Mark Ellison

"When I came to Charleston in 1996, I signed up for the Cooper River Bridge run. I was nervous because I wasn’t sure if I could run 6 miles. It is ten years later and I have just completed my third ultra-long footrace—The Atacama Crossing --- 250km (160 miles) across the high desert of Chile . It’s amazing what working in Rehab will drive you to…

I touched down in the Atacama Desert on July 21^st after a spectacular flight from the capital city, Santiago , where I had spent time with my cousin and her family who live there. Chile is the pencil thin country that runs from north to south between the Pacific Ocean and the Andes Mountains . The Atacama region is high and dry; Over 8000 feet and it never rains except for one month a year when it floods. It was midwinter so the nights were freezing and the days were usually hot, about 90 degrees with no humidity.

The Race Headquarters were in San Pedro, which reminded me of a dusty town from a Clint Eastwood Western. Billy, a cheerful Englishman, was my assigned roommate in the hotel that night. He is a recovering addict who is writing a book about his colorful life. He was suffering from mild altitude sickness so I gave him some Diamox pills I had brought for that purpose. I helped him repack his backpack to reduce the weight from a hefty 35 pounds to a more manageable 25. On this type of race you have to carry all your food, clothing, personal items and sleeping bag for a whole week, so you really learn what you need and what can be left behind. The Race Organizers, Racing The Planet, provide tents, medical support and bottled water. At the end of each daily stage you can sit by the communal campfire where they have kettles of hot water to rehydrate your freeze-dried camp food or make tea.

The first day, all 135 racers plus 30 staff met in the hotel courtyard for Race Check-in, Medical Check-in and Equipment Inspection. My pack weighed 21 pounds without water, which was about average. After lunch they took us by bus to the first campsite, just a few miles from town. A tight cluster of tents was set amid dry hills that looked like the Badlands . I met my seven tent-mates and we decided our tent was barely big enough for eight flatulent English men. That night was particularly chilly and nobody slept very much. I had wisely packed a silk liner and small ground pad but others suffered mightily in their ultralight sleeping bags.

Day 1 dawned cold and windy. We were driven high into the mountains for two hours for the start of the race. The organizers moved the starting place down from 14000 feet to a tiny village at 13500 feet because of the weather. After speeches from the organizers, the mayor rang the church bell three times and we shuffled off into the thin mountain air straining under our full backpacks.

The path went downhill through a gorge and I snapped pictures of grazing Llamas as I ran. The fast guys disappeared down the narrow trail as I jogged along mid-pack, as planned. I was being very careful not to twist an ankle on the loose, rocky ground. I breezed through the first checkpoint at 7 miles and through the village of Rio Grande where the local brass band played the same tune for each group of runners passing by. The oom-pah-pahs echoed down the valley as we reached the first of 5 planned river crossings. Some took their shoes off, but the torrent was thigh high, with slippery stones underneath, so I kept my shoes on and used my trekking pole to keep my balance.

After 15 river crossings we knew something was up. The course setter had apparently messed up and was taking us down the increasingly rugged gorge instead of up and around it. The course was now 28 miles instead of 22! The pace slowed to a crawl as we scrambled over huge boulders and crossed the raging river 77 times. Ankles and knees were sprained and feet became totally numb from the cold. I staggered into camp in the dark at 8pm in 82^nd place. A quick Ramen Noodle and it was straight to bed. The stragglers did not finish until midnight. What a tough first day.

