Arkady Kalikhman, who served as my mentor and guide the first time I ran the Baikal Ice Marathon, summed up the inexorable power of the natural world with the simple phrase, “Man proposes; Baikal disposes.” This past week in the Republic of Georgia, where I traveled to take part in a 7-day, 250K, self-sustained endurance race, “disposing” assumed an uncomfortably literal form for me. One can only laugh.
As usual, my friends at Racing the Planet put on a great
show. Indeed, they outdid themselves in organizing an epic event in the face of
the covid mess. Every detail was planned and executed to provide for the safety
of participants, while maintaining the integrity and magic of the race.
I worked hard to get myself to the starting line. I followed
a rigorous training regimen and developed a comprehensive race strategy. I was
motivated, in part, from having come up short in my last RTP adventure two
years ago in Chile, the lingering malaise of the pandemic, and the hints I kept
receiving from the outside world that maybe I was getting a bit old for this variety
of over doing it. I went through my training runs with a I’ll-show-you chip on
my shoulder.
And it seemed to work. I got through the first two stages of
the race, 23 and 28 miles, respectively, fairly well. The course was tough,
more so than I expected, but I managed to lug my rucksack up every hill, across
every stream and down every dale. The other competitors and I ran or tramped
mostly through verdant farmland populated by free-ranging cattle, sheep and
chickens, as well as astonishingly large and occasionally menacing dogs. Shepherds
and residents of small villages, who sadly seemed to have nothing more pressing
to do, alternately gawked and ignored us. Children waved. Women in black headscarves took snapshots with their iPhones.
After completing Stage 2, I chowed down on a 1,000-calorie, freeze-dried serving of spaghetti Bolognese and crawled into my sleeping bag.
Sometime later, I awoke to a rumbling in my stomach. Instantly, I was out of my
bag and I shot from the tent. I remembered my flashlight but forgot my jacket in
my mad rush to make it to the camp’s makeshift loo, a six-inch hole in the
ground surrounded by a thin, plastic barrier. No sooner was I tucked back into
my sleeping bag then the urge returned, and it was off to the races again.
A few dispiriting minutes later, I was in my tent when the lollapalooza
arrived without warning. I barely had time to shift my weight to avoid ruining
my bag. I did what I could to attend to the situation with extremely limited resources
in the dark when three more rounds followed like cannon volleys from the 1812
Overture. That’s when I woke my poor tentmate Paul to fetch the doctor.
I tip my hat to the running gods for their devilish sense of humor.
This is no tale of woe. Apart from a couple of regrettable hours,
I’ve had a marvelous time. I’ve made great friends, ate delicious food (the spaghetti
Bolognese excepted) and seen incredible sights. Georgia is a wonderful country,
and I am grateful for having had the opportunity to experience it. I am the
luckiest man alive.
My deep thanks to Racing the Planet, its doctors, volunteers
and local staff, my fellow competitors, the tour operators and guides who
assisted me, and numerous others I met along the way. I am also forever
grateful to my son and daughter, Dash and Tess, my many friends and supporters,
and my trainers. Most of all, I thank my lucky stars for my wife, Linda Rosner,
for putting up with me and my ****
