Posts Tagged ‘adventure race’

El Cruce de Los Andes 2012 — Day 2/ Part 2

February 14th, 2012

< Previous Entry: El Cruce de Los Andes 2012 — Day 2, Part 1

When I spotted the finish line, way across the vast span of blue lake (which sparkled almost obscenely cheerfully in the late-afternoon sun) I let myself bask in undiluted, full-body rage for maybe 10 seconds — 15? — but not much longer, because Maria Kournikova had gotten far ahead of me, runners were coming up behind — and if they were as pissed off as I was over this long, precarious technical portion sprung on us after more than 40 kilometers of hiking and running, they were not showing it. I had to suck it up. There was no other choice.

I retrieved an energy gel packet and downed its contents. I already knew what awaited me: no more running, thank the gods, but strength and dexterity challenges that could mean serious injury with one misstep. This was actually a course I would enjoy under other circumstances, but why couldn’t they have us do it earlier? Why now, when we were depleted? And why, why, why didn’t they tell us it was coming?

As much as I wanted to wallow in self-pity, I did not have that luxury. Big fallen trees crisscrossed my path and I ducked down under them, pulled myself over them, sloshed deeper into the water until they were low enough to step over. I had stopped following my partner’s steps, because Maria Kournikova was so much taller than me that her most logical path was not necessarily mine. This course became ours to traverse in whatever way worked for us. Trees gave way to pointed, slippery boulders along the shore, waves splashing onto them. We had to either find natural hand- and foot-holds and pick our way across, half in and half out of the lake, or climb up over the rocks. At the trickiest obstacles, a race staffer would be perched on a rock or branch above, shouting instructions. I glared at one who looked comfortable, sitting with his thermos of warm maté. “Well I hope you’re enjoying your tea.”

Maybe I could allow myself a little bitchiness.

I was by now soaked to the waist, and shivered as I followed fellow racers emerging from the water and climbing up onto rocks too smooth to “boulder” across. The rocks were wet from natural spray, and from all the waterlogged shoes that had walked over them. I needed both hands to steady myself stepping up and down, skidding on loose stones, testing the strength of branches before using them to pull me up or support me as I descended. There was little to no passing one another here; not many paths to take, and an errant leg or hiking pole jostling into another racer’s space could be disastrous. Another team had stalled ahead of us, one of them standing there considering her options, and Maria Kournikova shrieked, “Vamos!” The woman lunged forth. It was the first time I saw my partner acting unsettled during this race and I felt a little better. Maybe she’s not totally bionic.

Another section of logs. Then more rocks. About an hour later, this gave way to long stretches of sand covered by stones the size of grapefruits. Ankles rolled alarmingly at times on them, and I thought of my original race partner, Holly, who had fractured her ankle doing that. This was easier than climbing, but no place to get lazy. The stones began to get smaller and smaller and easier to run on, in paths through the deep sand and toward the finish line: finally, thank God, the finish line. We held hands and ran through again. Seven hours, 40 minutes: we would’ve blown away our time yesterday if not for the damnable 90 minutes at the end … But, whatever. Done with Day Two.

I walked toward the campsite, located on the grassy area behind the lake, the blue tents already set up in rows and music pumping over the speakers. Again, other racers hailed us, some holding out their hands for high-fives as we trudged into camp. “Felicitaciones!” I felt great, though tired and wet and cold, and mentally reviewed my course of action. Dry clothes. Stretch. Eat. Massage. The race organizers had arranged for masseurs to come to our camp with massage tables and oils, and last night I had signed myself up for two back-to-back sessions. Tonight is all about recovery. Comfort. It is gonna be faaaabulous.

At the edge of camp a few bags and suitcases lay scattered, having been transported from yesterday’s campsite. I hurried over, eager to retrieve mine and get out of my wet clothes and shoes. Standing around were Juan, Guillermo and Paolo, my friends from last night. “Lena!” they greeted me (the name Eileen confounding many non-English speakers). “Como hiciste hoy? ¿Cuantas horas la tomaste?” (The competitive bullshit might be absent from camp camaraderie, but everyone wanted to know how long it took you to finish.) Kiss-kiss and we stood around chatting. The guys had been equally surprised and annoyed at the lakeside portion at the end. Good, I thought, it wasn’t just me.

“I have bad news for you,” Juan said then, wincing a bit in sympathy as he relayed the news — many of our bags had not yet arrived at the camp.

“Oh, God, no.” I looked at the sparse scattering of backpacks and suitcases on the ground, realizing that of course, these could not represent even a fraction of the teams competing. “When are they coming? I’m freezing!” I regretted it immediately: these guys were still in their wet racing clothes, too, and they’d gotten here before me. I hated to sound like a princess.

“They’re not saying,” Jose responded. “We have no idea.”

