Running Beyond the Marathon: Insights Into the Longest Footrace in the World

THE WORLD’S LONGEST RACE

You’re probably wondering why I would chose to run 5000 kilometres around a city block on a surface of solid cement that’s six inches thick. Believe me, I have the same thought every time I compete, yet something keeps drawing me back.

My four 3100 mile (everyone calls it the thirty-one-hundred) races are undoubtedly the most difficult things I have done but they are still the best. I am not blessed with superhuman powers or outstanding athletic ability. I am just an average guy, a part-time surfer who happens to run. This race became the turning point of my life. It showed me it really is possible to go beyond our limits—if we try. I entered my first race in 2007 as a novice. I was clueless about multi-day running and what was required physically and mentally. I did have the self-belief I could do anything if I put my heart and soul into it. I feel everyone has the latent capacity to achieve things they don’t think are possible. We just need to have faith in ourselves, or in a higher power. This book aims to share some of the things I learnt along the way to finishing the 3100 mile race four times, things you can apply to achieve your goals in life.

My first race in 2007 was easily my hardest, because I was a rookie making the mammoth jump from my longest race of 47 miles (75km) to the mind boggling 3100 miles (4989km). It was a long journey getting to the start on Father’s Day, June 17. I retired early the night before, surprisingly getting a good night’s sleep. By 5:15 the next morning, I was on my bicycle hurtling down the driveway of my temporary accommodation. It was reasonably cool: the extremes of summer were still a few days away and I wore a thin running jacket to keep warm. I made my way up a small hill, feeling the stored strength in my legs, crossed the usually busy Parsons Boulevard and turned onto Normal Road. Normal Road is a pleasant ride despite its uphill slope. Small gardens border the fronts of the grand old double-storey Queens houses. Daffodils and carnations colour pathways inviting pets, mailmen and residents to the splendid front doors, which proudly display addresses in oversized numbers. A few blocks further on, I darted across 164th Street. Now the racecourse came into view. This was the block I was to spend the next seven weeks circling.

The start area was obvious: three large vans parked convoy-style. Each van had four runners allocated to it. Mine, a retired yellow school bus that easily fitted the plywood bed I would rest on during breaks. Outside the van were two small plastic drawers and a large blue plastic storage box under my shared plastic trestle table. Plastic was the theme of the day and by the table my plastic fold-up chair was perhaps designed to be so uncomfortable I wouldn’t sit in it for long.

The drawers contained supplements, snack bars, mp3 players and odds and ends. The large blue box contained my shoes. I usually had three pairs on the go. I changed shoes if it rained or one pair caused a blister. I was interviewed briefly before the race for a short film. I have been looking forward to it for a while, I said. I have been thinking about it for a long time and now I can finally get started.

The Czech and Slovakian runners were already at their table tending to their feet, legs and equipment. Three lap counters arrived and as the crowd of locals started to gather, so did my anticipation and nerves. Other runners began to assemble. Not many. The field consisted of twelve international starters. We didn’t need to wish each other luck. We’d spent a few days together acclimatising and last minute shopping. Running shoes are the cheapest in the United States and I had a collection that rivalled Imelda Marcos (and I would need every single one of them.)

I glanced at the empty score board strung crudely to the tall wire fence. All the competitors were listed in alphabetical order with ‘zero’ miles next to their names. I tried not to think about that. I was already starting to experience waves of panic. More than a few times ‘What on earth am I doing here?’ crossed my mind. I don’t know why the sudden attack of doubts. Although a rookie I had been preparing myself mentally and physically for months. There is no going back now, Smarana Puntigam, the Austrian competitor commented. He was right: we were lining up at the start and turning back wasn’t an option.

The first day was unique because the founder of the race, Sri Chinmoy, arrived to officially start the event. The waiting throngs quietened down as he meditated on all the runners. We offered a few minutes silence for world peace and toed the start line. Then came the command: Go! I jogged my first lap with the pack, deliberately reigning in my speed to match the far more seasoned ultra runners around me. Halfway round the course, I realised all my doubts had disappeared. I’d trained hard, I wasn’t going to give up and I was on my way. That’s one lap, Grahak, the counter acknowledged as I went past. Soon I had a bold number ‘1’ next to my name on the scoreboard indicating I had logged my first mile. My Self-Transcendence 3100 Mile Race had truly begun.

THE COURSE

What’s that for? questioned Ayojan Stojanovich, the Serbian runner and 2006 champ. He was pointing to the waist pouch I wore, that I trained with every day and was rather attached to.

It contains my sunscreen and watch. I proudly asserted.

He looked at me quizzically because I hadn’t looked at my watch or put on sunscreen or both: it was 6:45am and the sun was barely up. But you are passing the aid station every 883 metres. Why don’t you leave it there instead of carrying it 5649 laps.

Point taken.

At just over twice the distance of an Olympic track, an 883 metre course is not a large loop. When people initially hear about the 3100 mile race they’ll often ask How beautiful was it running through the Grand Canyon, Yosemite National Park and the Californian Coastline? My response: Well actualIy, it’s around a block. So why a block instead of an out and back on the roads, or even across the continent?

From an organisational point of view, it’s much easier. To be an official road race, it needs to be a measured and marshalled course with lap counters. Food and medical assistance can be adequately supplied. There are no busy roads or highways to negotiate, no traffic lights and no interfering cars or trucks. Imagine a runner who has been on the road for several weeks trying to weave his way across an intersection in rush hour!

