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South Georgia Half-Marathon Tests Endurance By Jenny Corser The race was held on one of the most perfect days for running this season. The race started from King Edward Point at 9am but most runners were up at six, nervously filling stomachs with their preferred carbohydrate loaded breakfast, knowing what lay ahead. The trophy for first place lay on the table and there was tension in the air because no one was quite sure who would win it. It is a lovely trophy - kindly sculpted and donated by Nick Taylor, one of the AWG workers. Metal twisted into a naked runner sprinting, head held high, over the letters SG 1/2. And then finally all preparation over, it was the start. Gordon Liddle cut the tape that held the 35 runners back from the line, and with the respective flags from participant countries flying overhead (England, Chile, Scotland, South Africa) we were off. The route was severe - there is no doubt. The initially flat run to the whaling station was no indication of what was to come. The climb up to Gull Lake above Shackleton's grave was pre-emptive of the torment of the ascent of Brown Mountain. Standing at 1,100 feet it is a hard walk but running it becomes a test of just how much burning things can stand and how much air lungs can gasp with each breath. Already the leaders were well away from the main pack of us. The view from the top of Brown Mountain stretches across the bay and from the blueness of the sea and contrasting whiteness of the ice to the green tussock - it is magnificent. If the climb doesn't take your breath away, the view will! The descent was a roped edge that led down across tussock covered hills at the base of Brown Mountain and crossed streams that offered clear and oh so cold fluid - to be grabbed at before jumping across and tearing onwards past the fur seals that guard the graveyard, dodging elephant seals and back through the whaling station to King Edward Point. The last leg is the bit that hurts the most and requires one to dig deep and find the determination to continue. With aching thighs another two climbs from sea level are in store - both of about 600 feet and both over rough ground with rocks that deceive and twist ankles and demand not only muscle but also intense concentration. The hut at Maiviken stands next to a large lake in an idyllic setting. The sounds of the distant fur seal pups bounce off the cliffs and echo through the valleys, and the grunts of tired runners at this final turn around point mingled with the wildlife cries. The route returns to the finish line at the research station. Writing here and now I cannot encompass it adequately. It was monumental - this race through a haven of wildlife and isolation from humanity. Not because it was a test of stamina or endurance or even tolerance of pain. I think that the runners realised it - some acknowledged it openly, some kept the view they had to themselves. It wasn't about the run. That the route was tiring and steep can be seen from the description. The first climb from sea level to 1,100 feet was testament enough it was not easy. Legs ached, eyes teared, lungs heaved. But that was not the point. Some things I marvel at in life - the beauty that lies tucked away, forgotten in deep pockets and when hands dig into layering it is found, reclaimed. The race to be the first - two had been together for the better part of two hours, kicking at one another's heels. And then the final descent, still neck to neck, one tripped - rock tore into skin. The other stopped and pulled him to his feet despite the thirst for title - they finished together, neither out-sprinting the other. The last female to finish - who ran past the marshal quickly lest he see her tears, and the friend who went back and ran with her as she finished. And little Al who approached me afterwards and told me how happy he was - happy at what he proved he could do and happy because his girlfriend thinks that he's a hero. (He had no running kit, and ran in his construction site clothing and work boots.) The run became an excuse for something else. Something that can't be explained in a race report. I pushed myself on the run until I felt like throwing up - my sides hurt, my back ached but on it went. Locked in I have a picture of the rolling hills at the base of Brown Mountain - it was my childhood dream place come alive and I was in it. I ran alone - with no voice other than my own. What does a runner think about? Everything and nothing. It's mostly subconscious. A run is always more than just a run. It's about individuals and the spirit of the race and runner. Jenny Corser is the doctor at the British Antarctic Base at King Edward Point, South Georgia First published in the Penguin News on 5 March 2004 and reproduced with the kind permission of the Editor
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