the race’s classic ridgeline, with the Kanchejunga massif towering above.With its highest point at 28,156 feet, the “Five Treasuries of the Great Snow” is the world’s third highest mountain (after Everest and K-2).

tighten; small groups form as people learn more about one another over cocoa and tea. There are more sore muscles in evidence than the previous day, and a few athletes have trouble with nausea when it comes time to eat. Headaches are also common, and when I go to ask the race doctor about something to help me sleep, I learn I am not the only one who had tossed and turned all through the previous night.

“T haven’t seen so many people with sleeping problems in all my years with this race,” he says as he administers an IV to arunner who is dehydrated and sick. He offers a small pill to help me relax. I’m not big on medications in general, let alone sleep aids, but I know that I if I don’t get some rest, I’m cooked. Day three is the Everest Challenge Marathon, a full 26.2-mile effort over more extreme terrain. I’m going to need all the help I can get.

Mr. Pandey calls a meeting to go over the course profile for the next day, and before long the question of distance comes up. Several GPS wearers have cast doubt on the accuracy of course measurements, claiming that so far the course has come up several kilometers short. “You must get your instruments checked,” Mr. Pandey admonishes, “because we have been to measure this course many times in the 13 years since starting this race. It is not short. GPS cannot measure everything with this kind of terrain where we go so much up and so much down. Tomorrow you will see. Anyways, you are running 100 miles. What does it matter if it is short or long by one mile or two?”

After the meeting, everyone wanders back through the dark to their respective huts, and mine soon rocks with laughter. One of my roommates is feeling much better than the night before and shares a few steamy paragraphs from the novel he is reading. We wonder aloud if the passage, and much of our camp talk, is suitable for 13-year-old Joe. His sister is on a work-study program in Darjeeling, and after visiting her for a week, Joe and his mother headed for Sandakphu to join up with the race. His mother says he has heard it all before, and though he blushes at our teasing, he takes our base humor in stride. The funniest moment of the night comes when Sean starts mimicking Mr. Pandey and exaggerates his argument that a GPS is a bad way to measure the course. Just as he reaches the peak of the performance, the door opens. In walks Mr. Pandey himself.

“You are very naughty people,” Mr. Pandey says, mocking an admonishment and joining the laughs. “Bad boys and girls. Very naughty indeed.” The exertion of the laughter in the thin air is too much, and we start gasping for breath. Our abs will ache for the rest of the week.

EVEREST CHALLENGE MARATHON

The doctor’s pink pill did the trick, for I feel good on waking, rested, no major stresses or strains. And like most, I am intent on having a solid day, because day

three is not only the longest stage, it is the Everest Challenge Marathon, a race within the race. Breakfast is at 4:30 A.M., and it is difficult to see the frozen ground as we head to the start. The route follows the same ridgeline as the day before as far as Molle, continues beyond to Phulet, backtracks to Molle, then turns downhill and drops off the side of the earth. In the final nine miles, we lose 6,000 feet.

The thin air makes the ridge running every bit as challenging as the day before, and the extra three-mile stretch to Phulet has several significant climbs and drops. But these downhills pale in comparison with the brutal descent we encounter after returning to Molle, just as Mr. Pandey had warned. Instead of a mere rocky jeep trail, we follow gullies cut by erosion, wend through boulder fields, negotiate narrow rutted footpaths, slide over wet roots, and jump from mud bump to mud bump on the trails frequented by yaks.

It takes complete concentration to navigate the challenging terrain on legs that are weary from the previous day’s work, but it is tough to focus because of the sights and distractions encountered at every turn. The herd of goats, batches of chilies and cornstalks drying on verandas, chickens scratching the thatched roof of a hut. The dogs and cats, the tiny schoolhouse at Siri Khola, and the ecstatic, waving children that run into the courtyard as you go by. The curious looks and cheerful greetings of “Namaste” you elicit from every villager you pass.

Finally, the descent comes to an end; the bridge over the river is a signal that the marathon is just about done. Or so we had been led to believe. The route slowly ascends from the river again on a rocky path, and it is here that I lose my focus for a second, as my eyes survey the scene ahead to a construction zone, Indian style. My foot slips in between a pair of large rocks, and I am upended, a nasty torque twisting my knee. Winded and slightly dazed, I dust off, and though I feel a little irritation, I shake it off and continue to run.

Several dozen villagers are involved in building a new stone bridge, some digging or hauling sacks of dirt, others moving rocks into place. They smile and wave as I run by. Namaste. Around the corner, a checkpoint appears. Leg weary and mentally fatigued from the descent, I am devastated when the crew chief says there is seven kilometers to go. I had figured on a couple of miles of cruising a gentle downhill through the village, but the route turns into an endless series of ups and downs. Another aid station eventually appears, and the answer is the same when I ask how far to the finish. “Seven kilometers more. You are very close to the end.”

