Spartathlon: Running from Athens to Sparta (250 km)

Posted on November 19th, 2016

Words: Filippo Canetta

I NEEDED A NEW ADVENTURE

Not excuses or complaints, especially since I'd just finished building Wild Tee in the meantime, but a premise, to better understand what it takes to bounce back from a difficult time.

On November 17, 2015, after more than two years of suffering, I decide to have surgery on my right Achilles tendon. They tell me I'll be back running within three months. I honestly have no idea how to plan out my training and season. Do I sign up, or don't I? That becomes my mantra. I'm not particularly optimistic by nature, but I take on the challenge. A long-distance triathlon in June, a demanding race in August. Having finished Western States in a bit over twenty hours qualifies me for entry into Spartathlon, and I don't like letting an opportunity slip by (literally), even though the moment I confirm my entry, I can't run for more than half an hour. After six months, the foot is still swollen, still hurts, and I struggle to land on it properly. I try not to dwell on it, and lean heavily into biking and swimming. Doing something other than running turns out to be a great strategy, I have no idea whether I'm doing well or badly, no reference points to go by. So I try to build myself some, to develop the psychological confidence I'll need to face my first real test. I need to swim 3.8 km, so I swim 4. I need to cycle 180 km, and one day I decide to ride from Milan to visit my parents in Liguria, covering 200 km. I need to run 42 km, so I try limping through 44. With that confidence built, I finish my triathlon. Time to get back to running in the mountains. Running feels so wonderful that I don't even notice I'm doing it all wrong, trying to keep as little weight as possible on my right foot. My ankle, protecting the tendon, locks up, and without realizing it, I start losing muscle mass in my calf and thigh. What was supposed to be a steady recovery turns into a setback instead. I realize this is going to be genuinely hard, I revise my plans, and still manage to find immense joy in a couple of mountain outings I'd missed so much. I arrive at the August race exhausted and a bit demoralized, and in fact, I drop out even before the real difficulties even begin. In the moment, it feels like the right call, but as always happens with poorly thought-out decisions, in the days that follow I bitterly regret it. I could have made it, and instead I gave up, so how am I supposed to run 246 km, in a number of hours I've never even run before?

THE ULTRAMARATHON

I've never done much road running, even though I live in Milan, the only 100 km I'd ever run was half on trails, with 3,000 m D+.

As always, when I don't know something well, I look for reference points. Sure, but for something this massive, where do you even find them?

I try looking at times from past editions, but it all seems impossible, hopelessly far removed from where I stand right now. On the other hand, the growing realization that this goal might be too big for my capabilities actually brings me a strange sense of calm as the days go by. When the number of unknowns is too high to control, there's nothing left to do but accept the situation, trust the #whateverdammit method, and take things as they come, one at a time. I accept the challenge, I set off, and we'll see how far I actually get.

I'll only realize, along the way, that this is exactly one of the defining traits of an ultramarathon runner.

GREECE

It's been many years since I've been back to Greece. If I remember correctly, the last time I was here, I stepped off the Brindisi-Patras ferry with my friend Cacio, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in hand, now I'm back to run, on foot, from Athens to Sparta. I still don't know which is the bigger act of madness.

At the hotel, we're staying alongside athletes from Eastern and Northern Europe, it's genuinely striking to see a hotel full of athletes who, on average, run more kilometers in a year than the typical Italian drives in their car. One evening, at dinner, just to distract myself, I try adding up the total kilometers run by everyone in the room, but quickly lose count. I feel like a fish out of water, keep to myself, and try to figure out their secrets. Watching them, though, I quickly realize there's no secret to uncover. The people in front of me are a global selection of humans with the highest possible combination of humility and determination.

It's with that same mindset that I take my first step, from the Parthenon in Athens, toward Sparta.

Used to running in a natural setting, the first kilometers are genuinely at the edge of what I can handle. Basically, we're running along the highway's emergency lane, against the flow of rush-hour traffic racing to get into Athens. I try not to think about the trucks brushing past us, and before long I adapt to the situation, and the journey begins. To reach the destination, you just have to keep moving, keep going, no matter what happens, maybe slower and slower, but never stopping.

Ah, right, I should be writing about the race itself, but it's everything around the race that fascinates me more and more. The runners' faces and clothing keep drawing my attention. Even the competitors' gear reflects their humility. Maybe because the race is deliberately "sponsor-free," and we've been asked not to display commercial logos, but I see athletes running in well-worn clothes and shoes, perhaps kept purely for their sentimental and motivational value. The technical side of things is completely irrelevant, everyone knows perfectly well this is a race you finish regardless of what you're wearing or which shoes you've got on.

