Hanguk Trail Running: Personal Story Pt. 1
The first race I had ever signed up for was an ultra-marathon held in Busan, Korea. I had never run more than 20km before that day.
The seventeenth race of its kind was held on the Saturday of March 12, 2022. I could comfortably run 10km in an hour on any day of the week. I was still relatively young--and stupid--at the time and took no days off from training. I would wake up at 4:30 and be out the door at 5:00 after downing a hot cup of coffee. My daily mileage was 13km. Upon returning home, I would stretch, eat some scrambled eggs, shower, relax and be at work by 8:30. The morning routine continued into the weekend lest I deviate from the ritual--save for the work of course.
There was this momentum I was riding on and I truly felt unstoppable. A mantra was on repeat in my head on those lonely dark morning runs: You are the toughest--there is no one else! There was some merit to the claim because I was running by the Han River before sunrise in the winter. Temperatures could drop to -13 degrees Celsius, the perceived temperature being -21 degrees Celsius with the windchill. The sweat from my brows and the moisture on my mask would crystalize. The most difficult parts of the body to keep warm in the winter are the hands. If your gloves are well-insulated, the trapped sweat freezes. The breathable gloves offer little protection against the wind. No matter what, the hands are bound to be cold.
It was about a month before the ultra-marathon when I first ran my "long-run" of 20km. I was beyond exhausted after 16km. My sweat became thick, my legs were doing the chicken dance with each step and my breathing erratic. I stopped when I began to experience tunnel vision. No amount of air I gasped in seemed sufficient. I was suffocating--drowning--and I was in an oxygen-rich environment! I felt like a fish out of water--save for the flopping. Thank goodness I was not flopping around.
I figured that I had not drunk enough water (but it was really because I was running on an empty stomach). I repeated the same run the following weekend. I was able to finish the 20km run, with the personal best of 2:24:00. You are the toughest--there is no one else!
If I had been a rational person, the goal for my first ultra-marathon would have been to just complete it. But I am more of an organic being. I set two goals for myself: Run the entirety of the race (no walking or resting except at the check-points); and complete the race in less than ten hours. What can I say? I am a dreamer--a dreamer, man!
The Busan Beach Ultra-marathon (Beach Ultra) was set to begin at 17:00 on the Saturday and continue into Sunday morning. I did not pack any food whatsoever: My body will sustain itself on its fat-reserves. I had 500mL of water on me: I would refuel along the way if I needed to. I did not study the course at all: How could I possibly get lost? The Beach Ultra had some ascends and descends. It was nothing too serious--perhaps 500m? But I had never trained on an uphill or downhill before in my life.
The first check-point (CP) was located at the 16.5km mark. The friendly CP staff members offered me food and drinks. I stopped to refuel and eat some fresh fruits.
"Where are you from?" A staff member asked me in the local tongue.
"I took the train from Seoul," I replied.
"Your legs look so muscular! You will do fine in this race!"
That was all the fuel I needed--so I had thought. My legs began to lose their strength soon after leaving the CP. The huge congregation of runners began to separate, forming smaller groups each moving at their own pace. Lacking technique, strategy and experience, I pressed forward. Lapping the other runners no longer invigorated me; it instilled doubt in my mind. Do they know something I do not?
The second CP arrived 12.5km later (29km into the race). It was dark already, and the well-lit station was a welcomed sight. I was stumbling all over the road. If I did not have my bib on, I probably would have been arrested for drunk and disorderly behavior. I was on the verge of forgoing my first goal of this race: Do not stop running. I just wanted to walk--even for a little bit. I stood at the CP eating fruits like an herbivore. A gallon of Gatorade could not quench my thirst (I know now that a carbonated drink may have been the better option).
Upon leaving the CP, I began walking as running was no longer an option. I stopped and collapsed on the ground when walking was no longer an option. I had romanticized about these moments of hardship leading up to the race. I had envisioned myself rallying forward despite the pain and fatigue. It is like when you watch a gazelle give in during a chase before the lioness pounces on the poor prey. Why did that gazelle just give up? Its life depended on it. Mind over matter is an attractive sentiment but the truth is the mind is merely matter.