The next day was 28 miles again and we set off at 8am sharp. The first few miles were through spectacular slot canyons, often wading downriver as the canyon walls were vertical without banks. The water was icy. So much for the driest place on earth! Eventually we reached solid ground and climbed high out of the valley onto a spectacular ridge with a view of craggy mountains and volcanoes in the distance. Running uphill was almost impossible at this 9000 feet altitude, sending heart racing and lungs burning. After a few miles the course took a left turn down a huge sand dune with Checkpoint 2 at the bottom. I emptied the sand from my shoes and pushed on as the day grew hot. There is a checkpoint every 7 miles or so and just before Checkpoint 3, I threw up (peanuts mostly if you must know). I had some mild heat exhaustion, so I rested five minutes and drank some water. My tent mates from England were making the same pace so I hung with them to finish in the late afternoon. The campsite was beside a salt lake and the ground was volcanic and sharp. I was glad I brought my Thermarest sleeping pad, despite the extra 15 ounces of weight. It was cold again that night so I took a sleeping pill and was oblivious to the snoring around me.

The third stage was marathon distance again. I was making good time until we came to the first set of salt flats. Imagine walking across a ploughed field or a coral reef that is brittle and hollow in places. Every fifth step your foot breaks through, gashing the ankle. Finding a rhythm becomes impossible and the midday sun is baking. Eventually we reach solid ground (haven’t I used that phrase before?). The little pink flags that mark the trail take us up over rocky scree into the mountains again. I’m sure the campsite is over the next rise, but instead I encounter a Korean cameraman who laughs loudly as he tells me camp is one hour away. I resist the urge to kill him and sit down for ten minutes to eat a KitKat and tape up my feet which are starting to develop some serious blisters on the heels. I wheeze up a sand dune and come into camp at dusk. I get applause from the early finishers and someone kindly carries my backpack to the tent for me. This place has an amazing view that goes on forever and millions of stars in the clear sky like you only see in the remote desert or the middle of the ocean. I stay up ‘til 9:30 by the campfire, chatting with fellow competitors and tapping out e-mails on a laptop computer and drinking Gatorade as I am quite dehydrated. The medical tent is busy that night as some competitors are developing some gruesome blisters. I am managing my own blisters using the trusty tools of: a pin to drain the fluid, tiny scissors to trim loose edges and a covering of Second Skin and Elastikon tape.

The fourth stage is yet another 40-kilometer day and today is officially the dreaded salt flats stage. It is cloudy with a brisk wind. Unusual weather for the Atacama. We set off across the rocky plateau. After a few miles we have to climb down and through a bamboo-filled canyon that appears unexpectedly out of the lunar landscape. Checkpoint 1 is at the bottom and I ask one of the medical team put ointment on my back as I am getting a rash from my pack. Around 11am we pass through a small town. I find a candy store and load up on goodies, as my grazing supply is running low. The shopkeeper wants to give me a handful of coins as change but I hand them back to save weight. We push on at a brisk walk/run into a cold headwind across a flat desolate area and then once more into the awful salt flats. These races are 50% mental challenge and I have to dig really deep to keep my spirits up as the salt cuts into my feet. At the final checkpoint I am at my lowest point in the whole race and take off my pack and shoes for a good 10 minutes before I can finally bear to go on. My shoulders hurt from my pack, my blisters need popping and I’m grumpy. On the final trudge to the finish I come across Paula from Singapore who is barely moving and in worse shape than me. I cajole her to march in step with me, 1234 1234 1234 1234…and she starts to get a second wind. We pick up a young Japanese fellow who is sitting beside the trail looking dazed and march into camp together in the gathering dark.

By now a lot of athletes have dropped out of the race and I have passed many hobbling folks who went out too fast on the first day. Some are succumbing to “hamburger” feet, tendonitis or are just unable to finish within the time limits. The fifth stage is the long 50-mile stage, but the organizers have cut it to 45 to make up for the first day’s fiasco. My goal is to finish in less than 24 hours. We set off across yet more salt flats at 8am. At noon I am passed by some of the race leaders who had a later start time. Seven runners working together in a tight group make an impressive sight as they fly by. I fast-walk in company with Pat, who I met during the Marathon des Sables in the Sahara in 2003. We come to an enormous sand hill that climbs steeply into the sky. We weave our way up and as I catch my breath at the top I can’t resist the urge to take some precious time to snap pictures. We have until 4pm to reach Checkpoint 3 and I arrive before 3pm knowing I am now certain to finish this race. The checkpoint’s awning tries to blow away in a sudden windstorm as I change my socks. I’m feeling good as I march through the Valley del Muerte (Valley of Death) in the afternoon. (That sounds very biblical) As darkness falls I look for glowsticks to mark the course but they have not been lit. I spend a very anxious hour wandering lost in the dark until Checkpoint 4 appears. There is a large group of angry racers huddled in a small tent. We are told we have to stay here for the night or until the course is lit. I don’t want to stop, but I get into my sleeping bag and rest while others waste energy fussing and complaining. An hour later the snafu is almost resolved, and while others argue, I am the first one to head out into the vast empty night alone.

