North Coast 24-Hour Endurance Run, Cleveland, Ohio

As strange as this may sound, the idea of running for 24 hours straight sounds like a good time to me. You have nothing to worry about except putting one foot in front of the other — and you can test the limits of your body. So, I, along with a few hundred other like-minded individuals, signed up for the North Coast 24-Hour Endurance Run in Cleveland, Ohio. The race began at 9 a.m. on Saturday, September 20, circling around a scenic 0.9 mile loop along the shores of Lake Erie, and would finish at 9 a.m. the next day.

In the months leading up to the race, my mileage resembled that of a serious half-marathoner rather than someone prepping for an ultramarathon. Considering my fitness level, I vowed to “take it easy” and just have fun. Admittedly, I had one serious goal: to improve on my collegiate coach Jim Butler’s 24-hour personal best of 103 miles. There is nothing personal with Coach Butler as he is a great friend and mentor, but I assumed the arbitrary goal would help break the monotony.

I figured a 12-minute-per-mile pace would achieve that without too much trauma, and after the race, I would slide into Waffle House for a double serving of pecan waffles. I soon learned that a tedious nine-minute pace at mile 10, if maintained, becomes a world-class speed by mile 60, and a velocity for disaster beyond that distance for someone like myself. Adding to the challenge, the weather during the day was hot and very humid, while the night was chilly and stormy, with a couple downpours — not to mention, there was a guaranteed headwind for a section of the circular lap during the entire race. Of course, there was a tailwind for part of the lap as well, but for some reason, I didn’t notice the gentle push from behind as much as the oncoming resistance.

About three hours to go. Photo By Claudine Ko.

About three hours to go. Race Face. Photo By Claudine Ko.

The race itself was a fascinating example of what human beings willingly endure. I wondered why a bunch of us were motivated to run the same short loop for an entire day? But then I would sync up with a stranger or a friend, engage in stimulating conversation or crude ultrarunning banter, and somehow, it all made sense.

By the end of the 24th hour, to my surprise and my body’s chagrin, I had clocked 118 miles. As this was my first 24-hour race, I was guaranteed a personal best, but I had no idea I would cover that much ground. Fortunately, I had run ultras and 100 milers before and made some important adjustments for this race. For example, for the first time I raced in Hokas. I would not have normally chosen this shoe, but I recently joined up with their testing team and wore a developmental version of next year’s Stinson. Normally, I change shoes during a race of this distance, but I actually didn’t feel the need to do so since the cushioning of the Hoka model was so effective at absorbing the impact of the pavement.

I also made a nutritional adjustment, for the first time consuming Hammer Endurance Amino and Anti-Fatigue capsules every hour which seemed to work exceptionally well as I never felt a cramp or hit the wall. I also consumed 42 Hammer Gels, many Endurolytes, 13 bananas, three liters of coconut water and three servings of pho broth from a nearby Vietnamese restaurant. (As for those waffles, I was more nauseous than hungry by the time the race finished.)

And finally, for the first time in a 100-mile-plus race, I had a crew. Claudine Ko was kind enough or crazy enough or worried enough to stay up for most of the race, make some pho runs and even snap photos. There is no “I” in 24 hours.

Recoverite time! Photo By Claudine Ko.

Recoverite time! Photo By Claudine Ko.

Racing The Planet, Madagascar, 2014

I spent the past three weeks in Madagascar thanks to Racing The Planet, who hired me to  document their 2014 Madagascar “roving race.” Racing The Planet is best known for its annual “4 Desert Series” consisting of 250km self-supported races in the Atacama, Sahara and Gobi Deserts, plus Antarctica. Once a year RTP stages an additional six-stage, 250km race in a new location such as Madagascar. Former roving races have taken place in Australia, Vietnam and Nepal.

Antananarivo, Madagascar at sunset. ©Zandy Mangold

Antananarivo, Madagascar at sunset. ©Zandy Mangold

The Madagascar race featured South African ultra running legend Ryan Sandes who confirmed the hype as he convincingly won the first three stages, and eventually held off Wateru Lino of Japan for the overall victory.