That meant no dry clothes or shoes … no sleeping bags … no towel … no medical kit where Tylenol and Advil awaited my throbbing feet. No cups or dishes, so I couldn’t eat. My stomach clenched and growled as if to send me a message: unacceptable. I went back to the tent I shared with my partner.

Maria Kournikova was sitting inside, rubbing eucalyptus balm into her feet. We had a quick chat about the situation. She’d heard our luggage wouldn’t be arriving until midnight, at least. Ohhh nooooo. She knew many of the race insiders, so she was probably right. I did a quick inventory of my Camelbak. I had my rain jacket, and an extra tank top and socks I’d stuffed in there, in case it rained and I wanted to change during the run. Miraculously, they hadn’t gotten wet in the lake. I had two more Tylenol, a mini Snickers bar, lip balm, sunblock, and some water. I changed into all the dry clothes I could, shuddered as I jammed dry-sock-clad feet into wet shoes, and left our tent.

The kitchen was setting rows of little sandwiches out, by now realizing many people were hungry and without plates or utensils, and my stomach sent up a louder and more insistent bark. I grabbed a couple of mini chorizo sandwiches and considered that I could wait for my luggage from the comfort of my scheduled massage.

Then I started to whimper. My wallet was in my absent bag. I could not pay for the massage until it got here.

Some staff members had built a campfire, and several people surrounded it. Shoes, socks, and wet clothes were being spread out on the ground next to the embers. Racers had abandoned any sense of modesty and were pulling off all but the most intimate layers of clothing, shoving various and equally intimate body parts toward the flames. Some people put their socks on hiking poles and held them over the popping, crackling flames like marshmallows. The crowd around the fire grew denser and larger as racers kept arriving from the course, shivering and wet, learning their bags were not there. Staff members came running with armfuls of wood and extended the fire, creating a long wall of flames.

Finally, some announcements about the situation: the transport boat had broken and many of the bags would not be expected for several hours. The race officials had arranged for people without their luggage to travel by bus across the border to San Martin de los Andes, Argentina, where they could sleep in military barracks and then be returned to camp tomorrow morning, to be reunited with their bags and start the race. Though no one would have their passports, this wouldn’t be a problem, the announcer assured us. “We strongly advise that those racers without their bags get on a bus and go to San Martin de los Andes. We have made arrangements with the border offices. The lack of documents will not be a problem.”

I considered the situation. Sleeping in a real bed sounded tempting, certainly better than shivering in the cold here without my sleeping bag. But I didn’t like the idea of being separated from my luggage for longer than it was necessary.

Besides, I was having fun. Many of the English-speaking racers had gathered by the fire and, though strangers yesterday, we were now super close in every way it was possible to be close — huddling together for warmth; giggling; joking; passing around cans of beer and communal bowls of spaghetti, with everyone using the one available fork — hey, we’re family now, we reasoned. Melissa and Janno, from the U.S. and Australia, had received their bags and they shared their dry clothes with us. We were all right. Not ideal, but all right. We had some dry clothes, and some food, and some warmth as we all flipped in unison, from one side to the other, rotating in front of the fire like a row of rotisserie chickens.

But Maria Kournikova came to find me. She was most decidedly not fine. She’d heard from her race insider friends that our bags wouldn’t be here until three in the morning at the earliest. “We should go to San Martin,” she urged. “We need sleep before tomorrow, and it is getting colder and colder. We don’t want to get sick. We should go.” I could tell she was not gonna budge, and I decided to abandon the warmth-survival-party by the fire and stay with my partner. We gathered up what few possessions we had with us and got on one of the buses going to San Martin de los Andes.

It took a couple hours to get there — there were three border checkpoints from Chile to Argentina, and we stopped for a long time at each one — but finally our bus came to a shuddering halt outside a military building. As we stopped, a race coordinator stood up and asked who was still planning to run tomorrow. My hand shot up, along with about two-thirds of the others. We were told to get out; those dropping out of the race would be taken elsewhere. As I got out of the bus, I stole a look at the people who were quitting. Yes, the bag situation was bad, but I couldn’t imagine dropping out now.

We flooded into the barracks. Our accommodations were sparse — bunk-cots in a giant room with thin mattresses, pillow, and a thick itchy wool blanket — but even with the bright fluorescent lights still glaring down on me, I fell immediately into a deep, dreamless, grateful sleep.

Next Entry: El Cruce de Los Andes 2012 — Day 3 >

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Posted in Adventure, Argentina, Chile, Patagonia, South America, Travels

El Cruce de Los Andes 2012 — Day 2/ Part 1

February 10th, 2012

< Previous Entry: El Cruce de Los Andes 2012 — Day 1

Hours after we had finished Day 1— up, around and down the volcano — it started raining while most of us were eating dinner. The rains dropped fast and sudden, compelling people to gather up plates and cups and hurry off the rolling grass and under big communal tents set up in the middle of camp. Packed together like that became an opportunity to meet people in an already congenial environment, and I found myself in a group of sociable Argentine guys: Juan, Guillermo, Paolo. Their friends kept squeezing into our circle, joining us, greeting me with the customary kiss-kiss: an overly intimate introduction for Manhattan but strictly how they roll in Buenos Aires.

