DEAD SEA MARATHON

One of Cranky's daughters, with the aid of her husband, recently completed the Dead Sea Marathon in Jordan (That's right, the Middle East. Here is her account).

My last marathon was a year and a half ago, the Marine Corp Marathon in Washington, DC. On April 10, 2009, I went for my thirteenth marathon, which would also be my first outside the United States. I completed all of my prior marathons attempts and four out of six ultra-marathon attempts. On one attempt at a 62-miler, I got lost on the race course in the mountains of Utah and missed a time cut. On a 100-miler attempt, once again in Utah, I ended up with altitude sickness and in the ER after mile 52. Obviously, Utah and I have problems. I have also completed various 20-milers, half-marathons, 10-milers, 10ks, and 5ks.

Let me set the record straight: I am not a fast marathoner. I fall somewhere in the middle of the pack. So why do I keep coming back to the start line? Maybe it’s an addiction to bodily torture, or maybe it’s just the t-shirt. I don’t have a good answer.

Several months ago I signed up for the Dead Sea Marathon in Jordan. My husband Stephen and I currently live in Kuwait, and we figured the marathon would be a good excuse to visit Jordan to see the sites. The marathon itself was point-to-point: the city of Amman to the Dead Sea. Several other distances were also being run: an ultra-marathon, a half-marathon, and a 10k.

The beginning of the trip was great. We were in a hotel adjacent to the Dead Sea, near the finish line. We enjoyed two days of hiking in Petra. We spent another day exploring around the Dead Sea. On day four, our tour driver took us into Amman for a pre-race evening pasta party. Stephen and I spent the evening looking at the other runners and guessing which distance they were running. The ride back to the Dead Sea from the Amman hotel was down a long steep hill. We passed the zero sea level marker and got out to take photos in the dark. As we got closer to the hotel, we began to wonder if this was the actual road I was going to run down for the race itself. I had read on the race website that the course was a downhill steep course, but I never imagined it was that steep.

I was to be picked up at the hotel at 4:00 a.m. and taken to the race’s start in Amman. A few other folks I knew from Kuwait, including a co-worker’s husband, were running other distances. So I figured I would just look for them in the hotel lobby, and we would make sure we all got on the proper bus. My wonderful husband made sure I was up at 3:15 a.m. He was even kind enough to accompany me downstairs to the lobby; however, at approximately 3:50 a.m. we walked into an empty lobby. Where were all the frigging runners? My already nervous stomach started doing extra flip-flops.

Stephen finally spotted a man in running clothes headed downstairs. He followed the man, reappearing moments later to report that a large group of runners was downstairs enjoying breakfast treats. We found some of our friends from Kuwait. Stephen earned some points by being the only family member of all our friends there to escort a runner to the hotel lobby at 0-dark-thirty.

Of course, the bus didn’t leave until 4:15 a.m., but we all managed to find a seat and settle in. About a third of the way into the ride, which was up the same steep road Stephen and I had descended the evening before, I saw in the dim light a disturbing sight across the aisle. A woman had both hands in her running pants and was moving them rapidly. I know about running and chaffing, so I assume she was applying some sort of body glide to her lower regions. Last time I checked, however, this activity only took a few seconds, not half of a 45-minute bus ride!

We arrived at the check-in location a little after 5:00 a.m. A large group of runners appeared to be wandering aimlessly around an elementary school. It was freezing outside, so our group went into the school lobby for warmth and bathrooms. Time started ticking by with no official race personnel in sight. Finally, we begin to notice a group was gathering outside and boarding buses. None of the race officials herding people onto the buses knew anything about checking in. They were just working to quickly place folks onto buses to get them to various starting points. I latched on to a group of runners with a similar bib color as my own, a color that identified us as marathoners. I figured if I boarded a bus with folks wearing blue bibs, then my chances of ended up in the wrong place were slim.