Ryan Sandes, Running with Zebu. ©Zandy Mangold

Ryan Sandes, Running with Zebu. ©Zandy Mangold

While I had anticipated this once in a lifetime photography assignment for over a year, shooting the race turned out to be just one of many highlights.

Ever wanted to feel like a rockstar without actually needing musical talent? Then Madagascar is the place to be. Salee salee saleeeeeee! the children will shout in greeting as you approach, and in a split second, you will find yourself surrounded by a village of excited kids who want to know your name in order to chant it at the top of their lungs to the rhythm of their handclaps.

Loving my job! ©Zandy Mangold

Loving my job! ©Zandy Mangold

The children have beau coups de energy so there is not a time limit on the spontaneous celebration. You can bask in the glory as long as you wish. When you are ready, pick someone or something else to celebrate, shout it out, and the song will continue in a new direction. The positive vibes are intoxicating and I found myself smiling my way through the country side. If it were possible to export positive vibes and hospitality, then Madagascar would be rich.


There are many children in Madagascar and they are all awesome. ©Zandy Mangold

There are many children in Madagascar and they are all awesome. ©Zandy Mangold



A discarded tire rim and stick – the Nintendo of Madagascar. ©ZandyMangold

A stick and discarded tire rim – the Nintendo of of Madagascar. ©Zandy Mangold

2014 L.A. Marathon

“Use your arms to get up this hill! You don’t want your legs to be the only sore muscles tomorrow,” exhorted Chris Cavanaugh, the 3:15 pacer, circa mile 22 of the L.A. Marathon. Up to that point, I had stayed ahead of the group, but the onslaught of heat, hills, and lack of training eventually slowed me to a cramped shuffle. To my surprise, I had been on track to qualify as a 40-year-old for the 2015 Boston Marathon, but had lost hope by the time the 3:15 pack overtook me. Nevertheless, I gave myself a pep talk, popped an Energy Surge, and attempted a final Hail Mary to get back on pace.

I quietly fell in behind the four-runner group and coaxed my legs back into a 3:15 canter. To my astonishment, I wasn’t immediately felled by hamstring cramps and kept stride with them over the next two miles. Chris, who was probably oblivious to my presence, said all the right things to keep us focused, instilling us with the belief that we could reach the finish line in Boston qualifying time. His words of encouragement were simple, yet somehow so powerful, I had to consciously force myself to keep my eyes dry. Without his support and the presence of my fellow runners, I would have surely fallen off pace.

About two miles from the finish, I felt confident enough to begin pulling away from the pace group. The distance slowly increased until I could no longer hear Chris’ voice, though his words rang in my head until the end. These last two miles were my fastest splits all day. I crossed the finish line in 3:13:25 — good enough for Boston.

The L.A. Marathon was wonderful for many reasons: superb weather, excellent aid stations, a beach finish, the USC cheerleaders, and most importantly, because I was reminded of the power of the human spirit. Without the company and support of the other runners, I would not have achieved my little dream for 2015.

20140309_LAMarathon02Forced to walk at mile 20 due to cramps.

20130309_LAMarathon01Finish line and Boston qualifying time in sight.

2013 NYC ING Marathon

“Look at that runner — he ran the race backwards!”

I was at mile 26 of the 2013 NYC Marathon when I heard someone shout this over the din. Then, as more and more spectators began cheering, I realized all the hoopla was for the marathon oddity in their midst — me.  What had started as a humiliating, last-ditch attempt to keep moving forward, but backwards, was suddenly garnering me the most cheers I heard all day.

Moments earlier, I had been stopped cold by my two hamstrings. Clenched like angry fists, the muscles had finally rebelled against running 26 miles, much of that distance into a 15-mph headwind. To worsen matters, my marathon-brain had mistaken the 26-mile banner as the actual marathon finish line and I had given a final push to reach what I thought was the end of the race. I had run 26 miles, only to be stumped by the last two-tenths.