Before long, several fit and very friendly guys surrounded me, a not-unwelcome scenario by any stretch. One of them kept sighing that he loved the American accent, making me wonder exactly what my butchered Spanish sounded like to them. They wanted to know if I was single. “Que pasa en la montaña …” Juan began, and his friends finished the sentence with a shout: … “queda en la montaña!” What happens on the mountain, stays on the mountain. It was a little rain-party I could’ve enjoyed for hours under different circumstances — but the night grew darker by the minute, I had force-fed myself as much pasta and bananas as I could (my body, oddly, wanted no food after 40K up and down the volcano) — and I was growing tired. Very tired. And nervous about Day 2. Very nervous.

The rain didn’t let up for hours, drumming against my tent, which is generally ideal sleeping weather but I kept waking during the night, anxiety twisting and roiling in my gut. I considered the prospect of running 40K in the rain tomorrow, wet and cold, on trails that were surely being turned to deep mud slicks at that very moment. After today’s slog through mushy snow, could I repeat it? I snuggled deep into my sleeping bag, talking myself down. I’m warm now, I’m dry now, I am comfortable right now and the best thing I can do is rest and not think about tomorrow until it gets here.

When I woke up for real the rain had stopped, though deep puddles everywhere (including pooled in tent folds) ensured we got wet anyway. But I was so glad not to have to get ready in the rain that I felt good. Optimistic. And, despite my sleepless night, rested. I packed my rain jacket in my Camelbak, though bands of bright blue sky expanded more and more above us as the clouds dissolved, and it looked like the beginning of another beautiful day in Patagonia. The post-rainstorm morning air blew over us, cold and clean, smelling like wet green grass and damp bark. For the second time we walked down the road to the suspension bridge. The real race would start there, again, though on a different route today. The green river had risen a bit higher, its currents frothing a bit faster, but you could still see every branch, every stone, clear to the bottom.

Today’s trail peeled away on a straight path through the jungle, departing from yesterday’s route that had led us up, up, always up. I had known intellectually that the Day 2 course would be more forgiving, flatter than the rumbo al volcán of Day 1, but still felt pleasantly surprised at how easy this seemed. It also felt far less crowded from the get-go, probably because most people could start running right away and not have to walk up every slope. This course had uphills, but not as steep or long — or both — as yesterday’s. And, miraculously: very little mud. With many of the trails covered by rocks, or by a mat of long grasses flattened out by the runners ahead of me, traction didn’t pose a problem. The sun filtered through the treetops, providing warmth but not heat.

Those body parts that had been aching yesterday — legs, butt, feet, abdomen, upper back where my Camelbak fastened — all felt warm, loose, and strong, a twinge of tightness here and there: but this served as a reminder of muscles working as they should, not a source of discomfort. My breath came in long, deep inspirations, my lungs seemingly limitless. I felt alive, powerful, superhuman. What was this? Was I getting the “runner’s high” I’d earned yesterday, hours after having stopped? I cautioned myself not to get too confident, not to feel too good, because I had a long day ahead — then common sense prevailed. Yes! You have a long day ahead. If you can feel good now, then for Chrissake, let yourself. My inner dialogue had taken on a running tug-of-war between positive and negative, reason and despair, comfort and punishment.

I leaped over fallen logs and darted zigzag downhill, passing other runners left, right, and center, keeping up with Maria Kournikova, trees flying by me in a blur. I felt like I was in a scene from LOST, where someone is always sprinting through the jungle. I am Kate. I am Sawyer. I am the Smoke Monster.

The course led off the narrow trails and onto a wide-open dirt road where we didn’t have to worry anymore about the logistics of passing each other: no grunting “A la izquierda,” or “Medio!” as we tried not to bang into other runners in our path; no scrunching out of the way when someone faster came flying past. We spread out, occasionally having to move when a vehicle came bumping down the rutted road, but mostly we had it all to ourselves. The sun was by now blasting dry heat into every corner of the landscape, the clouds few and far between, and Maria Kournikova chided me on occasion to stay on the left side of the road, where rows of trees provided the occasional burst of shade. She had a point. I might feel invincible now, but that sun was merciless, and we still had hours to go. I asked her how far we’d come. “Diez kilómetros.” One-fourth of the distance behind me, one-fourth of my day feeling, not merely “bien,” but great. This was luck I had not counted on.

