(And what | learned from it) BY KAREN RIDDLE

weight division, 35-pound minimum pack. No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam—these words were on the T-shirt and they haunted me.

\A\ Joes MISSILE RANGE, NEW MEXICO, March 30, 2008—Heavy-

“We’re the Battling Bastards of Bataan, No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam,

No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces, No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces, And nobody gives a damn!”

—by Frank Hewlett, 1942

To explain the hopelessness of the situation, the following was taken from the Bataan Memorial Death March Web site (Attp://www.bataanmarch.com/r09/ history.htm):

“The Bataan Memorial Death March honors a special group of World War II heroes. These brave soldiers were responsible for the defense of the islands of Luzon, Corregidor and the harbor defense forts of the Philippines. The conditions they encountered and the aftermath of the battle were unique. They fought in a malaria-infested region, surviving on half or quarter rations with little or no medical help. They fought with outdated equipment and virtually no air power. On April 9, 1942, tens of thousands of American and Filipino soldiers were surrendered to Japanese forces. The Americans were Army, Army Air Corps, Navy and Marines. Among those seized were members of the 200th Coast Artillery, New Mexico National Guard.”

And there was no one there to rescue them.

The beginnings

This memorial march had intrigued me for several years, but I needed to learn a bit about the actual Death March prior to entering, and the Baatan Memorial Death March Web site helped. It suggested that you learn a bit about the history of the event before participating. I have run many marathons, so I needed an extra challenge, especially for this event, so I signed up for the civilian heavyweight division, which means carrying a minimum of a 35-pound pack for a marathon distance, in sand, up hills, and on some roads. I entered with some trepidation, due to the history of the event, and I found out that this would be the hardest thing I had ever done. I thought of the Iraqi and Afghanistan amputees and the original survivors, and my efforts were nothing in comparison with what they had endured. And when I returned to civilization and work on the Tuesday after, it was almost as though it didn’t matter to my coworkers, but it did to me. You can’t explain the experience—you had to be there. This event was not something to take lightly.

First of all, I had to train for this event, which meant working my way up to carrying over 35 pounds for a marathon distance. I started out with a small pack and maybe 10 to 12 pounds, which consisted of any weight I could find thrown in! I progressed to 15 to 17 pounds, then a larger pack with 20 pounds and on up to 42 pounds in a half-marathon at Grasslands in Decatur, Texas, a week before the event. I could run carrying 20 pounds, and after that it was fast-packing for me.

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A Scales used to weigh runners’ packs.

Before the race

My husband and three dogs were my traveling partners, and we opted to stay in Las Cruces ina KOA camping cabin, pets permitted. Las Cruces is approximately 25 miles from the start, with Alamogordo as the alternative, about 40 miles from the start. I’m all for staying at the place closest to the race, especially when it’s suggested that you get there at 4:30 a.m. Sunday and the race starts at 7:00 a.m. There are camping accommodations right on the White Sands Missile Range, which I will take advantage of at another time! First things first. On Saturday in the A.M. there was packet pickup, or in-processing, as it is called at the Missile Range. Events were scheduled for the entire weekend, including documentaries, movies, meetings, golfing (golfing?), survivors talking about their experiences, breakfasts, and a pasta dinner. The in-processing was military style, very organized, and went especially smoothly. The marchers received their certificates before the event so that they could be signed by the survivors on the way out of the in-processing. Memorabilia was for sale, with a lengthy line. I didn’t stay for any movies or speeches, and oh, how I wish I had.

The start

After a rather fitful, mostly sleepless night, I was up at 3:00 A.M. to get to the White Sands Missile Range at 4:30 a.m. There was an efficiently run entrance to the range, with marchers lining up already and military resting on their rucksacks. Loverheard one guy say he had arrived at 3:00 a.m. One reason for the early arrival is that you have to get through the ID-required entrance. I found some breakfast and a spot to sit, shivering and waiting for the celebration to start. There was an opening ceremony, honoring those who survived at Bataan and those who didn’t with reveille, an invocation, and a very moving roll call followed by an F-117 flyover by the Air Force’s 49th Fighter Wing from Holloman Air Force Base. We were told to help one another along the course, not to quit, and to remember the spirit of the event. There was also a parade of survivors and amputees from Afghanistan and Iraq. Moving among the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Jay Norman from the North Texas Trail Runners club, and I made my way to wish him well. I also met Anita Fromm on the way to the start. I guess the race had started, as we were inching along and came upon the survivors sitting alongside the course, very gently shaking our hands and wishing us well—yes, wishing us well. Imagine. It was a lumpy-throated, wet-eyed, and very inspiring start to the march. It took me 10 minutes to get to the chip-timed starting mat. I was pumped, adjusted my pack, and was on my way.