Now, anchored to the ground by two steel rods in the back of my legs, I was desperate. Spectators urged me to keep going as hundreds of runners flew past in their final push to the finish. Thoughts of shame crept into my head as I was representing the North Brooklyn Runners (NBR) and not closing out the race like a forward-running boss. After-all, I was only taking part thanks to NBR’s generosity, as I had been awarded one of their allotted team spots.

Ironically, besides the muscular problems, I felt amazing, and buoyed by the crowds I was experiencing a kind of runner’s high. Suddenly, due to nothing more than pure instinct, I turned around and started walking — then running — backwards. My body had subconsciously found the path of least resistance.

After a few steps of this unorthodox stride, the supporters lining the course began taking note of the one guy running the wrong way (in the right direction), and heaps of praise were directed towards me for having completed a marathon in reverse. I felt like a fraud, but it was too much to explain, so I gratefully accepted the cheers and smiled and continued butt-first. As I approached the actual finish, I gingerly tested a forward stride and to my surprise the hamstrings didn’t cramp. I crossed the line, feet first, in 3:17:40, 2372nd overall, spent and content.

Screen shot 2013-11-11 at 7.27.33 PM

Disposable Gear For Warmth.

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Pre-Cramps, Sunday Funday.

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Burning River 100

Burning River 100: Breaking Wind, Breaking The Ice

Passing wind during an ultramarathon is as expected as gulping HEED ( ) at an aid station. The combination of a race diet and prolonged jostling of the digestive tract is a perfect formula for creating gale force breezes the boys from Jackass would envy. I am shocked by the immediate acceptance, even celebration of public flatulence on the trail. As soon as one runner breaks the sound barrier, a symphony of cheek-squeezed sounds is bound to follow.

Around mile 30 of the Burning River 100 I fell in step behind a male runner. Lets call him Russ and say he is a father of four and a collegiate cross-country coach from Wisconsin. Like the start of many friendships in the running world, Russ and I first engaged in self-deprecating banter and grumbled about the weather conditions during an aid station stop and then hit the trail together. Conversation came easy between us and it wasn’t until after running together for 10 miles that we formally introduced ourselves. Russ was a stronger runner and took the lead as I trailed closely behind. It wasn’t long before a thunderbolt tore through his spandex clad booty, directly in my path. I appreciated the audible warning. Regardless, there wasn’t much for me to do, but wince and forge ahead. I hoped to declare my own brand of chemical warfare in return – if only I could get ahead of him. We acknowledged this act of nature was part of ultrarunning and joked about the topic for the rest of our miles together.

Eventually Russ ran ahead, leaving me on my own at the mile 67 aid station as I tried to pull myself together. “Everything hurt” and the attentive volunteers took note of my struggle. One volunteer untied my absolutely disgusting mudcaked shoelaces as I endeavored to replaced the Asics Nimbus with a lighter and fresher pair of Asics DS, while another brought me homeade vegan potato soup –and then a second helping of the savory delight.

Shortly after I left the station I sat down on the trail in order to retie a shoelace and catch a break. I looked generally pathetic plopped down in the middle the path, Raidlight running pack off to the side and shoe untied, and a runner stopped to check on me. His name was Harvey Lewis from Cincinnati, Ohio and he wasn’t actually racing, but rather out for a 40 mile training run and to socialize with friends who were competing. We quickly figured out that we had both been at the Badwater 135 in the week prior – Harvey as a runner and 4th place finisher, myself as a crew member for Eberhard Frixe – and that we had friends and interests in common. As we chatted I discovered that Harvey is an ultrarunning legend, though the legendary parts of his story had to be coaxed out of him.

From the moment we met until the end of the race he was nothing but selfless, positive and overflowing with helpful advice. I am beyond grateful for his presence which helped me to eventually cross the finish line. There were points – basically the tiny stretch between miles 35 – 95 in which I doubted whether or not I could finish. I started the race with a sore right hip and buttocks which still hadn’t recovered from a previous race and my body developed other pains along the way, the most debilitating of which was a throbbing left knee. The searing pain eventually demanded all of my attention and I was forced to stop running and instead march in agony for approximately the final 20 miles. I had been on pace to meet my sub 24 hour goal, but ultimately I was satisfied to cross the finish line- and more importantly, I was grateful for the generosity and goodwill of people I met along the way.