From the road we turned back onto trails, with steep hills upward reminiscent of yesterday’s. I had been able to move at my own rhythm today, much more so than I had yesterday, and the transitions from running to walking were easier. I was conscious of my muscle groups changing roles as I shifted from downhill to flat to uphill. Quads, core, shoulders. Calves, hamstrings, lower back. Glutes glutes glutes glutes glutes. It all seemed so easy now, after yesterday’s constant struggle just to continue putting one foot in front of the other.

But then, disaster. After we had climbed a fairly tough set of uphills and were back on flat ground: pain. Dull pain and lots of it, in my feet. I have a foot condition called plantar fasciitis, and with orthotic arch supports in my shoes am usually pain free. But now, my feet were protesting with a sharp zing every time I stepped down. Oh why, why, why this now? We were only halfway through and in all other respects, I felt fine. I stopped and walked a bit, then started to run again. Stopped and started, stopped and started. Maria Kournikova had gotten way ahead and now turned to find me limping along. Runners we had passed were overtaking us. “Vamos, Eileen!”

“Hang on. Espere.” I stopped, the sweat trickling down my back now having more to do with my feet than with the sun that was, by now, high overhead and baking last night’s rains out of the landscape. “Mis pies me duelen mucho,” I called to her. “Espere, momentito.” I dove for my pill bottle, extracting two Advil and two Tylenol. I knew this was probably overkill, and not necessarily smart. But at that moment in my inner dialogue, desperation shouted down reason. Something worked, because 15 minutes later I was able to jog again, the pain having subsided to a dull ache that I could live with and, more importantly, run on. All during my training I had certainly never intended to win this race, or even care much about my standings — but now that I was in it, I did care. I was running well today and wanted to make up some of the time I had racked up yesterday, slogging through the snow.

A few more kilometers of flat road and gradual uphills, and I started to crash — my fatigue, I figured, due mostly to the abrupt halt in momentum that my foot pain had caused. But at the top of a high green mountaintop, the path changed: all downhill, fabulous downhill, a wide dirt-and-grass path that switchbacked down, down, down, looking out over a deep green valley ringed with a postcard mountainscape that rippled and folded and spiked up into a cobalt sky. With gravity on my side and the dramatic vista of the Andes unspooling all around me, running became easy again. One of the documentary helicopters roared around the mountain, dropping down to just above our heads, its rotors whipping fresh air and leaves all around as the videographer hung partly out of the door, aiming his camera down at us.

The last quarter of the 40K went like that: downhill, then through jungle again, the late sun having burned off its midday strength and filtering gently between the branches overhead, suffusing all the greenery around us with a bronze glow. I stopped to refill my Camelbak at an impossibly picturesque bubbling stream, the water as pure and cold as I’d ever tasted. My feet had started to protest again but we were nearing the end, and there was no way I was going to stop and walk now. Maria Kournikova confirmed the distance on her watch. “Faltamos siete kilómetros.” I was by now legitimately tired and hurting, but the inner cheerleader kicked in. Okay. Seven kilometers. At this pace and even slower, that is another hour of running and I can do this for another hour. It is a beautiful day, it is not hot anymore, most of this is downhill and I can do this for another hour.

Halfway into my hour, we came upon three race coordinators along a crossroads in the path, and they pointed us toward the correct route. Maria Kournikova asked how much longer, and they responded, “Siete kilómetros!”

“Whaaaat!” It was seven half an hour ago. Are you kidding me? Doubt started to creep in. What was this? Last night at camp, everyone had been complaining about the discrepancy in that day’s route, how we had run several kilometers more than what we’d been told originally, how the people at the end had underestimated our remaining distances. It had been a frustrating situation for which nobody was prepared. Was it happening again?

It was. We ended up going at least six kilometers past what we’d expected, maybe more. By that time, I had stopped asking about the remaining distance, because the responses had become meaningless. My feet were sending up jabs of pain again; I was exhausted and angry over not knowing how much longer we had to go, or how much more energy I would have to expend. Every step I took sent waves of fury from my feet up through my body. I pictured my rage blasting out of my ears, in black plumes of smoke like a locomotive, one puff with each step.

A grown man and two boys stood at the end of the road. “Allí, allí!” they called as we approached, pointing down a path that led into a grove, across ground that looked more sandy than what we’d been running on. Race flags fluttered from tree branches. “El fin! Medio kilómetro!”

My rage disappeared, replaced now by gratitude. In that instant I went from hating the race coordinators to loving them; the adventure-race version of Stockholm Syndrome. We entered the grove and my eyes adjusted to the shade: yes, there was a lake shore at the end of this path, the shimmering blue water beckoning us. “¡Por fin! ¡Vamonos!” My legs churned, numb to any sensation except anticipation. Fast, fast, fast down that path, and at the end I saw two more race coordinators waving their arms. Feet crunched onto sand and pebbles.

