An Adventure of a Lifetime
Running in the Himalayas
By: Marty Kibiloski
A view of Mount Everest from the course.
Photo © Marty Kibiloski
Every fall for the past fifteen years, a diverse group of adventurous runners and trekkers meets in the Himalayan foothills on the border between India and Nepal. Traveling to Asia from all parts of the globe, they are there for one purpose: to tackle the Himalayan 100 mile 5-day Stage Race and the Mt. Everest Challenge Marathon.
This year, men and women from England, Scotland, South Africa, Hong Kong, South Korea, Canada, Sri Lanka, United Arab Emirates and the United States made the arduous journey to eastern India to take part in the grueling but gratifying event. Surprisingly, these are not elite athletes; most have personal bests in the marathon of around 3:30 to 4 hours. There are trekkers or slower runners whose only intentions are to put in their 100 miles and enjoy the view along the way. Regardless of each participant’s athletic inclinations, they are all up against the same demanding course. These are everyday people whose willingness to test their minds and bodies makes each uniquely special, and each one has amazing story to tell.
This year, as a freelance journalist based in Boulder, CO, I was invited to India to document the race events for the television show, “Running Today!!” I witnessed firsthand the demanding conditions of one of the most beautiful and challenging courses in the world. Not planning to run the entire race, but wanting to get a feel for the course, I ran and walked about ten miles the first stage race day.
The first stage involves a 24-mile climb from Lake Mirik, near Darjeeling, to the mountaintop of Sandakphu. Rising relentlessly from an elevation of 5500 feet to a breathtaking elevation to 11,815ft, the grade, in parts, exceeds 18%. At these altitudes, many were fighting for every breath.
In between stints on foot, I climbed into the press jeep for a bouncy ride on roads so rocky, winding, and close to the steep mountain edge that I began to wonder if running or walking might be the easier and safer course of action. I soon found myself enthralled and downright emotional by the views of sweeping valleys and clouds that seem to go on forever, so beautiful and vast. I swear I could see the curvature of the Earth from certain vistas.
As we approached Sandakphu, unseasonably heavy cloud cover impaired visibility, making it difficult to see farther than 50 feet ahead. All of the runners completed this notoriously tough first day between five and 12 hours. No one, not even the leaders, had been able to run the steep grades the entire way. The leaders ran the flat and down hill portions and power walked the uphill portions; others trekked their way up. Exhausted from climbing and weakened by the effects of altitude, everyone was to be rewarded for their efforts with stunning views of four of the top five highest peaks on the planet —Mt Everest, Lhotse, Makalu and Kanchenjunga. Somehow it put the trials of that first stage into proper perspective.
Witnessing the grueling first stage, it shocked and impressed me that anyone could continue to run or even trek for four more days. The trail is uneven and rough, comprised of jagged cobblestones the size of cannonballs, all arranged in an irregular pattern that will threaten even the strongest of ankles. Winding around every corner, miles of steep up and down hills lay in wait. Occasional relief was found and relished in a level piece of ground that never lasted long enough.
On the evening of the first day, most of the runners were hobbling and visibly spent. Nan Irick, a runner from Arlington, VA, summed up the attitude of the entire clan: “Climbing 24 miles to Sandakphu was the most profound physical, mental and even emotional trial I have ever been through. Altitude sickness and the sheer enormity of the hills knocked me flat, but it did not occur to me to stop.” Indeed, despite minor injuries and dehydration, every participant crossed the finish line, most with a smile, even under these conditions.
As the sun set on that first day, the temperatures dropped to below freezing, a bone-chilling change from the midday temps of 70 degrees found at the lower elevations. A cozy sleeping bag, a warm bath, and a good dinner were calling. I quickly learned that mountain life is not that simple.
Everyone was assigned sleeping quarters in an unheated hut, rooming with several other participants. The lack of heat and running water, however, made bathing a certain adventure, but after experiencing the rugged conditions out on the course, it seemed a minor inconvenience. I was amazed to see how quickly everyone adapted to minimal accommodations.
Eager to shed the day’s grime, we each, in turn, accepted a large bucket of warm water and set off for the bathing sheds to wash up. To me, simply being clean seemed profoundly luxurious, that is, until the actual washing-up process shocked me back to reality.
Marty Kibiloski
Standing naked in a freezing shed, I poured the water over my head. The jolt to my shivering frame set off a primal scream heard around the camp. In a hurry to finish, I drop my precious bar of soap down the drainage hole in the floor. Standing there half cold, half warm, half clean and half dirty, I reached for my towel. It was not to be. There in the freezing shed, in my drenched and naked state, I realized I had forgotten to bring a towel. I dried off with what I had; my dirty clothes. I was knee-deep in survivor mode, and learned that clean and dry is relative.