My diet consisted of a Hammer gel every 45 minutes, a Hammer bar every hour, salty soups at aid stations and approximately 20 oz of water per hour mixed with Endurolytes Fizz. I felt great the entire race – minus the leg pains – which speaks volumes about Hammer Nutrition which once again proved to be one of my best friends in a long race.

burning river

Finger Lakes 50 Ultramarathon

That bridge was as “slippery as a stripper’s twat.”  What? Did I really hear that? No – actually, grandmaster competitor, Bruce, had warned the runners in his 56 year-old wake that the wooden bridge was as “slippery as snot.”  Either way – the mud-covered planks bridging wet sections of the Finger Lakes 50 course were hazardous if not treated with extreme caution. Days of rain prior to the race, plus successive mud-covered footsteps from the runners created a most skateable surface.

This was my third annual journey to Hector, NY, in order to run in the Finger Lakes 50 – the best trail race extravaganza I have experienced in the Northeast. Not only does one race through rugged, undulating, wooded terrain, but two nights of camping amongst a small sea of ultrarunners is the norm, making for a well-rounded get the f*** out of the city experience.

As opposed to the 2011 and 2012 races, this course was extremely muddy.  Traipsing through the unavoidable mud path added pounds to my running shoes and gaiters.  Midway through the second of three laps, I felt as though I were running in work boots, with concrete plastered to the outside. During the third loop I actually detoured through forested sections in order to avoid further buildup of mudcake.

The wet woods not only created treacherous footing, but also a veritable love hotel for mosquitoes and black flies. It was as if the insects had spent a year since the last ultramarathon reproducing and not eating – thus creating a massive population of voracious winged predators. During the first lap, I managed to outrun most of the flies, but as I slowed in the second and third laps I was ripe for the plunging of their proboscis ( The bugs were a blessing and a curse as they were responsible for speeding me along the trail when I would have otherwise slowed. I was excited to leave New York City for a woodsy experience and I got it!

I was satisfied to have finished the 50 miles in about 8:40:00 and 4th place overall.  While I have yet to negative split during the race, I have negative split the annual times dropping from 11:35:00 in 2011 to 9:35:00 in 2012 to this year’s 8:40:00.

Hammer Nutrition’s Sustained Energy mixed with Hammer chocolate gel was my race fuel and I mostly drank the Hammer Heed provided at aid stations along the course. I also popped a total of three Hammer Energy Surge tablets during the race when I felt sluggish and took two Hammer Anti-fatigue Caps. In addition, I ate about four bananas and some watermelon slices. I felt great except for the heavy shoes.

Obviously, I love Hammer products. Since trying them out I haven’t used any other recovery or race fuels. If you would like 15% off your next Hammer order just reference my name “Zandy Mangold” and referral code “153088.”




Mud-caked shoes and gaiter.


Finger Lakes Pedicure.


Racing The Planet, Atacama Crossing, 2012

Struggling through day four of Racing the Planet’s annual Atacama Crossing, my aching body once again trips and falls into the muddy goop of the desert salt flats. Somehow, I have enough energy for a burst of profanities as my eyes suddenly mist over. “Don’t cry – water is precious,” I tell myself. Nevertheless, I think of the tiny llama pinned to my hat – an ode to my mom – and a tiny drop escapes, leaving another shmear on my prescription sunglasses. It’s a peculiar experience. I can’t remember the last time I actually cried. I order myself to save the emotions for the finish line and scramble to my feet. I glance behind me, more energy wasted, and see the backpacked zombies gaining ground. Meanwhile, there is a searing pain in my backside, demanding attention it won’t receive until the race is finished – another 54 miles away.

Since 2009, I’ve participated in eight Racing the Planet events. seven times as the official photographer, and once, as a competitor in Australia 2010. Poorly trained, I nearly joined the cattle and kangaroo skeletons strewn about the sweltering Aussie outback By the end of the first day, I required not one but two intravenous drips. Nevertheless, I managed to finish the race in next-to-last-place and concluded: never again.