I stopped before banging right into the race staffers, and looked around for the blue arch. This shore was quite narrow, with just a few feet of sand before the water lapped the edge, and tons of fallen trees extended from the thick surrounding forest into the water. Where was it? I looked at one of the race people quizzically. “¿Donde está …?” He pointed off toward the shoreline before I had finished my thought, and said something, but I couldn’t even hear him, because a flood of disbelief had rushed into my head. There were no runners sprinting thankfully under a blue inflatable arch. Instead I saw El Cruce flags tied to branches that jutted out of the water, and people ahead of me in racing shirts wading knee deep, thigh deep: climbing over fallen logs, ducking under them, inching across a natural obstacle course that lay all along the shoreline.

“En serio?” I demanded. The race people nodded. After more than a marathon’s worth of walking and running through the Andes we were depleted, our limbs rubbery, expecting to finish … and now, we had to navigate this forest of fallen trees in the water. Up, down, over, under, hopping down off of big tree trunks into cold water up to the ankles or knees. I started climbing, hauling myself over mossy wet logs. Over each one I expected to see the shoreline open up, the big blue inflatable archway appear like a benediction before us. But when the trees did thin out, all I saw was a line of racers ahead of me like blue ants marching all around the undulating shoreline, over trees, over rocks and boulders jutting out from the water’s edge. They got smaller and smaller as they circled the water, with no end in sight.

I looked across the giant sparkling lake and there I saw it. A tiny blue dot. And I wouldn’t have believed it, except that this was a shade of blue that generally didn’t occur in nature, not around here anyway, and it was par for the course that just when I thought I was finished, when I had spent every last bit of energy in the vault, I would realize that I would now have to go into overdraft.

We were not done.

Next Entry: El Cruce de Los Andes — Day 2, Part 2 >

El Cruce de los Andes 2012 Official Photos: Day 2

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Posted in Adventure, Argentina, Chile, Patagonia, South America

Tags: adventure race Andes Cruce de Los Andes El Cruce nature! Patagonia Puerto Fuy

El Cruce de los Andes 2012 — Day 1

February 8th, 2012

For years I secretly harbored a desire to take part in one of those insane, extreme adventure races that you see featured on the Discovery or Travel Channel and think, who in their right mind would do that? So last summer, when my friend Holly asked me to partner with her in one of them, I jumped at the chance. It was El Cruce de Los Andes, a grueling 3-day race over 100K of Patagonian mountain terrain between Chile and Argentina. This year’s edition included a 1,560-meter ascent up the volcano Mocho-Choshuenco (which has a height of 2,133 meters), and a run around its peak. ¡Rombo al Volcán! the Cruce website shrieked. How much fun does that sound? So much fun!

As months went by I gradually realized just how much time, effort, and money I would have to devote to this. I started running longer, farther and more often, exercised with a trainer, and went to Cusco, Peru, weeks before the race so I could train at altitude. My goal was merely to finish, and to find out how I held up under intense challenges and stress. I always thought I had the type of personality that could press on when I was exhausted, hurting, and wanting to stop … but one never really knows unless one is in that situation, does one?

My Cruce experience was almost over before it started: Holly fractured her ankle three weeks before the event and couldn’t compete, and this race requires teams of two. We were both so bummed. At the last minute, though, Holly’s friends from Argentina, who knew Cruce organizers, pulled in a replacement partner for me.

After a three-day blur of taxis, buses, airports, and customs from Peru through Chile, I arrived the day before the race at the Cruce campgrounds. We would be spending the first two nights in Puerto Fuy on the shores of Lago Pirehueico. There I met my new partner, Maria: a tall, striking Argentine personal trainer with impossibly long legs, waist-length blonde hair, and, I was soon to discover, the cardiac capacity of an adult cheetah. This would be her fourth Cruce. She was friendly, helpful, knowledgeable, and so daunting. I dubbed her Maria Kournikova.

That first day of camp had a festive atmosphere: music blasting, cameras clicking, boisterous reunions, cheerful introductions, barbecue grills smoking; people splashing in the lake, tanning themselves on the sand, eating and drinking; and waving at the documentary helicopters that dipped and banked over the sparkling waters and swaying treetops and rows of cobalt blue tents that rippled over the hillocks like flags. Local dogs — a scruffy black mutt, a pug mix, a fat beagle — wove in and out of the competitors, sniffing for handouts of sausage and beef. It could have been any giant camping party but for the faint air of tension that permeated the gregarious mood. Lording over the mountainscape to our southwest, the flat-topped, ice-covered Mocho-Choshuenco volcano loomed over its surrounding peaks, a silent and foreboding reminder of the trials that lay ahead. Here and there, people contorted themselves in runners’ stretches, another reminder that we were here to work, not play.

Everyone went to bed early.