From a running point of view you can’t get lost (I have a really bad sense of direction), you sleep in the same bed, you have access to good amenities and you also have company. In the race I won in 2012 I led from day 8. It would have been a lonely road if I didn’t see any one for six weeks.

The ‘block’ is interesting enough and frequented by plenty of people. Heading east you leave the relative sanctuary of the counting tables and medical area. Ahead is the entrance to Thomas Edison High School. On the other side of the road is Jamaica High School’s 400m track. These schools are two of New York’s toughest and come complete with metal detectors and security guards. At the end of a school day more police seem to be in attendance than students.

As you run anti-clockwise to the first corner, the cement pavement and red bricks of the school building heat up in the midday sun. This section of the course becomes baking hot and is good to get away from. Although still exposed, around the next corner is a nice downhill. Heading west you pass the baseball outfield on your left and eventually make it down to the handball courts after another short downhill.

There was plenty of action at the handball courts: competitions, guys smoking and selling dope, kids playing, fights breaking out, pets sniffing around, thumping music and general banter. Round the corner are the basketball courts and children’s playground. Here the families and toddlers are more innocent and the atmosphere changes. Nice and covered, the tall trees leaned over and offered shade as a welcome relief from the summer sun. Around the final bend, the southern side of the course, all the way to the counting area, was gently inclined. Running close to the pitcher’s mound you might be lucky to see a pitch or a cricket game in the outfield amongst the many Indian immigrants who made Queens their home. Then it is back to the vans and the counting tables. We changed directions every other day.

Passing through the main camp, the lap time was recorded and the counter announced the lap number. Pushkar Mullauer, the Swiss runner, failed in his first attempt at the 3100 mile race. In his successful 2009 run, he worked out if he asked his counter not to announce his laps then he could relax. So that’s what he did. I always wanted to hear my laps, even if it was stressing me out. Weeks later in the race, when I was able to establish a regular rhythm, I could work out what lap I was on just by the time of day. I could run like clockwork.

Australia has metric measurements. Though easy to switch to thinking in miles, runners pay most attention to laps. You have to run 92 laps to keep above 50 miles (80.5km) a day—the minimum required to stay in the race. 60 miles (96.6km) a day translates to 111 laps, enough to get me under the 51 day cut off time. 128 laps was the magic 70 miles (112.7km) which in my first race seemed an impossible goal. I aimed for 113 laps a day or 100 kilometres—a nice round number to reach.

After 10 hours of running I noted to myself I’d run longer than ever before. After 47 miles (75km) I surpassed the farthest I’d ever raced. I needed to average 60 miles a day and by 10:15pm on day one I had made it to 66 miles (106km). By 2012 I would consider a 66 mile day a bad one. In 2007 it happened to be my best. I could have run for almost another two hours but I had sworn I wouldn’t go out too fast. Not knowing what to do, I packed up, rode home and prepared for bed. ‘That was easy,’ I said to myself.

Finishing early and conscious of the all the medical warnings on dehydration, I decided to drink a lot. Then the reality check came. I woke at 2:00am, needing to go to the toilet. I’d cooled down, stiffened up and couldn’t walk the few metres to get there. ‘How on earth am I meant to run tomorrow?’ I thought, pulling myself along the backs of couches and chairs like an elderly person uses a walking frame. To avoid making late night trips to the bathroom I stopped drinking fluid in the evening. Dehydration was much less painful.

Throwing myself into the deep end has always been my preferred way of doing things and on paper multi-day running seemed a fairly simple sport. You just work out the balance of running as fast as you can for as long as you can. At least that’s what I figured. After 55 miles (88.5km) on day two I started to realise I’d finally bitten off more than I could chew. Things got seriously worse; not for the whole race but the next 15 days at least. And I have to say it was just physically worse. I was genuinely happy and grateful being able to take part in such an amazing race. But my body really began to deteriorate. The relentless pounding my bones, muscles and feet received had consequences I was not prepared for. It was beginning to impress itself on me that I was in for a long, drawn-out struggle.

On day three I had an unusual hot feeling at the base of my spine, like I was internally combusting. I started to experience shin splints: the multi-day runner’s worst enemy. The first few steps each morning were painful and slow. It took a few hundred metres before I warmed up to jogging speed. I had to use all my determination and willpower just to get moving. Winning was never my goal in the 3100, although in a nervous, ludicrous moment when I was interviewed by a professional documentary team I said it was (it was my first time on camera). I only wanted to finish the race in the allocated time and maintain a certain level of dignity. As the pain and problems increased it was natural for my thoughts to wander on not making it, on failure. By 7:00pm, I was exhausted and boiling hot. All I could do was run five laps at a stretch then collapse in the van. Crying and feeling hopeless I would catch my breath and cool off. Then I would get up and repeat the process. I was ninth at the end of day 3. I wasn’t last but I was heading that way.

It’s like you are in some crazy science experiment, Bipin Larkin, one of the race directors observed as I failed to clip up my sandals for the ride home. My feet were swollen almost beyond recognition. Leaning on the kitchen bench where I was staying, drinking a protein shake, one of my housemates was aghast at the sight of them. It looks like you have been sitting on a plane for three days, he said. Thanks. I replied. He was right though, my feet looked disgusting. A few nights later I found myself in the pathetic situation of sitting on the kitchen floor. I was so exhausted I just couldn’t stand any longer.

Besides swelling, my feet manifest some strange phenomena in the race. Before the eventual nerve and circulation damage kicks in