Fast-forward two years and I am on a plane en route to San Pedro De Atacama, Chile in order to attempt one of RTP’s four annual desert races. The memories of Australia had faded enough for me to reconsider another ultra, and I relished the opportunity to visit my father Tomas’ homeland. Having photographed the race twice, I also looked forward to enjoying the unique beauty of the Atacama without the pressure of work. In stark contrast to the no-training approach for Australia, I began preparations two months prior

in order to savor the experience of the week-long, 150-mile race.

Upon arrival in Santiago, I welcomed the uptick in temperature relative to the NYC winter and resolved to stow away my long johns and down parka as soon as I cleared customs. Unfortunately, the watchful customs agents identified my raw almonds through the x-ray scan. I was pulled out of the security line with my bags and ushered into a customs office, and then into another customs office, deeper still into the recesses of the Arturo Benitez International Airport. Finally, I was seated at a Soviet-era desk, face to face with a solemn official who interrogated me as to why I had not declared my nuts. My weak yet sincere excuses – they were packaged after all – were enough to evade a hefty fine, but not sufficient to keep me off a government watch list, I was informed. As soon as I left customs, I purchased the first bag I came across – salted macadamias. I needed my nuts for the race.

While waiting for my next connection, I carb loaded at Dunkin Donuts, which offered Chilean versions of American fare such as Manjar (Dulce de Leche) Munchkins with coconut, and Manjar donuts with apple and cinnamon. I felt like a competitive eater feasting on double orders. I also ordered an espresso, which in reality was regular coffee, but served in an espresso-sized cup.

Landing in San Pedro De Atacama, the air was noticeably thinner than sea level, crisp and less dusty than normal thanks to the unprecedented rainfall of recent weeks. The precipitation had caused major floods, as well as last minute changes to the course. For

the first time in four trips to San Pedro, I saw foreboding clouds in the sky.

San Pedro is an oasis amidst a snow-capped, volcanic mountain range that caters to both hostel-dwelling backpackers and five-star hotel tourists alike. It’s a perfect place to chill out before a race – though perhaps too relaxing. Amidst sightseeing, carb loading in any number of confidently cool cafes and hanging out with new best friends from the hostel, I lost track of the days and nearly missed the mandatory pre-race check-in and the bus trip to the start. At the last possible moment I suddenly realized I was a day behind. In an instant, I reverted back to NYC-mode, madly threw my belongings together, commandeered a taxi and tore off to the RTP meeting point. Unfortunately, there isn’t such a thing as being in a rush in San Pedro so the easygoing taxi ride was excruciating. I missed the race briefing and barely cleared the various gear and health checks, which were already closing down. I breathed an altitude-shortened sigh of relief as I slumped next to my friend and tent-mate Ash Moktari, who had been kind enough to save me a seat on the bus.

Excited chatter on the bus subsided as we climbed to the top of the Valle de Arco Iris and it became more difficult to breathe. I wondered how my body would react when I actually had to race. I had arrived five days early in order to acclimatize, but apparently I needed more time to adjust to the 12,000-feet start line. The evening was cold and another out of place thunderstorm descended on camp. In one night, it rained more than in the previous century. My tent mates and I scrambled for dry patches under the leaking canvas, bonding quickly and resting fitfully before the first day. I might have slept more

soundly except I heeded the advice of my friend Ryan Sandes who suggested I forgo a sleeping mat to have more food packing space. And for this I owe a great debt to Ryan. Hunger and nutrition were never an issue for me during the race though I probably never slept more than an hour straight.