The next morning, competitors started emerging from dew-soaked tents before the sun rose, and within an hour everyone was up: shivering, standing in line for breakfast, water, Gatorade, and port-a-potties; taping and lubricating feet, zipping up blue race jackets, bolstering knees and ankles with bandages and braces, pulling on compression socks, lacing trail running shoes, loading camera bags, reviewing the contents of Camelbak running packs, stretching stretching stretching. By the time 8 a.m. rolled around and we headed down the dirt road that led to the start of the course, people were removing their jackets and stuffing them into backpacks. The sun had burst forth strong and hot in a clear morning sky and we didn’t need them now, but the snow-glazed cap of Mocho-Choshuenco awaited us.

We moved en masse about 2 kilometers up the road, some people running but most walking briskly, knowing that another 33 kilometers lay ahead and that there would be plenty of running today. I couldn’t believe how fast Maria Kournikova could walk — her rapid long-legged stride carried her past joggers and walkers seemingly without effort as she chatted and joked with those she passed, many of whom she knew. My stumpy legs were no match and I jogged to keep up. Our dog companions from camp trotted along, and I wondered for how long they would stay with us.

The race organizers had given us small flags of our countries, with our names stamped on them, to attach to our Camelbaks. Most of the flags around me were the pale blue-and-white stripes of Argentina, followed in number by Chile’s navy blue, white, and red flag, and then the vivid green and yellow colors of Brazil. Other flags popped up here and there, but I was one of very few people, maybe 10 among the 1500+ in the race, who bore the Stars and Stripes on my back. Several people shouted “USA!” or “Vamos Estados Unidos!” when they saw me, as they would throughout all three days of the race. I felt giddy, as though I were in the Olympics.

We gathered at a suspension bridge that we knew would be the one bottleneck of the day, and this was really the start of today’s run. Race coordinators stood at the end of the U-shaped bridge, controlling the flow of runners onto it, ensuring we didn’t snap it and go tumbling into the cold green river below. As I waited my turn I saw the scruffy black mutt and fat beagle sitting on the bank, watching us, not taking their chances on the bouncing, swaying bridge. Smart doggies. I stepped onto the bridge, hiking poles in one hand, and grabbed its steel support cable with the other. Its wood slats smelled good, like cedar. Down a long ramp at the other end, and a wide dirt trail stretched out into the jungle. We started running when we hit the ground.

For the first couple of hours the trail was crowded with runners and mostly uphill. I found it hard to set a rhythm, since I was constantly having to pass someone, or dodging those passing me. Maria Kournikova stayed in front of me the whole time and I watched her pace: walking up the steeps, running on the flats and gradual uphills, with me never going as fast as she was but as fast as I could. She clicked into trainer mode: insisting I eat something every half hour, reminding me to drink water, coaching me on how to breathe better, asking now and then, “¿Como estas?”

“Bien,” I’d gasp, unwilling to talk much more than that, lest it get in the way of what had become very intense breathing. We were on a rather direct ascent, and I was working as hard as I could, prodded by Maria Kournikova’s relentless pace. I was red-faced, sweating, panting; she trucked along as casually and comfortably as if she did this every day. Which, for all I knew, she did. As time went on, the runners thinned out on the path, and it became easier to navigate.

The sun burned into the side of my neck and hoped I hadn’t sweated off my sunblock. The higher we got, the cooler it became, and the landscape began to change: less vegetation, more rock and open sun. Along the way I saw another American flag in a backpack with a toy monkey’s head sticking out; these belonged to Theresa from Maine, running with her partner, Olivia from Spain. I had my own stuffed companion buried in my bag: I didn’t want Maria to see Travel Bear and urge me to leave him at camp to save weight. A gift from my niece Charlotte, he has come with me to five continents and was definitely running with me.

We kept going, up through rock, flat plants and scrubby grass, the trees and bushes now far below. All around me, spectacular views of surrounding mountain peaks rising high into the sky looked surreal, like a movie set. The wind grew colder and more insistent and I stopped to pull on a long-sleeved shirt, gloves, buff around my neck, and knitted ear band under my cap. I chewed half a trail mix bar and gulped diluted Gatorade. I could see racers ahead of me, tiny in the distance, climbing a long, steep, straight-up incline toward the top. It did not look easy or —despite the splashy ¡Rombo al Volcán! marketing — fun.

Frost iced the grass as we kept going up the switchback trail, and then we rounded a curve and stepped suddenly into winter: inches of snow on the ground, coated with a thin layer of blown dirt, mushy on the path where hundreds of feet and poles had trodden. My trail runners slipped and slid, unable to gain traction, and I saw others having the same problem. Those who had worn hiking boots were faring better. Maria Kournikova had the footing of a mountain goat and kept her quick steps, stopping on occasion to wait as I moved laboriously through the snow. I felt guilty about slowing her down, but she seemed in good spirits. “Estas bien, Eileen?” She stopped to carve our names and countries into the dirty snow with her pole: MARIA ARG, EILEEN EEUU.

