Run Ragged

My left knee hurts. My calves hurt. My hips hurt. The sun is hot on my face. Sunscreen is mixing with my sweat and pooling on my lips. I am twinging as I run. This will all be over soon. 100 yards ahead, half a world away the chase car pulls to the side and the next runner steps out. I'm not happy or relieved, I don't want to think that hard at this point. My headphones dangle uselessly from my iPod. All thought of music forgotten. I had off the hot, sweaty glow stick to my replacement and cram myself into the back of the Subaru. One more stint, and it will be over. Just a finish line to cross and then I won't have to run again.

I don't like running. I view it as a good if unsatisfying way to get exercise. I've never been driven to run long distance, I never storm the finish line ahead of all the other sprinters in a practice. I run to work out and then only when I have no other options. I am a biker, a hiker, an eliptical and stairmaster enthusiast. I work out regularly, at least three times a week when I can get it. I've ridden over 50 miles under the blazing sun and called it fun, but I've rarely had that sensation on a run.

I learned of the Dead to Red Ultra-Marathon on the first day of orientation at the Dead Sea. I raised my hands along with many of my fellows when our coordinator mentioned that CIEE would be running at least two teams. I had no idea of what to expect, a condition that would persist until the very week of the race. The terms of the race were always in doubt until our final briefing two days before the start. Teams were pulled together haphazardly and I found myself sitting on the sidelines without any leads.

I debated with myself as teams formed up and the remaining slots seemed to be disappearing. I told myself that I wouldn't be able to study, a genuine drawback for me. I countered that this would be a once in a lifetime experience. Despite the fact that I didn't love running, this would probably be the only time in my life that I could experience a twenty four hour slog from the Dead Sea over 242 desert and deserted kilometers to the Red Sea and Aqaba, Jordan's resort town.

I reached out. I put my name in front of the chaotic group that was forming into teams and miraculously, out of all the unclaimed runners that wanted a shot, I was given the go. I was lumped with a team of strangers, a team without a name. I was responsible for the official name that graced the team roster, Drenched and Burned, yet our vans would be aptly adorned with Team Last. We met for the first time a week and a half before the race. At this point my lack of training and dearth of information on the challenge had already led me into a panic and back out. I had seen others who would be running and reasoned that if they felt up to the task then I should have no problems or excuses.

After that first meeting, a lot remain unsettled. The details, such as date, distance, and provisions, emerged only at the final CIEE teams briefing. There would be food, beds, and a beach awaiting us in Aqaba; a van and chase car for each team; and CIEE would be buying running food for each team. This last detail, a relief at the time, would prove to be as much a joke as a service.

ِMy team was eclectic. Our team captain was a short, fit kid who looked up to the task. The only other guy was a tall, ROTC grunt that lit up as soon as we crossed the finish line. Seven girls ranging from a running camp alumni to a girl fresh out of knee surgery. Some had trained, all worked out regularly, none seemed to regret coming out for such a crazy endeavor. As we loaded our vans in the basement parking lot of CIEE's office tower we traded jokes and stories before our hour trip to the start.

I read an Arabic reference grammar en route. If that doesn't convey my strangeness of character while my teammates were laughing and chatting in the back seat, I'm not sure what will. We arrived at the Dead Sea and lathered up with sunscreen, broke into the CIEE provisions, and snapped way too many meaningless photos for my taste. At about 3:40 we left our starting runner and moved out for the first transition some six kilometers away.

At all times there would be one runner, two team members in a chase car some ten feet behind, and the rest of the team loaded in a van a few kilos off waiting to switch out the car and put fresh shoes on the road. We had plenty of water and food; time to stretch, if not to sleep, and plenty of support in the case of emergency.

CIEE made its inexperience with running blatantly obvious with the nature of our provisions. While the fruit, nuts, and candy bars could all be defended. I was less sure about the 1 kg pack of graham crackers or the bag of lemons. The three pints of milk, ranging from skim to whole fat, were absurd as were the individual packs of sugary cereal they were meant to be paired with. We had all the medical supplies we could ask for, although extra ice packs in place of the maxi pads may have been a good idea.

Two CIEE staffers accompanied the teams throughout, driving and parking through the night, weaving between the teams as the pack separated. Allison, our program director was there to see us off and showed up near Aqaba with unwelcome ice cream treats as we confronted the final 40 km. They provided sympathy, laughs, and an unexpected challenge when one of them, Stuart, stuck his car in the roadside desert in the middle of the night with only a team of college runners and their drivers to assist him.

The running. It all came to resemble itself. There were highs and lows, hills and villages, aches and pains. I was nervous up to the point I first hit the road and put in a brief stint amidst the confusion of early rotations and distances. As the race wore on, stints shrunk from 2k to two 1k to four .5k. The original rotation disintegrated as night wore on, one girl's knee wore out, and sleep became an overriding consideration. At around 1 am it was settled that four runners would do a 20k rotation and give the other six a chance to nap. I settled into my seat to try for some desperately needed repose.