So much for the GPS crew and their notion of an abbreviated course. I curse Mr. Pandey and his mileage all the way in. No one disputes the distance that day. Nor, for that matter, do I hear any more talk of mileage discrepancy. The marathon plus a few makes up for any shortages that might have occurred at some other point of the race.

VILLAGE LIFE

After the isolation of windswept Sandakphu, the village of Rimbik seems like a tropical resort. The afternoon is warm, and the hotel where we finish has a beautiful lawn where we eat soup and crackers and stretch while looking out over the valley below. Palm trees sway in the gentle breeze as we bask in the sun. Carolyn, a Brit who has traveled to the race with her friend Mimi, demonstrates incredible dexterity and flexibility as she moves through an advanced yoga routine that leaves the race doctor, a yoga practitioner himself, in absolute awe.

Several of us wander through the market while waiting for others to finish, taking pictures of the extroverted children, flamboyantly decorated trucks, unusual shops. Even though goods have to be transported in for many miles over the winding roads, everything seems available, from stereos and televisions to clothing, shoes, soda, and sweets. Locals bargain for vegetables at one stall while across the street, spice vendors weigh saffron, peppers, and curries on balancing

scales. A tailor works at an ancient Singer while an assistant shows a woman a bolt of colorful cloth. A cobbler beckons me into his store when he looks at my mud-splattered sneaks.

lam surprised to learn that the 150-year-old village has a population of 2,000 and relies heavily on trekking for income. The word is that the best peas in India are grown in the valley, along with potatoes and corn. It is too dry for rice, too cold for wheat. The people look Nepalese to me; it turns out they are mostly Sherpa and

© Barry Lewis

A Nepalese guards and school children watch in wonder as runners pass by a border station on the marathon day. For much of the race, participants had one foot in India and the other in Nepal.

A Carolyn Richards and Dr. Jain compare yoga postures on the lawn in Rimbick at the end of Stage Three.

predominantly Buddhist, which explains the prayer flags and the small monastery in the center of town. The young children walk along the gravel road in school uniforms and clamor to be photographed as older boys play cricket with a stone ball and a stick paddle in a small clearing on the side of the street. The teen girls giggle and flash beautiful smiles.

As I make my way past the houses, I see Christian, the speedy Austrian, with his journalist companion sitting on the side of the road. I am about to congratulate Christian on another superb run when the journalist signals for me to keep quiet. At first I am puzzled, but then I notice the satellite phone. “Interview with Austrian radio,” says the journalist. “One of my jobs.”

Christian has been a relative recluse up to this point, but with a clear advantage over the competition and two short days of running left (13 and 17 miles), he appears to be loosening up. Later, I catch him lounging outside the hotel rather than taking a nap in his room. The lean 37-year-old tells me that 10 years earlier he had been a 220-pound smoker who hung out in bars. “I started to run to drop off some weight. I did my first race after two months and have been running competitions since then. But I retire now: this race is my last.”

Even though one of the jeeps in the gear convoy broke down and a replacement had to be found, all our bags arrive and are taken to our rooms before dark. I bunk with Patrick once again, and I get to know Dr. Jain and a few of the other race support people a little better when they come to collect the photos he has brought them, taken in previous years. I learn that the man we affectionately called

The Organization

Mr. C. S. (Chander Shekhar) Pandey is the driving force behind the Himalayan Run and Trek Stage Race and Everest Challenge Marathon, and it is his personality that has made it a success. Chander Shekhar Pandey was born in a village in Uttaranchal State in the Central Himalaya and remembers looking out his window as a child on India’s third-highest peak. Driven by a love of the outdoors and a spirit of adventure, he ventured farther and farther into the hills as he grew up. He studied commerce at Delhi University and took a government job as a security analyst after graduation but soon realized that his passion lay in the mountains. Nine months into a promising career, he resigned. He started looking for a way to turn his devotion to rock climbing, mountaineering, and the environment into more than an occasional escape. He sought a lifestyle that would both sustain his sanity and support his family.

The Himalayan Run and Trek—and the fact that 47 people from 12 different countries encountered numerous other trekkers as we ran—are small indications that Mr. Pandey has been achieving results. After creating and running numerous youth development, team building, and corporate leadership programs in and around Delhi, he began incorporating mountain environments into his offerings. He also started introducing the idea of eco-tourism to officials around Maneybhanyjang in conjunction with American adventure runner and ecotourist pioneer Jim Crosswhite. “When | first came here to do some climbings, they told me | was mad,” Pandey says, “and when | first thought to [help] bring people to do trekkings, they said the same thing… There were no toilets or water at Sandakphu. There was no electricity. We used kerosene lamps.”