STAGE 1 After the short race briefing, the runners sprang off the line at 8am sharp, feeling as spry and healthy as we would all week. I noticed the course was rockier and softer in parts compared to previous years when I had photographed. Also, there was an abundance of snow at the mountaintops and the sky was cloudy – not the usual perfect clear blue. I couldn’t help but smile and feel overwhelmed with joy to be in the middle of such idyllic surroundings. I creeped along the 22-mile course, alternately jogging nine minutes and walking one, depending on the terrain. Based on my past performance, I aimed to be conservative and avoid the IVs. During the walks, I sipped on a Nuun electrolyte drink and chased it with Sustained Energy mix by Hammer Nutrition. To my surprise, I actually started overtaking runners as the day wore on. I felt myself running low on energy and nutrition as I approached a “hill” (or was it a “hell?”). What the course notes glossed over as an “incline” turned out to be a five km steep, switch-backing climb under a South American heat lamp at 10,000 feet. Desperate to end the day, I forced myself to alternate running and walking—instead of just walking the hill as some of the other runners were doing. My lungs searched for oxygen that didn’t exist. My legs threatened to cramp. If I pushed too much now, would I pay the price later in the race? Finally, a checkpoint appeared.

The volunteers informed me only five more km separated me from the first camp. I pounded water and trudged away before another runner crested the hill. The remainder of the course was rocky and downhill—which was as bad as the uphill, but for different reasons. Urban New York City training did nothing to prepare me for the assault on my quads, knees and ankles, and now other muscle groups started to cramp. Unfortunately, I was aware that my tent mate Alex Reinhart was bearing down on me so I could not rest my legs and persevered. Even though I didn’t intend to race anyone during the week, my competitive urges came through. I reached the finish line depleted, but still ahead of Alex. How would I be able to do this again tomorrow, and for five more days hence?

STAGE 2 My quadriceps muscles were learning the language of ascending and descending trail running on the fly and paying a heavy price. They were in complete shock. No conditions in New York had prepared me for the rigors of the course. That morning I could barely walk let alone squat over a hole in the desert to go to the bathroom. Since the level of aggravation was unprecedented, I was not sure how my muscles would respond to another 25 miles of rough terrain.

The morning of Stage 2 set the tone for the rest of the week. I would wake up, assess the various aches and pains, drain and redress blisters and wonder how in the world I could run another marathon. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have considered getting out of bed.

The stage began with a descent into a river valley and multiple cold-water crossings. I started slowly and worked my way towards the front of the pack. After a massive, lung- burning climb, the course afforded an unforgettable view of verdant fauna set in front of snowcapped peaks and a blue sky. I stopped for a photo op, prying my point-and-shoot from my pack, allowing a Belgian runner pass me. Suddenly, my ultra-running animal came to life. I put away my camera.

Annoyed with myself for having lost a hard-earned position, I caught up with the Belgian at the next checkpoint, but once again, was left behind as he barely paused to refill his bottles. From a strategic perspective, every ounce of energy and every second were of consequence if I hoped to be competitive. I was curious to see how I would fare against other runners if I committed to the task of running.

Stage 3

I spent most of Stage 3 on my own somewhere in between the third and fifth place runners. The sun seared over the course which passed through nasty brush and soft earth. Running was often impossible as I sunk to my knees in the mixture of wet clay and salt. At one point, I came to a parched ravine marked by a course flag. I descended the sand, half skiing the steep sand wall to the bottom and then had to guess which way the course went next. I guessed wrong. By the time I got back on track, several runners had overtaken me. It was a blessing and a curse. I’d figured out the course, but was also overcome with frustration and self-pity over the effort I had expended to stay ahead of the pack. By the time I scaled the sand embankment on my hands and knees out of the ravine, my emotions had turned to a kind of rage which I used to overtake all but one of the runners who had passed me.

By the end of this grueling stage, the race was taking its toll. The distance people were willing to walk from the campsite to a pee area shortened relative to the health of their legs. In fact, our tent reprimanded a weary competitor for fertilizing the ground a little too close to our sleeping quarters.