I was jerked awake without any advanced warning. The last runner was standing outside the driver's window, I had no time to waste. Not so much groggy as sleepy I wrenched myself from the car, cold and unready, and set out into the night. I was running through a tiny village in the middle of the desert. The chase car was blessedly still tied up at the van and I had a few minutes of the night to myself. Cocks crowed on either side and the small sounds of humanity passed behind me. As I got my stride, the call to prayer broke my still surroundings. I had my experience, the reason I had signed up for this ordeal. I had a memory.

Things started hurting in earnest as Friday unwound. Heat for the first time became an issue and water went fast in the car and in the van. We knew by now that we were miles behind all the other teams. The deadline for completion was 4:00, 24 hours from the start. We were well within the limit, and better by far than the teams CIEE had fielded the year before, but living up to a team name and having so many team members cheerfully remind you of the fact doesn't make it anymore pleasant. I had signed up to do my best, to put in my miles, to challenge myself. I accomplished all that and more, but I'd rather not have had to focus on the state of my team in the scheme of things.

Running into Aqaba brought new complications into the mix. Traffic became a constant competitor for space and right of way. I ran through a crowd of worshipers leaving Friday services, a stroke of luck for our team because scantily clad western women would not have been a welcome sight for such a gathering. My knee only began to hurt in new and interesting ways over my last 1.5k on the road. For the first time it hurt to run for reasons other than my aching muscles. I desperately stretched and paced as I waited for my next turn.

The final kilometers were an agony of expectation, exhaustion, and uncertainty. Our goal was the Radison hotel some 15 kilometers outside of Aqaba. Each turn in the road brought us closer, but never gave us any sign of our progress. We were staggering alongside a highway crowded with beach goers and holiday makers eager to hit the sand to our right. When we finally sighted the finish banner it was an immense relief and a time to all come together in one great scramble for the end of it all.

We were greeted by CIEE when we arrived dead on the spot. I didn't care about the illusory offered free massage. I am still not comfortable with the idea of a stranger devoting themselves to my comfort in such a way, despite the pain I was in at the time. I cared about real food, and after settling in at our nearby lodgings in the Adventure Village dive resort for a weary and exasperating hour we were presented with bags of pita and falafel sandwiches that were better than I could have hoped for.

I napped before the awards banquet and arose, having changed and showered ready, more than ready, for a feast. The next hour of waiting out an interminable awards ceremony was brought to a blessed end by the audacious move of my ROTC teammate to go up to the buffet and begin dinner. He was shortly joined by all the other participants despite the pleas and protests of our hosts and servers. I stuff myself at buffets both because they are all you can eat and free, but the primary reason is that this is one time that a meal doesn't center around the bread. As a diabetic it’s a blessing to be able to stuff yourself with a mountain of eggplant and taboulleh without having to worry nearly so much about carbohydrates as you do about the structural integrity of your stomach.

I stuffed myself and fell back to the hotel for a brief meander around the pool reading the Economist and my food digested and my legs unlocked before falling into bed at around 9:00. Mosquitoes awoke me at around 10:30. I had left the door open to allow a desperately needed breeze and had signed my own death warrant. For five minutes I stalked my prey leaving greasy red smears on walls, furniture, and ceiling as I purged my quarters for the night. Both my roommates had lived up to their plans and departed for the clubs of Aqaba, but I had no desire to join them.

At 2:30 in the morning they returned, drunk and stupid, to the resort. About half the CIEE runners had gone out and all were in a similar state of alcohol induced idiocy. Some had locked themselves into their room with the key and couldn't get it open for one of their roommates. I went to sleep with the sonorous snores of an unexpected female roommate pouring from the third mattress on the floor.

I awoke at around 7:45 was able to chat with some of the other early birds. We got to eat at last at 8:50 and devoured the simple repast of pita, tomato, cucumber, and hummus. After that we set out for the beach. It was miraculous as I worked my way into the cool waters of the Red Sea. I could move my legs as I swam without a twinge or a twang. Aside from the occasional sharp stone my body felt at piece and without pain for the first time in 36 hours. After that blessed break we all packed at the hotel and left around 1:00 for home.

Within ten minutes we came off the rails as some asked to stop for lunch. In the usual confusion of multi-cultural and bi-lingual coordination we wound up in the middle of Amman with three quarters of us being led by our well-meaning drivers to a hour and a half's sit down lunch while the rest, my broke self among them stewed outside. I resented the delay having made sure to have food for the trip back taken care of and was happy to be belatedly back when we finally returned to Amman.

The weekend was over. I would have two pages of vocabulary to memorize the following day and a week of mid-terms ahead of me. I had torn my legs apart for some two and half hours of running stretched out over 22 for our team. It was thoroughly worth it.