The next 21km to the turning point (TP)--the half-way point--was the most trying part of the race. I got lost countless of times. The energy exhausted getting back on course seemed irreparable. I cursed the course, the organizers and myself. It would have been the easiest thing to hop into a cab back to the hotel. I would blame the poor condition of the course for my DNF (did not finish); but I knew that justification would never exonerate me from my regret.
There was warm soup and rice at the TP. More than that, there was camaraderie. Runners shared stories of getting lost, electrolyte tablets, ibuprofen and words of encouragement. None of which I accepted. I was going to DNF and it had been decided as soon as I left the last CP. My hands were numb from the cold, and I could not feel the metal spoon in my hand. I watched runners reluctantly leave the well-lit TP one by one. Their fatigue visible in their posture. It stirred something in me. Those men and women were going to suffer for another 50km and I was going to quit. Go back to the hotel and take a warm bath. If they can do it, why can't I?
The newfound motivation weaned the moment I left the turning point. Darkness surrounded me again. There were no other runners around me. I was trudging forward alone with my thoughts: Me, myself and I. Sheer defeat filled my heart. I had failed. I was a failure. Not only did I not run the entirety of the race--I even stopped to rest! There was no way I was going to make it back to the finish line in less than ten hours. I did not know how much time had elapsed as I did not wear a watch to the race, lest I become discouraged from my pace. It was clear that I was not the toughest. It was blatant that there were many others who were tougher than me. I made a promise to myself in frustration: I will never ever walk or run again. I am driving everywhere.
The CPs were less crowded on the way back. The majority of the runners had gone ahead of me. Attempts were made to run, especially when I grew cold from the sweat cooling on my skin. No mantras were repeated in my head. The sense of disappointment trumped all physical discomfort. It was no longer the prospect of regret that kept me moving forward. It was not the fact that I had taken the Monday off of work so I can go out and celebrate--what I had hoped--the greatest accomplishment of my life. It was simply the somber reality that I had come too far to not finish the race (I was from anywhere between 50-83.5km into the race).
An older runner sparked a conversation with me at the last CP (16.5km left to the finish line). He must have been in his early sixties. He looked to be in great spirits, his voice showed no signs of weariness.
"Where are you from?" He asked me with a heavy local dialect.
"I took a train from Seoul," I replied.
"All the way from Seoul? You must finish this race!"
"I am going to try."
"Just do not quit," he told me, "You can finish this race as long as you do not quit. It's simple. Just don't quit."
The sun began to rise at this point. I recognized the landmarks I had passed the day before. I could almost see myself from yesterday: Completely oblivious and stupidly hopeful. The promenade of Dadaepo Beach came into view. Everything was just perfect. The blessed sun warmed the earth, drying the cold sweat on my clothes. My legs felt lighter. I was moving again. Hot sweat rolled down my forehead. For some reason I began to sing like Dora from the film "Finding Nemo:" Just keep running, just keep running...All the pain and aches were still there but it did not have the same command over me as it had in the dark.
I crossed the finish line at last. It had taken me fourteen hours and fifty-seven minutes. I dragged my body over to the older gentleman and thanked him. He told me that I did a fine job and that he is expecting me for the next one. I found a seat by a bench overlooking the beach. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds and light rain spattered down. I did not want to return to the hotel. I did not want to take a hot bath. I did not want to climb into bed. I did not want to drink water. I was not hungry. I was not out of breath. Nothing interested me. It was truly a moment of peace.
.JPG "Busan Ultra Finisher Certification")
Running through unfathomable distances...
Racing beyond an unimaginable time...to the very end of the dark road that once seemed impossible to reach
Sheer resistance towards rest...
Ultra runners, crossing heaven and hell countless of times--conquering themselves with each step, are the greatest victors in the world ^^
Arrest is not the end...
Resist the temptation to falter and resign, and celebrate the new year with the joy of triumph.
Translated by HTR
S.G
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