I’ve got 15 miles to go and the stars are awesome. I can see the Milky Way and the Southern Cross in the night sky, so I dim my headlamp and trust my night vision on a dirt road that heads steadily uphill. I barely stop at the last checkpoint at 11pm. The trail becomes narrow and technical as it heads into The Mountains of the Moon. Salt-crusted paths lead over and under huge boulders and tunnels in the rock. I am entranced by this eerie landscape and the absolute stillness of the night. Just the sound of my breath and my muffled footfalls in the dust. At 1 in the morning I come around a bend and find Pierre, the Course Manager, camped out at the top of a small cliff. He tells me it is a dry waterfall and guides me down very slowly handhold to handhold as I am very tired and clumsy. I jog into camp around 2am just ahead of two Japanese competitors who have been catching me up. It took 17 hours (including the enforced 1.5 hour rest stop), so I am well pleased and feeling remarkably tranquil despite a sore knee and a new blister. We sit by the fire embers and eat Ramen Noodles and communicate in gestures.

The next day is the rest day—finally. Many competitors slept overnight at the final checkpoint. They were afraid to tackle the Mountains of the Moon in the dark, so don’t finish the long stage until lunchtime of the rest day. Everyone is in a jovial mood. Billy is still in the race and smiling despite horrendous blisters that require hours in the medical tent. Apparently they had to bore a hole through the top of his big toenail to relieve the pressure…ouch. I don’t have much food left and any gear that is not required I am getting rid of. Gotta lighten the load! There is just the final stage tomorrow and it is only 11 kilometers into town. One Cooper River Bridge Run to go. A sprint!

There are different start times on the last stage, so everyone should finish about the same time. There is a team of seven who have taken turns wearing a huge Rhino costume throughout the race. Hats off to them. I start at 10am at a fast run but have to slow down on the outskirts of San Pedro as my right knee has decided to lock up. Pauline runs by and it’s her turn to give me a little encouragement. The finish is in the town square. I put on one last sprint for the final few hundred meters and run across the line at full tilt. All pain is forgotten. What a fantastic feeling. There is rejoicing and hugs and a huge medal is put around my neck. A Pan Pipes Band is playing and there is free Beer and Pizza. After 20 minutes of celebrating in many languages I see a familiar figure standing by the finish line watching each new arrival expectantly. It’s Lisa, my wife, who has flown all the way to South America to surprise me at the finish. Of course, I have already finished so I am not sure who is the most surprised. She gives me a big hug even though I smell really bad. One young couple finish together and he produces a diamond ring from his backpack and gets down on one knee with great difficulty. She says yes. Billy hobbles in smiling as usual, followed by the Rhino to great applause. I have lost 12 pounds in weight but feel surprisingly well.

I finished in 66^th place and was very happy with that. I plan to do another race in two years in The Gobi Desert in China. People ask me why I put myself through all the pain and suffering. I don’t stop to think about it much. However, I do know if I spend my money on a car or some material thing it will wear out in time. But the memory of the nights in the Atacama, the comradeship of shared adversity, the sense of accomplishment and the spirit of adventure will be with me my whole life. When I drive around the mall parking lot looking for that perfect parking space near the door, Lisa will look at me and say, “You ran across the damn desert how far? Now park the car and just walk”.

MARK ELLISON