For the early years of the Himalayan Run and Trek, Mr. Pandey was the India liaison and right-hand man of Crosswhite, then a Southern California giant of a man who wanted to share his love of adventure running with others from around the world while promoting ecology at the same time. In early editions of the stage race, Crosswhite urged runners to pick up discarded candy wrappers and other debris from the trail on the way to Sandakphu, but their fanny packs and pouches were soon overflowing; Indian trekkers tend to be less eco-sensitive than many Westerners. Crosswhite, whose marine doctor wife served as the medical directors on several of the early treks, gradually eased out of the venture and turned it over to Mr. Pandey.

| have to admit going into the Himalayan Run and Trek with low expectations as far as support from the race organizers. How wrong one can be.

The way we were cared for was almost embarrassing and certainly not what | was used to or expected.| remember asking for directions to the nearest phone at Mirik and, after arguing that | could find it myself, being led down the hill to the little shop with the international telephone sign by an eager member of

the race team. It was a little late, and the proprietor had closed for the night; ! said | would try in the morning, but my insistent guide knocked on the sheet of plywood that acted as a door to the shop. There was a faint rustling inside and then the sound of a voice. A few convivial words were exchanged, and the door slid open; | was welcomed inside. No problem, was the response to my apology; sit down, | will get you some tea. The shop owner was in the midst of his dinner but dutifully set his bowl aside and made the connection so | could make my call back to the States.

“Doctor” was educated at Oxford and had been a general practitioner in Britain for several years before returning to Delhi to work.

THE PERPETUAL PARADOX

The mind is an amazing thing. Even through the fog of fatigue, mine somehow managed to imprint upon the immaculately manicured sheets, the grain of the writing desk’s wood, the smell of the talcum powder, the care with which the plate of cookies and bottles of mineral water had been placed. I knew I still had time on an extraordinary journey through a land of contrast but was suddenly embarrassed at the thought of the opulence that would await me when I returned to Delhi in several days. At the start and end of my trip, I was treated to a stay at one of Delhi’s top tourist facilities, the India Tourism Agency’s Ashok Hotel.

I thought about this at the end of the penultimate stage, after crossing the finish that featured no village or summit, just a line on the tarmac, not far from where the family of laborers toiled. After seeing how hard people worked in this part of India and how little they had, it seemed a little ludicrous that a group of foreigners would spend many times the average family’s annual salary to take part in this kind of self-indulgent running event. But then I recalled the words of Mr. Pandey: it is by participating—with eyes wide open—he had told me the previous day on the lawn, that we can come to appreciate the contribution such proud people make to the world. The race director’s vision for the race is one of cultural exchange; his goal is to enhance awareness of eco-tourism opportunities in the region, to generate income that can better the resident’s lives.

The final day’s run is almost a blur, although I do know we continued uphill for nearly seven miles before topping out at the village of Dohtre; covered several miles of what Mr. Pandey called “mountain flat,’ which is his description of rolling terrain with several not-too-severe climbs; and then had a long, final, quad-busting descent to the finish at Maneybhanyjang where we started the race. There was no ceremonial easing up, Tour de France style. The Europeans hammered from start to finish again. Christian won the final stage and set a new course record, clocking 14 hours and 43 minutes overall time.

We are greeted by a chorus line of smiling school children, and when everyone is in, we assemble in the local schoolhouse for lunch. Mr. Pandey gives us stacks of tablets and pencils to hand out to teachers and their neatly uniformed kids. “We don’t get them sweets, that is bad for their teeth and makes them into beggars,” he says. “Instead, with proceeds from the race, we help them with supplies for their school.” The smiles are contagious. I notice several people in our group fighting back tears.

And then we are back on the bus, headed to Mirik for the awards ceremony. Amidst a long series of presentations attended by local dignitaries, Mr. Pandey tells us that in spite of our being “naughties,” he has never seen a group as tight, supportive, and together as ours in the 14 years of the race. We joke that he probably says that to every group, every year. Maybe he does. And every year, in that time and place, he is probably right.

The next morning we will go our separate ways. So we drink beer and laugh and talk of what we have missed and fantasize about what indulgences we will seek when we return to our various homes. No one wants anything audacious, just the simple pleasures: potable tap water, fresh vegetables, hot showers, sheets instead of sleeping bags, the joyous sound of the flush. Pizza, ice cream, coffee that’s not dried and instant but freshly ground and brewed in a pot…

Without saying so, we all recognize that the days we have spent together in the Himalayan foothills have been about much more than running a very hard race. We have shared much more than pain relievers, blister treatments, and sage advice. We have immersed ourselves in a giving culture, while cutting through our various layers of armor and giving one another something of our innermost selves. We have bonded in a way that would take years amidst the noise of everyday life.

A Locals were gracious and friendly throughout the entire trip, and the children were always delighted to pose for a photo. The schoolhouse in Siri Khola.