Adventure in the Arctic
It was a somewhat comical start to the race. Adam, our guide,
pointed his long rifle into the air and fired a single shot. Not one of
the 98 runners from 24 different countries moved. Had he spotted his
lunch flying overhead, or was he just testing his weapon? There had
been no countdown to the start, no announcement that the race would
begin with a rifle shot. We just stared as a group at Adam, and he
stared disbelievingly back at us as we stood motionless. It was only
when he started to wave his arms frantically that the penny dropped -
we were on our way. Another crazy adventure run had started, and the
spikes attached to my shoes began to bite into the ice as I trotted
gently away from beneath the start banner.
The race started
on a level section of the slippery gravel road, and I settled down
towards the rear of the field. I had just one goal for this adventure,
and that was to pass under the finish banner within the four-hour time
limit, although my competitive inner self was a little more ambitious,
and I would be dancing for joy if I could break the three-hour barrier.
The early stages were all about assessing how much grip my footwear
gave me. There was a trade-off here. The faster runners, who were
already speeding away from me, would be using lightweight spikes on
their shoes to give them enough traction on the ice, but not at the
expense of adding so much weight to their shoes that it slowed them
down markedly. For me, stability on the ice was paramount; I just
didn't need a heavy fall at my age, and was prepared to carry extra
weight on my feet for the privilege of staying upright. I'd tested the
running spikes that I would use on my shoes on grass at home, and the
extra weight was noticeable. I'd carried out a quick calculation on the
proverbial 'back of a fag packet' and it revealed that the extra weight
my legs would have to lift during the half marathon amounted to almost
sixty times my body weight, but it was a price worth paying. The day
before the race we had been taken onto the polar ice-cap to test our
footwear, and whilst others tumbled and slithered around me, my
heavy-duty spikes glued me firmly to the polished surface.
After
the initial mile or so, the trail gradually turned into the long steady
and sometimes seriously steep climb towards the ice-cap. A runner, some
200 yards in front of me, barely visible through a low-hanging mist,
was suddenly launched into the air after stepping onto a lethal patch
of ice. Within seconds he was being picked up and dusted down by his
fellow runners. Yes, we were in a competitive race, but we were all
going to look out for each other in this hostile Arctic environment.
The
climb up to the ice-cap was relentless. On the steeper sections I was
reduced to a brisk walk, but I'd made a deal with myself that I would
run as much of this route as possible, and the recent snowfall had
actually made this easier as the cushioning effect of the layer of
fresh snow provided extra traction on the slippery surface beneath.
Then the snowy gravel road ran out. We turned right onto a fearsomely
steep icy ramp and began to follow a narrow rocky trail that led
towards the polar ice. As we climbed, the mist was clearing and a clear
blue sky was revealed, but the marked route was barely 3 feet wide and
already the leading athletes were running downhill towards me after
exiting their loop on the ice. No room to pass each other safely
without tumbling into piles of loose rock, so I stood aside and yelled
encouragement as each one passed. In time the route opened out a
little, and then it was my turn to run on the polar ice-cap.
It
was a very emotional experience, and at times I felt moved to tears.
The route we had to follow was clearly marked with poles and red and
white tape. To deviate from this would risk falling into a crevasse on
this constantly moving mile-thick ice cube. Through the dusting of the
snow on its surface, the ice appeared like black, shiny granite beneath
my feet; only on closer inspection could I see it was translucent, and
could see the rocks and tiny pebbles embedded within it.
A
massive smile stretched across my face. Here I was, a 65-year old
grandad, and I was taking part in a running race on Arctic ice. For the
umpteenth time in my life, I gave thanks that I had discovered running,
and the opportunity to experience parts of our world that so few people
get to see. The euphoria triggered crazy thoughts that drifted through
my mind as I almost floated across the polished surface - what would
our government think if they could see me right now? Would they demand
I return my free bus pass and winter fuel allowance? As far as the eye
could see, and in every direction, gentle rolling undulations of ice
stretched to every horizon, glistening, sparkling in the sunlight that
now bathed the whole scene: just ice, just sunshine, nothing else.
There
was a little more wind on the ice-cap, and it was noticeably colder
than it had been earlier, but personal discomfort was the last thing on
my mind. A lone figure came into view; it was one of our doctors
keeping a watchful and reassuring eye on everybody as they passed. I
reached the 6 kilometre marker flag, and then began the descent back
off the ice-cap. Running downhill might sound easier, and is of course
easier in a normal environment, but running downhill on ice is a whole
different story. As I returned to the gravel road, a small truck
signalled the first of the aid stations, a chance to grab a mouthful of
water and a welcome cup of a warm elderflower drink. This was no
ordinary aid station - it was manned by Henrik Jorgensen, the winner of
the 1988 London marathon - this race was just becoming more and more
extraordinary.
"Have a great run," he called as I set off
down the hill after the briefest of pauses. With so few in the race,
and with such a wide range of abilities, we were now well and truly
spread out over this vast, barren landscape, so were running solo for
much of the time. To be honest I find it hard to find the words that do
justice to the beauty of the scenery that I was running through. At
each brow of a hill, or turn of a corner on the icy trail, a new
breathtaking landscape would come into view, and the tiny camera that I
carried in a pouch around my waist would come out again. This run was
just too special for me not to pause and capture an image of what lay
ahead of me. Towering but crumbling glacier tongues marked the exit
points from which the ice flowed from the main body of the glacier.
Rock-strewn but frozen rivers held the water that had melted from the
ice-cap during the previous summer. Now locked in place for the winter,
this moraine debris would have to wait for another summer melt before
it could continue its journey towards the fjord, and eventually the
open sea. Massive frozen lakes decorated the horizon, and high on the
mountain slopes, small herds of reindeer and caribou playfully chased
each other around.
We passed through areas of Arctic desert.
Extraordinary. Flat, sandy plains and small dunes as you might expect
in any desert, punctuated by the occasional thorny bush of Arctic
willow, but instead of searing heat, pools of ice lay in the hollows.
And
then there were areas of tundra - bare, rolling landscapes, patrolled
by the occasional herd of musk ox, with virtually no vegetation at all.
There are no large trees in Greenland - an attempt to plant a pine
forest alongside the gravel road some forty years ago now has just 3
trees surviving, the tallest an imposing four feet high!
There
was another benefit to this extraordinary journey. So breathtaking were
the views, it left little time for internal reflection on any personal
pain and suffering, and the kilometre markers just seemed to fly by. It
had been my plan to remove the heavy spikes from my shoes once the
going underfoot became less treacherous but, in fact, the recent
snowfall ensured that this was never to happen. As I entered the final
couple of miles, I began to experience severe cramps in both calves
which inevitably slowed my progress. These were the sort of cramps I
might expect to get in the final stages of a full marathon, but were
undoubtedly hitting me earlier here because of the extra weight I was
carrying on my feet.
The Long Lake came into view, so
named because it appeared to stretch to infinity. I ran past two small
wooden boats frozen into the ice, took a right turn, and began one
final steep climb towards the finish line banner that stretched across
the road half a mile away. I so wanted to run all of this final long
hill, but the cramps were agony so it was more a case of run, stretch,
walk; run, stretch, walk, but then I was there! I passed under the
banner to the enthusiastic applause of the single timekeeper, who then
placed a medal around my neck and managed to take a photograph with his
frozen fingers to commemorate my achievement.
I
glanced at my watch. I had finished the race in less than three hours
and, in the words of a well-known television advertisement, I felt
epic. It was another challenge confronted and overcome, and another
encounter with Mother Nature that will leave indelible memories forever