We had a bit of asphalt prior to the sandy-dirt jeep road trail. It was a comfortable start, exciting, with panoramic views of the desert. I saw several amputees and tried to keep them in mind whenever I was feeling down. There were two

A The start of the race for competitors with disabilities.

distances, and we were all together for this portion until we reached the road, where the 15-mile marchers would head back to the finish, along the road. It took me 2 hours, 48 minutes to get to the eight-mile mark. I felt like running several times during this portion but thought I had better save it for later. The weather had been a bit cool before sunrise, and now it was warming up. I wore my NTTR (North Texas Trail Runners) running hat, with a dark underside to the brim, shading my eyes. I opted for my glasses instead of contacts in case the sands blew. I didn’t need eye problems in addition to any other problems I might have along the way! I was lathered in sunscreen, had plenty of water, and could feel the exhilaration of the event.

Along the way

Acrowd was gathered at the turning point (water stop #3) for the 15-milers. They headed one way along the road back to the base, and we headed the other, uphill! And uphill! Hmm—there was a course profile on the Web site, and Ihadn’t bothered to glance at it. Or maybe I did but thought those were feet, not meters. The aid stations on the map, being approximately two miles apart, gave an indication of a rather long uphill climb, first along the roadway where you could see the winners (including Anita!) on their way back—what a pleasure! Then the course weaved up the mountain through the sand, past relics of old ranches, with magnificent

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views of the mountains, snow visible on one. I was getting initiated along the way. Beware, other runners told me, of the sand pit after the mountain. Sand had already taken down numerous runners with blistering feet. My trekking poles came off my pack and were put to good use. Civilians were permitted trekking poles, but military were not. My food supply was getting low with just water, Gatorade, bananas, and delectable refreshing oranges offered at the aid stations. This was one of the few times I gobbled up what I had brought with me, wishing for more salty foods or a cool, crisp apple.

I took several pack-off breaks for seven to 10 minutes to get something out of my pack, put something in, and take bathroom breaks. I was carrying a hand-held water bottle and had two more in my pack, which I switched out when needed with added water from the aid stations. Fatigue was setting in as the mountain seemed never-ending and teasing. I huffed and puffed and dug in my trekking poles, thinking of the amputees and the original marchers, the survivors, and tried not to think of those who hadn’t survived. Could the youth of today survive such a horrendous march? There were enough military in the event, complete with packs, to give me some hope. I was worried I might not have enough food and remembered to take an electrolyte tablet every hour. At the top of the mountain I smelled hamburgers and saw an oasis of a picnic going on! A gentle but spunky survivor greeted me with a soft hand hold, smiling and cheerful. The line to the food was long, and the time was precious, so on I trudged, knowing the downhill had to be close. It finally materialized, and we got a reprieve for a couple of miles before a twisting, turning uphill took away our fantasy. The miles went by slowly, precariously slowly. I could have quit, I really could have. I had to

<4 One of several military groups in the race. They were not allowed to use trekking poles.

focus, focus on those who had had it much harder than this—no food, water out of drainage ditches, no support. I knew how much more I had. But still, every time I took the pack off, it was harder and harder to put it back on.

Military personnel on four-wheel-drive vehicles were patrolling the course and picking up the weak. I knew that before mile 19, we would be back on the road. I put away the poles and made my way down more quickly than the prior uphill miles. Another aid station and back to the base . . . or so I thought. I wondered where the extra miles would lead. The dreaded sand pit, the one I thought we had gone through once, twice, three times already! We turned away from the base and headed back out into the hills, uphill, through the sand. I couldn’t stop to get my poles; I had to push on and on and had to think positively. Then winds kicked up, marchers were covering their faces with scarves, and I got blown around a bit—even with the weighted pack. Thank goodness I didn’t have my contacts in. As we got closer to the base, we snaked teasingly around it, around the military housing, and I was breathing hard and trekking slowly, just two more miles, just one more mile, just two-tenths of a mile to go! And through the finish line, with a chip time of 9:46! I weighed in my pack at 38 pounds, dropped off my rice and beans for the needy (a suggested load for the pack), got my meal ticket, and went off for some food.

The survivors didn’t have the same kind of end. They had no lunch at the end, no support, no water. No shower after. Most went on to prisoner-of-war camps, for years still. No one came and high-fived, gave congratulatory hugs, or took them out to eat. It was over for me, but it’s not really over. I may go back and listen to the very few left who can tell their story . . . before they are gone forever.

And what | learned from it:

I learned more than I bargained for. I learned a pittance about the actual death march itself, in the Philippines, in 1942, where prisoners of war were captured by the Japanese and forcibly transferred to prison camps with more physical abuse than I could fathom. I could not know the whole story; only those who were there would truly know. When I saw the survivors at the starting line, it was almost too emotional to go on, thinking of what they went through and how they were shaking hands with the runners, wishing them well and just being there. They must have hearts of gold with forgiveness that we are intended to have, but for most of us, forgiveness like that would not be easy. I saw runners with tears streaming down their cheeks as they went from survivor to survivor to shake hands before they thought about themselves and their own run.