Frostbound and Down

Running the Antarctica Marathon

The wind howls desolate, and the numbing of my fingers inch further and further up the wrist alarmingly. These unrelenting high velocity winds continue to crank at unfathomable knots and send flurries of hard-wrought regrets ringing between the ears. The ears that are also like icicles at the moment as I toe the start line of the almighty Antarctica Marathon.   

The desire to run a full 26.2-mile marathon in one of the world’s most inhospitable environments in existence isn’t without its fair share of cocked eyebrows and earnest inquiries into one’s mental health. The journey to the continent alone is fraught with perils and seemingly constant inherent hazards. The Drake Passage is a notorious maelstrom of angry oceans converging and whipsawing ships with crashing four-story waves on a regular basis, and one finds themselves popping Dramamine after Dramamine with startling regularity to keep the stomach from somersaulting right on overboard. 

The race itself is a ramshackle affair. But most of the runners have traveled too far and braved too many inclement travails along the way to let minor aesthetics prevent them from hurdling over that finish line. Wet gravel, slushy snow, and bellicose gales that seem to haymaker you at every angle. The mile markers are pecked at by roving gentoo penguins and leopard seals, languidly unhinge and stretch their jaws onshore by our inflatable zodiac boats. We remove our life vests and biosecure-safe rubber boots, and immediately the cold air starts gnawing and perma-punching our ruddy cheeks. The start pistol can’t klaxon the beginning of the marathon soon enough. The core body temperature is fast dipping and we welcome the grueling mileage ahead if just for the friction and chance to cobble a little warmth within our waterproof runner swaddling. 

The sights were wondrous and placid to survey along the way. A sternum-shattering silence crawls in and curls up within the chest cavity throughout. This is a marathon free of traditional well-wishing revelers and cowbells and aid stations flinging electrolytes in your face. This is an environment largely free of the trappings of the day-to-day quotidian of urbanite comforts. There wasn’t a soul in sight for miles, nor the distant din of traffic or all-encompassing compulsion to anxiously check an email inbox thrice in an hour. It was twenty-six miles of uninterrupted icy bliss.

Though definitions of bliss varied along the punishing race route, the stolid and serene panoramas were pleasant, indeed, for the first few miles. But eventually, the monotony of the expansive nothingness of the peninsula started to wreak havoc on the sense of sanguinity. The microclimates along the course wrung spirits, and internal optimism fluctuated wildly. A good tailwind would nudge you helpfully in the warm embrace of sunshine one moment, and then the next, you’re shivering with despair as your wet socks squelch and your retinas refuse to refocus due to snow blindness. I was ping-ponging between a smorgasbord of emotions mile upon mile. 

But alas, that finish line eventually loomed large in the distance. And somewhere cockle-deep, I was able to muster a renewed reservoir of reserve gallop in the calves somehow and lumbered over that finish tape. Arms raised triumphantly and smile from ear to ear. Knowing full well and appreciating the one-and-done nature of this singular race. And taking considerable comfort in the knowledge that running this particular race helped raise money for the nonprofit Oceanites, which supports research and data collection for monitoring climate change on the Antarctic Peninsula. A miserable race experience counterbalances the steady progress we’re making in advocating for the Antarctic environment through science, education, and transparent stewardship. 

And that sense of global responsibility and call to action was long instilled and initially instigated during my stint as a Peace Corps volunteer many moons ago. The cartographic quadrant of your cranium is forever transformed and suddenly no nook of the planet is too untraversable with a little gumption and logistical tenacity. Peace Corps service is the gift that keeps on giving seemingly. As it continues to ignite that unsinkable sense of ceaseless curiosity year after year.

Fortunately my bygone Peace Corps service in Central Asia steeled me well for the travails of my southernmost sojourn to the Antarctic Circle. The capital of my host country being widely reputed to be the second coldest capital in the world. Certainly sweater weather whenever one could muster the courage to waltz out the front door. Little icicles instantly form on your eyelashes as temperatures plummet drastically and reach the nadir of -52°C during severe cold snaps due to its most inauspicious position directly in the persistent path of Siberian winter air currents. The flat surrounding steppe grasslands offering scant protection from these punishing squalls. But my sense of duty kept me toasty aplenty. Perennially sodden socks notwithstanding.

Bones aching from the grueling race conditions and toes night purple with frostbite, I was ready to crawl back to the ship and stick my feet into the microwave. But not before the pièce de résistance that is the polar tradition of diving headlong into the frigid waters shipside. Cold water therapy is a wallop to the system.

I tread in the frosty waters and let the cold burrow into my marrow and drank deeply from the tranquility and sublime natural beauty of my surroundings. And I couldn’t help but find myself smiling through clattering teeth as I came to the realization: Nothing quite warms the heart like a little Antarctica coursing through the arteries.  

Tommy Vinh Bui (Kazakhstan 2011) is a Youth Services librarian for Los Angeles County Library.