We finally got on a bus. The driver started off, only to turn the corner and stop near a group of runners and cops about two blocks from the school. Fortunately, before we stepped off the bus, one of us realized that we were at the ultra-marathoners’ start. The individual started yelling at the bus driver in both Arabic and English for driving us to the wrong start line. The bus driver shook his head to indicate that if this wasn’t the place we were supposed to be, he had no idea where to take us. Great, so basically after not checking in at the supposed check-in location, we were now lost in Amman, and the clock was ticking to start time! The individual yelling at the bus driver managed to stop his ranting for a moment to jump off the bus and ask for directions. After driving around Amman for another fifteen minutes, the bus driver managed to find the marathon start line. Turns out we were the first marathoner bus to arrive.

Runners quickly took up positions in front of the two port-a-potties to get in that last bathroom break. The port-a-potties were locked. Of course the male runners immediately headed behind a nearby building to empty their bladders. We women tried to figure out what to do. Finally the individual who had yelled at the lost bus driver earlier came to our rescue when he managed to pick the locks of the port-a-potties.

I didn’t have a watch on, but I did know that we had been hanging out at the start line for quite a while and that more buses were still arriving. One bus even tried to pull underneath the start line banner and got stuck, almost managing to pull down the start line! We thought the race started at 6:30 a.m., but the time was approaching 7:00 a.m.. Finally, an official showed up and told us that the start would be in fifteen minutes. In the meantime she wanted us lined up under the start line banner for a group photo. Great, just what I needed to get me psyched for the race!

At this point, those of us experienced with chip-timed races noticed that the start line had no chip mat. So why the heck had we been issued chips to attach to our shoes? If the race wasn’t going to be chip-timed from start to finish, what was the point? One runner commented that the race directors could have cared less if we cheated in starting the race; they just wanted to make sure we didn’t cheat at the finish!

Finally, a little past 7:00 a.m., the race official moved the start banner to the middle of the road. The cops north of the start line seem finally to have stopped car traffic from heading down the supposedly closed road that was the course. At least we thought we wouldn’t have to dodge those crazy drivers! We all ambled over to the start line. I was several feet back and still nervously looking around, waiting for the start. All of a sudden people several places in front of me began running. To avoid getting trampled, I did the same. Where were the 5 minute and 1 minute warnings, or even a “ready-set-go”?!

I started out following my father’s motto: start slow, ease off. About 2 km into the race, I began struggling with kilometer-to-mile conversions. Most of us Americans think in miles. It’s one reason the rest of the world finds us so lovable. I figured out quickly that at least one advantage to a kilometer race is that the markers go by quicker! Wonder why that is? Anyway, at about 2.5 km I realized I was beginning to go down that long steep winding road that we had climbed that morning in the bus. My body was already protesting and I still had over 20 or 30 downhill kilometers to go. I started noticing signs on the road warning drivers about a steep grade and advising trucks to use low gears. Great. A little downhill is one thing, but this was not what I had in mind.

At about this point, a male several paces in front of me took off his shoes. Now I know there are some Kenyans that run barefoot, but this guy was no Kenyan. I stopped thinking about his possible pain; however, when at about 10 km into the race, I felt my right big toe strike the tip of my shoe with such force that I knew the toenail was a goner! Now I have lost toenails before in ultra-races, but never in a marathon. And yes, Dad, I tried to remember heal-toe-heal-toe going downhill, but gosh darn it, that hill was just becoming longer by the minute and my feet weren’t listening to the rest of my body!

At about 12 km the front ultra-runners starting bearing down on me. The front runner flew past in his downhill momentum mode. Yeah, I was a little jealous, but hey, at least I was out there running! Then I just happen to look to my right and saw a white female butt glimmering in the sun. Yes, it is a common site in marathons and ultra-marathons in the United States to see the back of a man or the butt of a squatting woman as they answer a call of nature just off the course. But this was a more conservative area of the world. There were quite a few cars honking and people yelling at that poor woman, who was just trying to empty her downhill-jarred bladder!