Life improved quickly after sunset. When I gazed up at the sky, I could see the complete Milky Way. I have never seen this before, even high in the Rockies near my home. The Milky Way stretched from one side of the night sky to the other in a giant arch, a connected, continuous band across the sky. I would be pressed to find a more magnificent sight. I soon fell fast asleep looking forward to seeing those same mountains at sunrise.
Day Two entailed an out-and-back 20 miler, starting and finishing at our little Sandakphu village. This was an easier day for the runners, even though it was run at an altitude of 10,000 to 12,000 feet. The trail winds its way along the India-Nepal border with no significant hills to maneuver, and everyone completed the course between three and five hours without incident.
Maybe it was the relative ease of the day’s run or the return of smiles to previously weary faces, but for some reason, that night, I decided to run the Mt. Everest Marathon Challenge scheduled for the next day. It was a crazy idea, that much I knew. I had not run a marathon in more than 10 years, and although I run a few days a week, I was not prepared for the distance, or the terrain. I decided I want to run this race.
Watching these courageous people running and walking miles along these beautiful trails inspired me. I realized that this race was not about a finishing time or a particular finishing place. This race was an experience to relish: being on the trails, running through the villages, being greeted by masses of schoolchildren bowing their heads in a collective heartfelt “Namaste.” Finally, it was about being a part of a community bonded by shared hardship; I wanted to be a part of that experience, and my decision to run the marathon stage was made.
Refusing to dwell on the fact that my weekly mileage had fluctuated between zero and 35 miles per week for the past several years, I grew increasingly excited about the challenge before me. Not only would it be a great personal accomplishment to simply finish, the opportunity to take in the views and cover the rugged terrain on foot was irresistible. When I learned that the marathon course is actually 30 miles long rather than the standard 26.2, out of necessity to reach a remote finishing location, I was a little concerned and decided, “what’s a few more miles?”
As the race began, I was excited about my decision to run. As a former 2:20 something marathoner, I had always obsessed over my time and finishing place. In every race I had ever run, I was nervous at the start and usually unsatisfied at the end. My competitive bent compelled me to prepare and plan for the perfect race, my best time and a top finishing place. For the most part, I was never good enough for my own standards, and eventually, I gave it up for recreational running. Standing on the mountaintop at Sandakphu, I felt ready to enjoy this race. I wanted to revel in the remote surroundings, and savor every minute of a what I knew would be a profoundly unique experience.
The night before the marathon, participants and journalists alike, were assembled in a hut for race day instructions. After fielding questions from the group, Mr. C.S. Pandey, the Himalayan 100-Mile Stage Race Director, wanted assurance that everyone was comfortable and ready for the event. If anything went wrong on the course, which he said rarely happened, as it was incredibly well organized race, Mr. Pandey reminded everyone to take it in stride. After all, he said, “This mistakes are part of the adventure.”
Mr. Pandey then asked me who would be riding in the press jeep, as parts of the course were impassable to vehicles. I replied that I intended to run the marathon. With a puzzled look on his face, he then asked me, “Okay, Martin, how long is the marathon going take you?” Knowing that the course record is a little over four hours, I replied, “I don’t know, maybe six hours or so.” He quickly replied, “No, it will take you eight hours. It is a very rugged course and eight hours is what I expect from you.”
Few choose to argue with Mr. Pandey, as it gets you nowhere and is not worth the expenditure of needed energy, but I took it as a challenge of sorts. When Mr. Pandey publicly declared that eight hours was the best I could expect, he unwittingly lit the competitive spark in me. I would run, have fun and do the best I could, but I knew I would try to better his prediction.
I only had running shoes and a shirt for the race — no shorts, no water bottle or holder, and certainly none of the vital energy and electrolyte replacement fuels and powders I would need. The other runners learned this and in 30 minutes had donated everything I needed for the race. Their kindness, consideration and compassion were astounding. We seemed to be part of one unique family. Strangers only days before, we had become a community, each looking after the other.
The morning of the marathon could not have been more beautiful. The night sky faded, giving way to a brightly rising sun that burned off the clouds as the morning wore on. Our last morning in Sandakphu was our last chance to clearly see the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas, now in clear, cloudless view. At the starting line, most of the us were so busy gazing at the beauty of those mountains, we almost forgot we were there to run the marathon.
At 7:00 am sharp, we were off. I found myself with the leaders of the race on a winding trail that meandered along the hilltops. Every curve of the path offered different views of Mt. Everest. And, unlike previous races, I remembered to take notice of my surroundings even as I kept up my pace on the treacherous terrain.
Herds of yaks tended by weathered young men meandered along on the trail past us, carrying heavy loads to their destination. Large bells dangled from their necks, and as I ascended some of the steeper sections of the course, I could hear the bells gaining on me. These yaks could not only keep a steady pace, they were also known to leave a slippery reminder of their presence on the trail. Yak droppings and smooth rocks are a hazardous combo for even the best of trail-trained runners.
Clouds moving through the valleys would alternately envelop me, reducing my visibility to less than about thirty feet, and then would dissipate as quickly as they had come, giving way to bright sunshine and vistas several hundred miles out.