The path turned again and then we were on that sharp climb to the volcano’s peak, a long slow grim march that would have been far more tolerable if not for the shrieking wind bearing down on us like the wrath of God. I huffed upward, my feet sliding in all directions, glad for the hiking poles that had become necessary to keep my footing while others slipped and fell around me. I watched Maria Kournikova’s red Camelbak above me: how was she moving so fast through this? The ascent seemed never-ending, and with little else but whiteness around, I had to mark my progress by identifying stationary landmarks, mostly teams above me that had stopped for whatever reason. I couldn’t imagine stopping in this wind. In my mind resounded the voice of Dory from Finding Nemo: “Just keep swimming … just keep swimming …” Near the top was a ridge of dirt-blown snow where people had scraped their names and initials. Because this was Super Bowl weekend, I took my hiking pole and wrote LET’S GO GIANTS NY USA.

Finally, the top: the trail evened out, and ahead rose the apex of the volcano, jutting high up from the rest of the mountain. Now we would have to circle it and come back down. I saw how the track veered to the left. It was a wide road through the snow, just as mushy and difficult to traverse as the one uphill. This felt like walking through deep sand, yet some people were running on it. Maria Kournikova could have run, but she slowed to match my walk; I was breathing so hard from the climb that running through snow/sand was not gonna happen. I could see runners off to my right who had completed the circuit around the volcano, lucky bastards: they were sprinting downhill and out of sight.

I wondered how long it would take to get around the volcano. The wind howled and whipped my face. My shoes were sopping, my frozen ears might as well have been uncovered, and though the cold air cut through me, my shirt was wet with sweat. Pulling my buff over my face, as many people did, only got in the way of my breathing. I needed every available bit of oxygen I could get.

The track yawned way out, and my heart sank as I saw runners ahead getting smaller and smaller in the distance before disappearing from view around the track’s circular curve. How long is this thing, anyway? I had imagined the top of the volcano to be a lot narrower, the circuit around it much shorter, but it was like a small mountain unto itself and the track around it looked more like a snow highway. The whole world turned into a blend of blinding white snow that matched the clouds, bright blue sky that matched our race jackets, and dark volcanic rock in the middle of it all that rose into the sky.

The track seemed endless. At every curve I expected to see the end of the circuit, to spot other runners just arriving at the top, but I would instead be greeted by yet another long stretch of snow road, sometimes going up a high hill; yet another vantage point of the majestic volcano peak that by now seemed to mock me. A few times, the snow would flatten out to where I could see rock under it, and I ran on that, anxious to get the hell off this volcano. The wind howled into me, from the side, then from the front, never letting up. And then, rounding one more curve — the peak shielded us from the wind at this angle, and it became blissfully still and quiet. Around the next curve, oh joy — the track angled downhill and I saw other runners on their way up the mountain, now starting the trek that I had just finished. Poor bastards.

But the slope down from the volcano proved a treacherous slippery slide down, down, down, like skiing without skis, and people were falling left and right. A couple of girls plopped down on their butts and just slid down. “Mira, Eileen!” Maria Kournikova shouted. “¡Hazlo así!” And, her left side facing downhill, she started bounding in high-stepped leaps, then would pop herself around so her right side faced down, skip skip skip, alternating left and right like her shoes had springs in them, sure-footed and fast down the hill, passing everyone else struggling to stay upright. While there was no way I could summon up the energy to jump like she was, the side-to-side method worked, and I scooted down half-sliding and half-shuffling.

At the bottom, race coordinators were helping people up onto a spiky hill of dark volcano rock and I silently thanked the gods to see solid terrain once more. My relief was short-lived: the hill was made of loose stones and pebbles over crumbly dirt, just as slippery as the snow, and we had to carefully pick our way up and down. Losing one’s footing here would mean a nasty fall onto nasty rocks below. At this point, two spikes of pain embedded into the base of my skull: I never get headaches, and the ferocity of this one surprised me. I had ibuprofen with me, but this was no place to stop. We had several rocky peaks to cross, up and down, up and down — til, thankfully, grass and bushes started to appear along the landscape and one more descent down the rocks led to a gravel road that wound downward through trees. At this point I realized how badly my legs were shaking. I also realized my headache was gone. I stopped to remove layers of clothes. My hands were shaking too. I asked Maria, with her distance watch, how much longer we had to go. “Quince kilómetros,” she answered. Fifteen more: we were more than halfway there, and the hardest part was behind us.

The gravel road turned into wide dirt trails through the jungle once more: hot, but shaded, the air carrying earthy scents of moss and wood and sun-baked leaves, with an occasional gurgle or roar of a waterfall or mountain stream bubbling over rocks. Racers stopped to fill bottles and Camelbak bladders: no fear of parasites from this cold, clear, pristine water.