Near this point I took off my running jacket and shoved it into my hip pocket. The temperature was rising as we began to drop into the Dead Sea Valley. Small groups of people were gathered every few kilometers. I noticed that one person in a group would yell out something as each runner passed and another person would write something down. It finally dawned on me that they were recording my race number, the running chips apparently being for decoration. And my number in Arabic was something like “phlegm hamza hamza.”

Before the halfway point was the zero sea level marker. But the course would not be leveling out any time soon. The Dead Sea is below sea level, not just a little bit, but a lot, 1,385 feet (422 meters if you’re addicted to the metric system). So there was a lot of downhill left. After the halfway point, I decided I would try to walk at the next water station. I had not yet taken a break, and a short walk would permit me to really drink the water instead of aiming it at my mouth while running, hoping some would go in. As soon as I started walking, however, I encountered jelly legs for the first time in my life. I had never before had the jelly feeling some folks describe in their legs after running long races. So yes, running down a steep grade for 25 km can make your legs feel like jelly. I immediately starting running again, slowly, for fear my jelly legs might collapse if I kept walking.

The course finally started to level out, and the northern edge of the Dead Sea was clearly visible. Signs appeared for Bethany, the Baptismal site where Biblical historians conclude John the Baptist baptized Jesus in the Jordan River. I looked across into the horizon, to the spot where our tour guide had pointed out Jerusalem and Jericho to Stephen and I just the day before. I was thinking how amazing it was for little ol’ me to be looking over some of the most historical and controversial places in human history. And then suddenly my right foot hit something, jarring the already damaged nail on my big toe. So maybe a Higher Power was telling me, yeah, it’s nice to realize where you are, but right now you have to focus on the race and watch where you are going! I looked down to see what my foot had hit and managed to dodge the next metal block just in time. Instead of rubble strips, the Jordanian transportation folks cement these metal blocks in several long rows to get folks to slow down. I spent the next few kilometers watching out for random metal blocks.

After I turned the corner at Bethany and started heading down to the Dead Sea for the last 12 km, a group of mountain bikers appeared on the race course. Now, remember, the road was supposedly closed to all traffic. There were soldiers and cops all long the course to keep cars off the road. Yeah, a few cars made it past, and I heard stories later of runners having to dodge them. But dodging cars was nothing compared to those bikers. They began to ride in and out of the runners, chasing runners down and cutting runners off. The cops and soldiers just stood by and watched. One British runner even complained to a cop that a biker hit him from behind and that he was then attacked by the biker’s group. I couldn’t believe the brush-off attitude the cop had. The British runner kept slowly moving on, mumbling about filling a complaint with the race officials.

As I dodged bikers for those last 10 km, I passed a few of the slow half marathon and 10k walkers. The pain in my quads and feet had become intense. I started watching for Stephen. The race course ran right by our hotel. I had told him that he had to come out of the hotel and walk up the course at least a little way. In other words, he couldn’t just wait in front of the hotel for me to pass. I am proud to say he actually walked up the course about 1 km which was actually about 3 km from the finish. I threw my hip pack to him, happy to be rid of that weight, and we walked together a short distance. He told me the time, and I realized I was actually moving pretty good considering the difficulty of the course.

The last 3 km to the finish was a nice break from the long downhill. Rolling hills made the leg muscles turn over a bit and feel less like jelly. Unfortunately, there was one last steep 10 meters downhill about 200 meters before the finish line. I said not nice things.

I finished in 4 hours, 45 minutes, and can wear my t-shirt proudly. But I don’t think I need to run the Dead Sea Marathon again. The story, however, is not over yet. When Stephen and I got back to Kuwait, we called my folks back home to tell them tales of the race. But my father had one better. While Stephen and I enjoyed Jordan, the old man managed to trip on a sidewalk during his daily shuffle. He landed directly on his jaw, breaking it in three places. Thus, it’s eating through a straw for a bunch of weeks for the guy who got me addicted to these dumb races to begin with. So two lessons of recent events are (1) never sign up for an all downhill marathon and (2) always pick up your feet when running! Oh, and another lesson: never go swimming in the Dead Sea, probably the saltiest body of water on the planet, after extensively chaffing your lower regions by running a marathon.