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Jungle Marathon |
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Sweet Revenge
The human body never ceases to amaze me. A mere 21 hours after being at the point of total mental and physical exhaustion at the end of the long stage, I am at the starting line for the beginning of the last day, completely hyperactive, recharged and raring to go. Or maybe I just want to get this thing over with?
Today is a 24 km “sprint” along the beach of the Tapajos river to the finish line in the village of Alter do Chao. Start time is 8am, which is very late in jungle terms as the sun is high in the sky and the heat of the day has already built up. A competitor suggests to Robert that an earlier start would be healthier. “Nothing in this race is supposed to be healthy for you,” he responds dryly. No surprise there. So 8am it is.
Jay and I start out together with the lead runners through a tough wooded stretch. This is the first time I’m running near the head of the pack, and I’m amazed at the agility with which the lead runners jump over obstacles and how precisely they place their feet. They seem to lope over the jungle, not run through it.
When I started this race, I thought that we’d be a group of Neanderthals pounding our way through the jungle. It turns out instead that the top runners are highly skilled elite athletes. One sees this in their running, pacing, nutrition, hydration, and foot-care techniques. They are true professionals with tremendous race experience, corporate sponsors, and well thought out training regiments. They compete in many such events every year. Their skill is evident in the grace and elegance with which they run the course. The rest of us, well…we’re more like what I originally envisioned: a group of Neanderthals pounding our way through the jungle.
In fact, we are all de-evolving into a more primitive state as the week wears on. Here is Gershon, our Brazilian jungle survival instructor starting the race in his army uniform, half way through in the Dark Zone after he switched to running with flip-flops, and at the finish line. I hope that he has undies under the number 47.
Gershon day 1 Gershon day 4 Gershon day 7
Back to the race, Jay and I keep a brisk jogging pace as we re-emerge onto the beach. The blisters and smashed toenails scream at me to stop, but I ignore them. I turn my MP3 volume to full and let the Rolling Stones numb my mind. Many runners sprinted ahead, but now they crack and we overtake them one by one. Now I not only smell like a jaguar, but I start pouncing like one.
At the last CP 6km before the finish, I collapse in the river to cool off for a few minutes. No sooner am I back on my feet, then the beach ends at a major outcropping of rock. We’re forced into the water anyway for a 500 meter swim/wade around the rocks. “That was a waste of 4 minutes at the last CP,” I tell myself, but I’m finding that I don’t want the water part to end. I’m happy in the water. But my MP3 payer isn’t. It lets out one last shriek and dies. “I’m amazed it lasted this long,” I think, as I rip out the earphones.
Back on the sand, Jay and I run the last few kilometers together hoping that no major muscle groups give way at the last minute. Slowly the village of Alter do Chao appears on the opposite side of the bay, and then the steps up to the village square and finally there it is: The Finish Line! Locals clap and cheer as I cross the finish line in 14th place for the day. Out of 78 competitors that started the event, only 55 remained in the race and I would be happy to finish the day anywhere in this group, especially after my dismal performance on the long stage. But 14th was beyond my expectations given the animals running this thing. According to Stalin, revenge is a dish best served cold. In this case, it was served hot, very very hot.
I bring my motor back to idle and find that I can barely support my own weight. I collapse in the town square under the shade of a tree, flat on my back, and the locals pour cold water over my face and body. “This is heaven,” I think to myself. I never want the water to stop. Just then, it stops. “Mas! Mas! (More! More!)” I cry out, and they keep pouring. In fact, I ask them to do it three more times.
So it’s over. This toughest footrace in the world didn’t disappoint any of us. It certainly lived up to its name and provided each of us with the opportunity to test ourselves, mentally and physically. I don’t feel a need to return to this race, but the chatter among the competitors at the party that evening is how to improve their results for next year. The hard core stay hard core to the end. It seems that Robert and these die-hard runners have all found their bliss in this wild jungle race. |
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Copyright Dari Shalon 2004 |