Stage 4 The day was a classic desert ultramarathon grind. While the course itself was not as physically challenging relative to previous stages, the long open stretches tested one’s mental fortitude. At this point I had resolved to maintain my top five and first American standing and ran with the Spanish leaders until the first checkpoint. To my surprise, I felt okay except for one glaring problem – a massive pain in my butt. I could not ignore my aching hemmorhoids any longer. The pain was excruciating and frequent stops were required as I tried in vain to find some kind of relief. In spite of it, I was in battle for 3rd place with a Belgian and Greek runner over the final 12 miles of the day. Eventually the Belgian and Greek runners pulled ahead. As much as I tried to keep up, I fell behind. Where was my will? Where was my energy? Why was I out of water? What was happening to my butt? I stumbled yet again. Tears filled my eyes. I took a long moment to compose myself. My mental and physical resources were so drained I could barely start a thought and finish it. There was nothing I could do about the Greek and Belgian, so I resolved to simply finish the stage. A wave of relief washed over me and I let out a whoop. I finally understood my friend Stephanie Case’s reaction to finishing RTP Nepal when she simultaneously celebrated and wept.

Stage 5 The field started the 47-mile Stage 5 at a conservative pace. Eventual champion Juan Vicente Garcia Beneito and I eased away from the field. He explained that his race strategy was to get a comfortable lead and then monitor his pace enough to stay ahead of the competition while conserving as much energy as possible. It was an effective strategy—for those in world-class physical condition. At any rate, Vicente and I ran in cadence for quite some time. Eventually we stopped talking, communicating only with our breath and footsteps. At one moment, we simultaneously looked at each other and fist bumped, acknowledging our mutual respect and incredible fortune to be doing something we love. Eventually, Vicente pulled ahead and overall runner-up David Ruiz Gomez caught up to me. Ruiz and I worked together matching paces and trading leads, and ultimately tied for second place on the Long Stage. I finished fourth overall for the race, won my age group and was the first gringo overall. To my knowledge I was also the fastest runner with hemmorhoids. The pain was so intense after the race that I was barely able to limp into a Chilean emergency room the day after the race for treatment.

I can’t pinpoint exactly what motivated me to sign up for the Atacama Crossing 2012, but when the urge came I was loathe to resist. I can recall moments of blissful running and cite these as sources of inspiration, but how to explain the desire to continue when things get tough, deadly even, and physical and mental logic demands one to stop? Maybe I will have a better understanding in my next ultramarathon.


Photos Courtesy of Scott Manthey and Zandy Mangold

Wrap Up

Photo By Astrid Volzke. © May 2, 2010

This was one of the most intense weeks of my life. After receiving an emergency IV drip at the end of just the first day, the event was no longer a race for me, but rather a matter of survival. I literally had to manage progress one step at a time. It is hard to imagine, but owing to the challenging terrain, blaring hot sun, injuries and fatigue, any forward motion required a completely concentrated and determined effort.

My entire being was racked with various pains that came and went throughout the week. The IT bands were irritated and only worse from the start, though flat portions of the course were a relief relative to the murderous rocky ascents and descents. A left hamstring tendon that seemed to be pulling off the bone of my inner knee reminded me of every step I shouldn’t be taking and an axe splitting headache pounded me the first two and a half days. Imagine the worst hangover of your life and instead of abstaining from the drink, you have to keep downing shots of tequila.

At some point during the race I realized that it was not my body, but rather my mind that was moving me through the outback. I was at once frightened and empowered to acknowledge that even though I was pushed beyond my physical limits I could still go further. At the same time, I was concerned that my will would be my undoing by pushing the body too far.

I am not sure what the moral of the story is or will be. My cousin Ulla was a major inspiration for me. Knowing what she has had to deal with left me no option, but to push on. I am also grateful and aware of the positive influence of other runners on my efforts who at times offered sage advice or other times, saying nothing, coaxed me further as they too carried on with the impossible task.

Then, PHEW. Unbelievably, about 10 am on May 2nd I saw the finish line in the distance. A last surge of energy flooded my body and I moved faster than at any other point during the week toward the final goal. Aching legs that could barely start, let alone finish each stage, somehow found the umph to leap for the finish line banner.

My celebration lasted about five adrenalin filled minutes and then the aches and fatigue once again set in, but at least now I could try to heal myself as opposed to further aggravation. My body is recovering well, but I have yet to sleep without dreaming that I am pushing on through the outback in search of the next checkpoint or finish line.