Thursday, August 19, 2021

A Rainy Night in Georgia

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.

Earlier that day, while grinding through the tough final 10K of Stage 2, it occurred to me that my GP and cardiologist may have had a point in their cautionary appraisal of my participation is extremely challenging athletic events. I considered that crossing the finish line of the Georgia Race might make a fitting crescendo to my ultra-running career allowing me to ride off, carefree, into a glorious sunset. Lying in my tent, I confronted the alternate reality that it may have ended in a pool of my own ****

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 ****

Friday, March 17, 2017

Antarctica Marathon Race Report: Goat South, Young Man!

One afternoon, midway through our trip, I joined other passengers on the deck of the Akademik Ioffe and watched amazed as humpback whales played in the water below. There were two or three alongside the ship, each a good 20 feet long, and dozens more spread out to our left and right, fluke-flipping, fin-slapping, barrel-rolling and thrusting their knobby heads out of the water, those nearest so close, we could look them in the eye. This played out as we skimmed along the western side of the Antarctic Peninsula, its coast a seemingly endless chain of rugged mountains and smooth glaciers. We passed icebergs the size of city blocks, ivory white above the water, cool aqua below. The humpback show went on for more than an hour.

Thursday, March 2, 2017


As I and my traveling companions, Lindi Rosner and Debra Kaufman, prepare to board the flight tonight that will begin our trip to Antarctica, I am fixated on what a novel experience it is to visit the southern continent. The first confirmed sighting of the Antarctic landmass happened only in the 1820s—less than 200 years ago—and it wasn’t until 1895 that  Norwegian explorers Henrik Bull and Carsten Borchgrevink became the first humans (so far as can be proved) to set foot there. The first Trans-Antarctic crossing  was completed a mere blink-of-an-eye ago in 1958. Yet scant decades later, it’s possible for an average schmo lunkhead like me to travel there in near complete safety and comfort—and run a marathon to boot.

Saturday, February 18, 2017

A Long, Strange Trip

When I first began running, my friend, Angela Brunson, shared with me a wise maxim for choosing races: “Never sign up for an event where you’ll spend more time getting there, than on the course itself.” In other words, a 10K that’s an hour’s drive from home is too far away. In two weeks, when I walk out my front door and head toward the starting line of the Antarctica Marathon, I’ll be violating Angela’s advice by stupendous proportion.

The journey for me and my intrepid support crew (my wife, Lindi Rosner, and our friend, Debra Kaufman) will begin with a 20-minute car ride from home to LAX. We’ll board a 5-hour flight to El Salvador, followed by a 4 hour flight to Lima, Peru, followed by a 4 ½-hour flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina. There, we’ll meet up with other marathon adventurers and do a bit of sightseeing before taking yet another flight, this one lasting 3 ½ hours, to Ushuaia, at the tip of South America. 

Monday, March 7, 2016

Race Report: Baikal Ice Marathon

"Man Proposes, Baikal Disposes."

On Sunday, March 6, 150 or so Frenchman, Poles, Germans, English, Chinese, Japanese and Russian runners took part in the Baikal Ice Marathon. There may have been other Americans in the race, but I didn’t meet any. About a third of the participants competed in the half marathon, running 13.1 miles to the midpoint of frozen Lake Baikal and then hopping in hovercraft to complete the passage. The rest attempted the full crossing, 26.2 miles from Tankhoy on the lake’s eastern shore, to Listvyanka on the west. In its twelfth running, BIM lived up to its billing as one of the world’s most spectacular and toughest marathons.

The view outside my hotel window on the morning of the race.

Friday, March 4, 2016

A Bowl of Uhka at the Steam Bath

This morning after listening to a lecture on the aerobics of running from our guide Arkadiy, my Ice Marathon mates and I attempted to put theory into practice by making another assault on Lake Baikal. Yesterday afternoon, while I slept, a snow storm passed through leaving the ice covered in a blanket of fresh powder a foot deep. That turned our run into an awkward stumble. We soon gave up and reverted to tottering along on roads much to the annoyance of the local canines.

Thursday, March 3, 2016

My 44-Hour Day

My trip to Siberia began spasmodically. I made an error when I applied for a Russian visa in January, noting my date of arrival as March 2, the day I was scheduled to land in Irkutsk. I failed to consider my stopover in Moscow, which would happen a day earlier on March 1. When I showed up at LAX on Monday, Aeroflot told me that, due to the discrepancy, I couldn’t fly that day. I had to rebook.

Tuesday, I was allowed to head out. I took a 12 ½ hour flight to Moscow followed, after a two hour layover, by a five and a half hour flight to Irkutsk. I landed there at 4 a.m. Wednesday local time. I was met in the terminal by a young Russian who drove me the 145 km to my hotel in Baiklask. Door to door I was traveling for 27 hours.