By ten o'clock, it starts getting hot. After the important first checkpoint at Megara, a beautiful coastal stretch begins. Few cars, rolling ups and downs with the sea alongside us. Ah, the sea, I start imagining the feeling of cool water as I dive in... instead I keep running, refusing to let myself get distracted, like Ulysses resisting the Sirens. And indeed, we're crossing Greece, the cradle of ancient mythology.

For the first time, I try to run some numbers, we've just finished the first marathon... of the six we still have to run... no, better not run any numbers!

If earlier it was the sea pulling my attention, now we're crossing a refinery that doesn't seem to be handling its unburned hydrocarbons all that carefully. With the air we're breathing, you could probably power a combustion engine with it. Following that thought, comparing it to how little my own body is consuming, and without polluting a thing, I reach the Corinth Canal, which ferries me across into the Peloponnese.

I set aside my philosophical musings, since there's ground to cover fast to reach the next checkpoint, home to the tightest cutoff of the whole race, and I want to get there with a bit of margin, to check in with Irene, who's following me. Up to now, she's had plenty of time to get organized and stay ahead of me, but from here on, the aid stations where crew support is allowed will come more often, and I really want to share these moments of our journey with her.

THE HEAT

It's genuinely scorching as we head toward Ancient Corinth, and I'm starting to feel cooked. I've cleared the most important cutoff, but when I think that from here to Sparta there's still more than 160 kilometers left, my legs nearly buckle. I realize this isn't a race, it's a journey, whether I get passed or pass other competitors is completely irrelevant at this point. Everyone here has by now retreated into their own bubble, deciding to focus solely on themselves, setting aside everything happening around them. Only now do I notice a muscle in my left thigh has knotted up badly. I have zero ambitions about time or ranking, so when I see a massage table set up, I ask if I can get one. Meanwhile, I poke a few holes into my shirt, smiling, knowing my friend Paco will appreciate the gesture. As proof of his skill, the guy immediately figures out the problem stems from how I'm landing wrong on my right leg. I thank him, glance at the swollen knot on my thigh, and set off again. The magic of the long journey continues, whatever problem comes my way, I see it, analyze it now with a kind of detachment, and file it away until the race is over.

At the main aid stations, I sit down and try to eat something. It's a technique I've picked up over the years, one that lets me get something into my finicky stomach. I notice that this way, every time I set off again, I catch up with the same little group of competitors.

We're running along the road the whole way, and when we pass through small villages, instead of constantly stepping up and down curbs, we just run right down the middle of the street. The men seem largely uninterested, almost mildly annoyed by our passing, while, often, loud encouragement rains down from balconies, usually from some elderly lady.

The nicest encouragement of all comes from classes of children waiting along the road for us to pass. I wonder how many of them will one day try running from Athens to Sparta themselves.

As often happens when you take on something far bigger than yourself, your brain is forced to filter and focus only on what truly matters. Like when you're afraid because you sense danger, your thinking speeds up, cutting out every unnecessary detail, honing in only on what can pull you away from the threat. I struggle a bit through this stretch of the race, and to keep moving forward, I focus on just a few things, keep going, drink, eat something, letting go of everything else and letting my body carry me along. I don't remember much from this part of the race, the details have faded from memory.

Evening approaches, and I'm struggling to eat. I'm so deep inside the effort that, instead of worrying about it the way I normally would, I barely even register it. I'm not an optimist by nature, but after 120 kilometers I'm steeped in a kind of cosmic fatalism, convinced this is just a temporary problem that'll pass, sooner or later. Finally, the kilometers left to the finish start to be fewer than the ones already behind me.

LA NOTTE, MAGIA E CRISI

We're on a dirt track by now, far from roads and villages, when, almost in a trance, I look up and see the starry sky. It's insanely beautiful! A huge shooting star leaves its trail across the sky before splitting into two smaller ones. My wish is very simple: reach Sparta on my own two legs.

The distance still ahead is enormous. I'm curious to see what'll happen when I try pushing past my current limits (170 km and 26 hours). It's like being a spectator in a film that's just entering the heart of its story.