The course ultimately took me 7,000 feet down into wedge shaped valleys; hundreds of these lush green valleys descended and ascended as far as my eye could see. The trail, ludicrously rugged and marvelously remote, was marked by pink arrows sprayed painted on a rock here and there, and easy to miss if I did not pay careful attention. But, after 18 miles, when it began to descend sharply through the forest that follows a washed-out riverbed eaten away by countless monsoon rains, I found my legs were sore and tight. My quadriceps were now sore to the touch, my feet were aching, blisters were forming, and my big toes were screaming in pain.
The downhill was just plain wicked. Each time I picked up my foot, it would slam into a cobblestone, shoving the front of my foot into the toe box of my shoe for miles on end. I began to walk. Normally, walking in a running race is sacrilege. It felt great and it was the right thing to do. I slowed down enough to truly absorb what was around me. Maneuvering my way down the mountain had been a mentally and physically draining task, but my struggles were eased by the realization of where I was, and why I was I running this race.
I walked on, surrounded by a variety of exotic plant life: lush green foliage with leaves the size of elephant ears, thick brambling brush, hanging vines and dense bamboo forests. I’d see yaks amble by, a stray horse munching wild grass, and occasionally, the trail would wander through a tiny cluster of huts.
Schoolchildren in neat uniforms curiously watched me as I passed by. I would place my palms together, bow and say “Namaste”. Their little faces would light up, and they would bow their heads, place their palms together, and cheerfully return the Buddhist blessing. These simple interactions were such a joy that I forgot how weary I had become at this point in the race. The people living in this remote area had a profound affect on me. They were happy, content and very open to greeting strangers. Though the pack thins out quickly and you run mostly alone, I never felt alone.
As I moved closer to the sound of water, it was encouraging to hear the rushing river bubbling swiftly over the large boulders and onto the other side of the valley floor; Rimbak, and the finish line, could not be far beyond the bridge and around yet another hillside, jutting straight up to the sky.
The beauty that had unfurled at my feet, coupled with my decision to participate in this extraordinary race, moved me to tears on several occasions as I made my way through the waning miles of the course. I reveled in these tears of joy, truly happy to be in this special place, running on these uninhabited trails. The profound beauty that engulfed me was overwhelming, and I felt profound gratitude for the life that my wife, Bronwyn, and I have made at home with our two young children, Courtney (10) and Kyle (8).
The people living in the hillside villages were poor by Western standards. They have few possessions but seem happy and content. There is a strong Buddhist influence here and one cannot help but feel that they appreciate what they have and do not long for what they don’t have. Their belief system teaches them that wanting more than you have is one of the roots of human suffering. The vision I carry of these simple people, calm and content, has left an everlasting impression on me.
As I walked, the runners who had prepared for this race were catching me from behind. As I heard their footsteps, I stopped and stepped aside to let them pass. Each one would stop and ask with genuine concern if I was okay and I’d reply, “I’m fine. My legs are shot and I have decided to walk.”
One by one, runners passed me by and for the first time in my life in a race, I did not care, I was truly happy for them. Mine was an adventure of a different nature, and walking and looking at the scenery was part of the experience. I chose to support them; what a change from my competitive days when I had coaches and trainers focused on supporting my success. I was surprised to find that I felt better giving support than I did in all of the years of receiving it.
The marathon concluded in the small village of Rimbak amidst the hordes of locals milling about and shopping. As I approached the finish line, which was tucked behind a curve in the cobblestone street, I was touched to see many of the runners who passed me on the trail gathered in the street to greet me.
The first person I noticed was Dave Burton, a British national now living in Sri Lanka. Dave ran with me for the first five or six miles, where we had a great conversation. He had left me hours earlier and finished second overall “What are doing here?” I asked him. You finished almost 2 hours ago.” Dave looked at me and said simply, “I have been waiting for you.”
I completed the marathon in 6:44, more than four hours slower than any of my previous marathons. Finishing in 26th place, it is my greatest physical achievement and the most enjoyable race of my life.
I walked with a limp for the next several days, my feet and toes destroyed by the trail, but I felt only triumph in every step. I left India not with a bag full of souvenirs, but with my heart and mind full of precious memories of an extraordinary adventure among a special group of everyday people.
For television coverage of this race, tune into “Running Today!!” on Saturday, December 3, 2005 at 7:30 am shown on the Altitude Network.
If you want an adventure of a lifetime, put this race on your calendar for next year: October 27-November 3, 2006. For further information regarding the Himalayan 100 mile Stage Race or the Mt. Everest marathon, please contact:
C.S. Pandey, Race Director
Himalayan Run & Trek Pvt. Ltd.
cspandey@vsnl.com
Website: www.himalayan.com
T-5, Manish Chambers, Plot No.6, Block –B
Mayur Vihar Phase-2, Delhi-110 091 India
Phone: +91 11 2277270