I didn’t want to keep bugging Maria about the distance, but exhaustion had set in and I was starting to feel anxious. “Nueve kilómetros,” she’d say, and I’d think okay, nine more, that’s like, five and a half miles … I was mentally comparing the distance to ones I had run before, from training in various locations around the world in the past few months. That’s from Sullivan and Houston to Chelsea Piers and back. That’s from my flat, twice around Finsbury Park and back. That’s from San Blas up to Cristo Blanco and down to the plaza. Anything to give myself some precedent: I know I can do that. I have done it before. I am tired but I can do that. I had not filled my Camelbak from any of the streams, though, and now it was dry. I could not believe I had consumed three liters of liquid and still had five-and-a-half miles to go.

But when we got to a pair of race coordinators in the road, nearing the end of the nine kilometers, they handed us water and Gatorade (to my relief) and shouted, “Faltan cinco kilómetros!” (to my horror).

“Wait, what, five more?” I stopped short in disbelief. “But we’re at 33!” I repeated it in Spanish to Maria Kournikova. She confirmed it with the race people. “Yes. There are five more to go.” She must’ve seen the look on my face because she added, “Vamos Eileen. Puedes hacerlo.”

I wasn’t sure I had it in me. I felt distraught and my twin-spiked headache had come roaring back. As I rooted in my pack for my ibuprofen, another Camelbak with an American flag jogged by — this was Maria, an American running with her British teammate, two of the first people I had met at camp. “Hey hey USA!” she yelled at me. “Three more miles! Go go go!”

I washed my ibuprofen down glumly, wishing I could feel as cheerful. Within 10 minutes the Advil had kicked in and I could jog again. Slowly. But it was faster than walking, and at that point the only thing on my mind was how badly I wanted to cross that finish line, to stop, to sit, to be comfortable again. Maria Kournikova was still sprightly and looked as though she’d spent the day relaxing with a nice cup of coffee and doing crossword puzzles. I’m sure that I, on the other hand, looked as beaten out and defeated as I felt.

Five kilometers later, by Maria Kournikova’s watch: no finish line anywhere in sight. “What in the hell.” I wanted to cry. “¿Donde estaaaaaaa?” I whined to my partner. She shrugged and spoke to some runners passing us, and confirmed we had indeed come five kilometers, but apparently had more than that to go. “Vamonos.”

For the next two kilometers my mind strayed to a deep, dark, terrible place, with me making harsh judgments about myself, the race organizers, the guys in the road, fellow racers, Maria Kournikova, everyone — but especially, and most damningly, myself. I had to remind myself that I was hurting, tired, discouraged, and not thinking straight, but it was surprising to me how quickly I could become irrational and super negative when I felt physically awful. How powerful and immediate was the connection between pain or discomfort, and dangerous bad thoughts.

About two kilometers later, we came upon some locals that had been recruited by the race to give us our remaining distances. “¡200 metros!” they yelled, pointing to a path that wound through the trees. Finally, thank God. “¡Por fin!” I said to Maria Kournikova, and started to jog a little faster.

No finish line. No finish line. We turned a corner and found, instead of the big blue inflatable arch, a steep hill. I cursed and we slowed to a walk. At the top, we started to run again. A little girl was standing at the end of the lane, pointing to a gently sloping uphill trail. I huffed “Gracias,” at her as we jogged up the trail. No finish line. No finish line. “Where in the frigging hell?”

Off to our left I spotted a flight of wooden steps leading down to a street and then, at last, that big blue arch I’d been dreaming about all day. Maria Kournikova grabbed my hand and we ran full speed through it. After nine hours and one minute, I could stop.

Later, speaking to other runners, we confirmed that the course had indeed gone for six more kilometers than advertised, and the people at the end definitely had underestimated the remaining lengths. I was comforted to hear that this discrepancy had thrown other runners into the same psychological funk as me. We had traveled just over 40K that day, more than a marathon, the same distance we were expected to go the next day.

We took buses back to the camp and, walking in, people who had already arrived cheered and clapped for us. “¡Felicitaciones!” This was cool — there was none of the ultra-competitive bullshit I had been expecting and dreading; the racers were all pretty supportive of each other from elites to novices. I limped up to the area in front of the food tent, where people were sitting in clusters eating and drinking, dropped my pack and sank to the grass, stretching leg muscles that were already stiffening up. A dip in the cold lake, a change of clothes and major amounts of pasta were waiting for me and then — tomorrow, another 40K. I didn’t know how I was going to pull that off, but I couldn’t think about that now. I had to concentrate on being so incredibly grateful to pull off damp shoes, peel off two layers of wet socks, apologize to my puffy and sore feet, and finally, blessedly, rest.

Next Entry: El Cruce de Los Andes 2012 — Day 2, Part 1 >

Photo by Diego Constantini Fotografia
Photo Copyright 2012 El Cruce Columbia