Night falls, and a heavy drowsiness gradually takes hold of me. I've never slept during a race before, if anything, the night after a race, I usually struggle to sleep. Instead of trying to resist and fight off sleep, I decide to spend a bit of my buffer on the cutoffs, collapsing onto a wooden bench near a house. The moment I lie down, I fall asleep with my headlamp still on my head. I don't know how much time passes, but I feel better and continue on.

Seeing Irene again is always a joy. I hope she managed to get some sleep too, because from here our paths will diverge.

We climb what everyone calls "the mountain," while support crews driving cars have to go around its base. "The mountain" has no exact name, but for someone who's been running on flat ground for 150 kilometers, 900 meters of elevation gain on a trail becomes a genuine "mountain" to conquer.

The night's coolness revives me, and I claw back some of the time lost against the cutoffs. At every checkpoint, a sign shows the distance covered, the distance still to go, and the aid station's closing time. I'd hoped to reach this point with a bigger buffer. I try to make up time, but start feeling cold despite being well bundled up. I hadn't expected to throw up from the cold, I was braced for it happening during the day, from the heat. It doesn't rattle me, it happens to me often, unfortunately my stomach has always been my weak spot. I still haven't figured out exactly why, but at some point it just stops cooperating. I keep going, trying to drink and eat as little as possible. There's nothing left to do but slow down.

Often during races, especially lately, in situations like this I think "who made me do this?", but on this journey instead, driven by curiosity to see what comes next, I keep moving forward, with total calm, no matter what happens.

I'm becoming more and more convinced that the finest qualities of an ultramarathoner are determination and patience.

My buffer against the cutoffs keeps shrinking, I try to hold as steady a cruising pace as possible. Soon the sun will rise, and it'll be a new day.

Dawn catches up with us on a foggy plain, mirroring our own thoughts. Day two of running begins. By now I find myself in a different state, watching myself run from the outside, as if I were another person, one I still hold some influence over, even so.

THE TURNING POINT

I'm not exactly sure by what logic, but when I reach the 171st kilometer (even writing that number is a struggle), gripped by a strange euphoria, I knock on the car window where Irene's sleeping and tell her we're going to Sparta.

My stomach still hasn't gotten back to working properly, and the aid stations don't offer much, but against all logic, I decide to play the Greek card. Legend has it, after all, that the best Greek runners eat yogurt and honey. It takes a while to go down, but it settles my stomach. I start drinking and eating again. So, sixty kilometers from Sparta, right when I'd imagined I couldn't possibly make it anymore, I start running again.

The sun starts scorching again, relentless, just like the day before.

I claw back time against the cutoffs, start passing other competitors, and cut my stops down to only refilling my handheld bottle and packing ice into my cap. Two tricks I picked up at Western States. At first, my head aches, the way it does when you eat ice cream too fast, but gradually the feeling of relief kicks in, helping avoid wasting energy on cooling down the body's most important organ.

By now, my body has adapted to the situation, and at this pace, I discover it's burning through even less than I'd expected.

Crossing through a small village, a few kids are standing in the street holding a notebook. At first I don't quite understand, they're waiting for us, wanting an autograph or a message. At this point in the race, we're stripped bare, defenseless, emotions rising right up to the surface of the skin. I stop, and with a trembling hand try to write my name and bib number on the sheet held by a little girl about my daughter's age. I can't hold back the tears, and what I write smudges from them, I feel terrible about it, but I have no idea how to dry it. For the next two hours, replaying that moment in my head, I get goosebumps, despite the thirty-five-degree heat. It's a bit like when you're winning a race, and running while thinking about it, you get emotional, the fatigue vanishes, and for a moment you run even faster.

On the final descent, the heat keeps climbing, my legs hurt like hell, but I try to keep running, I want to get there.

When you've covered two hundred and thirty-six kilometers, you think you've made it, and at the same time, you know anything can still happen.

I'm amazed that, despite everything, I'm still lucid enough to fully experience all the emotions running through me.

Being able to still run after two hundred and forty kilometers is wonderful. I've always wondered whether I'd manage it.

The final kilometers turn into a celebration, everyone greets us, and we runners congratulate each other as we make our way through the streets of Sparta.

The last two hundred meters are the ones that change a runner's life forever, a bit like reaching Place de l'Église in Chamonix for a trail runner. Kids run alongside me down the final straight, all the way to the statue of King Leonidas.

Doing something different, unknown, filled with countless unknowns, renews that spirit of adventure that pushes us to attempt things bigger than ourselves.

P.S.: Wild Tee T-Shirts passed the test with flying colors!